Before I Sleep (26 page)

And this was one sleeping dog with a hell of a bite.

So it was a relief to go to work, and lack of sleep had made him crazier than usual. Only craziness would have made him come up with this idea. Lack of sleep had his mind following paths it didn't ordinarily tread.

He knocked on Ed's door and was told to come in.

“Got something for me on the Barnstable case?” Ed asked.

“Not yet.” He certainly wasn't going to tell the man what he was thinking about that, not until he had something to hang his suspicion on besides a string of coincidence. “I want to talk to you about the Mayberry case.”

Ed pointed to a chair. “Well, that's good, too. You get a break?”

“Maybe.” He sketched his and Gil's conversation with Sam Hollister the other day. “The thing is, Hollister seems to think there might be some neighborhood involvement in the death.”

“He got any proof?”

“Just the way people were talking. The thing is, there's too little information in that neighborhood. People were home at that time of the murder, yet nobody heard or saw a thing? I'm not buying it, and neither is Gil. Put that together with what Hollister said, and you get the feeling that we need to scratch the surface a little harder.”

“Just how are you planning to scratch it?”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to ask a few of these good citizens to come into the station for questioning.”

Ed looked as if he'd just experienced acid reflux. His expression soured. “Won't that look good in the papers.”

“None of them are going to talk to us if their neighbors see cops coming to the house.”

“Shit.”

“Well, there's another way to handle it. We could leak something to the papers about a suspicion of community involvement in the murder, then deny it when the media ask about it That might scare somebody into talking.”

Ed leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Worse and worse. You do this just to drive me nuts, don't you, Rourke?”

“That's a side benefit.”

“I always suspected it.” His dark eyes snapped open.

“Let me think about it. I'll need to discuss it with the brass. They'll be the ones taking the heat.”

“That's why they have the brass.”

Ed almost betrayed himself with a smile. It showed faintly around the corners of his eyes. “What about the Barnstable case?”

“She was the forewoman on the Otis jury.”

Ed's mouth opened just a little, but he didn't say anything.

“Yup,” said Seamus, rising and heading for the door, content that all his little bombs had been dropped,” I kinda felt that way myself.”

He made it back to his chair before he heard Ed swear.

“What'd you tell him?” Gil asked.

“Nothing he wanted to hear.”

“I already figured that out I got us interviews this afternoon with two people who volunteered with Barnstable at the literacy project. And the neighbor who found her said she'd be glad to see us at noon. I'm still trying to find out who she might have hung around with at USE.”

“Probably nobody. At her age she was pretty much a fish out of water socially on campus, don't you think?”

“Maybe. But she wasn't the only middle-aged woman going to school. We might dig up something.”

Reaching for his messages, Seamus started leafing through them. The real estate agent had called, could he please call back around noon? Might be tough, Seamus thought, considering the appointments he and Gil had scheduled.

The M.E.’s office had called. The prelim suggested that the same or similar weapon had been used in both the Downs and Barnstable killings. He passed that one over to Gil to read.

“No shock,” was all Gil said.

A message from forensics about an unidentified partial print lifted from the glass door at Barnstable's place. “Our guy may be slipping,” he said, passing that one on to Gil, too.

“Jeez, no size fifteen hand-made Italian shoe print?”

“Sorry.” He picked up the phone and called Oslo Mankin in forensics. “I got the message about the partial in the Barnstable case, Os. What can you tell me?”

“It looks like it was transferred through a surgical glove.”

“Oh, I love it when they mess up.”

Os laughed. “You and me both. I figure he had an itch to scratch and got some skin oil on at least one fingertip. There's some latex powder mixed in the oil, and it's a little blurred, but it would be enough to hang the guy if you find him.”

“I can't thank you enough.”

“So you buy the beer.”

“Anything else?”

“Just the usual bloody shoe prints. They match the ones at Downs, but the shoe is a size nine, with a rippled synthetic sole. Your typical cheap import, sold by the thousands at discount stores. No question the perp is the same guy, though. There's a distinctive cut across the left sole that matches in both cases.”

