“You do a lot of homicides. That can’t be easy either.”
Daniel winced as he pulled into traffic. “I wouldn’t say I
do
a lot of homicides.”
She grimaced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”
“Recently, especially.”
“Daniel, do you think your brother killed Alicia Tremaine thirteen years ago?”
“I’ve done nothing but wonder about that. But they arrested someone else, some drugged-out drifter. They found Alicia’s ring in his pocket and her blood on his clothing and the tire iron he was brandishing when they caught up with him.”
“So what are you thinking, then? Did this rape happen at the same time she was murdered or another time?”
Daniel tapped the steering wheel in an even rhythm as he pondered. “I don’t know.” But now, something else was bothering him. Something he should have considered before, but hadn’t. Something he’d pushed aside, until the pain and fear in Gretchen French’s eyes dragged it front and center.
“Daniel? Think out loud, please. And stop tapping. That’s making me crazy.”
Daniel sighed. “Alicia Tremaine has a twin sister. Alex.” He focused on the road to keep the fear from crowding his mind. “Alex has these bad dreams and panic attacks. They’ve gotten worse since she came back to Dutton a few days ago.”
“Oh.” Talia twisted so that she faced him. “You’re wondering which sister got raped.”
“Alex denies anything happened to her.”
“Not unusual. You have anything more than this picture? Any forensics?”
“No. Like I told you, Dutton’s sheriff and his staff have been less than forthcoming.”
“Which makes you wonder about the arrest of this drugged-out drifter.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Sounds like you need to pay a visit to the state pen, Daniel.”
“I know. I need to separate out the facts on Alicia’s murder from her rape.”
Talia bit her lip thoughtfully. “I once had a case with identical twins, where one was a rape victim who later died from injuries sustained in the assault. We had her hair in the perp’s apartment, but the asshole’s defense attorney kept throwing out that we couldn’t prove which twin the hair had belonged to. Created one hell of a reasonable doubt.”
“Because DNA on identical twins is identical.”
“In this case genetics was not our friend. It looked really bad for the state until the DA put the surviving twin on the stand. It was like the accused had seen a damn ghost. He went white as a sheet and started shaking so hard his shackles sounded like Jacob Marley haunting Scrooge. It made an impact on the jury and they found him guilty.”
“Alex has been all over Dutton getting double-takes. Hell, I did a double-take when I first saw her. That’s not going to help me figure out who’s involved.”
“No,” she said patiently, “but it could startle the guy who’s sitting in a cell for killing her sister into saying some interesting things. Just a thought.”
It was a damn good thought. Daniel pulled into a side road to turn around. “I have the suspicion that every woman we talk to is going to have a story like Gretchen’s.”
“I’d say you’re probably right. You want to let me take over the interviews? You can get your Alex and take her up to visit the drugged-out drifter, whatever his name is.”
“Gary Fulmore. You don’t mind finishing the interviews yourself?”
“Daniel, this is what I do. I’ll get another agent to go with me for backup. You need to focus your efforts on what’s important to this case. At this point, unless any of these women remembers a name or a face, you’re not going to get anything new.”
“But they’re all still important,” he protested.
“Of course they are. And each of these women needs to be told she’s not alone, just like Gretchen. But I can do that, just as well as you can.”
“Probably better.” He glanced at her. “My Alex?”
Talia smiled. “It’s written all over your face, honey.”
He felt a trickle of warmth break through the bleakness in his mind. “Good.”
Atlanta, Wednesday, January 31, 12:45 p.m.
Alex leaned against a light post while Agent Hatton talked to Daniel on the phone. They’d only been looking for Bailey’s father for two hours and already Alex was weary, in body, but mostly soul. So many faces with so much pain and too little hope. So much noise in her mind. She’d given up trying to still it, instead keeping Craig’s face at the front of her mind. She tried to imagine him thirteen years older with a soft beard like Hatton’s.
