Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) (12 page)

“Yes.”

I disconnected the line and laid my phone on the coffee table.

“Either that is one crazy coincidence,” Harper said. “Or…”

“What?”

“Or someone was watching you…or Jo…or both. Either way, it’s totally creepy.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I told Harper. “But why would someone be following me? Or Jo, for that matter?”

“Well, you are working on your father’s case. You said yourself that if he was innocent, it meant someone else killed all those women. Well, maybe he really is innocent. What if the real killer found out what you’re up to and they’re following you?”

I hadn’t thought of that, either. Randy certainly couldn’t have killed Jo. He was far away, locked up at Big Sandy Federal Penitentiary. But there was no way this was a coincidence. So who had killed Jo? It would stand to reason that whoever killed her might well be the one who really killed those nine women.

I was in over my head now. At least as far as Jo’s murder. Time to let the cops in on what I’d learned.

Chapter 12

I hadn’t been inside a police station since Ryan’s murder case played out earlier that summer. I wasn’t really looking forward to the prospect this time around, either. The cops had not been very nice to me last time, but then again, I was the prime suspect in my husband’s murder. I wondered how Detective Webster of the Richmond PD was going to treat me. Would he be grateful for the helpful information? Or would he be offended with my presence, as many police officers are when it comes to private investigators? I was about to find out.

I gave my name at the reception desk and told the young, dark-skinned lady sitting at the computer I had an appointment with Detective Webster. She smiled at me pleasantly and paged the detective, holding up her pointer finger.

“He’ll be right with you,” she said nicely. “You can have a seat over there while you wait.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “But thank you.”

Not even a minute passed by before a man wearing khaki pants and a navy blue polo shirt appeared around the corner with his hand extended in front of him.

“You must be Libby,” he said with a genuine smile.

I couldn’t help but notice how incredibly good-looking he was. From the dark brown military-style haircut, to the root beer eyes, right down to the tiny dimples that formed on both cheeks when he smiled and flashed his perfectly aligned, very white teeth. I was smitten. And when I’m smitten, I become a bumbling idiot, and typically embarrass myself.

“Hi…uh…I’m…yep! That’s me!” I said stupidly as I allowed his firm grip to envelop my hand.

“Nice to meet you. Follow me to my office,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway.

I nodded, unsure what to say, if anything, and followed along behind him with my legal pad held close to my chest. I had brought my notes, just in case.

When we arrived at his office, he motioned for me to sit in a padded blue chair opposite his desk. He sat down in a large black leather swivel chair, pulled himself forward, and crossed his arms on top of his desk. I noticed the muscles in his arms bulging slightly when he did this.

“Now, you said you have some information for me?”

I quickly shifted my eyes from his nice, tan arms to his lovely, symmetrical face. When I registered what he had said, I was shocked that this detective was being so cordial to me. My experience with police officers in the past had not been so pleasant. I reminded myself not all cops are assholes, despite what I had recently been through.

“Yes, like I said, I met with Jo—I’m sorry—Joanna Baker, yesterday morning. I’m working on a case and she said she had information that might help me, so I met her at Willie’s.”

“How exactly did you know Ms. Baker?”

“Actually, believe it or not, I only met her less than forty-eight hours ago. I stopped at Willie’s after a long day. You know, to unwind a little. She was the bartender that night. We talked about my case and when she realized she knew my client in high school, she volunteered to show me her yearbook the following day…yesterday morning.”

“Who is your client, if you can tell me?”

I debated answering him for a split second, but reasoned if anyone needed to know the truth, it was law enforcement, so I told him the whole story. I told him who I was and that I was working on Randy’s case as a favor to him. I even told him how my investigation had taken a sharp left turn when I discovered I had a half-brother, even though that was probably completely irrelevant.

He leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands to his sides. “Wow. That’s quite a story. Let me get this straight…your father is Randall Terrance McLanahan…the I-75 Strangler?”

“One and the same.”

He shook his index finger at me a couple of times. “That’s why I recognize you. You’re that Libby Carter. You’re that woman who finished off your husband’s killer this summer. I
knew
I knew you from somewhere.”

What he didn’t bring up, and for this I was grateful, was the fact that I was known to most law enforcement officers in the area mostly because I’d been charged with, and prosecuted for, Ryan’s murder. Normally, I hated being recognized solely as “that woman,” but for some reason, coming from Detective Webster, I wasn’t offended. He seemed genuinely intrigued instead of morbidly curious.

“Yep. That’s me,” I said with a quick nod of my head.

“And he’s now saying he’s innocent? Do you believe him?”

Again, I was thankful to him. This time for not lingering on my identity and the scandal that surrounded it. I was really beginning to like this detective.

“I don’t know, to be honest. I have learned some things in my investigation which give me pause, but nothing concrete. I’ve got a long way to go. And now I’ve been sidetracked by the issue of my newly-discovered brother. I’ve decided I’m going to try to find him first and then I’ll continue with my father’s case. I doubt the two issues have anything in common, but something in my gut tells me this is what I have to do.”

“And you think Ms. Baker’s death may have something to do with your investigation?”

“Well, I don’t know that for sure. I just thought you should know I had met with her the morning she was murdered. You would have found out anyway, I’m sure. And if you did find out about it later, it would look very suspicious of me not to have brought it to your attention sooner.”

“Probably true.”

“But I do think it’s too much of a coincidence to just dismiss it, don’t you?”

“It
is
rather bizarre timing,” he admitted, nodding his head. “But what I can’t understand is why would anyone want this woman dead? By all accounts, she was a decent human being. No criminal history. No enemies. She recently married her girlfriend of twenty years right after the big
Obergfell
decision came down. She never bothered anybody that we can tell.”