“I love ya.”

“I'll let my wife know. She's looking for somebody to take me off her hands.”

He hung up and looked at Gil. “Os wants to marry me.”

“That's not the way I heard it. So what's up?”

“We got a partial that'll link our guy to Barnstable, and a shoe print that links Barnstable and Downs.”

“Major progress.”

“I thought so. Now all we have to do is figure out who all this belongs to.”

“Don't remind me.”

The phone rang, and Seamus answered it

“Seamus,” said Carey, “what would you say if I told you that John Otis's younger brother was committed to a mental hospital for a nervous breakdown right after Otis's sentencing, and that the guy has spent the better part of the last five years in a mental institution in Atlanta. He was released just one month ago.”

Seamus gave a low whistle and felt the back of his neck start prickling. “I'd be very interested indeed.”

“Well, don't tell anybody I had to impersonate a lawyer to find this out.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“I'm going to Atlanta to talk to his family.”

“You're not going alone. Give me some time to get a couple of days off.”

“We don't have any time!”

“I didn't mean days. I meant twenty minutes. Where are you?”

“At home. I spent the last two hours on the phone trying to find out this little bit.”

“I'll call you back once I clear this.” He hung up and looked at Gil, trying to decide how much to tell his partner.

“You're not leaving me?” Gil said.

“Just for a couple of days.”

“Hell.
Now?
What's so damn important?”

“You don't want to know. Plausible deniability.”

Gil regarded him steadily. “Otis.”

“I didn't say that.”

“It's printed in neon on your forehead. Okay, I don't know anything. What can I do?”

“See if James Henry Otis has a DMV record here or in Georgia. I'd kinda like to know his address.”

“I'm not asking why.”

“Smart move.”

“Where are you going?”

“You don't want to know.”

Gil sighed. “So call once in a while, so I don't worry. And bring me back a surprise.”

Now, thought Seamus, rising, he had to convince Sanchez to let him go.

“What now?” Ed asked as Seamus reappeared.

“We've got a definite link between the Barnstable and Downs homicides.”

Ed put down his pen. “And?”

“And a partial print that will link the perp to the scene.”

“Better and better. Got any ideas who to look at?”

Seamus hesitated. “Trust me on this one, Ed. I need to go to Atlanta for a couple of days. And believe me, unless I'm right, you don't want a whisper of what I'm doing to get around.”

Ed frowned, his dark, patrician face looking uneasy. “What wild hare have you got now?”

“Call it a personal problem.”

“I've got to have something more than that to put on a travel voucher.” He shook his head. “Talk, or don't go.”

Seamus hesitated, knowing he was about to put his foot in it. “Otis.”

“Otis?” Ed looked as if he were about to launch for the moon. “Tell me you're shitting me! You're hanging around too much with that radio bitch.”

Seamus shook his head sharply. “Wait. Both Barnstable and Downs were involved in the Otis trial, Ed.”

“So were a lot of other people.”

Seamus blew an impatient breath. “Look. John Otis has a younger brother. That younger brother spent the last five years in a mental institution. He got out just one month ago.”

Ed stared at him for a long moment. “You're sure?”

“My source is solid. Tie that in with the calls to the radio station, and you've got a definite possibility that this younger brother is out for revenge.” He didn't mention the possibility that James Otis could have committed the original murders. This sell was tough enough without convincing Ed he was haring off on some wild-goose chase that would do nothing but bring the department bad publicity. Nobody, but nobody, wanted to hear that John Otis might be innocent, not without a hell of a lot more proof than this. But as a suspect in the Downs and Barnstable killings, James was prime.

He decided to add a little more incentive. “I'll front this myself. Call it a vacation for personal reasons. If I'm right, I'll submit a bill when I get back.”

“Two days?”

“Probably. Certainly no more than three.”

“Go. Just bring me back something.”

