“David,” she said, as she left the bathroom, a large towel draped around her. The living-room lights were switched off, so she went to the bedroom, ready to face the difficult task of telling him about today, only to find him lying on the bed. She spread the wet towel over the back of a chair and climbed into bed next to him, the sound of his gentle breathing lulling her into sleep.
Laurie was up first. She brewed some coffee and sat in the living room waiting for David to wake, the sound of wind rattling against the windowpanes keeping her company. On the television, the only news was of the potential hurricane making its way to Texas. Galveston’s mayor was on, talking about a possible evacuation of the island. That had happened both for Rita and Ike, and both times it had been a catastrophe, people getting trapped for hours as they fled the coast; during Rita, more people had died on the road than during the storm itself.
Laurie muted the television, unable to deal with the idea that a hurricane could be making their lives even worse in the next few days, when she had more pressing concerns. The most pressing of which was telling David about Grace Harrington.
She had played out what she was going to say to him over and over in her head, trying to predict his responses, but gave it up. It was impossible to guess how he would react. He could go withdrawn and sullen, or he could turn angry and blame her for going to see his father and helping him to adjust back to life in Galveston so easily.
In the end, she was forced to wake him. Bringing him a coffee, she nudged him awake. “We need to talk,” she said, as he stirred from his sleep.
David nodded as he sat up and accepted the coffee, as if he knew this moment was coming. It struck Laurie that maybe he thought she was going to question him about Rebecca Whitehead, and she almost asked the question, before deciding it would only confuse matters at the moment.
She sat next to him on the bed and told him what had happened. He barely reacted as she told him the news about Grace. Staring straight ahead, now and then sipping at his coffee, he failed to meet her eyes as she mentioned that Frank had been questioned.
“Be one hell of a coincidence if it ain’t him,” he said, after a prolonged period of silence.
“Not necessarily. It could quite easily be a copycat killing.”
David gripped the coffee cup, still staring ahead as if he could see something invisible to her on the far wall. “Why, Laurie?”
“Why what?” she said, her hand hovering near his.
“Why do you insist on trying to see the good in him? You stop Warren giving him the justice he deserved, then you go see him, and now you think he might not be responsible?”
“You knew about that, with Warren?” said Laurie, troubled that David thought she’d somehow prevented justice being served.
“He killed my mom, Laurie. Warren’s daughter. And now he has killed this poor girl.”
“We don’t know that, David.” Even as she said it, she doubted her words. Was David right? Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, she wondered if she’d been deceived by Frank Randall.
“He killed my mom,” repeated David, placing his cup on the bedside table before turning away from her and putting an end to the conversation.
Laurie did a hundred crunches before showering, her body stiff as she changed for work. She left the apartment without checking on David, her mood oscillating between sadness and anger. Somehow, he had made the whole situation about him. Even as she approached the station, she had to resist the urge to return to the apartment and confront him over whatever he had going on with Rebecca Whitehead. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so sure of himself, and could check his righteous indignation about her methods of investigation.
Such was the overheated whirl of her thoughts that she shouted “What?” at the figure who’d dared stop her at the door to the station.
The young man, his jeans a size too small on his skinny frame, was momentarily taken aback, but recovered himself sufficiently to repeat the question: “Any comment on the similarities between Grace Harrington’s homicide and that of Annie Randall?”
“No comment,” Laurie muttered, only now taking in the numerous television trucks that had invaded the parking lot. How had she not seen them when she pulled in? Stepping into the station, she cursed herself for staggering around blind and losing her temper so easily.
Within a minute of reaching her desk and opening a browser, she understood how much media attention Grace’s death was attracting. It was national news. But of course it would be, her cynical side told her. It involved a rich white family. Only last month, two African American boys had gone missing in Louisiana, their bodies discovered a week later, abused and abandoned by Cross Lake in Shreveport. Laurie had only found out about the incident after speaking to a local cop from the area during a joint investigation. As far as she was aware, it had never made much dent in local news, let alone national. But Grace had been white, young, and beautiful, and that made certain people take notice.
“For you.”
Laurie looked up from her screen at the sound of Remi’s voice as he dumped a file box on her desk. “What’s this?”
“And good morning to you. The rest of the case notes on the Annie Randall investigation. Everything yet to be digitized, brought to you by order of our illustrious lieutenant.”
At least he’s forgotten about taking me off the case, she thought, as she opened the top file.
As she flicked through the case notes, alighting on the day Annie Randall’s body was found, she could almost smell the nicotine and bourbon on the paper, the vices of choice of her old mentor, Jim Burnell. She would need more time than she had now to go through it all. She’d worked on cold cases before, had crawled through her old case notes, and it never ceased to amaze her how written memories could differ so much from what was stored in the mind. She hadn’t had much of a part to play in the Annie Randall homicide investigation itself, but she could picture the murder scene as if it were a photograph. Only, if these reports were to be believed, Burnell’s recollection of it differed from hers. His report was matter-of-fact, detailing the time the body was discovered, its positioning, and the initial findings of the CSI, who believed Annie had died from a laceration to the neck. But there was no mention of the weather—a storm brewing, just like now—and he omitted all the drama of that time: the chaos of the emergency services, Frank Randall’s traumatic response as he was led to the sight of his crime, and the number of men it had taken to hold Chief Warren Campbell back from killing his son-in-law.
“Gemma is bringing Mr. and Mrs. Harrington in shortly for questioning,” said Remi, dragging Laurie back into the present.
“We’ll need to question them separately. They probably won’t like it, but it has to be done,” she said, scratching the back of her head and returning to the old investigation notes as she waited for the Harringtons to arrive.
Twenty minutes later, the Harringtons were led into the office by Detective Clayton. Laurie did a double take as she saw that Tilly was with them, following behind Glen and Sandra like a dutiful daughter. Laurie’s colleagues couldn’t help themselves, the office falling silent as they walked through to the interview room.