“That’s just it. Washington and I went over everything about the man. He was clean. His marriage was unhappy, by all accounts, but that was all we could find. He didn’t have any enemies, personal or professional. His former secretary sobbed when we interviewed her. She still wasn’t over his death. She said that Julian was a wonderful man, but she hated Mariana. She said Mariana had ruined Julian’s life.”
I thought that over. I knew almost nothing about Beth’s parents, except that both had had their lives cut short. Beth had told me she didn’t want to end up like her mother—no, she’d said she was terrified of ending up like her mother. She’d said that Mariana was trapped. That sounded pitiful, and it didn’t line up with the secretary’s description.
“So you never figured it out,” I said.
“Some detective I am, right?” He actually sounded regretful, as if he hadn’t solved cases and saved people’s lives for thirty-five years. “The only connection I ever found between the two cases was Beth. Beth lived in that house, and a witness said he saw Beth at Veerhoever’s crime scene. This case outsmarted me in the end. Or maybe Beth did.”
“And yet you don’t think she’s a serial killer.” My mind was spinning. “My head hurts.”
“Welcome to the Lady Killer case,” Black said wryly.
There was a moment of quiet as I rubbed my eyes and thought things over. Black was right—the ballistics match meant that Julian Greer was a part of this somehow. He was, in a way, the first Lady Killer victim. “Is the secretary still alive?” I asked, my eyes still closed.
“I have no idea,” Black said. “She was a young woman then.”
“What was her name?”
“Sylvia Bledsoe.”
Of course he remembered a name from forty years ago off the top of his head. He was that kind of cop. I dropped my hands and opened my eyes again to find him looking at me. The expression on his face was quietly happy, paternal. My own father had never looked at me like that. When my father looked at me, his expression was either bewildered or tensely pained.
“You’re going to interview her, aren’t you?” he said.
“If she’s still alive, I may as well try.”
He turned to a kitchen drawer, riffled through it for a notepad and a pen. He wrote something down and handed it to me. It was his phone number. “I can’t give you the case file, because that would be breaking the rules,” he said. “But if you have questions, or you need me, then call me anytime. I’ll tell you everything I can.”
I took the number. “Why are you helping me? Is it because of Beth?” I didn’t like that idea—that Beth was hovering over every aspect of what I was doing, jerking all of the strings.
For the first time, Black’s expression went a little hard, and I glimpsed the man who had faced down some of the worst of humanity without fear. “I agreed to this meeting because I wanted to meet the only person my top suspect has ever called me about,” he said. “But that’s not why I’m helping you. I’m helping you because you’re Girl A.”
My heart hammered in my chest. “I’m what?”
“We couldn’t identify you by name in our analysis of the Sherry Haines case,” Black said. “You were too young, and your identity was protected. But the murder file, the file I worked on, contained your name. I knew your name because I met you. I’m giving you the best chance to finally solve this case because you’re Girl A. Because in forty years, you’re the only one Beth has decided to talk to. If anyone can find what the truth is, I think it’s you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
September 2017
SHEA
All that week, I had strange dreams. I’d see the Greer mansion sitting in the rainy gloom, dark and silent, framed by the black-branched trees. I’d see the bleak view out the back windows, looking over the edge of the rise to the ocean, and I’d see the imprints of footprints in the grass. As if someone wanted in—or could already come and go at will—and nothing I could do would stop them.