A Reason to Believe (30 page)

“And I don’t want to jam you up.”

“I appreciate it.”

“But I need some information.”

There was another pause. “Could you hold for

one minute, please?”

Matt heard a click in his ear, returning him to

tinny Christmas music.

“What did he say?” Kiernan asked.

“He put me on hold.”

“Hey, at least he didn’t hang up in your ear.”

“True.” Matt slumped back into the sofa,

determined to wait. But as more time ticked by and

Ed didn’t return, Matt started to think he’d been

brushed off. He waited ten minutes and was about

to hang up when the line clicked again.

“Listen, I can’t talk for long,” Ed said, his voice

hushed. “The entire department has been given

very clear instructions not to speak to you, but—

I’ve been a cop too damned long, Matt. Something

about this whole thing stinks to high heaven.”

Matt sat up, feeling Kiernan’s eyes on him.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t discuss it here, and I’d rather not do it

on my cell.” His voice dropped even further. “Cell

records leave a paper trail, and if there’s any kind

of an internal investigation, they’ll subpoena

them.”

“Ed, I meant what I said. I don’t want to cause

you any trouble.”

“I believe you.” There was a pause, and Matt

wondered if the man on the other end was glancing

around to make certain he wasn’t being observed.

“I just think you might actually have more luck

with this than we will at the moment.”

“You’re being stonewalled,” Matt muttered.

“Shut down, more like.”

“By Branson, or higher up?”

“Both. Listen, I can’t do this here—”

“What if I could meet you?”

“Fine. One-fifteen, the Lighthouse Coffee at

Riverside and Seventh.”

“I’ll be there,” Matt said, but the phone had

already gone dead in his hand.

Lighthouse Coffee was a locally owned

business started in an effort to battle the trend

toward a Starbucks on every corner. The large

shop at Riverside and Seventh was the company’s

flagship store. Housed in a gutted and restored

turn-of-the-century flour mill, the walls were

exposed red brick, and a huge grindstone

reincarnated as a fountain turned ponderously in

the middle of the cavernous space. Vaulted

ceilings soared three stories to exposed beams

above, and the original flagstone floors had been

polished to a high sheen. A fireplace dominated

one wall, a wood-burning fire roaring on the

hearth. The scent of brewing coffee permeated the

air.

The building was located right in the middle of

the

newly

renovated

Old

Town

district,

surrounded by boutiques and upscale restaurants,

and as far from the precinct where Matt worked as

was possible and still remain inside the city limits.

A few locals sat at the tables, swathed in winter

wear, but Kiernan seemed something of a big-city

anomaly in his fitted jeans, black leather jacket and

heeled boots. Of course, underneath the snappy

jacket he was wearing a neatly tucked-in T-shirt

with a picture of a pretty little horse on it that read

Screw World Peace. I Want a Pony.

For his part, Matt looked at home in his khakis

and bulky sheep’s wool-lined denim coat. He’d

worn it partly because it covered the lines of his

harness and service revolver. When he’d taken it

out of the safe, Kiernan’s eyes had lingered even

as he’d teased Matt about his big gun. He didn’t

need to be told why Matt was wearing it.

The subtle reminder seemed to subdue his

mood. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet as

they’d driven into town.

They removed their gloves and scarves on

entering, ordered coffee at the counter and then

settled at a corner table to wait. At precisely one-

fifteen, the bell above the door jingled merrily and

Ed Partridge entered. He saw Matt in the corner

and acknowledged him with a guarded glance

before going to the counter.

“Very friendly,” Kiernan said under his breath,

moving to sit in the wooden chair at Matt’s side

and freeing up the other side of the table.

“He’s a good guy,” Matt countered. “If anyone

finds out about this, it could really cause him a

problem. You might want to—”

“—let you do the talking? I figured. I’ll just sit

here and keep my mouth shut.”

“Thanks.” Matt touched the back of his hand

fleetingly. Kiernan’s eyes warmed.

Ed approached, coffee in hand, and sat at the

table without taking off his coat. He looked tired.

“Be nice if it would stop snowing, huh?” he

grumbled, removing his gloves.

“I think we’ve had about enough, yeah,” Matt

said. “It’s good to see you, Ed.”

Ed shot him a wry look. “I’ll bet.” He jerked his

head toward Kiernan. “Care to introduce me?”

“Sure. Ed Partridge, Kiernan Fitzpatrick.”

Kiernan offered his hand. “Hi.”

“The ghost guy?” Ed said, his gray brows

arching.

“Yup, that would be me,” Kiernan said. “Nice

to meet you.”

Ed stared at the offered hand for another moment

before shaking it briefly and letting go equally fast.

Kiernan’s glance at Matt was amused as he picked

up his coffee.

“I got to hear all about you.” Ed’s mouth twisted

slightly. It was hard to tell if it was a smile or a

grimace. “Branson had a litter of spaniels over you

taking this guy to the Reynolds’ house.”

“That I would have liked to see,” Matt said, and

now there was no mistaking Ed’s gruff smile.

“Yeah, it was amusing. Having Commissioner

Mitchell turn up on your behalf wasn’t a bad stunt,

either. Rawlins blabbed all over the department.

Branson looked like an idiot.” Ed’s grin widened.

“Made my whole damned week.”

Matt snorted. “There goes the promotion I was

up for.”

Ed chuckled. “Yeah, I’m guessing you won’t be

getting detective of the year.”

