The Dead Man (26 page)

Kate's son, Brian, was alive and well and would, if the actuarial tables were kind, live his full life expectancy, growing up, going to college, and getting a job. Like many, he will get married, have children, and he and his family will prosper or not as fortune dictates. Kate, like any other parent, will live to see some but not all of that, exulting in the highs and commiserating in the lows. Yet no matter what lay ahead, her anguished cries made one thing certain. This moment of unanticipated rejection, abandonment, and betrayal would always be one of irreducible pain.

The deaths of my children had taught me that comfort from others was both necessary and inadequate, that while we need someone to lean on, we have to remember how to stand. So I stayed at Kate's side until she gripped the arms of her chair and raised herself to her feet. I cupped her elbow as she cleared her head and found her balance and I held her tight when she turned into me, burying her face against my neck. I didn't make any false promises that everything would be all right because I knew too well that some things couldn't be fixed, but I told her the one thing that I believed with absolute certainty.

"You will get through this."

She stepped back, framing my face with her hands. "I know that. I don't have any other choice."

A year ago, Kate had moved from her downtown loft to Fairway, a Kansas side suburb much like Brookside. She found a house around the block from Alan's so that Brian's shuffling from one parent to the other would be less of a hassle.

We stopped at the Hen House grocery on Johnson Drive, and picked up simple things even I could make for dinner—salad from the salad bar, rotisserie chicken, potatoes, and asparagus—while she went to see Brian. He had stayed with a friend during her parents' office all-nighter. She had called him on his cell phone, finding him at his father's.

The table was set, the salad tossed, the chicken warmed up, the potatoes baked, and the asparagus grilled when she returned, her face washed out, the light gone from her eyes. I ate while she picked at her food, sipping wine.

"Turns out they were planning this for a while," she said.

"It's a hard thing to do on the fly."

"I can't believe Alan would turn my own son against me."

"You don't know that's what happened."

She slammed her hand onto the table, rattling her wineglass. "And you don't know the first thing about it!"

I kept my voice level and low, making certain she could hear me if she was listening. "You're right. I'm just saying that it's hard to sort anything out right now. This is January. School isn't out until the end of May. You've got time to work it through."

She pushed her plate away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

"That's okay. You were blindsided and I've got broad shoulders."

"I know. They're very nice shoulders."

We did the dishes and sat on the couch in her den, finishing the bottle of wine and talking about Alan, Brian, her father, and her firm; no mention of a serial killer. We took a shower. I washed her back and then we rubbed lotion on each other's back after we were dry. We fell into bed and she settled next to me as I shook, her arm draped over my chest until the day's last tremors retreated.

"Thanks," she said. "For staying with me."

A verse from a song I used to sing to my kids when they were little popped into my head. I sang it softly. "It's my job and like it fine. No one has a better job than mine."

She chuckled. "I remember that song. It was one of Brian's favorites when he was little."

"My kids too. I don't remember the rest of it."

I was on my back. She was on her side. We held hands.

"I miss him already," she whispered.

"San Diego is a big place. Has to be more than one neuromarketing firm out there. You can go with him."

"I know," she said, squeezing my hand.

We drifted to sleep. An hour later, she woke me, kissing me and sliding on top of me, our lovemaking as much about our needs as our desires.

We rose early, drinking coffee while scanning the morning newspaper.

"Oh, my God," she said, looking at the photograph of the institute on the front page beneath the headline about Anne Kendall's murder and Leonard Nagel's death. "I've been so caught up in my own world, I didn't ask you about what happened."

I told her about my day at the office. She peppered me with questions about Anne's boyfriend, Michael Lacey, how did he look, what did he say, what facial expressions did I notice, running me through the same gauntlet about Leonard.

"Leonard always had this goofy smile plastered on his face. He was jumpy all morning," I said. "But he had good reasons even if he didn't kill Anne. I don't have a take on the boyfriend. Anthony Corliss is another puzzle."

I described my conversations with him, letting the evidence of his links to Tom Delaney and Walter Enoch speak for itself, the recitation fueling my own suspicion.

"Corliss walked to work yesterday?" Kate said, seizing on a detail I hadn't given any attention. "In this weather? Why would someone do that?"

"He said it was for the exercise."

"There are a lot better ways to get exercise. I would like to have been there for that conversation. People who are hiding something often have to build an elaborate scaffolding of lies to support it. The lesser lies, like why he walked to work in the dead of winter, can be easier to detect because the person telling them is more intent on protecting the bigger secret."

She was right. It didn't make sense. Corliss was a Pillsbury Doughboy, not close to being in shape. He was more likely to get in his licks on a treadmill while watching the Food Channel if at all. There was a better reason for him to have left his car at home. It might contain incriminating evidence, like Anne Kendall's blood. In which case, he'd either get rid of the car or soak it in bleach and hope for the best.

"The institute is closed today. I'll see if I can get a look at his car tomorrow."

She paused, her internal wheels spinning. "Speaking of the institute, what are you going to do about your boss?"

"Milo Harper? What do you mean?"

She set her coffee mug on the table. "He ruined DMC, just like he said he would, and you're still working for him."

When she first told me how Milo had threatened her if she didn't come to work for him, I passed it off as overblown rhetoric. I couldn't do that now, at least not without digging into it.

"I'm too deep into this thing to quit even if Harper did what you think he did. When the dust settles, I'll check it out. If the books need to be balanced, I'll find a way to do it. In the meantime, you might as well get as deep into his pocket as you can. How about I pay your staff a bonus for a job well done? Say, an extra two-weeks' pay on top of the severance they're going to get."

She leaned across the table and kissed me. "That's a good start."

