Allison Brennan - See No Evil Page 8

  He led Connor into his cramped office. As division chief of the understaffed e-crimes department, Patrick’s office would have been large if it weren’t crammed with computer equipment in every available crevice. Patrick closed the door and leaned against his desk. “What makes me think your showing up here has to do with my current case?”

  “You’re a good cop.”

  “This case is politically hot. You don’t want to get involved.”

  “Too late.”

  When Patrick didn’t say anything, Connor leaned against the metal filing cabinet and said, “DDA Julia Chandler retained me.”

  “Aw, shit, shit, shit.” Patrick slid a hand through his short-cropped hair and stared briefly at the ceiling, then caught Connor’s eye. “Didn’t you track down Emily Montgomery when she ran away?”

  “Yes.”

  “This case is a mess.”

  “You’ve only had it for twelve hours.”

  “Dead judge, wealthy family, troubled teen. What do you know?”

  “Not enough. I need information, Patrick.”

  “Connor, don’t do this to me.”

  “What I don’t know I’ll find out. You can make it easy for me or hard.”

  “Just tell me what your interest is.”

  Damn, why did Will and Patrick want to know why? Because of his history with Julia Chandler? “I don’t think Emily had anything to do with the murder and she needs an advocate.”

  “You think her aunt is going to let her go to prison?”

  “I think her aunt is a prosecutor, not a cop. Doesn’t matter if the kid goes to prison or not. What matters is clearing her name.”

  And that was the crux of it, Connor suddenly realized. He’d lived for years under a cast of suspicion. He didn’t want a young, impressionable kid to suffer through the same. And from what he knew of Crystal Montgomery, he didn’t see any support coming from her direction. And Julia? She might want to protect her niece, but did she think the kid was innocent or guilty?

  “Aw, hell. If Carina were here she’d blab to you anyway. You always were her favorite.” Patrick pushed away from his desk, walked around, and collapsed into his chair. “I’m really going out on a limb here, Connor.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m going to tell you something off the record, okay? Montgomery raped his stepdaughter when she was thirteen years old. The kid has needed help, but no one saw it. Not me, not her aunt, and certainly not her mother. If I can help… dammit, I’m going to.”

  “I’ll deny I said anything to you, not that anyone would believe me,” Patrick mumbled. “This is what we have so far. The security system is state-of-the-art and I can’t get anything out of it other than log-in and log-out times. I need the programmer to pull out more information. What we know is that Emily Montgomery’s code opened the garage at four thirty-five yesterday afternoon. We know that she entered the house at five twenty-nine.”

  “Where was she for that hour?”

  “Who knows? The garage door closed at five twenty-nine as well. What was she doing for nearly one hour in the garage? Or did she walk around the grounds of the house?”

  “When did the judge arrive home?”

  “Two-eighteen. Parked in the garage. Door closed at two-nineteen. Entered house at two twenty-one. What I can’t get without help from the programmer is whether any other doors or windows—other than the two coded entrances—were opened between two twenty-one and five twenty-nine.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Don’t know, don’t want to know. I’m looking at the technology. I’ll give Will and Gage the facts. It’s up to them to fit those facts into the puzzle of the investigation.”

  “What about security cameras?”

  “No tape. Just live feed.” Patrick paused. “I have one other thing, but I haven’t told the investigative team yet, so keep this to yourself until I talk to Will after the autopsy. The judge logged onto his computer at two forty-three yesterday. Retrieved e-mail, responded to a couple of messages up until three thirty-nine when he opened a message and started to respond. He never finished. It was still on his screen when I retrieved the computers early this morning.” He picked up a coffee mug, drank, grimaced, and put it back down. “Want some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Yes you do.” He stood, stared at his desk, then said, “The pot’s downstairs. It might take me a few minutes.”

  Connor didn’t miss his meaning.

  When Patrick closed the door, Connor went through the folders on his desk. The case file was easy to find—it was labeled in Patrick’s thick block letters: MONTGOMERY HOMICIDE.

  He flipped open the file. The security logs were on top, the information Patrick had just given Connor. Connor wrote down the times and facts, flipped rapidly through the papers. Stopped when he saw a series of e-mails.

  The content chilled Connor’s blood.

  FROM: em429

  TO: wishlist

  DATE: January 14

  SUBJECT: RE: justice

  I would cut off his dick and shove it down his throat. Make him suck himself just like he made me do it.

  > How would you get back at the person who hurt you most?

  Connor knew Patrick would have another copy of the e-mails stored on his computer, so he glanced at the window—the blinds were closed—and pulled the message from the file, folded the paper, and put it in his back pocket. He skimmed the other e-mails, all to and from the group “Wishlist” taken off Emily’s computer. There were hundreds, most seemed innocuous and chatty. The “justice” thread was disturbing—several people wrote about killing.

  As the messages continued, they became more corrupted with missing or odd characters. Patrick must have run an undelete program to extract them. Connor flipped quickly, looking for Emily’s name, and found nothing else that would incriminate her. The first message was damning enough.

  Near the bottom of the stack his eye caught one familiar word. Judson. He didn’t know why it was familiar, and there was no date or name to give him a hint.

