Bleeding Through: A Rachel Goddard Mystery (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) (16 page)

Cold? She almost laughed. “You have no idea what my life has been like, and you have no right to judge me. You haven’t answered my question. Are you going to—”

“Tell me something, Rachel. Does Bridger know any of this?”

What Tom knew was none of his concern, but maybe Fagan would back off if he realized she had Tom’s support. “Yes,” she said. “Tom knows.”

Fagan looked expectant, as if he wanted her to expand on that, but Rachel said nothing more. Let him wonder what she and Tom had said to one another. He didn’t have to know.

Fagan shrugged and turned to leave. At the door, his hand on the knob, he paused to look back at her. “Like I said, all the pieces are there, for anybody who wants to look and put them together. Someday somebody else might have a reason to look, and when you least expect it, everything could come out. Including the fact that you knew and you made the choice to keep it hidden. I think that’s going to cause a world of pain. Well, you have a good day, Rachel.”

Have a good day?
If they’d been anywhere else, Rachel would have thrown something at him.

Chapter Fourteen

Raymond Morton, Commonwealth’s Attorney for Mason County, swallowed a mouthful of roast beef sandwich and dabbed his lips with a napkin while Tom waited for an answer. Tom had found him eating at his desk during the lunch break in an assault and battery trial. A thin, balding man approaching old age, he sat in front of a hanging photo of himself being sworn in when he first took office decades before. Morton had been the county’s prosecutor longer than Tom had been alive.

“Yes,” Morton said, “Shelley Beecher came to see me about the Lankford case. I thought she was wasting her time, but I figured the experience of making a stupid mistake would be good for her in the long run, if she was going to be a defense attorney. You want a bite to eat? The Connollys have started making takeout sandwiches at the bakery, and I’ll tell you, they’re something special.”

Morton pushed a wrapped sandwich across the desk. Giving into hunger, Tom took it and peeled away the paper. The stack of beef, lettuce, and tomato between fat slices of bread made his mouth water. “Thanks. Looks good.”

“I never knew whole wheat bread could taste like this.” The prosecutor took another bite as Tom started on his sandwich. He chewed, swallowed, and added, “My wife makes bread sometimes. It’s heavy as a brick and it’s got about as much flavor.”

“So,” Tom said, “you didn’t discourage Shelley? Did she tell you why she was so sure Vance Lankford didn’t kill Brian Hadley?”

“She was sure because she wanted to be sure. She was a kid, Tom. Idealistic. Thought she was going to right a terrible wrong. She liked Lankford and thought he was telling the truth. Frankly, I believe that was all it amounted to.”

“You never asked her for details about what she was looking into?”

“No. But I did warn her not to go around talking about other people who might have had some quarrel with Brian. I told her she could get herself into a lot of trouble that way, if people thought she was accusing them of murder.” Morton paused, frowned at Tom. “To tell you the truth, the Hadleys are the ones that worry me. Especially that hothead Skeet. He seemed pretty determined to stop Shelley.”

“Right. Don’t worry, they’re on my radar.”

Tom and Morton both bit into their sandwiches and ate in silence for a moment.

“Where’s your colleague from Fairfax today?” Morton asked.

Tom chewed and swallowed. “I don’t know where he disappeared to. I’m just glad to be rid of him for a while.”

“Is he still convinced the killer’s in Northern Virginia?”

“Yeah. Who knows, he could be right. I’m going to Fairfax County tomorrow to talk to a few people myself. To get back to the Hadley case, nobody saw Lankford attack Brian Hadley, right?”

“Now don’t tell me you’re starting to think we got the wrong man.”

“No, I just want to clarify some things.”

“That’s right, there weren’t any witnesses to the murder. It happened at the fairground, out behind the tent where the band gave a concert. The concert was over, the rest of the band had packed up their instruments and taken off, and Brian was about to leave too. The night guard at the fairgrounds found him lying dead next to his car a couple hours after he should have left.”

“And Vance Lankford was the prime suspect from the start?” Tom asked.

