“Did you find anything?”
“It’s not much. A grainy picture.”
“I’ll take whatever you have.”
“I’ve sent it over. Should be there shortly.”
“Great. Thank you.”
He didn’t have long to wait. Seconds later a picture addressed to him arrived in his computer in-box. He stared at the grainy face of Nathanial, son of Smith’s third victim, Ellen Boykin.
He couldn’t make heads or tails from the image. The kid could be anyone now. Picture in hand, Brody walked toward April Summers’s office. April had joined the Rangers three months ago as their newest sketch artist. He’d heard good reports. And he was hoping for a little magic now.
He knocked on the door and a petite brunet raised her head from a sketchpad. She wore heavy, rimmed, dark glasses that did not suit her slender face or pale skin. The glasses magnified dark eyes that narrowed with annoyance when he knocked.
“Ms. Summers?”
She pulled off her glasses and shoved aside her annoyance. “Yes.”
“Ranger Brody Winchester. Got a question for you.”
She tugged at the hem of her blue blouse as she rose. She was short, not more than five feet, but possessed an energy that reminded him of a pit bull. “What do you need?”
“Got a picture of a twelve-year-old boy that was sent to me by Social Services. It was taken about twenty years ago. Mighty grainy.”
“And you want to know what he looks like now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She accepted the photo and studied it. “I have a computer program. I can run his picture through. Do you know anything about him? Habits and lifestyle choices affect how we age.”
“All I know is that his mother died when he was twelve. She’d been a drug addict for years, but I don’t know if the boy picked up her ways or not. He was in foster care briefly before he vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“Case workers believe he ran off looking for his father. He didn’t like the family he’d been placed with and talked about finding his birth father. They searched for him a bit, but over time he was forgotten and vanished.”
“He could have been living on the streets.”
“Could be. Could have had a real hard life. But I’m betting on the fact that he didn’t have to scrimp and save but grew up in a decent enough home.” Brody explained the boy’s possible connection to Smith who had said he’d seen to the boy’s welfare and education. “I’d assume he also had an education.”
“I’ll come up with a few scenarios.” She checked the clock. “I’ve got several in the queue before you, so it might take me a day or two.”
“Faster, the better.”
As Brody strode back to his office his cell rang. He answered it as he stepped into his office. “Winchester.”
“It’s Santos. I just received the report on that letter delivered to Jo’s house.”
“And?”
“She was right. Smith didn’t write it. Handwriting analysis said it’s one hell of a fake but Smith didn’t write it.”
Brody stood silent for a moment.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Call DPS for me. I want more patrols through Jo’s neighborhood. Smith didn’t write the letter but some nut did and he knows where Jo lives.”
Jo sat in the chair beside the couch in her office staring at the young girl who sat slumped back, her arms folded across her chest. The girl, fifteen, had dyed her blond hair an ink black, wore smoky eye shadow that matched her dark clothing. This was Jo’s second visit with Mindy, and she’d not made any inroads with the troubled teen who’d taken to stealing.
The girl had wrapped herself in layers and layers of makeup and anger, and Jo wondered what horrible secret required so many defenses. “Mindy, I understand that you don’t want to be here and that you don’t like to talk, but your parents are worried.”
Mindy glanced at her chipped red nail polish and said nothing.
Jo set her notebook aside and sat back in her chair. Mindy’s parents were affluent, straitlaced and a far cry from the girl sitting here. “I never fit in at my house. I wasn’t the Goth kid but the geek kid. My younger sister and mother were the beauty queens, and all I wanted to do was read.”
Mindy kept her gaze down.
Jo continued. “When I was a little younger than you I told my parents during dinner that I wanted to major in psychology one day. I’d finished a report on the subject and was fascinated.” Jo released a breath. “They both laughed and said there were better ways to make a living.”