  Jackass Judson ruined my life. He told the college recruiters that I 0000000000000000 AP tests. It wasn’t me, I’m a fucking straight-A student. 00000000000000000 saw me coming out 0000000000 classroom after 0000000000000 and she couldn’t find the tests. 00000000000000000000000000 mom started crying. 0000000000 but Jackass 000000000 I lost my 0000000000. Now my mom 00000000000 and it’s fucking not fair. Jackass needs his eyesight checked.

  He pulled the Judson message, pocketed it, and left Patrick’s office.

  Time to go to the library and search the newspaper archives. Who was Judson?

  As soon as Connor saw the article about the high school principal’s murder, he remembered the case. Paul Judson, fifty-seven, opened the front door of his house and was shot in the face with a nine millimeter. Dead after the first shot, but the killer hit him again in the other eye.

  The cops had looked hard at Billy Thompson, a high school senior who’d lost his basketball scholarship after Judson accused him of cheating. But Billy ended up having a solid alibi. No arrest had been made, and the case was still open.

  Connor drove out to the south end of the city, close to the Tijuana border, to talk to Billy at the auto repair shop where he worked. Connor knew Billy well from the youth center. The last thing Billy needed was the cops all over him. The kid was clean, but he didn’t like authority, and after what happened with Judson, Connor couldn’t blame him. Still, Connor had no doubt that Billy had written the message about “Jackass Judson.” It sounded just like him.

  Six feet five inches of lean black muscle, Billy Thompson looked older than a nineteen-year-old almost-basketball player. His head was shaved and his hands were huge. Connor waited while Billy finished with a customer before walking over to him.

  “Hey, Billy.” He stuck out his hand and Billy slapped it front, back, and then slammed his knuckles.

  “What’s up, Kincaid?” Billy asked. “Problem with your truck?”


  “No, I just need to talk to you about something.”

  Billy narrowed his eyes. “You sound like a cop again.”

  “You can take the cop out of the precinct, but…” Connor smiled. Billy didn’t. He crossed his arms.

  “What do you want me for?”

  Connor wasn’t going to bullshit Billy. He’d been through enough crap in his life. “It’s about Judson.”

  Billy’s face froze, and his body seemed to double in size.

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “I know. But this is important. Someone else is being railroaded for a murder they didn’t commit, and I think there might be a connection.”

  That was enough to at least get Billy to relax a bit.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you want to.”

  Billy blew out a long breath and led Connor into the back where he had a small office. A basketball rested on top of a filing cabinet, sandwiched between two trophies; a framed picture of Billy with his mom on the desk; and his high school diploma, honors certificates, and newspaper articles with photographs of Billy playing high school basketball were displayed on the walls.

  Billy sat behind the desk, the chair pushed back to accommodate his long legs. “What?”

  “How’s school?”

  “Fine.”

  “What happened with Texas?” Last Connor had heard, one of the top college basketball scouts was looking at Billy.

  “Don’t know anything yet. I’m not getting my hopes up. Can the small talk and spill it.”

  “You might have some information we could use to help us in a murder investigation.”

  “I didn’t know you’re a cop again.”

  “Nope, still a private investigator. But a friend of mine is in trouble and I want to help her.”

  “So what do you think I know?”

  “It’s about Judson’s murder.”

  “You know I had nothing to do with that.”

  Billy sounded hurt that Connor might think bad of him, so Connor put his hands up. “I know. Judson screwed you big-time. This isn’t about you.”

  “We all look the same to white folks. There were twenty-three brothers over six foot four in that school, but Judson was certain it was me.”

  It was well known on the force that witnesses whose race differed from the suspect were less than reliable in identification. Connor could easily see that happening with a vice principal in a school with over two thousand students. Judson, an older white man versus a school filled with boys and girls across all races.

  Connor had gotten some of that himself. He looked far more like his mother’s Cuban family than his father’s Irish family. When he was in high school virtually every teacher made a comment about his last name. If he had a dime for every time someone said to him you don’t look Irish… on occasion he’d wanted to deck someone.

  One he had. He hadn’t started it. He’d been thirteen and Brian Forster said, “Kincaid? What kind of spic name is that? Must be adopted, you don’t look Irish.”

  “Funny, you don’t look stupid.”

  He hadn’t swung first, but he won the fight and as a result, he’d been suspended for a week. Still, it had been worth it to see the blood spurt from that asshole’s nose. For about ten minutes. Then his father lectured him and his mother cried and that was the last time Connor hit someone out of anger.

  He cleared his mind, focused on the task at hand, renewed empathy with the kid in front of him. Connor had been working with underprivileged youth since long before he left the force. When he had resigned, he spent even more time at the youth centers around town. Some kids were bad news. Others were trapped and ended up making the wrong choices. And others, like Billy, really tried to change their lot in life and sometimes got shit on by those who claimed to want to help.

  “Billy, you know I understand where you’re coming from. Don’t give me shit.”

  Billy said nothing, but his physical demeanor relaxed. He shrugged, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. “What about Judson? Everyone thinks I killed him, you know.”

