Malcolm sat straighter. “That was the museum that Angie Carlson’s father managed.”
“How do you know that?” Sinclair asked.
“Made it a point to know all I could about her during the Dixon trial.”
Sinclair nodded and sat back. “Interesting coincidence.”
“Is it?” Malcolm challenged. “What can you tell us about Willow?”
Sinclair dug out a picture of a young woman wearing a turquoise ruffled blouse and blond hair curled back off her face. She was smiling, and blue eyes sparked as if she knew a secret. “Who did she work for at the museum?”
She scanned the page. “Wow. Frank Carlson. She was his secretary for two years.”
Malcolm’s heart raced faster. “What does the file say about Fay Willow?”
“She was a smart, efficient woman with ambition. She liked the finer things. Months before she vanished, coworkers said she traded in her old car for a much nicer one. She also started wearing fancy jewelry and clothes. Friends figured she was sleeping with her boss, Frank.”
“Could his wife have gotten wind of what was going on?” Garrison said. “Maybe that’s why she left him.”
Sinclair flipped through more pages. “According to this, police interviewed Frank, who had great alibis, but they never talked to his wife. The officer did note that Carlson looked agitated. Carlson mentioned that his wife had just left him.”
Garrison drummed his fingers on the table. “Any mention of a Blue Rayburn in the file?”
She flipped through pages. “He was the museum’s head of security. He was interviewed but said nothing of real help to the detectives.”
“Were any of her bones missing?” Malcolm asked.
She pulled the autopsy report and quickly read through it. “Several bones were missing. But because she was found outside, it was assumed animals carried them off.” Sinclair flipped through a few more pages. “Guess who else was mentioned?”
“All ears, Sinclair,” Malcolm said.
“Darius Cross.” She smiled, pleased with herself as she scanned the page. “He was seen with Willow a couple of weeks before she vanished. The museum was holding a big party, and Darius was seen flirting with Willow. Rumor had it they were having an affair. Cross was briefly interviewed, but nothing came of it.”
“Interesting.” Malcolm shrugged. Louise Cross, Darius’s wife, might well have known Fay Willow. Mrs. Cross was serving three life sentences in prison for killing three women last year. “Mrs. Cross probably knew her.”
“She’s been mute since her arrest,” Garrison said.
“What if we enlisted the help of her son Micah?” Rokov said. “He was helpful last year.”
“As I remember, she refused to see him as well,” Garrison said.
“She has requested interviews with Eva,” Malcolm said.
“No.” Garrison shook his head. “Eva is not going to talk to that woman. She’s been through enough.”
Malcolm glanced at his partner, wondering whether the dark circles under his eyes suggested that he and Eva had made up or not. Whatever their situation, the tenor of Garrison’s voice spoke of his love for the woman he was protecting.
“Well, we know Mrs. Cross couldn’t have killed Sierra Day,” Malcolm said. “But she did know Ms. Willow, a woman who’d been flirting with her husband.” He rubbed the tension from the back of his neck.
“Louise Cross very well could have known the woman,” Rokov offered. “Might have some insight.”
“There’ve got to be other people who knew Fay Willow,” Malcolm said.
“Want me to reopen Willow’s case?” Sinclair said. “I could try and track down the old witnesses.”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Another detail,” Rokov said. “Day’s husband is pushing to get the remains of his wife returned. He wants to bury her.”
Malcolm shook his head. “Why would he suddenly care about her? He had nothing nice to say about her when we spoke to him.”
“He’s the grieving widower now,” Sinclair said.
“What is his insurance payout on the wife?” Garrison said.
“Zip,” said Malcolm. “Her death does save him a costly payout when the divorce is final.”
“He’s got the flair for the dramatic like his late wife,” Garrison said. “Maybe killing his wife just wasn’t dramatic enough.”
Malcolm thought about the actor’s smooth hands and his clean desk. “It’s messy work stripping bones. I don’t see Humphrey doing it.”
