Deadly Echoes (5 page)

I sat in a room at the Kansas City Police Department waiting to talk to someone about Hannah. After I was done here, I planned to go straight to her house. Tomorrow morning I was scheduled to pick up Cicely from Cora's. Before we left town, I'd decided I would take Cicely to her home so she could pack her things and say good-bye. But first, I had to make sure the house was presentable. I really had no idea what to expect.

I waited almost thirty minutes before the door opened and a man came in. He was nicely dressed in a dark suit and red tie. Handsome, with coal-black hair combed back from his face, his half smile looked practiced, and his overall demeanor was distant. I got the distinct impression that to him, talking to me was nothing more than part of his job.

“Miss Miller?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I'm Detective Sykes. I have some questions to ask, if it's okay.”

“I understand.”

He pointed at the cup sitting in front of me on the table. “Can I get you more coffee?”

“No, thank you. I'm fine.”

He sat down at the table across from me, setting down his coffee and a file he'd carried in with him.

“I understand you live in a town called Sanctuary?”

“Yes. With my friend Janet Dowell. Well, I should say I
will
be living with her. My apartment is too small, so Cicely, my sister's daughter, and I will be moving in with Janet.” I knew I was babbling, but I was nervous. Something about police stations and police officers.

“And Ms. Dowell will help with your niece's care?”

I hesitated for a moment. Why was he asking questions about Janet and Cicely? “Yes, I suppose, but I'll be Cicely's primary caregiver. May I ask why you're interested in my niece's living arrangements?”

“No reason. Just making sure the victim's daughter will be taken care of. I know it's not my job, but we're human beings, you know. Cases with children affect us.”

“I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little on edge.”

“Not a problem. People all act differently in these kinds of situations. There are no right or wrong reactions.”

“I appreciate that.” I tried to smile at him. “I'm sure you have a tough job. Having to deal with so many people who've gone through tragedy, I mean. Not everyone could do it.”

He took a sip of coffee and then put his cup down. “It's not easy. I rarely get to stop something tragic before it happens. Usually I get a case after it's too late to protect the victim.” He stared into my eyes. “I want you to know that I'm really sorry about your sister. We intend to do everything we can to find her killer.”

“Thank you.”

For some reason, I couldn't take my eyes off the green file folder the detective had placed on the table in front of him. Hannah's life had come down to a green file folder. Sadness flowed through me, and I fought to subdue the grief that threatened to turn me into a mass of blubbering emotions. This detective had a job to do, and trying to console me wasn't part of it.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind.”

“Certainly,” I choked out. “Anything I can do to help.”

Sykes turned his attention to the file. He flipped it open and quickly perused its contents. “It looks like your sister was killed by a burglar. Quite a few things were missing. Money and possibly credit cards from her purse.” He looked up and pushed a piece of paper toward me. “We checked your sister's credit. There are two cards listed. You need to contact them as soon as possible. Let them know the cards may have been stolen. And please let us know if either of the cards have been used. It might help us catch her killer.”

I nodded. “I plan on going to her house when I leave here. Hannah was very meticulous about everything. I'm sure I'll find the information I need.”

“Good.” He went back to his list. “According to her landlord and her next-door neighbor, several electronics, including her laptop, were missing as well. We can't be sure there weren't more items stolen. Maybe you'll be able to tell us if anything else is gone?”

I shook my head. “I've never been inside her house. I'm sorry, but I can't help you with that.”

“I guess the only person who would know for certain is her daughter, but we couldn't ask her to go back into the house the morning we were there. She was just too traumatized. When
she's doing better, you'll want to have her check the house. For now, we've pieced things together the best we could.” He stared down at the paper in front of him. “Oh, and her jewelry box was emptied. I hope none of the pieces were family heirlooms.”

I shook my head. “My mother wasn't big on jewelry. I have her wedding ring. As far as I know, there wasn't much else. Nothing very valuable.”

The detective took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What I'm getting ready to tell you next might be hard to hear. Stop me at any time if it's too difficult for you.” He paused for a moment and stared at me.

“Go on,” I said.

“Your sister was stabbed to death. Sixteen times. She put up a fight, but the coroner didn't find any DNA on her body. Not even under her fingernails. There wasn't any evidence at the crime scene that was useful. The only fingerprints we found in the room where she died belonged to Hannah and her daughter. The killer must have worn gloves.” He sighed. “I want you to know that we're looking for her things, but to be honest, finding any of them is a long shot. Everything is probably gone by now. Either sold or pawned. We have a few pawn brokers who keep an eye out for stolen property, but most of them just don't have the time or the inclination to update us when something matching our list of items comes through their stores.”

The gruesome details shocked me, but I was determined not to allow them to overwhelm me. Instead, I focused on something else he'd said. “Look, Detective—”

“I know this isn't what you want to hear.”

I shook my head. “I'm not concerned about my sister's possessions. I am concerned about calling this . . . this crime . . . a burglary.”

The detective's eyes narrowed. “I'm sorry. I don't understand.”

“Are you aware that my parents were murdered almost twenty years ago?”

He nodded. “Yes. We found the case while we were researching your sister . . . and you.”

My mouth dropped open in surprise. “You researched me? I don't understand.”

“It's routine. When there's a murder, we check into all the close family members. Unfortunately, you and your niece are the only relatives we could find except for your sister's adoptive mother, who's in a nursing home. I understand she's in the last stages of Alzheimer's.”