  “But you didn’t. You have the truth on your side,” Connor said softly.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you heard of a group called ‘Wishlist’?” Connor asked.

  Billy straightened. “How do you know about that?”

  Connor slid over the message he’d taken from Patrick’s file.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Billy didn’t touch the paper, but he read it.

  “Yeah. I wrote it. What’s it to you?”

  “What is ‘Wishlist’?” Connor asked.

  “Hell if I know. Just a bunch of whiny pricks. Life sucks, you know? Shit happens. But these people just whine and complain ’bout every fucking thing that happens to them.”

  “You were in the group and you don’t know what it is?”

  “It’s just an online message group. You know, sign up and get e-mails from everyone in the group. It was supposed to be anger management or something—talk about your problems and they’ll disappear, shit like that. But it wasn’t for me, you know? I quit after a couple months.”

  “How did you get hooked up with them in the first place?”

  “After Judson expelled me I was stupid, okay? I took a bat to his car. I had to pay for the damage and take this anger management class. So I did. The shrink told me about the group, said it was for people like me who just wanted to talk. Do I look like someone who needs to talk about my shit? But I did it because I thought I’d get points and get out of the stupid class. I dumped it as soon as my probation was up. Kept my nose clean since. You know that, Kincaid, don’t you?”

  “You have the cleanest nose down at the gym.”

  A half-smile turned Billy’s lips up. “Damn straight.”

  “Did you save any of the e-mails?”

  “Naw, and I never had a computer either. I used the computer at the library at school. Haven’t been online since I graduated last June.”

  So “Wishlist” was an online anger-management community, apparently aimed toward teenagers, considering that both Billy and Emily had been members. Billy’s psychiatrist recommended it, and Connor wondered if the same had happened with Emily.

  He was about to ask when Billy tapped the message and said, “Damn, I sounded like a lunatic when I wrote that. But it’s easy to rant when it’s anonymous. Now, I don’t care. I’ve got a chance to go to Texas in the fall and the only thing I want to do is play basketball and take care of my ma. I’m not going to blow it.” He looked at Connor, fidgeted. “Um, thanks for the recommendation letter. Appreciate it.”

  Connor nodded, stood. “By the way,” he asked, “who was your shrink?”

  “Dr. Bowen. Some rich-ass shrink. Nice enough guy, I guess, but he never understood. Though, to tell you the truth, talking about my frustration did help. Maybe not then, but now… well, I don’t let things get me riled like they used to, if you know what I mean.”

  “A lot of people never realize that, Billy,” Connor said. “You’re already ahead of the game.”

  The bell over the main door rang and Billy said, “Look, Kincaid, I really can’t help you. I wish I could, but I have a good job here.” He stood up. When he looked through the door, he swore. “Fuck.”

  Connor stood, looked around Billy’s shoulder. Will Hooper was standing at the counter, hand poised above the bell.

  “Billy Thompson? I’m Detective—” He stopped when he saw Connor. His jaw clenched and Connor could feel his anger even fifteen feet away.

  “Kincaid, can I talk to you?”

  “I was just leaving,” Connor said. He glanced at Billy and said quietly, “You have my number. Call me if you remember anything.”

  Billy grunted.

  On the sidewalk, Will started in on Connor. “What are you doing here? I thought I saw you around the station, and now here? You interfere with a police investigation and I’ll take action.”

&
nbsp; “Lighten up, Will.”

  “You’re going to get Patrick fired.”

  “Saint Patrick? He does the work of three guys. He didn’t tell me anything, anyway.”

  “I’m not stupid. He wouldn’t have to say anything.”

  “You think Emily is guilty?”

  “What I think doesn’t matter. I’m just looking at the evidence.”

  “And the evidence says?”

  “I’m not talking about this case with you.”

  Connor leaned over. “I saw the e-mail. If I were still a cop, I’d be all over it.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “Go easy with Billy. He’s a good kid.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Ask him.” Connor walked away. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Will, especially not now when his gut told him Emily was on the verge of being arrested.

  TEN

  FAYE KESSLER SAT in the papasan chair in Cami’s ornate penthouse apartment. Faye yearned to have her own place, where she didn’t have to hide, didn’t have to be anyone but who she really was. Cami was brilliant. She had graduated from high school early and could have gone to any college she wanted, but she was tired of school. Genius-level IQ, but Faye knew having a high IQ was as much a curse as being ugly. Cami had connected with Faye in a way no other person ever had.

  They were soul mates. Bound by something greater than life. Blood. There was no greater union.

  “Do you think it’s safe?” Skip asked. “Shouldn’t we lay low for a while?”

  Cami shook her pretty head. “It’s perfect.” She gave Skip that smile, the one that said, I know what I’m doing and I love you for caring, but we’re doing it my way.

  Faye marveled at Cami’s ability to control men. Faye wanted that control, but she was destined to stand on the sidelines and observe.

  “Where’s Robbie?” she asked.

  “He’s coming,” Skip said, winking at Faye. He knew. He knew that she and Robbie had had sex. The idea turned her on as much as it scared her. Maybe Skip had even watched. Seen her body, scars and all. Robbie didn’t care about them, he had his own. It’s why Faye let him touch her naked.