“Oh, yeah. Lankford and Hadley had been fighting over Rita Jankowski for weeks, and they’d also started fighting over the record contract the band was offered. They were arguing that night in front of a lot of people, before the concert started. But we had a strong case on the physical evidence too.” Morton sipped from his coffee cup and took another bite of his sandwich.

“You mean the tire iron?” Tom said.

“Yep. Your dad searched Lankford’s car and found it under the carpet in the trunk. It had been washed, but there was enough blood left on the business end to give us Hadley’s DNA. More than enough. Lankford claimed the tool wasn’t his, he didn’t know how it got in his car. I guess I don’t have to tell you that wasn’t a compelling argument. He beat that boy’s head to a pulp, practically pulverized his skull—they had to have a closed casket at the funeral—and now he’s paying the price.”

Tom’s mind filled with the image of two young men on a darkened fairground, one of them swinging the heavy tool again and again as his victim dropped to his knees and then collapsed on the blood-splattered ground. His appetite suddenly gone, Tom folded the wrapping paper around the rest of his sandwich and set it on the desk. “It’s strange he’d be so careless about cleaning the weapon. And why did he keep it around? Why didn’t he throw it in the river?”

“People do stupid things when they’re scared and under pressure. I don’t have to tell you that. You see even more of it than I do.” Morton sat forward and met Tom’s eyes. “You read the transcript if you think it might help you in some way, but in my opinion your time’s better spent doing two things: pinning down Skeet Hadley’s whereabouts on the dates in question, and finding out who the Beecher girl was accusing of murder.”

***

After Fagan left her office, Rachel took a couple of minutes to calm down before she rejoined Michelle, Ben, and Holly.

Holly looked madly curious, but she didn’t ask any questions. Michelle leaned close and whispered to Rachel, “Are you okay? What did he want?”

“Nothing. It’s not important. Let’s go eat.”

The four of them walked in silence down Main Street to the restaurant.

Rachel didn’t see Fagan anywhere along the way, but she couldn’t relax. When she forcibly expelled him from her thoughts, another brand of anxiety seized her and she found herself studying the faces of the few strangers they passed. Was Michelle’s stalker right in front of them? Following them? She glanced back but saw only a middle-aged woman she knew as the owner of one of her patients. Rachel made herself smile, and she got a wiggly-fingered little wave and a “Hi, Doctor Rachel” in return.

When they walked into the Mountaineer, the first person she saw was Detective Fagan in a booth near the front.

“Oh, no,” Michelle groaned.

“Do you want to leave?” Ben asked.

“No,” Rachel said. “We’re not letting him drive us away.” Besides, this was the only decent place to eat in Mountainview. Rachel led the group past Fagan to the back of the room, walking under the big wagon wheels that hung from the ceiling and served as lighting fixtures. She sat in a booth facing forward so she could keep an eye on Fagan. Not beneficial to her blood pressure, she supposed, but turning her back on him and wondering if he was watching would be worse.

Sliding in next to Rachel, Holly whispered, “I sure would like to know what’s goin’ on, but I guess it’s none of my business, huh? Do y’all want to talk without me bein’ here?”

“Of course not,” Rachel said. “I don’t blame you for being curious.”

Michelle leaned forward and spoke quietly to Holly. “That man is a police detective in Fairfax County, and he arrested the maniac who shot Rachel when she still lived in McLean.”

Ben didn’t bother to lower his voice when he continued the story. “Instead of doing his job and standing up for her, he got on the witness stand at Nelson’s trial and made excuses for him. He made it sound as if Nelson wasn’t responsible for his actions. So the jury acquitted a guilty man and he was sent to a mental hospital instead of prison, where he belongs.”

“Oh, that’s awful.” Holly laid a consoling hand on Rachel’s arm. “That must have been so hard on you.”

Rachel glanced toward Fagan, wondering if he’d heard Ben. The waitress, a heavyset woman with wiry gray curls, blocked Rachel’s view, standing by his booth and taking his order.

“What was the story about Fagan’s brother?” Ben asked Rachel. “He was an addict, died of an overdose? Or did he kill himself?”

