A Specter of Justice (24 page)

I returned to the bathroom. The mirrored medicine chest was open, but it too was bare. A small white waste bin under the sink contained only a squeezed tube of Crest toothpaste.

Back in the kitchen, I checked the refrigerator and found a lone can of Diet Coke and a quart of milk sitting on the top shelf. There was nothing else. On the counter, a small coffee maker and bag of ground coffee explained the lukewarm contents of the cup. If Angela lived here, she certainly didn't own much. Not even a television.

“Grady, don't step in your own poop.” The words of wisdom sounded outside the front door.

I opened it. A lanky, gray-haired man bent over the adjacent grass with his right hand encased in a plastic bag and his left holding the leash attached to a black miniature schnauzer who had his own idea where he wanted to go. The man picked up the dog's droppings, reversed the bag, and turned at the sound of the door's creak. The schnauzer started barking.

“Quiet, Grady!” The man pulled the dog closer to his side. “Sorry, you startled us.”

“It's okay, sir. Maybe you can help me. I came by to visit my friend and found the door open. There's no sign of her.”

“The blond woman?”

“Yes. Angela. Do you know her?”

“Not really. We've said hello a few times when I was walking Grady.”

The dog wagged his tail and tugged at the leash. I knelt down. “It's okay. I'm a dog person.”

The man gave the dog some slack and Grady licked my outstretched hand.

“I hope she wasn't your girlfriend,” the man said.

“Why's that?”

“Grady and I saw her when we started our walk about fifteen minutes ago. She was carrying suitcases and a bunch of hanging clothes to her car. She must be going on a trip. Did she know you were coming by?”

I stood. “I thought she did, but maybe I got the time wrong. I guess it's a good thing I did come by. At least I can lock the door.”

The man chuckled. “Can't be too careful these days. That's why I have a killer schnauzer.”

I went back inside what I now suspected was Angela's abandoned apartment. I phoned Nakayla.

“I think she flew the coop.”

“When?” Nakayla asked.

“About twenty minutes ago. Her apartment's stripped, and there wasn't much to begin with.”

“Do you think someone tipped her off?”

“I wonder if Newly talked to Wofford or Junior and spooked either one. We don't know what kind of alliances have been formed.”

“Maybe,” Nakayla said. “I found what might be a possible connection. Jerry Wofford's wife Margaret signed an open letter along with twenty-five other people to the Colorado Department of Social Services protesting the foster care situation in Denver. It was published on the Op-Ed page of the Denver paper. And we know the Pendleton children were in foster care about that time. I'm going to make my own inquiries using some of the other names that appeared.”

“Good plan. I'll call Newly and then I want to follow up with Wofford. Keep me posted.”

I got Newly's voicemail. He was probably still conducting his interviews if he was seeing Collin, Wofford, and Junior back to back. I left a message that Angela Douglas might have skipped town and to call me immediately. Then I headed for the office to cool my jets until something broke.

I didn't make it. A few blocks short of Pack Square, Nakayla phoned.

“Sam. I talked to one of the women who signed that letter. She'd been a counselor to some of the girls who had been sexually assaulted by the man who was the chief perpetrator of the abuse. Some of them were so traumatized they went to great lengths to eradicate any connection to that sordid experience.”

“Great lengths how?”

“Leaving Colorado. Changing their names when they came of age. I followed up with a search of petitions for name changes in the Denver area during that time period. Because applicants are no longer minors, I could access the requests. On her eighteenth birthday, Sandra Pendleton's daughter Eileen legally applied to change her name. She was successful. Eileen Pendleton and Angela Douglas are one and the same.”

Chapter Twenty-four

“What about her brother Timothy?” I asked. “Did he apply for a name change?”

“Not that I could find,” Nakayla said. “He was three years older and I expanded the search parameters, but he seems to have disappeared.”

“And that woman you spoke with had no information on him?”

“She only worked with the girls.”

The revelation of Angela's true identity would be a major upheaval. Even D.A. Carter couldn't explain it away as a coincidence.

“Great job,” I said. “I've got to get this information to Newly.”

“You headed for the office?”

“Yes. I want to talk to Wofford but not until Newly finishes with him.”

“Then I'll press on,” Nakayla said. “I'm going to try another approach with Denver foster care.”

After we hung up, I scrolled through my contacts for Newly's number again. “What the hell,” I muttered to myself, and clipped the phone back on my belt.

I pulled into a spot reserved for police vehicles only. Time was too critical to circle the block looking for a parking space.

The duty officer buzzed me through without hesitation. The first person I ran into was Efird.

“Get Newland. The three of us need to talk now.”

Efird crossed his arms. “He's in with Junior Atwood, and if this is about the car forensics, you'll get them when I say.”

“Forget the damn car. Nakayla found the link connecting Lenore and Hewitt.”

“That Kyle Duncan trial? We've been through that.”

“Do you want Molly's killer or do you want to piss around with some vendetta against Hewitt?”

Efird's face turned pink. He uncrossed his arms and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. He was probably deciding whether to help me or hit me. “All right. We'll get a room, but you'd better not be jerking us around.”