So far no one had seen Craig Crighton, or would admit to it anyway. But they had blocks to cover still. If her knees didn’t give out first. She was still stiff from her fall the day before and standing still wasn’t helping matters.
Finally Hatton hung up and said, “Let’s go.”
She pushed herself away from the light pole. “Where to?”
“My car. Vartanian’s picking you up. You’re going to visit Macon State.”
She frowned. “College?”
“Um, no. Macon State Penitentiary. You’re going to visit Gary Fulmore.”
“Why?” But as soon as the word flew from her mouth she shook her head. “Stupid question. Of course we’d have to see him sooner or later. But why this afternoon?”
“You’ll have to ask Daniel. Don’t worry. I’ll keep looking and I’ll call you if I find him.”
She winced as her knees creaked. “But first I want to stop by Sister Anne’s shelter. I have a package to drop off.” Hatton took her arm, steadying her. “You’re probably glad to get rid of me. I’m just slowing you down.”
“I wasn’t planning on racing through the streets, Miss Fallon. You’re doing fine.”
“You know, you could call me Alex.”
“I don’t know. Miss Fallon was economical. I’d have to remember two names.”
He was teasing her and she smiled. “Do you have a first name, Agent Hatton?”
“I do.”
She looked up at him. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”
He sighed. “George.”
“George? That’s a perfectly fine name. Why the sigh?”
He rolled his eyes tolerantly. “My middle name is Patton.”
Her lips twitched. “George Patton Hatton. Interesting.”
“Just don’t tell anybody.”
“I won’t breathe a word,” she promised, feeling a little lighter in spirit—until they reached Sister Anne’s shelter, and her spirit sagged. Sister Anne was critical. The ICU nurses at Atlanta’s County General had given Alex the prognosis, and it was not good.
Another one of the nuns met them at the door with a smile. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Alex Fallon. I was here two nights ago, talking to Sister Anne about my stepsister, Bailey Crighton.”
The nun’s smile disappeared. “Anne said you were coming back last night.”
“We couldn’t come last night. We took Hope to a doctor. Did Sister Anne say anything yesterday, anything to let you know who might have done this to her?”
The nun hesitated, then shook her head. “She wasn’t here yesterday. She went out looking for Bailey’s daddy. Because you told her you were coming back last night.”
Alex’s heart sank. “Did she find him?”
“I don’t know. I expected her back this morning and she probably would have told me then. But she didn’t come in.” The nun’s lips trembled and she firmed them.
“I was just at the hospital,” Alex said. “I’m sorry.”
The nun nodded brusquely. “Thank you. Now, if that’s all, I have supper to get on.”
“Wait.” Alex held the door open. “Will you see Sarah Jenkins tonight?”
“Why?” the nun asked suspiciously.
Alex held out the sack filled with the samples of prescription-strength antibacterial cream the nurses at the Atlanta ER had given her. “Her little girl has impetigo and this will fix it. There are also a few other supplies in there.”
The nun’s face softened. “Thank you.” She started to close the door again.
“Wait. I have one more question. Do you know this song?” She hummed the six bars Hope had been fixated upon the day before.
The nun frowned. “No, but I don’t get out much lately. Hold on. I’ll be back.” She shut the door and Alex and Hatton waited for a long time.
Hatton checked his watch. “We need to go. Vartanian will be here soon.”
“Just another minute. Please.” A minute came and went and Alex sighed. “I guess she’s not coming back. Let’s go.” They were almost out to the street when the door opened and the nun stuck her head out, a scowl on her face.
“I
said
I’d be back.”
“We waited. We thought you weren’t coming,” Alex said.
“I’m eighty-six years old,” the nun snapped. “Turtles move faster’n me. Here. Talk to this one.” She opened the door wider, revealing another nun who was only slightly younger and who looked very worried. “Tell them, Mary Catherine.”
Mary Catherine glanced up the street, then whispered. “Check Woodruff Park.”