Mindy looked up, and for a split second, hints of curiosity flickered in her gaze, before she looked back at her folded arms. “My mother wanted more than anything to enter me into a beauty contest. I did not want any part of it, but my mother is a stubborn gal. She finally got me to enter. Want to know how?”
Mindy shrugged a shoulder. Though she said nothing, her gaze remained on Jo.
Jo took that as a yes. “She promised me one hundred dollars. Said she’d drive me to the bookstore and let me spend the whole one hundred dollars on books.” The memory coaxed a smile. “I jumped at the chance. And I let her spray my hair until it hardened like a helmet. She painted my eyes and cheeks. To be honest, I thought I looked more like a rodeo clown than a girl. I even managed a baton-twirling act. Though I must say I do throw a real nice baton. Boy, how I could make that baby spiral in the air. And did I say I convinced Mom to let me set the baton ends on fire?”
Mindy shrugged. “So what happened?”
Jo didn’t point out that this was the first time the kid had spoken in their sessions. “I gave it my all and I had come in . . . fifth place. Beat out by four perky, petite blondes. But I did win a ribbon for the talent.” She smiled. “I received more applause than any of the girls that night when I threw my flaming baton in the air.”
“Did you get your books?”
“I did. Took me two hours of wandering in that store because I wanted to choose carefully. And the best news of all was that Momma shifted her pageant dreams to my younger sister. Who, by the way, loved every minute of her pageant days.”
Mindy rolled her eyes. “It was smooth sailing for you, and you never looked back.”
“No, honey, I made some bad mistakes after that. Mistakes I couldn’t blame on anybody but myself.”
Mindy’s brow knotted. “What kind of mistakes?”
Jo checked her watch and realized they’d gone five minutes over their time. “I’ll tell you next week.”
“What if I don’t come back?”
Jo shrugged as she rose. “I guess you’ll never know.”
The girl rose, pulling her backpack with her. “These sessions are lame. They aren’t helping.”
Jo put her hand on the doorknob and paused. “The choice is yours, Mindy. I’m not going to make you come back.”
“My parents will.”
Jo opened the door. “Well, on the bright side, if you have to come back you’ll find out the next chapter in my story.”
The girl held her gaze a beat before turning to leave. As Jo followed, her phone buzzed. Ignoring it, she met the girl’s parents, offered suggestions and updates before escorting them to the elevator.
Back at her desk, she snapped up the receiver and dialed the receptionist. “I have a call?”
“You have a call on line two. A Mr. Morris Gentry, attorney-at-law. He’s called four times today.”
She’d testified in court for clients and law enforcement and had dealt with her share of attorneys, but the name Gentry did not ring a bell. “Take a message.”
“Sure.”
Her phone buzzed again twenty seconds later and she snapped it up, annoyed. “Mr. Gentry said this is in reference to Mr. Smith.”
“Mr. Smith?”
“That’s all he’d say.”
“I’ll take the call.” She punched line two. “Mr. Gentry, this is Dr. Granger. What can I do for you?”
/> A man cleared his throat. “I was the attorney for Mr. Harvey Smith. I assume you are acquainted with him.”
“I am.” She clicked through her memory. “And you defended him at his trial.”
“That is correct, Dr. Granger.”
She picked up a pen and doodled circles on her blotter. “What can I do for you?”
“Before he was arrested three years ago, he contacted me and gave me a package, which I was to deliver to you at the time of his death.”
She held her breath. “What’s in the package?”
He hesitated. “I do not know. All I know is that I got his assurance that it contained nothing considered illegal.”
What did Mr. Gentry consider illegal? When she’d read the trial transcripts she’d judged his definition as relaxed. “Can you send it to me?”
“You are to come to my office and sign for it personally.”
“I don’t have time for that. Would you courier it to me?”
“Mr. Smith was specific that I see you sign for it.”
She didn’t like having her actions dictated by a dead man. But to ignore the package was to ignore possible evidence that could help with the current murder investigation. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Good. Very good.” He gave her his address.