“And I'm happy to help you in any way I can. But I need you to understand why I don't believe this was a burglary.” A battle raged in my mind. The warning from Hannah's letter versus Paul's admonition about bringing criminals to justice. But as I searched my heart, I realized I only had one clear choice.

His dark eyebrows knit together in a deep frown. “All right. Explain it to me.”

I took a deep breath, aware I was getting ready to go down a road I wouldn't be able to come back from. “My parents were murdered in exactly the same way. Stabbed. It was staged to look like a burglary.”

Sykes cleared his throat. “You were very young when this happened, weren't you?”

“I was six. But what does that have to do—”

“Six years old? Yet you know the murders were staged? And how would you know that?”

Anger coursed through me. “Because my sister was convinced of it.”

“But what kind of proof did she have? Did she bring her
concerns to us?” He flipped through the papers in the file. “I don't have any record of that.”

“I . . . I don't know. But shouldn't you at least look into it? I mean if there's any possibility these murders are linked . . .”

Before the detective had a chance to respond to me, the door swung open again. A tall man with blond hair walked in. He frowned at Detective Sykes.

“Sorry. I thought you were in room B.”

Sykes seemed to straighten up in the man's presence. “No, sir. Do we need to move?”

The blond man shook his head and smiled at me. He looked to be in his early fifties, and he possessed a quality that exuded confidence.

He held out his hand. “I'm Captain Anson Bentley.”

“Sarah Miller,” I said as we shook hands.

The captain looked at Sykes. “This is the Hannah Miller case?”

“Yes, sir. Sarah is Hannah's sister.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” the captain said. His words were said with the kind of sincerity that made tears spring to my eyes. I quickly blinked them away.

“Thank you so much.”

“Detective Sykes is one of our best, but if there's ever anything you need and you can't get in touch with him, please call.” He took a small brass cardholder from his pocket, withdrew a card, and handed it to me. “I can usually be reached at this number if you can't get me through the main number.”

His kindness touched me, and once again I felt tears sting my eyelids.

He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “I know it's hard, Sarah, but you'll get through this. I can tell by looking at
you that you're a strong woman. And the entire Kansas City Police Department has your back, okay?”

Too choked up to respond, I just nodded.

He patted my shoulder then left the room.

“Nice man,” I said to Sykes, my voice shaking.

He nodded. “Yes, he is. We're lucky to have him. He certainly knows how to solve cases. His father was also a very successful detective in this department years ago. Kind of a legend. Captain Bentley was named after him.”

I was certainly impressed. “Will he be working on my . . . case?” To me, Hannah wasn't a
case
, but that's how the police saw her.

He shook his head. “Probably not. Although he oversees all our cases, he rarely gets personally involved. Not unless there's a problem.”

I slid Bentley's card into my purse. “I'm sorry,” I said. “What were we talking about?”

“You were saying you think what happened to your sister is somehow linked to the murder of your parents. Is there anything else that supports your belief?”

“Yes. The flowers.”

Sykes didn't respond, just stared at something in his file. I could see it was a picture, but he was careful to keep it hidden from me. Looking at his expression, something dawned on me.

“You saw them, didn't you? You know about the white orchids.”

“Yes, I saw them,” he said hesitantly. “But I'm not sure it's enough evidence to connect the two . . .”

Without realizing it, I stood to my feet. “Enough evidence? My sister was convinced my mother did not have white orchids in her house the night she died. And my sister hated them. She
never would have had them in her apartment. Don't you find that the least bit suspicious?”

Sykes raised an eyebrow. “You can sit down,” he said quietly. “Look, I'm willing to listen to you, but I can't hinge a case on the victim's choice of flowers. If you're trying to get me to believe that someone killed your parents almost twenty years ago, for some reason left white orchids at the scene, and then a couple of days ago decided to kill your sister and leave the same flowers again . . . Well, it's an incredible story. I'm not dismissing your concerns out of hand; I'm just telling you that it's not enough to launch a full-scale investigation. I'd need more proof.”

I sank back down into my chair. “My sister was convinced my parents' murder wasn't the result of a foiled burglary attempt. She spent a lot of years trying to prove it but never made much progress. Then a few weeks ago, a reporter who was leaving
The
Kansas City Star
contacted her. Asked her if she wanted a file she'd started keeping ever since our parents died, hoping whoever killed them would be caught and she could write the story. Hannah met her and got the file. I have no idea what was in it. She tried to tell me, but I refused to listen. Hopefully, I'll find the file when I go to her house. If I do, I'll turn it over to you.”

“I doubt it will have any information I don't have, Miss Miller.”

“Maybe not. But I do have something you haven't seen.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a copy of Hannah's letter. I held it out and Sykes stared at it a moment before finally taking it from my hand.

He quietly perused it before looking up at me. “This is certainly disturbing, but it doesn't prove anything.”

“How can you say that?” I fought to keep my emotions in
check. Why wouldn't he listen to me? Is this how I seemed to Hannah when she tried to talk to me?

He put the letter on his desk. “Look, Miss Miller. I don't want you to think I don't care about what happened to your sister. I do. I'm very interested in the truth, but . . .” He took a deep breath. “Look, I shouldn't be telling you this because we haven't had time to thoroughly investigate him, but we've picked up a suspect in your sister's murder.”