Alex looked up at Hatton. “What’s that?”
“It’s one of the areas where musicians gather,” he said. “Anybody we should talk to in particular, Sister?”
Mary Catherine pursed her lips and the first old nun gave her a nudge. “Tell her.”
“You’ve heard the song before?” Alex asked, and Mary Catherine nodded.
“Bailey was humming it on the last Sunday she was here, while she was making the pancakes. She looked so sad. The song sounded sad. When I asked her what the song was, she got this scared look and said it was just a song she’d heard on the radio. But Hope said no, that it wasn’t the radio and didn’t her mama remember it was her Pa-paw and he was playing the song on his flute.”
Alex stiffened.
Hope’s magic wand
.
“What did Bailey do then?” Hatton asked, and she knew he thought the same thing.
“She got real flustered and sent Hope off to help set the tables, saying Hope thought every man with a beard was her Pa-paw. She said it just some poor drunk on the street corner playin’ a flute, that was all.”
Alex frowned. “But Sister Anne said she didn’t think Bailey had found her father.”
The first nun nudged Mary Catherine again. “Go ahead.”
Mary Catherine sighed. “Anne wasn’t in the kitchen at the time. I told her about it Monday night after you left. That’s when she decided to go lookin’ for him yesterday.”
Alex’s shoulders sagged. “She should have called me. I would have gone looking for him myself. Why did she go alone?”
The first nun sniffed. “Anne’s been ministering on these streets for years. She ain’t afraid to walk around herself.” Then she sighed. “I guess she shoulda been. At any rate, she didn’t want to get your hopes up. She said she’d check it out, then tell you when you came back last night. But you didn’t come back and neither did she.” The old nun shook herself back to brusque. “Thanks for the medicine. I’ll make sure it goes to good use.” She shut the door in Alex’s face.
Alex looked up and down the street. “Which way to Woodruff Park?”
But Hatton took her arm. “You don’t have time to look. I’ll find the flute player, and even if he’s not Crighton, I’ll bring him in. Now come on. You have a date.”
Atlanta, Wednesday, January 31, 3:30 p.m.
Daniel had parked his car in the prison lot, but he still sat behind the wheel. He’d told her about the interview with Gretchen French, about the assault and the empty whiskey bottle. He’d told her his plan to startle Fulmore with her face, that neither Fulmore nor his lawyer knew she was coming. All that conversation had eaten up about twenty minutes. The rest of the drive, he’d been withdrawn, deep in thought. She’d let him brood, hoping he’d eventually say something, but he’d said nothing at all.
Finally she broke the silence. “I thought we were going inside the prison.”
He nodded. “We are, but we need to talk first.”
Dread had her stomach clenching. “About?”
Daniel closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to ask you this.”
“Just
ask
, Daniel,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Is the picture I found of Alicia . . . or of you?”
Alex shrank away. “No. It’s not me. How . . . why would you even ask me that?”
“Because you have nightmares and hear screams and there are things you can’t remember. I assumed that Alicia was raped the same night she was killed, but the MO is too different. I wondered if they’d happened at different times, by different perps. And then I started to wonder . . .” He opened his eyes, and they were filled with pain and guilt. “What if the victims were different, too? What if Simon and the others hurt
you
?”
Alex pressed her fingers to her lips and for a moment simply focused on breathing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “So sorry.”
Alex dropped her hands to her lap and made herself think.
Could it be?
No. She’d remember something like that.
Maybe not
. Meredith had said so in response to her exact same declaration earlier in the day.
“You’re the second person today to ask if I’ve been molested. I don’t know how to answer you except to say I don’t remember it happening, but I don’t remember the night she died, either. I started feeling sick on the way home from school and went right to bed. The next thing I remember was my mother shaking me awake the next morning, demanding to know where Alicia was. But I wasn’t bleeding and I don’t remember any whiskey bottle. I would think details like that would be harder to forget.”