Her Last Word
“Were they robbing the house? I mean, the neighbors have all been trying to guess what happened. The consensus is that it was robbers turning on each other.”
“Nothing like that,” Adler said. “As soon as I can share something, we’ll let you know. Thanks again, Mrs. Nolan.”
Adler waved to the woman as she drove off. “She saw a man headed into the woods.”
“She thinks. My buddy in the county police walked through the woods and to the street behind it. No one saw a man.”
“Right.”
“How’s it going with the Gina Mason files?”
“I’ve got Logan reviewing them.”
“Logan? What? He’s on medical leave.”
“He’s a hell of a detective.”
“Shouldn’t he be resting and concentrating on getting better?”
Adler dug his keys from his pocket. “If you were in his spot, would you be focusing on getting better?”
She shook her head. “I’d be all over the case files.”
“Exactly.”
Adler pushed through the front door of his home and spotted the large knapsack tossed in the center of his living room. Beside it was a prosthetic leg designed for running and jumping.
He loosened his tie. “Logan.”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Adler found Logan sitting in a wheelchair in front of a hot plate poised on a makeshift plywood counter. He dropped a handful of pasta into a pot of boiling water. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
“Occupational therapist said cooking is a good activity to relieve stress.”
“Smells good.”
“It is. I had no idea you lived so well.”
“Ever met a trust fund baby?” he said, smiling.
“No shit, really?”
“What can I say?”
“Damn. If I’d known you were rich, I’d have made you pick up all the dinner tabs.”
Adler shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair. “How’s rehab going?”
“Slow but sure. Quinn called to check in. She told me Kaitlin Roe was stabbed. How is she?” Logan asked.
“Lucky to be alive.”
“Shit.” Logan lifted a cup of coffee to his lips. “One of the potential witnesses in the Gina Mason case is dead, the other missing, and another stabbed.”
The pattern was there. Now it was a matter of figuring out who wanted the three women dead. “What are the odds?”
“Low,” Logan said.
“You had a chance to look at the file?” Adler asked.
“I read it last night. It was hard to put down. Also listened to the Jennifer interview Kaitlin conducted.”
“And.”
“It all doesn’t add up, John.”
“How so?”
“In 2004 Jennifer reported to police that she and Erika left early and her sister, Ashley, took them home. When Ashley was interviewed she said the same. She picked the girls up and took them straight home. However, on Kaitlin’s interview tape, Jennifer said that her sister was arguing with someone. She wasn’t sure if there was another person in the car or not. I dug into the files and found Ashley’s phone records. No phone call was recorded about the time she picked up Jennifer.”
“Ashley dated Derek Blackstone then. Maybe he was in the car. I’ll ask Ashley.”
“Might explain why Blackstone is so willing to help out his old pal.”
“Maybe.”
Logan stirred the sauce. “It’s no wonder Jennifer didn’t remember much. She tested positive for Ecstasy. No telling what her blood alcohol was when she left the river. Kaitlin’s blood alcohol was point-zero-eight when it was measured at the hospital about one in the morning. And that’s at least one hour after she stopped drinking, so some of the booze had already metabolized out of her system. When Gina was taken, Kaitlin was hammered. Tack on the Ecstasy and I’m stunned she could get up the hill to Jack Hudson’s house.”
“Adrenaline must really have kicked in that night. Were there attacks on young females similar to the one on Gina and Kaitlin?”
“There were two. Detective North spoke to them both, but there aren’t a lot of details in the files.”
“I’m going to try and see him this afternoon.”
“Good.” Logan rubbed his leg. “What about last night’s attack? Does Kaitlin know who stabbed her?”
“She says she doesn’t remember, but she also doesn’t trust cops.”
Logan continued rubbing his thigh. “Getting stabbed is a good way to deflect attention from her as a suspect.”
“Quinn said the same thing, but twenty stitches. Jesus, I can’t imagine cutting yourself like that,” Adler said.
“Are you in Kaitlin’s corner?” Logan studied him closely.
“I wouldn’t put it that way. I do think it’s too convenient to blame her.”
“Do you want my armchair analysis of you?” Logan asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. You both have survivor’s guilt. She made it out and her cousin didn’t. You made it out and I, well, not so much. You see yourself in her.”
Adler’s guilt and pain crowded the air from his lungs. He didn’t trust his voice. “You survived.”
“True. And I don’t blame you for the leg,” Logan said, holding up his hand. “I wanted to go into that building as much as you did. I wanted to catch that son of a bitch as much as you did. If you remember, I wanted to go in first, but you made me stay back.”
“I should have expected a trap.”
Annoyance flashed in Logan’s gaze. “Don’t give yourself so much credit.”
“I made the decision to enter the building.”
“If you hadn’t, I would have. Let it go. I have enough on my plate without worrying about your shit.”
“You’re worried about me?”
“Someone has to keep your rich-boy ass out of trouble. By the way the handicap rail arrived express, and I put it up.”
That coaxed a smile. “How did it go?”
“Looks great. I haven’t lost the touch when it comes to carpentry.”
“Good to know. I’m not going to have the time to chase the contractors coming to the house for the next few weeks. Maybe you can.”
“Chase?”
“My bad.” He grinned.
Logan smiled. “Just screwing with you.” His expression grew serious. “I got the house covered. Already saw a few places they need to redo.”
“Thanks.”
“John, just make sure you don’t associate yourself with Kaitlin Roe too much. For all you know, she engineered this recent attack.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“That’s not your big head doing the thinking, pal.” Logan shook his head. “John, you need facts not feelings. She’s a suspect until you, the cop, can prove otherwise.”
INTERVIEW FILE #14
THE THREE AMIGOS
In the Saint Mathew’s 1993 yearbook, there is a picture of Mrs. Triton’s third grade class. In the back row stand three smiling boys: Randy Hayward, Brad Crowley, and Derek Blackstone. They are three fresh-faced boys, all grinnin
g broadly as if sharing a private joke. Like the other children in the classroom, the Three Amigos, as some called them, shared a similar background. Affluent homes. Doting parents. No history of violence in the homes. Talk to the former students in their class, and they all remember the trio. Thick as thieves. Pranksters. Shouter-outers. Boys being boys.
In conversations with Mrs. Triton’s former students, hints of Randy’s darker traits emerge. Stolen money. Spying on girls in the restroom. The missing class gerbils. But all agreed Derek Blackstone, charming, well mannered, and attractive, was the leader and instigator of their little antics. He was always nearby when trouble began but never blamed for anything.
But remember, this was third grade, and well, boys will be boys.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sunday, March 18, 2018; 3:00 p.m.
Adler had called Kaitlin’s boss, Susan Saunders, and asked to meet. Ms. Saunders had agreed and requested he come to her university office.
He left Logan poring over the Gina Mason case file and drove back into the city. He parked, entered the quiet lobby in the university communications building, and rode the elevator to the third floor. As he walked down the hallways, memories of his own college days at the University of Virginia returned.
His major had been political science, but in his sophomore year he’d started picking up criminal justice courses. He was still dialed into law school, but after he’d passed the bar, he told his parents he wasn’t ready for a desk job. There was plenty of time for him to be a cop and then, later, a lawyer like his old man. His father hadn’t been happy but reasoned it wouldn’t take long for Adler to get this “cop thing” out of his system. That was seventeen years ago.
He moved along the corridor, following the signs to the communications director’s office. He found the door ajar, the light on inside. He knocked.
“Enter.” The voice carried a stern edge that sounded more practiced than natural.