“Do they need to stay so close?” said Maurice, interrupting his reverie as he looked back at the two police officers following them across the sand.
“They’re only doing their job, Maurice,” said Randall, grimacing as his right foot caught in the sand, sending a jarring pain up the side of his body.
“It’s humiliating,” Maurice said, oblivious to Randall’s pain.
Randall shuffled onward, the loose sand morphing into wet, dank mud, as he tried to recall what he’d been thinking about. Lately, holding on to recent memories was like recalling a dream a few minutes after waking. Snapshots lingered just out of reach, so Randall did what he always did on these occasions and thought of Annie.
So many memories came to him when he thought about her that it was often unbearable. He closed his eyes, and let the sounds and smells of the gulf dissipate until all he could see was Annie running along the beach, her red hair flowing behind her. The warmth from the vision was enough to give him strength. “I want to go back,” he said to Maurice, “and I think maybe you should go home too.”
Maurice was too involved in an embittered war with the weather to pay him much attention. The wind billowed against his rain jacket, a ruffling noise escaping as he ran his hands across his face. “What?” he shouted.
“Home,” said Randall, turning back inland. He still couldn’t understand why Maurice was there, why all of a sudden he was taking an interest in him after all these years.
The police officers didn’t avert their gaze as he walked past them. Randall understood he was prejudged and couldn’t blame them for their conclusions. All he cared about now was getting back to the house, sending Maurice away, and spending some time alone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
David was still asleep as Laurie left for work. She suspected he was pretending and considered calling him out on it, before deciding she didn’t have the energy to start the day with conflict.
Laurie’s first duty of the day was to attend the emergency evacuation meeting with the mayor, the city manager, members of the armed forces, and the chief of police, where it was ultimately decided that an advised evacuation would begin immediately for the West End, where properties were not protected by the seawall. Hurricane Heather was still a category 4, and the Hurricane Center was concerned that it could make landfall in Texas within the next few days. The most pressing challenge was getting the news out without causing panic. Thankfully, many people had already begun preparations, so it was hoped there would be no repeat of the excess delays experienced during Rita and Ike.
The meeting had now thinned out and it was just her, Lieutenant Filmore, and the current chief of police, who was all of a sudden taking a strong interest in Grace Harrington’s murder. “We now have a missing father to add to our woes?” he asked them.
“I’m afraid so.”
Glen Harrington was indeed still missing. His phone was switched off and undetectable, and his work hadn’t heard from him. Gemma had informed Laurie that Sandra and Tilly had spent the evening on the sofa watching black-and-white movies as Sandra had slowly drunk herself into oblivion. With their permission, Gemma had checked both Sandra and Tilly’s phones and laptops, and no messages had come through from Glen.
“Doesn’t look good, does it?” said the chief, glancing at Filmore, who shifted in his seat. “You think he’s good for it?” he asked, changing his attention to Laurie.
“He certainly has a taste for young women. This all came about after Tilly Moorfield found out Mr. Harrington had been seen with his daughter’s then girlfriend.”
Both men squirmed a little in their seats. “Yes, I read about that in this morning’s paper. Does it mean he killed his daughter?”
Someone had obviously been talking to the press. If she were to guess, Laurie thought the insight had probably come from Tilly. “I questioned him on his extramarital affairs. I didn’t want to presume Frank Randall’s guilt,” said Laurie, giving Lieutenant Filmore a quick glance.
“Harrington didn’t confess though, did he?”
Laurie managed to keep her composure. “Of course not. I questioned him over his ex-lovers, including a college intern who was practically the same age as his daughter. It definitely made him uncomfortable, as you would expect. We have no firm alibi for him during the estimated time of Grace’s death. He was supposedly at his apartment in Houston, though we can’t find anyone to corroborate that.”
“I don’t suppose he’s there now, is he?”
“We’ll be notified if he enters that building.”
“And the murder weapon?”
The search of the local area was continuing now that it was light again, but, as during the Annie Randall investigation, it felt unlikely the weapon would be discovered. “The Harringtons consented to a search. We haven’t applied for a warrant for Frank Randall’s house yet.”
“OK, Detective Campbell. That reminds me, how is Warren? I hear he got into a bit of mischief yesterday.”
“He’s fine.”
The chief nodded absently, as if he wasn’t really listening to her. “Good. What is your gut on this, Laurie?”
“Something is definitely off with Glen Harrington. We’ll know more when Forensics get back to us.”
“Which will be when?”
“I’ve been told tomorrow by the latest.”
The chief clasped his hands together. “Maybe give them a nudge, Filmore? Would be prudent to search the Randall place for the murder weapon sooner rather than later,” he said, glancing down at his paperwork to signal the end of the meeting.
“You going to give them a nudge, Lieutenant?” asked Laurie, once they were out in the bullpen.
Filmore smiled, the tension easing from him now they were away from the chief. “I’ll give them a call and find out how long we’ll have to wait. This hurricane warning isn’t helping any. We still have eyes on Randall?”
Laurie nodded, even though Filmore already knew a team were stationed outside Frank’s house. “He went to the beach yesterday evening with his brother.”
“In this weather, as frail as he is?” Filmore cracked, walking off to his office before she had a chance to respond. Like seemingly everyone else, he clearly considered Frank Randall plenty spry enough to abduct a fit young woman, kill her, and take her to a remote beach area.
Returning to her own desk, she found a cup of hot coffee was waiting for her. “This your work, Remi?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thought you’d need it after meeting the board of governors in there.”
“Anyone tell you you’re an angel, Remi?” said Laurie, sipping the nectar.
“Only my mom.”
“Well, you tell her I said she’s a great judge of character.”
Every time Laurie looked up from her laptop screen, she caught a glimpse of the large television glued permanently to the Weather Channel, trailing Hurricane Heather, which still seemed to be on a direct course to Galveston.
When she could tear herself away from the image of the looming cloud system, Laurie caught up with some of her outstanding cases. Although investigations were active in Grace’s case—the hunt for Glen Harrington the current number one consideration—it felt as if they were playing a waiting game on that front. Not for the first time, Laurie wished that the CSI worked like they did on TV and film, with an almost instantaneous response. As it was, they were using the Forensic Science Center in Houston to process the results from the Grace Harrington crime scene, and it could be some time before they received what they needed.