“He’s been after me for…a while.”

“Eighteen months, to be exact.” Ed’s eyes were

level as he took a sip of his coffee, and then set the

cup carefully on the table. “You’ll also be lucky if

the tabloid press doesn’t identify you from the clip

on the news. You’ve got to know there are people

who’d like nothing better than to…well…” He

glanced meaningfully at Kiernan.

“Out me.” Matt felt himself coloring as he

glanced over at Kiernan. “I know.”

Ed looked between the two men opposite him,

his light eyes knowing. “Listen, what you do in

your free time is none of my business. I didn’t care

eighteen months ago, and I don’t care now. You’re

a good cop, and you’ve always had my back.

Just…be careful, yeah?”

Matt nodded, warmth for his colleague growing.

“I will, Ed. And when I said I didn’t want to jam

you up…”

Ed shook his head dismissively. “I’m a big boy,

Bennett. Don’t worry about me. I can handle

myself.” He glanced over his shoulder before

leaning in. “And when I said you might have more

luck on the outside with this than we are, I meant

it.”

Matt mirrored his posture, his elbows on the

table. “So what the hell happened?” he asked, his

voice muted. “Last I heard they had nothing on

Reynolds.”

“Strange, that,” Ed said. “It remained the case,

right up until yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?”

Ed’s hands curled around his coffee cup.

“Seems new evidence has come to light.”

“New evidence, meaning what?”

“They found the duct tape used to bind the kid’s

hands in a box in a tool shed behind a neighbor’s

garage. Along with a bottle of Ketamine. And just

guess whose fingerprints are supposedly all over

them?”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Who found them? The

neighbor?”

“Guy went out to fire up his snowblower, and

there they were, sitting right on top of it.

Convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Ed scowled and

took another sip of his coffee. “According to

Branson, the call came in yesterday morning.”

“Wait, hadn’t the guy had the blower out?

We’ve had thirty inches of snow since Christmas.”

Ed’s lips twisted. “I’m not sure the question

was even asked.”

Matt was incredulous. “They didn’t ask him?”

“I have no idea,” Ed answered. “None of us

have even spoken to him.”

The two cops exchanged a telling look. “I

thought the theory of the crime was it was someone

smart,” Matt said. “Someone who knew enough to

get around law enforcement.” He glanced at

Kiernan. “Someone who’d worn rubber gloves.”

Kiernan nodded once.

“Well, apparently the new theory is Reynolds

murdered the little girl, and then was careless

enough to leave his prints all over the evidence

when he dropped it off in the neighbor’s shed,

several days after committing the crime.” Ed

lowered his voice. “And my contact at the crime

lab tells me if anyone has tested the tape and the

bottle of pills, it wasn’t them.”

Matt stared into his steady gaze. “If they found

the evidence yesterday, and they arrested him this

morning, but the crime lab didn’t do the testing,

then…who did?”

“I heard a rumor it was sent to the FBI lab in the

capital.”

Matt scoffed. “Since when does our department

go to the FBI? There was no kidnapping here.

Unless that’s what they’re calling his hauling her

down to the basement…”

“I always knew you were smarter than the

average bear.” Ed leaned back in his chair.

“So, who alerted the media, and why?” Matt

asked, his jaw tight.

“Could have been anyone,” Ed answered with

studied casualness. “Someone in the DA’s office,

or a police detective who knows something rotten

when he smells it. Sometimes what a case needs is

the harsh media spotlight. And maybe a little help

from the outside.” Matt wouldn’t have sworn to it,

but he thought Ed sent Kiernan a subtle wink. “And

I need to get back uptown before I find my ass in a

sling.” He stood, hands slipping back into his

gloves. “Nice to meet you, Fitzpatrick.”

“Same here, Detective,” Kiernan said.

Ed looked at Matt. “Just to clarify, you haven’t

spoken to me.”

“Understood.”

“But if you happen to come across anything

while you’re on vacation—” one of his brows

arched sardonically, “—give me a heads up, will

you?”

“Absolutely.”

Ed saluted him with an ironic smile, then turned

and left as quickly as he’d come.

“Well, his opinion is pretty obvious,” Kiernan

said. “Marc Reynolds is being set up.”

“Not only is Reynolds being set up, he’s being

set up from the inside.” Matt reached for his

gloves and stood. “Come on, we have work to do.”

* * *

from the coffee shop, housed in an enormous brick

building built specifically for the purpose in 1903.

The inside was elegant in the way only old

buildings could be. Each large room boasted

mahogany trim and crown moldings, staircases

with gleaming dark banisters and shining

hardwood floors. The elevators were a later

addition, and Matt and Kiernan stepped off on the

third floor where the research and computer

departments were housed.

Matt led the way to a bank of computer screens

and keyboards. He pulled out a chair in front of

one of the screens, reaching into his inside jacket

pocket for the folded copy of the Reynolds’ guest

list. Kiernan pulled out a chair next to him, his

eyes fixed across the room.

Matt followed the direction of his gaze, but all

he saw was a towering section of bookcases.

“What are you looking at?” he asked as he sat

down.

“Huh?” Kiernan looked startled by the question.

“Oh, the librarian.” He sat and pulled off his

leather gloves.

Matt looked again. “What librarian?”

“The one between the stacks right there by the

window,” Kiernan replied, a faint smile on his

face. “Man, I’ll bet women are glad the styles have

changed. That Victorian-era stuff looks really