Allison Brennan - The Kill

She didn’t know if there was anything left inside worth loving.

Blaming others wasn’t getting her anywhere. The guilt had been eating her alive. Zack was right-she apologized for everything, whether it was her fault or not. She had to stop.

She looked through the one-way mirror and saw Brian Harrison Hall step into the room. The familiar thump-thump-thump of her heart thudded in her chest, increasing in tempo. Even knowing he didn’t kill Missy-and she no longer believed he was even involved-he still elicited deep, numbing fear within her.

She took a deep breath and focused on Zack. He faced her, looking into the mirror as if he could see her. His face reassured her, strengthened her.

This was it.

Zack sensed Olivia’s tension on the other side of the mirror, then dismissed his feelings as ridiculous. She’d been upset when they’d first arrived, so it was natural he’d think she was still unnerved by the whole thing. Coming back to her hometown. Facing the man who for thirty-four years she believed killed her sister. Dealing with her own fears.

“They’re on their way in,” Assistant District Attorney Ross Perdue told Zack after closing his cell phone. Zack had been so lost in thoughts about Olivia and what she’d gone through that he’d almost forgotten the man was in the room with him. Perdue was a young, slick-looking lawyer, about thirty, who wore an expensive suit and Rolex watch. Zack wondered if he was from money, because public service certainly didn’t pay that well.

“As I told you on the phone, we’re granting Hall immunity if he says anything that incriminates himself. The way we see it, the man served thirty-four years in prison. If he’s guilty as an accessory or for obstructing justice, his sentence would have been served already.”

Zack wasn’t completely happy with the arrangement, but as Perdue had explained earlier, Hall had initially balked. It could have taken days and a court order to force him to talk, and by that time, the killer could have struck again. They didn’t have the luxury of fighting Hall at this point. They needed information now .

When Hall sauntered into the room with his attorney, Zack instantly disliked him. His attitude entered first, his body swaying as if he were in charge. But his eyes showed fear, wariness, darting back and forth like those of a rodent.

Hall was guilty of something. Zack smelled it. But he reminded himself he wasn’t in this room to find out what penny-ante crap the guy had been up to in the weeks since he’d been released from prison. He was here to find out who Hall knew thirty-four years ago.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Hall,” Zack said in his most cordial voice. He extended his hand. “Detective Zack Travis, Seattle Police Department.” Obviously surprised, Hall shook it.

After introductions all around, they sat and Zack spoke. “I won’t keep you long, Mr. Hall. Your attorney filled you in on why we need your help.”

“You think someone framed me for that girl’s murder.”

Zack nodded. “Exactly.”

“I don’t know who, but I hope you catch him and he rots in prison like I almost did.” Hall glared at Perdue.

“I have some questions that might help your memory.”

“Go ahead. That’s why I came here.” He looked at Perdue again. “And nothing I say you can use to screw me with, right?”

“I took care of that,” Hall’s attorney Bledsoe interjected. “I showed you the papers on the way here.”

“I just want to hear him say it.”

“That’s correct,” Perdue said. “What’s said in here is inadmissible in court. You have complete immunity.”

Hall crossed his arms, smug.

Zack spoke. “When were you released from Vietnam?”

“April 10, 1972. Friggin’ about time, too. I only signed for a year, but they kept me sixteen fucking months. That was crap.”

“And you came to California. Were you born here, in Redwood City?”

Hall shrugged. “Down in Palo Alto. My ma has a house in Menlo Park. That’s where I grew up.”

“It’s ten minutes south,” Perdue explained.

“So you essentially came home,” Zack prodded.

“Yeah. I had a job, though. In a warehouse. Moving shit and stuff.”

“Did any of your buddies from the Army come back with you? Friends?”

Hall shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Did you know anyone you worked with who had also been in Vietnam? Maybe they didn’t serve with you, but had been there about the same time you were.”

“Hell, I knew a bunch of vets after I came home. Met most of them after my discharge. Honorable ,” he stressed, then grunted. “Lotta good that did me in court when you guys railroaded me for killing that girl. I’m no fucking pervert. I don’t get turned on by little girls.”

Zack clenched his fist under the table to keep from throttling Hall for his cocky tone.

“Do you remember any of the vets you’d worked with, hung out with, maybe a roommate or drinking buddy?” Zack asked. “Someone with a tattoo on his left arm similar to yours?”

Hall frowned and looked up to his left, a sign that he was really trying to remember something. “There were a lotta guys in ’Nam that got tattooed up. I only got this one, on my first leave. Some of the guys, they got them all over their bodies.” He shook his head. “A lot of us got eagles. American bird and all that crap.”

“Any of the guys you knew when you came back to California?”

“A couple of the guys in the warehouse had tattoos like mine.”

“Do you remember any names?”

“Um, there was the manager. He wasn’t in ’Nam, but he did some time overseas in the early sixties. George something. I don’t remember his last name. We called him George. He was there when I started, and he was there when I left.”

Zack made a note of the information. The files had the information about Hall’s employment. He remembered the name of the manager, George Levin. Definitely worth checking him out.

“Anyone else you can think of?”

“There were some others, but I don’t know their names. Shouldn’t the cops have checked all this stuff out thirty fucking years ago?”

Perhaps, Zack thought, but the evidence against Hall had seemed solid at the time. Zack liked to think he would have pursued additional avenues of investigation, but he knew when confronted with a violent murder like Melissa St. Martin’s, circumstantial evidence usually did the trick.

He’d already checked into the warehouse where Hall had worked all those years ago. It was not only closed, but razed. A shopping mall had been built on the property more than ten years ago.

“You said that you’d been out at a bar drinking the day Melissa St. Martin was kidnapped.”

“That’s right.”

“Who was there with you? Anyone who might have seen you drink too much? Someone who knew what type of truck you drove?”

“No, it was just the guys, you know? A lot of them that hung out at the club were vets, from Korea or ’Nam or World War II. Those guys are too old. I-”

Hall cut himself off and slammed his fist on the table. “That fucker! That perverted sicko bastard! He set me up!”

The sudden rage and realization that crossed Hall’s face convinced Zack his reaction was real.

“Who?” he asked.

“Chris fucking Driscoll. I should have known, the bastard. I got him a fucking job, I set him up in a studio in my apartment building. I told him, hey, pal, let’s go score some chicks. He never came with us when we went out. Always doing his own fucking thing. Except that day. He came to the bar, had a beer with us. Now I know why. So he could set me up. Steal my truck. He’s a fucking pervert scumbag.”

Every hair on Zack’s neck rose. This was it. He felt it. He spoke much more calmly than he felt. “What do you know about Driscoll? Where is he from? Did he serve with you?”