“Yeah, it is. Send that photo to Deidre Fellows and see if she recognizes it as the woman in her father’s hotel room.”
“It was over forty years ago, Decker.”
“Sometimes a memory like that gets seared into your head.”
“Is that how all your memories are?” she said curiously.
“For better or worse, yeah.”
She sent the email off. “Now what?”
“I was thinking there was one thing we didn’t check.”
“What’s that?”
“Where did the killers get all that old Slovakian money to stuff down Draymont’s and Lancer’s throats?”
White shot him a glance. “I just assumed—”
“Yeah, so did I, and that was a mistake. I looked online, and it’s sold on Etsy and eBay for the most part.”
“I can run a check on recent purchases of the currency. I can’t imagine there’s a big market for it.”
White made a call and got this in motion. “I told them to make it a priority. Hopefully, they won’t need a warrant or anything.”
“Yeah.”
“Now where?”
“Let’s talk to Doris Kline again.”
“Why?”
“She lived next door to Julia Cummins and knew her maybe better than anyone else. And she held back before. Maybe she’s still holding back something.”
*
Kline was out on her lanai reading a book and having orange juice, though knowing the woman now, Decker doubted it was solely juice in there.
She was dressed in a salmon-and-white-striped shirt and white capri pants. A pack of cigarettes sat next to the juice. An ashtray with a few butts in it sat next to that.
“Long time, no see,” said Kline, laying her book aside. “Have you solved the case yet?”
“Not quite.”
“Where’s the other FBI guy?”
“In the hospital.”
“What? Is he sick?”
“No, he was shot.”
Kline had picked up her glass and nearly spilled it.
“My God, was it connected to—”
“Maybe,” interrupted Decker.
“Okay.” She gingerly set the glass down. “I understand Barry has been arrested.”
“That’s right. And charged with the murders of Alan Draymont and Alice Lancer,” said White. “But not Julia Cummins. At least not yet. What do you think about that?”
“If you want the truth, I don’t think Barry has the guts to kill anyone.”
“We understand that he sometimes watched Cummins’s house?” said Decker.
Kline nodded. “And Julia caught him at it. They had words. And he ran off with his tail tucked between his legs.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this before?” asked White.
“Like I said, I don’t believe Barry did it.”
“His gun was used to kill Alan Draymont and Alice Lancer,” noted Decker.
“I didn’t even know he had a gun.”
“He had it at Cummins’s house the night before he was arrested. Looked like he was going to kill himself with it. Fortunately we were there in time to stop him.”
“Jesus, Barry?” She reached for her Zippo and slid a cigarette out and lit it, blowing smoke off to the side.
“That surprises you?” asked Decker.
“I always thought Barry was having too much fun in life to want to end it. But then you think you know people and it turns out you know squat.”
“He was clearly not over the divorce,” observed White.
“I just hoped he would eventually move on. Do you really think he killed those people?”
“Doesn’t really matter what I think if all the evidence points to him.”
“Okay, Julia and the guy she was sleeping with, I get. But what about this other gal, you said her name was Alice?”
“Alice Lancer. She worked with Draymont. She was killed separately, but with Barry’s gun.”
“Why would Barry kill her? Did he know her?”
“We’ve turned up nothing to show that. But she might have seen him next door that night. Maybe she was blackmailing him.”
Kline shook her head and puffed on her cigarette. “And here I thought I had nice friends.”
“It’s not been conclusively proved that Barry did it,” pointed out Decker. “His son will testify that he was at the condo when his mom was killed. But since he’s Barry’s son, a jury may not believe him.”
“Okay, but from all you just said, who else could it have been other than Barry?”