Halfway to Half Way (19 page)

 

 

Williams signaled for a moment to skim the page. "The guy never turned up again, huh?"

 

 

"If anyone's heard from Mr. Moody in the past twenty-three years, I'm not aware of it."

 

 

Williams swiveled toward his computer. Over rapid, two-finger key taps, he said, "The Cold Case Unit was just created a couple of years ago." He glanced sideward. "And I'm it."

 

 

He leaned nearer the screen, then pushed back in his chair and strode to a bank of file cabinets. "Unsolved homicides are the priority since there's no statute of limitations."

 

 

Riffling through a file drawer, he added, "DNA evidence and forensic technology may put away some bad guys who thought they were in the clear."

 

 

And gals, Hannah thought, but allowed that
guys
was pretty much a gender-neutral term. Which brought to mind two gender-specific
guys,
otherwise known as Sam Spade Bisbee and his trusty sidekick, Mr. Potato Head.

 

 

She frowned, realizing everyone had received assignments at last night's meeting, but couldn't remember what Delbert and Leo's were.

 

 

"I found Moody's file," Williams said, curtailing what might have escalated to a panic attack. "But there isn't much in it. Just the original missing person's report and a memo noting the case was transferred to the sheriff's department."

 

 

Peachy. There went Hannah's assurance to David that Code Name: Epsilon was a Sanity PD case. "Why would it be transferred to the county?"

 

 

The lieutenant shrugged. "Looks like it was at their request—whose, isn't specified. If I had to guess, I'd say a deputy, or somebody working at the courthouse was a relative or close friend of the Moody family."

 

 

He laid the file on the desk and sat down. "Don't quote me, but it's also possible that someone here shoved it off on the county mounties. Hard to speculate on what might have happened twenty-three years ago."

 

 

"Where Royal Moody's concerned, it's even harder to find out anything concrete." Hannah lifted her chin in an obvious attempt to read the typewritten report upside-down. "All I have is a batch of old newspaper clippings."

 

 

To her surprise, Williams chuckled. "No offense, but my eight-year-old daughter's a lot smoother at laying on a hint."

 

 

"Oh, I can be smoother if it'll help."

 

 

He rolled his eyes. "You want a copy of the report? I'll make one, but there's really not much to go on in it, either. Mr. Moody's wife initiated the report. She said her husband had set out for Kentucky—Nashville or Knoxville, she wasn't sure. Moody didn't call home much from the road, and she couldn't supply the names of the motels he frequented."

 

 

"Doesn't that seem odd to you?" Hannah asked. "Sure, long-distance calls cost more then than they do now, but as I understand it, Moody was gone two or three weeks at a time."

 

 

"He took the sales job after he was discharged from the navy," Williams countered. "Ships can be out to sea for months. Just more of the same for her, maybe."

 

 

"Okay, but no idea where he stayed, either? What if she had to reach him in an emergency?" Hannah raised her hand in surrender. "Sorry. Curiosity gets the best of me sometimes."

 

 

"Understandable. And I will admit, if I'd been the responding officer, I'd have made a bigger pest of myself." The lieutenant stood, report in hand, evidently preparing to make the copy he'd promised. "This personal interest you have. Are you a family member?"

 

 

She'd been prepared for the question at the beginning. Lying would have been easy when Lieutenant Williams was just a nameplate outside his office door. But if she didn't fudge the truth now, he might retract his offer to copy the report.

 

 

"Well," she hedged, "I'm not a
blood
relative."

 

 

His hesitation was germinating her imaginary, marital branch of the Moody family tree, when he said, "Even so, I probably shouldn't say this, but there is some truth in all those jokes about sailors and traveling salesmen."

 

 

Yes, and Hannah had a feeling that Rudy Moody had heard every one of them, a thousand times over.

 

 

 

11

"W
hy are you being so hateful, David?"

 

 

"I'm not, Ms. Beauford. All I'm—"

 

 

"Would it kill you to call me
Kimmie Sue?
Or Kim? We've known each other for
years
and I practically grew up in this office."