“That’s no excuse,” Michelle said. “He was an experienced law enforcement officer. He shouldn’t have let his misguided pity for addicts color his testimony. Nelson tried to
kill
Rachel, and he knew exactly what he was doing. In my professional opinion, that’s not insanity or diminished capacity. It’s a crime. He should be in prison.”

“Could we please not talk about it?” Rachel said. Fagan’s role in Nelson’s trial wasn’t what had her tied in knots now. Fagan
knew
. He was one more person, one person too many, who knew that Rachel and Michelle’s so-called mother had abducted them when they were small children and raised them as her own.

The waitress arrived with glasses of water and menus.

After she took their orders and left, Ben asked, “Did Fagan have anything to say about Shelley’s case? That’s why he’s here, isn’t it?”

“No, I’m sorry, he didn’t.” Rachel could see grief reclaiming Ben, his face settling into a mask of sorrow, his eyes growing distant. She suspected that by now his sense of guilt had solidified: he had steered Shelley toward the innocence project, somebody had killed her because of her work for Vance Lankford, therefore Ben felt responsible for her murder. Rachel knew the police had no proof whatever that Shelley was killed because she was trying to free Lankford, but she also knew that trying to reason Ben out of his guilt would be pointless.

The four of them sipped their water. Rachel glanced at Fagan, who seemed engrossed by the Roanoke newspaper. The silence around the table lasted a couple of minutes, until Holly spoke up. “That man is still in the hospital, isn’t he?” she asked Rachel. “He can’t hurt you now, can he?”

Rachel suppressed a groan. “Yes, he is, and no, he can’t. Now can we please change the subject?”

“He’s still in the hospital,” Michelle said, “because Rachel has fought very hard to keep him there. But he’s never stopped harassing her.”

That dragged Ben out of his thoughts and back to the here-and-now. “You never told me that,” he said to Rachel. “What’s he doing? How is he harassing you if he’s still in the hospital?”

When Rachel hesitated to answer, Michelle jumped in again. “He’s sent her letters, and—”

“
Please
stop.” Rachel wanted to stuff her napkin in Michelle’s mouth to gag her. What had taken possession of Michelle to make her chatter like this? Maybe her sister’s volubility on the sensitive subject of Rachel’s stalker was a way of blowing off the tension her own tormentor generated. Rachel was in no mood to allow it. “Can we drop the subject?”

Holly made a quick apology. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I ask too many questions.”

Ben reached across the table to squeeze Rachel’s hand. “Hey, kid, you want me to kill Fagan for you?”

Rachel burst out laughing. “He’s not worth the trouble, but thanks.”

Her laughter attracted Detective Fagan’s attention, and when he glanced their way he met Rachel’s gaze for a second before he turned back to his reading.

“Rachel can deal with it,” Michelle said. “She’s one of the strongest people I know. She’s always been my rock.”

Rachel shot her a surprised glance, only because she rarely heard direct praise from her sister. She knew Michelle depended on her and had faith in her inner strength. She also knew she was nowhere near as strong as her sister thought she was.

Chapter Fifteen

Rita Jankowski, the only cashier on duty, was flinging groceries into a plastic bag when Tom entered the supermarket. Neither her sour expression nor her shapeless supermarket smock succeeded in making her blend into her drab surroundings. With wavy red-gold hair, creamy skin, and doll-like features, she was a knockout who turned heads everywhere she went.

Her customer, an elderly woman with white hair, fluttered her hands and begged, “Please be more careful!”

Rita tossed two big cans of baked beans on top of eggs, bananas and lettuce. She dropped in glass jars instead of carefully placing them, and piled so much into each bag that Tom wondered whether the customer would make it into her house without one of them splitting and spilling everything.

The customer looked ready to weep by the time Rita read out the total of the bill in a bored monotone. The woman wrote a check with a shaking hand and Rita took it without once looking her in the face. Pushing her groceries out past Tom, the customer yelped in distress as one overstuffed bag tipped sideways and cans and bottles rolled out into the cart. Tom stopped to help her re-bag everything before he moved on.