Last Light (24 page)

His eyes lit up. Every law enforcement officer knew the power of premeditation when it came to prosecuting a suspect. “Right. Good. Let’s see the lawyers try an appeal after that.”

“Exactly. How long would it take to run through the local and state databases and AFIS? We can’t just compare any prints found only to Manning’s, that would appear prejudicial.”

“With our new systems, everything’s tied together. I can probably have an answer for you by tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

She clasped him by the arm. “Deputy Prescott, you’re my hero. With your help, we’re going to nail the coffin shut on this actor. Can you ask your people to email me a copy of the results?”

“Sure, no problem. You’d get them anyway with that court order.” His smile turned to a smirk. “Guess the lawyers are gonna regret getting that—opened the path up to our ending any chance of their appeal.”

“Thanks again. I’m so grateful for your assistance on this.”

“Least I can do. That was the worst crime we’ve seen around here in living history. Hope to never see anything like that again.”

“You and me both. Take care, now.”

<><><>

TK BOUNCED ON
her toes, loving the charge of adrenaline racing through her as she faced Ruiz. God, how she’d missed this feeling. Having a mission, a direct course of action, and knowing she was the one to get the job done. She felt alive again. “I need you to print out some photos.”

Ruiz’s frown deepened. “TK, what did you find?”

“Nothing. Not yet. But that kid, Alan? Lucy agreed to talk with him. Show him photos taken from the time of the murders.” She turned to the case files, rummaging through them. “I need copies of your dad’s, your uncle’s.” She pulled their booking photos from the files. “Also Powell’s—we have one of him somewhere, right?”

He moved past her to another carton. “Here.” He handed her an old DMV photocopy.

“Good. Now, I just need two more. You should be able to find them online.” She thrust his laptop into his hands. He sank onto the bed and balanced it across his knees.

“Let me guess. Roscoe Blackwell.”

“Try his obituary or funeral.” She plopped down beside him, grabbing the computer before it could bounce free. A quick online search and she found what she wanted: Roscoe Blackwell’s obituary photo. She sent it to the printer. Found another story about his funeral that had a good shot of Carole Blackwell clutching Caleb’s hand at the graveside ceremony. In for a penny...

Ruiz retrieved the photos from the printer. “I still can’t believe a woman could have done it.”

“Not me. I suspect everyone. And why not a woman? All she’d need is to threaten one of the kids and Lily would have done anything she said. You don’t need physical strength to stab someone or pull a trigger. Once you’ve made your mind up, all it takes is the mental will to do it.”

She sorted through the photos. The three from the case files fit into the palm of her hand, the two from the printer were larger. Would it make a difference to Alan Martin? If he had brain damage, she didn’t want to confuse him.

“Does Lucy know you’re doing this?” Ruiz interrupted her thoughts. “Last I heard from her, she was at the sheriff’s station. Something about helping a woman with the forfeitures.”

TK rolled her eyes. She wished Lucy would stay on mission. The forfeitures were a waste of time, had nothing to do with the Martin case. “She knows.”

David nodded, still looking a bit stunned that they might actually be able to save his father. As if it had only just hit him that he might, someday soon, have his family back—for the first time in his life.

TK couldn’t help herself, she let her excitement overcome her, and kissed him on the cheek before dancing out of the room, clutching the photos.

LUCY WALKED BACK
from the sheriff’s department wishing she’d brought her cane with her. Funny how she could push through the pain when she was doing her rehab—much more grueling than a simple crossing of a street and a parking lot. Thankfully, there really wasn’t anything more she could do today except finish reviewing all the files TK had scanned that morning. Then she’d talk to Nick, come up with a plan to interview Alan without causing him any trauma.

Which meant taking her brace off and putting her feet up. Even the thought made her move faster. Until she reached the motel parking lot and noticed something missing: her rental Tahoe.

Where the hell had TK gone now? Wherever it was, she still wasn’t answering her phone.

Lucy knocked on David’s door. “Have you seen TK?” she asked, hating how amateurish it made her sound, not knowing where her team was or why they’d left.