Carey waited impatiently for the phone to ring. She could go to Atlanta by herself, but she was glad Seamus wanted to go along with her. It would lend her visit an official capacity that might open more doors than simply going as herself. The family would probably be a whole lot more willing to talk to a cop than to a radio talk-show host.

For the first time, she seriously missed the badge she had once carried.

She was wound as tight as a top, eager to leave for Atlanta, afraid to go, and afraid of what traveling with Seamus might mean after last night.

But Otis loomed larger and more important than getting mixed up again with Seamus. A man's life was certainly more important than her minor emotional crises.

And she was surprised to discover that she was having mixed feelings about talking to James Otis's family. Now that she had something more than a mere wisp of intuition to go on, now that she might actually find something factual, she was terrified.

God, why couldn't she have just left this alone? Seamus was right. The jury had made the determination, and it wasn't her responsibility.

But what if she got up there and found out something she really didn't want to know? What if she got up there and found something that proved that John Otis really had killed the Klines?

It was an odd thought to be having at this point, after so many days of beating her head on a brick wall over the man's innocence. Why was she all of a sudden worried that he might turn out to be guilty?

After all, if it turned out that he really had killed the Klines, she had nothing more to worry about. Did she?

When the phone rang, she practically jumped at it.

“I can go,” Seamus said. “When do you want to leave?”

“I need to talk to the station. I'd be surprised if they can let me out of tonight's show, but I'm sure I can arrange to get away in the morning.”

“Then let's go in the morning. I have some interviews to do this afternoon anyway. Make the reservations for us both, will you? And find out if the family is in town. I'd hate to get up there and find out they've moved to Timbuktu.”

“They're still there. I called this morning.”

“You didn't tell them we were coming?”

“No, of course not. I just wanted to make sure they were there.”

“Good. I think it'd be better to surprise them. I'll get back to you later to finalize the details.”

She hung up the phone and wished to God she could shake the feeling that this was a major mistake.

When she got to the station, the first thing she did was tell Bill she was going out of town.

“You want to
what?”
Bill asked disbelievingly.

“I need to go to Atlanta,” Carey said firmly. “Two days is all I need, okay? Maybe not even that much if I can get everything done in one day, but make it two to be safe.”

“And I'm supposed to yank somebody in to cover for you on twenty-four hours’ notice?”

He could do it, she knew. People got sick sometimes, and he had to juggle things. This was no major deal. But trust Bill to act like it was. “Ted would love to do my show, and you know it. Then there's the weekend hosts.”

“And you've got a syndicated program. Did you consider that?”

“Use some of my old tapes then.” That was one of the benefits of syndication. The tapes of the best of her old shows were still available. Some of them were even for sale.

“Do you think Rush Limbaugh just takes two days off at the last minute?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I'm no Rush, and you know it. My absence won't even cause a ripple in the cosmos. Do you want me to call in sick?”

Almost in spite of himself, he laughed. “Jesus, you're something else. I'll make you a deal. Tape me two shows without call-ins and you can go.”

“One show,” she argued. “I'll do one show. That'll give you time to cover the next.”

“Okay, okay. One show. Just tell me this trip you're taking will give us something good to use when you get back.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe.” He sighed and threw up a hand. “Okay. Get me that show. And it better not be another one like last night, because I'm already singed from covering your butt. You went way out there, Carey.”

“I was angry.”

“Most everybody who tuned in last night figured that out. I understand that you're passionate on this subject, but you need to remember this is a business. We need to make money. And we don't make money if people are turning us off. Got it?”

She nodded. “Actually, if the calls are any indication, getting angry is making people listen.”

“I wouldn't count on that. Give me something else, Carey. Something I can use to reassure people you aren't just going off the deep end.”

She did better than that. By two o'clock she had lined up five people to tape a show at four on the subject of sexual harassment. There was a man who'd been accused of harassment and the woman who had sued him, both of their attorneys, and the retired judge who had presided over the trial. The U.S. Supreme Court had agreed to review the case, and both sides apparently had a lot they wanted to say.