Kate dropped me off in my driveway. The sky was a mix of sun and clouds, the front yard a quilt of emerging brown grass and retreating gray snow, the sun promising the grass a better day, mild dry air backing up the promise. The weatherman we'd listened to in the car wasn't impressed. He predicted sleet by late afternoon turning to ice by early evening turning to snow by midnight, ending with a day off from school tomorrow.

My cell phone rang before I made it to the front door. Caller ID said it was Quincy Carter.

"Carter, what's up?"

"You got your third look on Tom Delaney."

"And?"

"And CSI found some shredded paper fragments on the floor next to Delaney's body. It was the same kind of paper used for books. Some of the fragments had gunpowder residue on them."

"You telling me McNair ignored that?"

"I told you he's a better cop than you give him credit for. It was in a supplemental report he never saw because it was misfiled. It took me half the night to find the techs that worked the scene, reconstruct what happened, and track down the file."

We both knew that McNair's second look at Delaney's file should have included making certain all the lab work was accounted for but Carter was the kind of cop who'd handle that on his own without bad-mouthing his partner to me. I respected that even if it meant McNair really was a lousy cop.

"Now what?"

"Delaney's file is officially reopened."

"Thanks, Carter."

"No problem. There are some other things you should know."

"Like what?"

"I talked to the detective in Denver that worked Leonard Nagel's case. He said the woman who accused Leonard of rape recanted."

"Then why did he plead? Why wasn't the charge dropped?"

"The DA wasn't sure which one was lying, Leonard or the victim. Leonard's lawyer was a rookie PD, told Leonard the DA could still prosecute. Leonard took the deal rather than risk jail. He registered as a sex offender in Denver and took off. Probably figured he'd left all that behind until Anne Kendall gets murdered. He'd been the subject of one harassment complaint and been threatened with another by the murder victim. He's scared because he hadn't registered as a sex offender in Kansas City. He hears the drumbeats in the hallways and takes off."

"What about the other woman who worked at the institute who filed a complaint against him?"

"I called her last night. She stuck to her story but she said she never felt like he was dangerous, just obnoxious."

"Did you find Leonard's fingerprints on Anne's ID badge?" I asked.

"No. Only print we found was a plain print that could have been made by someone wearing a latex glove."

"Same story with Walter Enoch. Wendy's envelope had glove prints on it too."

"How about that? Enough snowflakes fall and pretty soon you can pack them into a snowball."

"So where does that leave you?"

"I've got a murder victim that made a complaint against a dead guy with a sketchy record and incriminating evidence that the killer could have planted in his desk. It will be a while before we know if there's any DNA evidence to tie Leonard to the murder."

"If it wasn't Leonard, it had to be someone who knew enough about his track record to try and frame him. That should narrow the universe."

"I talked to the HR director, Connie Nichols. She says that records of harassment complaints are confidential but people hear things. Anne might have told someone she was going to file the complaint. That person tells someone or someone else could have overheard them talking about it. Doesn't matter because there's no such thing as a secret."

"What about the boyfriend, Michael Lacey? He knew that Anne was going to file a complaint against Leonard."

"Neighbors tell us they fought like Ali and Frazier," Carter said. "Her parents live in Texas. She called her mom over the weekend, told her the marriage was off, and that she was moving out as soon as she found a place to live."

"What's Lacey say about all that?"

"Nothing. He lawyered up. Not the sort of thing you do when we've got a corpse everyone is ready to hang the murder on. We're getting DNA samples from him and we'll see where that takes us."

"Maybe he's just scared or he's got a lawyer who knows better than to let him keep talking if there's a chance you'll put Kendall's murder on Leonard and close the book. Anything to link Lacey to the other cases?"

"Not yet, but we're looking."

"You've been busy."

"Like I told you, I can use the overtime."

"As long as you don't have enough to do, put Anthony Corliss on your interview list," I said, telling him why Corliss may have decided to walk to work.

"Thanks," Carter said. "You have any other bright ideas?"

"Anne Kendall was missing her engagement ring and the finger it was on. Regina Blair wasn't wearing any jewelry when her body was found. Someone may have robbed her after she fell or, if she was killed, her killer may have been collecting souvenirs. If it was me, I'd want to know if she wore a watch or a ring or a necklace."

"If it was me, I would too. We'll check it out. Listen, I've got to run."

"One last thing. I heard you guys were reaching out to the FBI about a possible task force to work these cases if they're connected. Anything going on with that?"

"Not yet. The feds are dragging their feet as usual. Said they'd get back to us in a couple of days if they haven't closed the Enoch case by then. My lieutenant thinks they might be close. You hear anything about that?"

Now wasn't the time to tell Carter that I had thirty-three hours left on my forty-eight-hour deadline. I could use his help but I had to find Wendy's letter first. If there was anything in it that incriminated me, Carter wouldn't be interested in my explanation any more than Kent and Dolan would be. And, I couldn't rule out the possibility that he was already working with Kent and Dolan and was playing me from the backside.

"The Bureau always says they're close. It's in the manual."

I hung up and opened the front door as Lucy walked into the living den from the kitchen carrying a pad of poster-sized Post-its. She had hung new Post-it wallpaper with more names, notes, and questions around the room, taking down or covering up the now outdated first edition. She peeled off the top sheet of her pad and fixed it over an older sheet. This one was titled SOUVENIRS. The list read:

"What do you think?" she asked.

Her list proved the importance of a fresh set of eyes. Dolan, Kent, and I had made the same mistake about why the killer took Wendy's letter. We all had assumed it was about me but Lucy's list came at it from the killer's perspective, which changed everything.