“I was thinking about that,” I said cautiously. “And I was wondering if it’s possible that someone was watching me, saw me with her, and killed her to shut her up.”

“Okay, but who would be following you? Do you have any enemies?”

“Well, if it’s even remotely possible that my father is innocent, as he claims, that means someone else killed those women. That someone may have somehow learned I’m investigating Randy’s case and killed Jo when they saw her talking to me.”

“But why not just kill you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a good question. But who really ever understands why killers do the things they do?”

“True.” He steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips briefly, then leaned forward on his desk. “Did Ms. Baker say anything to you that might give us any idea who would have done this? What exactly was the information she shared with you about your father from high school?”

“No, nothing. All she told me was some old gossip about a girl my father apparently knocked up in high school. I tried to locate this girl, her name is Annie Larson, but she’s nowhere to be found. That’s when I decided to go interview her parents, who eventually told me about my brother.”

“Annie Larson,” Detective Webster said as he scribbled down the name in his small spiral notebook.

“Good luck finding her,” I said. “She’s apparently vanished into thin air.”

“If she’s out there, we’ll find her. Thanks for the information, Libby.”

I took this as my cue that the conversation was over. I stood and held out my hand toward the detective, secretly hoping for a little more body contact. To my delight, he grabbed my hand again and shook it firmly. His hands were warm, but dry, and his grip was firm, in a confident sort of way.

“If there’s anything else I can do to help, Detective…”

“Web,” he said with a smile.

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Web. All my friends do.”

“Web?”

“As in Webster…Web for short.”

“Oh!” I said, feeling a little slow on the uptake. “I get it. I like that. For a name, I mean. Web. Very unique.”

I turned to leave, sad that my encounter with the gorgeous detective was now over, but he stopped me before I reached the door.

“Oh, and Libby?”

“Yes?”

“Please be careful out there. I know you’re a PI and you know what you’re doing, but on the off chance there is another killer out there and he’s watching you…well, you never know. Here. Take my card.” He fished into his pocket, retrieved a business card, and handed it to me. I took it and tucked it into my back pocket. “Call me if you need any help.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good luck finding your brother,” he added as I exited his office.

“Thank you.”

I left the police station a little light on my feet. It was the first time since meeting Ryan all those years ago I had felt butterflies around a man. Detective Sebastian Webster was not the type of man I usually went for. My husband Ryan was my type—a man’s man who works with his hands and comes home dirty and sweaty. The detective was clean cut and taller than Ryan had been. I felt an instant twinge of guilt for even thinking of another man in that way, but I had to remind myself Ryan was gone forever and I was now a widow—free to look at any man that caught my eye. And Sebastian Webster had definitely caught my eye.

I shrugged away my teenage-girl anxiety over the handsome detective and turned my attention back to the task at hand—finding my brother.

***

When I arrived home, Harper was not at the house. She’d left me a note on the fridge saying she had some errands to run and would be back later in the day. This was perfect. Not that I didn’t enjoy Harper’s presence, but I wanted—no,
needed
—some time to myself to not only process the latest developments in my life, but to see what information I could possibly find regarding my brother.

It was lunchtime, so I grabbed a granola bar and sweet tea and headed up to the office. I sat down at my desk and powered on my laptop. I sat there drumming my fingers on the top of my desk, trying to think of where even to begin.

Begin at the beginning, of course
. So I pulled up a new Google search page and typed in Sacred Hearts, Grundy Virginia. Sure enough, the first result was a link to a website for a school for teenage girls. When I clicked on the link, a pretty, colorful website came up. The home page was a picture of what I assumed was the building which housed the school, a large white Colonial-era house with large white columns and a wraparound porch. There were a few young ladies sitting on porch swings, but the picture was taken from such a distance so as not to reveal their facial features. It oozed caring and comfort, and I could easily see how a parent may be drawn to a place like this if they were desperately trying to search for a refuge for their unfortunate daughter.

I looked at all the links across the top of the page and found one entitled
Contact Us
. When I clicked on that link, a new page appeared with contact information for the school. I picked up my cell phone and immediately dialed the number.

A cheery female voice answered.

“May I speak with your headmistress?”

“May I say who is calling?”

“My name is Libby Carter. I’m a private investigator and I just have a couple of questions.”

“Hold, please.”

A few seconds’ worth of pretty classical music went by until the line picked up again and a very authoritative but mellow female voice answered.

“This is Headmistress O’Connor. How may I help you?”

I introduced myself and advised her I was working on a case for a client looking for a long-lost relative—not
entirely
a lie. I apologized for bothering her and told her I would only need about five minutes of her time.

She sighed. “Go ahead, ask your questions.” Not overly enthused about the prospect, obviously. But that wasn’t going to stop me.

“Great. Thank you. Now, my client believes her relative might have been born there in 1972. I know that’s a long time ago, but do you by chance keep records from that far back?”

“Yes, in fact, we do. However, I can tell you now that we hold our girls’ privacy in very high esteem here at Sacred Hearts. I couldn’t divulge that kind of information to you. I’m sorry.”

Great. Just what I was afraid would happen. I had to think fast or this lead would blow up in my face at any moment.

“Listen, Mrs. O’Connor, I have to be completely honest with you.”

“I would appreciate that,” she said firmly.

“I don’t really have a client. I’m asking for myself. Yes, I’m a private investigator. That part’s true. But I just recently found out I have a half-brother who was born there in 1972 and I desperately want to find him. Our father passed away recently and I thought my brother should know. There’s an inheritance…”

So I fibbed a bit. All right, I fibbed a lot. But it worked. The headmistress sighed again and asked, “I wasn’t here then, but I’ll give it a try. What was the mother’s name? I’ll see what I can find for you.”