He led me to the observation booth on the other side of the two-way mirror looking into where Newly was interrogating Junior.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

The audio feed was cut off so I couldn't hear the conversation, but body language told me Junior was annoyed with Newland. He kept shaking his head, either denying something or expressing frustration with the whole situation.

Both men looked up as Efird entered. Now Newly was annoyed. He stood and gestured for Junior to stay.

Newly stormed in with Efird trailing behind.

“What's so damn important?” he growled.

“We found Sandra Pendleton's daughter.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Until about an hour ago, she was at her apartment in River Ridge. That's here in Asheville. And her name's Angela Douglas.”

Even in the darkened room, I could see the eyes of both men widen. Newly's lips formed a small O as he sucked in a breath.

“Are you sure?” Efird asked.

“At the age of eighteen, a woman named Eileen Pendleton changed her name to Angela Douglas. What's the odds that's a coincidence?”

“Less than me winning the next Powerball.” Newly looked through the glass. “Any connection to Junior?”

“Possibly. It would be an alliance against Hewitt for different reasons. But there's an intersection with Jerry Wofford.” I went through the background Nakayla uncovered—the letter Margaret Wofford signed and the sexual abuse the girls suffered.

“I wish I'd known this before I spoke with Wofford,” Newly said.

Efird started pacing. “But what's his motive? I get it about the wife and the girl, but murder?”

“The dying wife,” I corrected. “Who knows what she made him promise. She and the girl could have seen all the trouble starting with one event—the hung jury of Kyle Duncan that was caused by Hewitt and Lenore. Setting a guilty man free in Asheville meant a murder in Durango.”

Efird shook his head. “You're saying Wofford made a promise to his wife to exact revenge.”

“Revenge, justice, whatever. It must have become an obsession.”

“Come on,” Efird objected. “How could they know Clyde would kill Heather in the courtroom?”

“It's called being in position for an opportunity,” Newly said. “If it hadn't been that, it would have been something else. They probably couldn't believe their luck that both their targets wound up working on the fundraiser.”

“Not so unexpected,” I said. “The two have a history, Asheville's still a small city, and Shirley is Hewitt's office manager and was close to both Molly and Lenore.”

“So, why Molly?” Efird asked. “She had nothing to do with the Duncan trial.”

“Best explanation is she showed up at Lenore's while Wofford and Angela were preparing to move Lenore's body,” Newly said.

“Or they murdered her to divert any link to the Duncan trial,” I said. “Make it all about the ghost tour and create confusion by throwing suspicion on the Atwoods.”

Efird's face set into a hard grimace. He moved toward the door. “Then why the hell are we standing here? If Wofford tipped off Angela, then he's probably skipping town with her.”

I stared through the glass at Junior. He'd gotten out of his chair and was walking back and forth like a lion in a cage.

“What?” Newly asked me.

“Did you get those booties from the brewery?”

“No. Wofford came in first thing this morning. My man went by but it was too early. No one was at work yet.”

“I wonder how tech savvy Wofford is? Somebody with some expertise doctored that voicemail message.”

Efird yanked open the door. “Well, why don't we just ask him?”

“I'll cut Junior loose for now,” Newly said. “Sam, you're coming with us.” He shot Efird a look that said don't argue. “You discovered Angela's identity, you can spring it on him.”

We rode in Newly's unmarked car, I in the backseat like their prisoner. I wondered if I'd have to share it with Wofford on the return trip to the station.

When we arrived, Newly and Efird stood to the side of the door out of range of Wofford's security camera. I pushed the buzzer.

“Sam?” Wofford's voice vibrated through the small speaker. He didn't sound alarmed, just curious.

“I need to speak to you a few minutes. It's urgent.”

“Of course.” He released the electronic bolt.

I opened the door and stepped aside to let Newly and Efird lead. If Wofford bolted, their good legs would have a better chance of running him down.

Wofford stepped out of his office. At the sight of the detectives, his mouth opened with surprise, but there was no panic, no involuntary flinch at a perceived threat.

“Detective Newland? Did we leave something uncovered?”

“There's some new information we need to go over. You remember my partner Tuck Efird.”

Wofford offered his hand. “Yes. Good to see you again.” He turned to his doorway. “My office is small. Would you rather talk in the tasting room? I'm happy to treat you to lunch.”

Either Wofford was completely innocent or he was the smoothest murderer I'd ever met.

“We'd better stay here,” Newly advised. “You and Sam can sit. Tuck and I'll stand.”

We crowded in. Wofford walked behind his desk but didn't sit. I moved beside the guest chairs, Newly stood directly across the desk from Wofford, and Efird closed the door and leaned against it. Wofford wasn't going anywhere.

“So, what's this information?” Wofford asked.

“Your wife signed a letter published in a Denver newspaper protesting abuses in foster care.”

Wofford blinked with confusion as if Newly had spoken in Chinese. “My wife's deceased.”

“I know, sir,” Newly said gently. “She and others signed an open letter around thirteen years ago.”

“You mean the screening lapses that allowed a pedophile and his wife into the system?”

“Yes.”

Wofford transformed from confused to bewildered. “What's that have to do with anything?”