“She went to talk to Alan Martin. Wanted to show him photos. Said you knew.”

“Alan? Photos?” Anger cut off her questions. She hadn’t specifically told TK to wait for her, had assumed she could figure that out for herself.

Usually Lucy would applaud initiative in her team members—Lord knew, she’d followed plenty of leads on her own without asking permission from superiors—but this wasn’t the FBI and these weren’t trained agents. “Can I borrow your car?”

“I was going to go see my mother,” he said.

“It’s not that far out of your way. You can drop me off. I’ll bring her back in the Tahoe.”

He frowned, then nodded and led the way out to an older Ford Escape. She climbed into the passenger seat. “I really appreciate it.”

“Sure. Not like there are many taxis around here.”

“Which photos did she take?” Lucy asked. No way would they get a second chance at this. She tried TK’s cell again. No answer. Fuming, Lucy left a terse message, “Call me. Now.”

David sensed her agitation. “She only did it because she wanted to impress you. Don’t sell her short. You know how she got that Bronze Star?”

“No, how?”

“Pilot friend who saw it all told me. When she and a wounded SEAL were separated from the rest of the team, she protected him as insurgents attacked their position. Killed several and held their ground until the team made it back to them. She’s not stupid and she’s not running off half-cocked. She knows what she’s doing.”

Lucy was silent, staring at the parched fields with their wilted grass and cracked hard packed earth as they drove. “It’s not so much that I doubt that. It’s just that I—”

“Don’t trust her. You should.”

“Maybe she needs to trust me.”

He shook his head and laughed. It was nice to hear—so different from his usual voice. “I think you two are maybe more alike than either of you will admit.”

She started to protest, then realized he had a point.

Her phone rang. Wash, back in Beacon Falls.

“Found Powell,” he said.

“Great. When can we interview him?”

“Not so great. He’s dead. Killed in a car crash in Colorado eleven years ago.”

<><><>

TK
WAS DRIVING
with one hand while trying to follow a map that was missing most of the roads she was passing when her phone rang. The battery was still dangerously low; she’d only had a short time to charge it while Lucy had been leading the team through their discussion. “O’Connor,” she answered, expecting it to be Lucy ready to ream her out for taking the Tahoe.

“It’s Caleb. One of my deputies told me your boss asked him to fingerprint the bullets from the murder weapon.”

“Makes sense. They’re the only remaining pieces of evidence that haven’t been fully tested.” There was a long pause and she glanced to make sure she still had bars and the call hadn’t been dropped. “Is that a problem?”

“No. Just thought you should know. Those prints will come back to my father. It was his revolver.”

Now it was her turn to remain silent. “How long have you known?”

“Ever since I became sheriff and saw the case files with photos of the weapon. It’s been in the Blackwell family for generations. Well, until now. You might as well tell your boss about Roscoe, earn some brownie points. At least some good could come from this mess.” His tone was dour.

TK’s phone buzzed with a call waiting. Lucy. Again. She ignored it.

“Just because his weapon was used doesn’t make him the killer.” TK found herself trying to give him hope. Some hope, though—because her money was on his mother. Plus, how difficult would it have been for Carole Blackwell to dose her husband’s bourbon with those sleeping pills?

“It’s a pretty damning circumstantial case. And who needs proof with Roscoe dead and buried?”

“Michael Manning,” she reminded him. “But I might have the answer to that.” She leaned forward and peered through the windshield, trying to make out yet another farm lane’s street sign. Ahh...at last something she recognized: the sign for the federal ag research land. The Martin place was down the road from it. “The Martin house is between your land and Drew Saylor’s, right?”

“Kind of. Our land circles back down to the river, meets up with Drew’s western boundary. Why?”

“I’m headed to his place now to speak with Alan Martin—I mean, Alan Saylor. Did you know Drew had adopted him?”

“Sure, everyone did. Kid’s like deaf and dumb, though, had brain damage. He never came back to school—no one ever even sees him. From what I hear, he needs constant care, is homebound.”

