Karen Rose - Kill for Me

“Where are we going?” Talia asked.

“To my parents’ house. Hurry, before I lose my nerve.”

Charlotte, North Carolina, Monday, February 5, 12:05 p.m.

Still reeling from the discovery of an Atlanta cop observing Genie Cassidy’s abduction, Harry called the one person he trusted to guide him through what could be a sticky situation. “Steven, it’s Harry.”

“Hey. I was just getting ready to call you.”

Harry’s heart sank. “You found Dr. Cassidy in Lake Gordon?”

“Only his car. Now we’re searching the shoreline. Harry, what’s wrong?”

“God, Steven. I’ve fallen into a mess.” He told his old boss about the Crown Vic.

“Holy hell, Harry. Are you sure?”

“That the car is registered to Houston, yes. Who’s behind the wheel I can’t say.”

“Have you called APD?”

“Not yet. I was wondering where to start. I could call the administrative office and get Paul Houston’s boss, but his boss might ask him directly. If Houston is dirty, I don’t want to risk tipping him off. I could call Atlanta’s Internal Affairs, but… hell, Steven.”

Steven was quiet a moment. “Do you trust this Papadopoulos?”

“Yeah. I think so. More than IA, anyway.”

“Then call him. Tell him what you found. Let him field the flak.”

“Seems cowardly.”

“Well, door number two is IA.”

“I’ll call Papadopoulos.”

“I thought so. Call me if you need anything more.”

Springdale, Monday, February 5, 12:25 p.m.

Talia waited until they were on the main road. “Why are we going to your parents’ house, Susannah?”

“My father kept records. Borenson came to our house often. They scratched each other’s backs.”

“But in Marcy’s case, Borenson reversed your father’s initial ruling.”

“Right after Borenson presided over Gary Fulmore’s trial, which we know was dirty. My father wouldn’t have been happy about being overruled.”

“Do you remember an argument between them?”

“No. But when Alicia Tremaine turned up dead in that ditch, my mother somehow knew Simon was involved. She went to Frank Loomis and begged him to ‘fix it.’ So he framed Gary Fulmore, a drifter who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and too high to know what was happening. Alderman was Fulmore’s defense attorney. The only evidence Loomis had was Alicia’s ring in Fulmore’s pocket and a little blood on his clothes. There were huge holes in the case. Judge Borenson should have seen. He should have seen.”

“A jury convicted Fulmore, Susannah. Borenson may not have been involved.”

“We both know a jury convicts based on the evidence they’re allowed to hear. Who knows if Borenson allowed Alderman to present a proper case?”

“And a few months later, Alderman stands before Borenson again and gets Marcy Linton released.”

“I wonder if Alderman knew Fulmore’s case was tainted and somehow threatened Borenson.” Susannah pulled her laptop from her brief- case. “I wonder how many cases Alderman won between Marcy Linton and the day he died.” Talia drove as she searched. “Looks like Alderman defended five people between Marcy Linton’s second trial and his death. He drew Borenson two of those five times and won both cases. He lost the other three.”

“Not definitive,” Talia said. “And we can’t ask him, because he’s dead.”

“Let’s say Alderman knew something-why didn’t he use it to get Fulmore off? That was a much more high-profile case. It would have been a huge feather in his cap.”

“Either Alderman didn’t find out till later or he chose to leverage what he knew on future cases.”

“That’s what I think.” Susannah stiffened as her old house came into view. The bile started to rise in her throat and she resolutely, audibly, swallowed it back.

Talia glanced over again, her expression worried. “You okay?”

“No. But we’re going in anyway. Because even if Alderman had information that Borenson ran a dirty trial, it doesn’t explain Darcy’s death and the fact that Granville’s thích was at the bunker within the last few weeks. There’s a connection. I know it.”

“My gut says you’re right. I hope we find something concrete to back it up.”

“My father kept detailed records on everything, and Daniel and I know most of his hiding places. I knew I’d have to come back here and find his records. I’ve been dreading it, just like Luke is dreading those pictures on Mansfield’s hard drive.”

“Do you have a key?” Talia asked.

Susannah nodded grimly. “Frank Loomis gave it to me after my parents’ funeral.”

Talia just sighed. “Let me call in our location, and we’ll get started looking.”

Bobby froze, her hand poised on the frame of a very expensive painting hanging in an upstairs parlor. She’d found four wall safes behind equally expensive paintings throughout the house and another safe in the floor of the judge’s bedroom. Now she slid her hand away from the frame at the sound of car doors slamming outside.

Women’s voices. Carefully she crept to the window, and nodded, satisfied. One of the women had been at the press conference the day before, standing next to the women on the stage. She was GBI. The other was none other than Susannah.

A thrill ran down Bobby’s spine. She’d been wondering how she’d force Susannah to open the safes. Now Susannah had been dumped in her lap, like a gift. She’d have to get rid of the agent, but that’s what guns were for. Bobby was well-stocked, having found a stash of weapons in the attic while searching for heirlooms. Untraceable guns, switchblades, tasers, all hidden beneath yards of Christmas garland.

Peace on earth, indeed.

Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 12:25 p.m.

Luke continued to click through each picture in Mansfield’s Sweetpea file. After an hour, all he’d seen were Granville and the victims. So many victims. He had to focus on the background detail to keep his sanity.

“He took these with a hidden camera,” Luke said, just to hear his own voice and not the cries he imagined coming from each victim as she was tortured.

“Granville’s clothes change seasonally a couple of times,” Nate said. “The angle also changes. I wonder what Mansfield had the camera hidden in.”

“I’m betting the camera was in a pen clipped to his pocket. He mostly gets shots of Granville’s torso and shoes. I wish he’d date stamped the damn things. We could have cut right to pictures taken during the last two weeks.”

“That’s the problem with all of his pictures. They’re organized by predilection, but not by time. It’ll be hard to figure out when the pictures were taken and how old the kids would even be by now.”

Luke stiffened as his mind registered a detail in the next photo. “ Wait .”

Nate was leaning forward, eyes narrowed. On the edge of the picture were a man’s trousers, the legs bent at the knee. “Whoever’s wearing them was sitting down.”

“But look at the shoes.” Luke pointed with his pen. “The soles.”

Nate sucked in a breath. “One’s thicker than the other. Special shoes.”

Luke’s mind had run through all the men in the town and already come to a conclusion before his eyes lifted to the board behind the monitor to where the stills hung. He pointed to the still of the three barbershop bench men, sitting in folding chairs near Sheila’s graveside. “The one on the end, with the walking stick. His name is Charles Grant. He was Daniel’s English teacher.” Quickly he dialed Chloe. “It’s Luke. I think I have an ID on the man Monica Cassidy heard in the bunker. Charles Grant.”

“Grant?” Chloe repeated, stunned. “Isn’t he Daniel’s teacher? The one that gave us information on Mack O’Brien?”