“We believe your wife was close to one of the girls involved who is now a person of interest in our investigation.”

“Margaret didn't know any of those girls. Their names were kept from the public. One of Margaret's friends on the children's hospital board asked her to sign it.”

Newly turned to me, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

“We know about your connection to Angela Douglas.” I forced unfelt confidence into my voice even as my brain told me our theory was collapsing around us.

“The writer,” he said. “I met her through the fundraiser. You know that, Sam.”

“I do,” I agreed. “But more importantly you know Eileen Pendleton.”

Immediately, the blank expression returned. He threw out his hands. “Gentlemen, I'd love to help you, but I have no idea what or who you're talking about.”

“You didn't call Angela Douglas after we met this morning?” Newly asked.

“Definitely not. I haven't talked with her since our last planning meeting.” The fact finally dawned that we were treating him like a suspect. He pulled his cell phone from his clip. “Check the log. I spoke to my brewery supervisor to tell him I was on my way. We met here for about thirty minutes going over supply orders.”

“Could we speak to him in the brewery?” I asked.

Wofford reddened. “Well, since it appears my word isn't good enough, I'll take you to him.”

Efird stepped aside as Wofford brusquely moved past him. I trailed the two detectives down the hall and into the heart of the brewery.

A young man in his mid-twenties sat on a stool at a makeshift writing board that was hinged to the wall. He studied an electronic tablet and appeared to be entering data through the touch screen. He wore clean blue jeans, a lighter denim shirt, and his brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail.

Wofford stopped just inside the door. “Tony, these men would like a word with you.”

Tony looked up and frowned at the interruption.

Newly flashed his detective shield. “Just a few moments.”

The young man glanced at Wofford who gave him a slight nod.

“Okay.” Tony slipped off the stool and came toward us.

“Should I leave?” Wofford asked.

I decided there was nothing to be gained in embarrassing Wofford in front of his employee. “No. You can verify his answer to my question.”

The two detectives eyed me suspiciously for jumping into their business, but they said nothing.

“When I was here the other day, I saw you flushing out one of the tanks. You were wearing protective clothing and shoe covers.”

“Yes. Mr. Wofford says the key to excellent beer is pristine equipment. We're like an operating room in here.”

“Do you use only one kind of shoe booties?”

“They're nothing special, if that's what you mean.”

“Can we see them?”

Again, he looked at his boss for approval.

“Bring the box from the supply closet,” Wofford said.

Tony walked to a door in the far corner, stepped out of view for a minute, and returned with a box in both hands. The label read “Super Track Boot Cover—Non-skid & Water Resistant.” I pulled one from the box. It was darker in color than the scrap from the bridge. The bottom had no lettering, only rough ridges to prevent slipping on wet surfaces. I passed it to Efird and pulled another for Newly.

“And you don't have any other brands in stock?” Efird asked.

“No,” Wofford said. “I order these by the case. It's what we used in Colorado.”

Newly took the bootie from Efird and handed the pair back to Tony. “Thank you. Sorry to have bothered you. Mr. Wofford said you were inventorying supplies.”

“Getting ready to place the order for the holiday run of our seasonal ale,” Tony explained. “That's why I was flushing out the number one kettle.”

“Count on me coming back to buy some,” Newly said. “Thank you for your time.” He nodded to Wofford that we were finished.

As soon as we stepped out onto the sidewalk, Efird turned on me. “Well, so much for your theory.”

“Angela Douglas is still Eileen Pendleton,” Newly reminded his partner. “There's got to be a connection somewhere.”

“If it's to Wofford, he's a hell of an actor,” Efird argued. “He didn't bat an eye when Sam threw out Eileen Pendleton's name.”

I waited by the curb while Newly unlocked the unmarked car. We were overlooking something. “Still no luck tracing that partial pattern on the sole of the shoe cover?”

“No,” Newly said. “It's either M or N. Too sharp an angle to be the P in POLICE. If that were the case, I'd say someone on the forensics team had an off brand that got torn and they never noticed it.”

I slid in the backseat and thought about the letters.

“M could be Medical,” Efird suggested, “but that's in operating rooms where there's no need to distinguish ground impressions.”

M and P aligned in my mind. “MP. Military police.”

Newly and Efird spun around and stared at me.

“Goddamn,” Efird said. “I think you're on to something. Junior worked with MPs. He was involved in that whole doctored audio case. And people are always pilfering things from military supplies. He could have gotten a couple boxes of those shoe covers.”

“We need to pick him up again,” Newly said. “And I'd like to get a warrant to search his house.”

My mind headed in another direction. “Let me out and I'll walk to the office so as not to hold you up.”

I stood on the sidewalk until the car turned at the next block. Then I headed for the Thirsty Monk.

The crowd had thinned. I had a clear view of the bar and was disappointed not to see Hank serving drinks.

One of the waitresses approached. “Just one, sir?”

“Actually, I'm looking for Hank.”

“He's downstairs.”

“With the Belgians,” I said.

She flashed a smile. “So, you've been here before. Well, if Hank served you once, he'll pour your favorite as soon as he sees you coming down the stairs. He's amazing.”