Not quite what Lucy described. TK hoped Caleb had gotten it wrong. She spotted the lane leading to the Saylor spread and turned off the county road.

“Drew Saylor is very protective of his boy,” Caleb continued. “Best to let me talk with him first, ease into the idea.”

“No need, I’m here now.” She pulled up to an electronic gate. Seemed like overkill with no one around for miles except for Caleb and his mother. “Are we still on for dinner?”

“Sure. Call me as soon as you’re done there.”

“Will do.” She spotted an intercom mounted to the gate and pressed the button.

No response but she thought she saw movement at one of the windows at the house. It was hard to see, the sun was shining right into her eyes. She tried again and this time a man answered. “Who is it?”

“My name is TK O’Connor. I work with Lucy Guardino and the Beacon Group. We needed to follow up with a few things. It won’t take long, I promise.”

An even longer silence. Then the gate clicked and swung open as a man appeared on the front porch, a shotgun in his hand. Caleb was right. Drew Saylor did take his privacy very seriously.

“I already told Guardino everything I know,” he said as she exited the Tahoe.

“Actually,” she said, climbing the steps to the porch and ignoring the weapon he still held. “I was hoping to speak with your son, Alan.”

TK KNEW GAINING
Drew Saylor’s confidence would be tough. As soon as she mentioned Alan, he straightened and stepped back, raising the shotgun ever so slightly. Pure protective reflex.

She countered by plopping down into one of the canvas chairs on the porch. Giving him the high ground while also making it more difficult for him to get rid of her. “Tell me about Alan. I was surprised you brought him back here after you adopted him, but now that I see how beautiful this place is, I guess I understand. It’s very serene.”

He gave a small grunt, glanced through the screen door into the house, and relaxed his grip on the shotgun. “Wish it was something like that, but it boiled down to money. Took all our savings, me and Beth, to get the adoption finalized, plus all the costs of his special school. We didn’t have much choice. I was still sheriff then, and this place has been in my family for generations and is paid off, so we stayed.”

“Your wife, is she here? I’d love to meet her.”

“One of her nurses is on vacation so she’s working three-to-eleven this week. Maybe you could come back tomorrow when she is here.” He gestured toward the steps.

TK beamed up at him as he spoke. Not moving an inch. Finally, all the command authority drained from his voice. He slumped into the chair opposite her. “What do you want with Alan?”

“Nothing, if you think it would be too upsetting for him,” she reassured him. “But it’d be a huge help to us if he could take a look at a few photos.”

“What photos? Why?”

“New evidence has come to light. In addition to the fact that you coerced Michael Manning’s confession and denied him his Miranda rights.” It was dirty pool, reminding him of his own failures in the case, but what choice did she have?

“What new evidence?” His eyes went flat as did his voice. “Only evidence we had was Michael Manning’s prints on the murder weapon in the victims’ blood. Nothing you find can argue that away. No matter how that confession came to pass, it was a solid case.”

“Would you still think that if I told you Lily Martin was having an affair with Roscoe Blackwell? Or that he was the father of her baby? And the revolver used to kill Peter Martin belonged to him?”

He recoiled, sucking in his breath, his poker face demolished by her words. “You think Roscoe could have—” He shook his head. “No. I mean, he was one coldhearted son of a bitch, but if you’d seen...no, I can’t believe it.”

“But you can believe a good kid like Michael Manning shooting Peter Martin in cold blood?”

“That’s different. He was protecting his brother.”

“Right. The brother so incapacitated by the time you arrested him he couldn’t even sign his name to the booking form? You really think he was able to restrain Lily Martin and systematically torture her for hours without leaving behind a single piece of evidence?”

His lips twisted in consideration. “Not a night has gone by, twenty-nine years, this case hasn’t haunted me. But I always thought the right people were behind bars. Was most afraid that I hadn’t been able to hunt down Ronnie Powell, that he might some day return to hurt my son. Now you’re telling me it was Roscoe Blackwell? That I screwed up, ruined two men’s lives, and let a killer walk free?”