 

 

David pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stanch the pain receptors in his forehead. He'd seen the woman three times in his entire life—present ordeal included. Everything she said, her tone of voice, the tears she turned on and off like a spigot were as fake as her eyelashes.

 

 

A glossy platinum fingernail tapped the desktop. "See that little red heart with my initials in it? I drew that with a marker for my daddy after he was elected sheriff the first time."

 

 

"Will you
knock it off?
" David flinched, as though he'd shouted it but couldn't stop himself. "You're not sweet sixteen, haven't been for damn near two decades, and if you don't cut the teenybopper wannabe crap now, I'll lock you in a cell, until you do,
Ms. Beauford.
"

 

 

Lord Almighty. If he didn't know better, he'd think Marlin Andrik had wired his mouth for sound. David glanced at the video and audio recorders set up in his office. The deputy monitoring them flashed him a grin and a thumbs-up.

 

 

David expected a gush of tears or a demand for a phone to call her attorney. Kimmie Sue bolted upright in the chair, pulled down that place mat of a skirt and clasped her hands on top of it. "I'm sorry, Sheriff. Really, I am. I guess I was retreating from all the stress and didn't realize it."

 

 

Her about-face transcended spooky. On videotape, that chameleon routine might lay the groundwork for an insanity plea. David warned himself to be careful. His presumed receptiveness to her might be a web she'd woven for him.

 

 

"Back to this surprise visit to your mother," he began. "How long did you and Mr. Jarek plan to stay in town?"

 

 

"Long enough to talk her into selling the house before it falls apart. Dad was the king of putting off until tomorrow what needed to be fixed years ago."

 

 

"You and Bev discussed the house sale previously?"

 

 

"I mentioned it after Dad's funeral." She smiled. "You knew Mom. Decisions weren't her thing. Especially when money was involved. The trick was leading her in the right direction but letting her think she was in charge."

 

 

David's expression was impassive, his mind tracking the consistent past-tense references to her mother. Years removed from his grandparents' death, his parents were still known to say, "Oh, Mother
loves
that hymn," or "Grampa Hendrickson
has
a coat just like that."

 

 

He said, "I presume you wanted Bev to sell the house and move to California with you."

 

 

"What?" Kimmie Sue laughed. "Oh, God, no. You obviously have no idea how much it costs to live in L.A." She gestured dismissively. "That house was too big for them when they bought it, but Mom just
had
to have it. With Dad gone, all she needed was a one-bedroom apartment."

 

 

"A cozy little place," David said, "where she wouldn't have to worry about maintenance and upkeep."

 

 

"Exactly."

 

 

"And could give you the proceeds from selling the house."

 

 

"Not give it to me." Kimmie Sue's tone inferred that David was as obtuse about high finance as her mother. "A loan." She hiked a shoulder. "An investment, actually. Like a backer invests in a film production, or a play on Broadway."

 

 

Or, David thought, a gambler stakes his life savings on a sure thing at Churchill Downs.

 

 

Kimmie Sue held her forefinger and thumb a fraction apart. "My agent says I'm this close to a casting call for the second lead in the new Richard Gere movie they're shooting next spring. It's mine. I can
feel
it. But I've got to have new head shots, audition tapes, clothes, vocal training…" She touched the back of her hand to her brow. "After this nightmare, I'll need a month at a spa to get my cortisol levels back to normal."

 

 

At his inquiring look, she explained that cortisol is a stress hormone, then began itemizing its hideous, fat-boosting side effects. "You can starve yourself and still—"

 

 

"Let's back up to your homecoming," David said. "When did you and Jarek get into town?"

 

 

Either the change in subject or its abruptness annoyed her. "Why do you keep asking what you already know?" Her sandal tapped the floor. "Yesterday afternoon."

 

 

"What time?"

 

 

"Two-ish. Maybe a little later. The old hag at that filthy motel can give you the
exact
time."