“Then why worry about giving his wifeaproper burial?”
“He cares about appearances.” He’d seen this often enough when he’d interviewed people. “Better to play the part of the grieving widower than the angry ex-husband.”
“Has Dr. Henson released the remains?” Garrison asked.
“No. I asked her to hold on to them.”
“Good. Let the guy stew.”
Chapter 17
Friday, October 7, 6 P.M.
The Cross mansion was located just north of Mount Vernon and sandwiched between Route One and the Potomac River. The rolling riverfront land in this area was premium and beyond expensive. A half acre could run millions. The Cross family owned six acres along the river. If you have to ask about the land’s cost, then you can’t afford it, Malcolm mused.
Garrison drove down a gravel driveway lined with cypress. “Easy to imagine we’ve left the real world.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I know the rich put their pants on just like me, but they are a different breed of cat. They live in a rarified league of their own.”
“They make their own rules.” Hostility rarely crept into Garrison’s voice as it did now.
“I guess from your tone you and Eva are still on the outs?”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“Go by King’s and see her.”
“I did. She wasn’t there. King said she took a couple of days off to finish a paper. She’ll be in tonight.”
“And?”
“And one way or another she’s going to tell me what’s eating her.”
“Just like that?”
“Damn right.”
“Best of luck.”
Garrison parked the car at the top of a circular drive behind two construction vehicles. The name on the truck doors read LANE CONSTRUCTION.
Black lacquer covered the front doors and reflected the afternoon light. The house was constructed of an ancient brick, and the windows had the wavy appearance of hand-blown glass. The house screamed old money, but the Cross family was anything but. Darius Cross had grown up poor and had clawed and scraped his way to the top. It was often said of him, “He’d drive a pike in his mother’s back to get ahead.”
No truer words had been spoken. Cross had locked up his homicidal wife in a home for the mentally ill. She’d languished there almost twenty years. And then when Cross realized he was dying, he had turned his wife free so she could kill and maim the last of his enemies.
Garrison tightened his hands on the wheel. “I hate this guy.”
His partner rarely spoke so frankly. “Micah’s been nothing but helpful.”
“I know. But he has a way of worming under my skin.”
“You’re tense about Eva. Why don’t you let me do the talking?”
Garrison rattled change in his pocket. “I’ll be fine. I won’t blow this.”
“Let me do the talking.”
Garrison’s jawline tightened and then released. “Sure, fine.”
Seconds after they rang the front bell it opened. A woman dressed in a maid’s uniform greeted them. They showed her their badges; she nodded and invited them in to the foyer.
Inside the house, the sound of hammers clanged and banged from the upstairs. The scent of fresh paint wafted through the house. “Doing a bit of work?” Malcolm said.
The woman nodded. “Mr. Cross is redoing the house top to bottom. Said it’s time for a change.”
So the new head of th
e clan was feeling his oats and was ready to make his mark.
The maid escorted them into a side room. When they’d been here a year ago the room had been filled with heavy mission-style furniture, and the walls had been papered in a heavy green pattern. Now a light beige coated the walls, and the antique furniture had been replaced with Scandinavian-style furniture that gave the room a more modern feel.
A fire crackled in a large stone hearth as it had a year ago, but above the mantel the portrait of Darius had been replaced with an impressionistic painting that featured light blues and hints of red. The photos of Micah and his twin Josiah were also gone.
“Doing his best to erase all traces of the old man,” Malcolm said.
“Can’t blame me, can you?” The response came from behind them.
The detectives turned and found Micah Cross standing on the threshold. He wore jeans, a black turtle-neck, loafers, and horn-rimmed glasses. His hair was slicked back.
Malcolm opted not to respond to the comment. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“I’m a friend to the police. I am here to serve.” He held out his hand, indicating the two should sit. “What can I help you with today?”
“We’re investigating a current murder that matches an older killing that took place almost thirty years ago. The victim’s name was Fay Willow. Rumor had it she was having an affair with your father.”