Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

A few taps on his keyboard, and he dialed another number.

The answering machine picked up, and he began to leave a message. “Hi, Jessica, it’s Mitch Peyton, FBI. I worked with you on a case in Montgomery a few years ago, don’t know if you remember me or not. I’m looking into an old case-murder victim named Andrea Long, August ’86-and was wondering if you might be able to shed a little light on- Oh, hey, Jessica. How are you?”

He chatted for a few moments, then cut to the chase.

“I was hoping you could… no, I don’t have any other information, just the name of the victim, an approximate date of death, and the fact that she was strangled and sexually assaulted… Well, for starters, I was wondering if the case was ever solved. If not, if there was a list of suspects… Sure, that would be great.”

He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Regan, do you have a fax machine?”

She nodded and pointed to it where it sat atop a two-drawer file cabinet next to the desk.

He made a scribble sort of motion with one hand and she wrote the number of the fax machine on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

“Listen, anything you have, fax it to me at this number. I’ll give you my cell number and email address as well…”

He recited the information slowly, and after a few minutes of chatter, he ended the call.

“She’s going to look through the files and she’ll let me know if she finds anything. But it probably won’t be until Monday. She’s on her way out.”

“Is she with the FBI?” Regan asked.

“ Alabama Bureau of Investigation.”

“So that’s one of the ten on the unidentified list. Encouraging, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, it certainly gives direction to our search.”

“Pass that news clipping over here, and we’ll start a file on this one.” She searched the stack for an empty file, wrote Andrea Long, Corona, Alabama, 1986 on the side, then set it on the cushion of a nearby chair to keep it separate. “Now, let’s see what else we can find in this folder…”

Over the course of the evening, they matched up one other clipping. Gloria Silver, Memphis, Tennessee, had been found raped and strangled on March 17, 1987.

Mitch reached for his cell phone.

“Let me guess,” Regan said. “You’re calling the Tennessee State Police.”

He shook his head. “ Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

“Do you really think you’ll get someone at eight forty-five on a Saturday night?”

“Is it that late?” He glanced at his watch.

“ ’Fraid so.”

“Guess it’s true what they say about time flying when you’re having fun. Let’s wrap this up for tonight, then start fresh on Monday. By then, I should have been able to track down a few more names, and maybe we’ll have a response or two.”

“Fine with me.” Regan rubbed her eyes. “I guess I need to put this aside for a while anyway. My eyes are all but falling out of my head.”

“What time Monday is good for you?” Mitch gathered up his laptop and put it into its case, then slid it into the larger case, along with the small printer.

“Whatever time you get here. I’m an early riser.” She stood and stretched. “And maybe by then I’ll have found clippings that match up with the others.”

“You’ll be working tomorrow, then?”

“Sure. Writers don’t always get weekends, you just sort of work when you have something to work on, so I’m used to it.”

“Sort of like working for the Bureau,” he said. “You work the case until it’s done.”

“Exactly.”

Mitch followed her down the hall to the front door.

“You’re not driving back to… where did you drive from today?”

“I drove up from Maryland. But I’m staying at a motel on Route One.”

“Well, I’ll see you on Monday.”

She opened the door and he started through it.

“But you have my card, right, in case something comes up…” he paused to ask.

“I do. And you have my number…”

He nodded and walked to the car.

She stood in the doorway while he loaded the black case into the trunk, then got into the driver’s side and turned on the engine. The headlights shone far into the back field, and in their light, several deer startled. The light swung out around the field and made a yellow path as he turned the car around, and he waved to her when he drove past.

Regan stepped out onto the porch and leaned over the rail to watch the taillights grow smaller as they traveled the long lane, then disappear after he made the turn onto the main road. She sat on the top step for a while and stared up at the sky, where the clouds were beginning to fade and the stars were starting to appear. Her eyes followed the lights from a plane as it moved across the night sky. She thought about the dates and the places on the lists and about the fact that it was beginning to look like each date and place represented another woman whose life had been snatched.

More than she’d bargained for when she first picked up the phone to call Chief Denver, more than she could have imagined when she called John Mancini. She was grateful that he’d sent someone to help her sort through all the information.

Grateful, too, she found herself thinking, that the someone he’d sent was Mitch Peyton. Their work styles were so similar, their focus equally complete, it seemed she’d been working with him forever.

She couldn’t help but wonder about him. He’d appealed to her the minute she’d opened the door and looked up into his face. Not the most handsome man she’d ever seen, to be sure. His eyes were an odd shade of blue, so pale as to almost be gray, and his nose looked as if it had met a fist or two sometime in the past. But his voice was deep and soothing, he smiled easily and often. It had been comforting to have someone to wade through the boxes and files with, reassuring to know that someone would work with her to find answers to the many questions her father had left behind. Answers that could possibly lead to finding a killer. Mitch had certainly seemed to think so.

In the past, it had been her father who had done all of the frontline investigations into the actual crimes, she who had put it all in order. This was gruesome work. Not for the faint of heart.

Would she prove to have a faint heart, she wondered. In the end, would she be capable of alone doing what needed to be done to write the kind of books she had worked on with her dad?

For years Josh sheltered her from the ugliest realities of their work. Now there was no one to stand between her and the horror, the madness she’d be stirring up. Was she smart enough to do this on her own? Was she strong enough?

Time would tell, one way or another. She stood up and took one last look at the heavens, hoping she was up to the challenge of following in Josh’s footsteps. Yes, it was difficult work. Yes, it was tiring, and at times the information she had made no sense at all. She’d never realized how like a giant, convoluted puzzle her father’s work was. Sometimes it seemed like a maze with no exit. A story written in a foreign language, one you didn’t know.

The work was interesting, absolutely. Intriguing, without question. And, too, just a little bit fun.

But there was always that bottom line, that behind every name there was a face and a story, a family waiting for closure.

And a killer waiting to be caught.

Cass leaned over to touch her toes, then straightened up and flexed her shoulders. Placing one foot on the outside wall of the garage, she pushed forward slightly, knee bent, to stretch a different set of muscles.

Amazing what a good night’s sleep could do. She felt rested enough to crave a long run on the beach. It had been more than a week since she’d had a decent run, though it felt much longer.