 

 

"What if I told you a witness puts Jarek's vehicle in your mother's driveway Wednesday afternoon."

 

 

"You'd be lying. Or your 'witness' is."

 

 

In the manner of one poor lie being a feint before the knock-out punch, he said, "What if I told you we have proof that Jarek was at your mother's house prior to yesterday afternoon."

 

 

"Same answer. You're lying."

 

 

David placed Jarek's fingerprint-ident card and a crime-scene photo side by side on the desk. He pointed at the card's right index finger, then the close-up shot of the latent lifted from Bev's rearview mirror. "People lie, Ms. Beauford. Fingerprints don't."

 

 

When she leaned forward, her nostrils flared as she looked from one to the other. "That's
impossible.
Rocco's never been to Mom's house. I swear, he hasn't."

 

 

"Then how'd his print get—"

 

 

"It's a trick." Her hands balled into fists. "You, or that detective, planted it to incriminate him." Her eyes narrowed. "Dad talked about it all the time. How if you know what you're doing, you can frame somebody by transferring his fingerprint to evidence from a crime scene."

 

 

In theory, yes. In practice, forged fingerprints don't withstand scrutiny. The one attempted forgery David was aware of made national news, when an expert noticed several latents introduced as evidence were absolutely identical.

 

 

Fingerprints are unique to an individual, but the impressions they leave will vary. Because of positioning and pressure, a burglar's latent lifted off a CD case won't be
exactly
the same as one from the big-screen TV he lugged out the door.

 

 

"Look at the time-date stamp on that photograph, Ms. Beauford. Now, I'd truly love to hear how you think we transferred that print to your mom's car, three hours before we knew Rodney Windle, aka Rocco Jarek, existed."

 

 

That knocked the wind out of her. She fell back in the chair, her aerosol tan appearing to hover an inch away from her face.

 

 

"He was there, Kimmie Sue. Wednesday afternoon, not yesterday. You
both
were. You were in the house, waiting for Bev when she got home."

 

 

"No!"

 

 

"Oh, you surprised her, all right. Didn't even let her unload her car before you started badgering her about money."

 

 

"That's a lie! I wasn't
there.
" A fist pounded the desk. "Will you listen to me? The first time I've been in that house since Daddy's funeral was
last night
—with
you.
"

 

 

David sensed she was telling the truth, and said so. His interview skills weren't as honed as Marlin's, but he knew when to let a fish run out some line, and when to reel it in.

 

 

"Beg pardon, Kimmie Sue, for misjudging you."

 

 

"That's a pretty lame apology, but I'll—"

 

 

"Of course, you weren't at the house with Jarek. Gals like you get things done
for
them." David stood and walked around the desk. The brainteaser that confounded everyone at the scene was the key to the entire case.

 

 

"If this is the good-cop half of your act," Kimmie Sue sneered, "it's pathetic."

 

 

David leaned his backside against the desk and planted his hands on its shellacked surface. "Like you said, you were raised around cops. Picked up all sorts of interesting trivia about criminal investigation."

 

 

She rolled her eyes. "Bor-ing."

 

 

"Like how turning down the central air at the house affects determining a victim's time of death." Bending at the waist, he added, "Keeps down the smell longer, too, huh."

 

 

She recoiled, horror contorting, deforming her features. "Is that…oh, God, please,
stop.
"

 

 

"You scripted it for Jarek. Drew him a floor plan of the house. Made sure he wore gloves and gave him pointers on how to make murder look like a burglary gone bad."

 

 

"No, no."

 

 

"I'll grant, that thermostat had me stumped till you mentioned fingerprint forgery. Lowering the temp was a smart move, except for pointing to a murderer with inside knowledge."

 

 

"Bullshit."
The presiding judge in the courtroom at the building's far end must have heard her. "Everybody that watches
CSI
knows that."

 

 

David bent his head back and stared at the ceiling. His belly felt as if he'd eaten razor blades for breakfast.