Redemption (Amos Decker #5)(18)

“Well, rich people have security systems and extra locks and gates and sometimes private guards too. An area like where the Richardses lived might be more vulnerable.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, Alex. Something is off.”

“So despite your previous skepticism, now you’re saying that you believe Hawkins to be innocent?”

“No, I’m just trying to get to the truth.” He rose. “I’m going to check on the police files. You want some vending machine coffee? It sucks, but it’s hot.”

“Sure.”

Decker walked out and down the hall. Two cops and one detective he’d worked with greeted him as he passed by. They didn’t look happy to see him here, and he could understand why. Word had gotten around. If Hawkins had been wrongly convicted, it would be a slap in the face to the whole department.

It’ll be a punch in the gut to me. My first real homicide. Did I want it too bad? And did I screw over Meryl Hawkins to get there?

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost bumped into her.

Sally Brimmer hadn’t changed very much. Early thirties, pretty, efficient-looking. And as he had thought before, the woman’s slacks were still a little too tight and too many buttons on her blouse were undone, exhibiting enough cleavage to be intentionally suggestive. She was in public affairs at the police department. Decker had scammed her once, pretending to be an attorney to get a look-see at a prisoner being held here. That had placed her in a bad light with Captain Miller, among others. Decker had taken full responsibility for what he’d done and tried to make sure she was held blameless. However, by the put-out look on her face at seeing him, his actions had not been enough to soothe her harsh feelings for him.

“Ms. Brimmer,” said Decker amiably.

Her hands were on her slim hips and a pouty look was perched on her lips. “I heard you were back. I hoped it was just a rumor that would turn out not to be true.”

“Uh, okay. Nice to see you too.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Working a case. And I need some department files. I thought I’d have them by now.”

“You don’t even work here anymore.”

“I’m working with Mary Lancaster on a case. Captain Miller authorized it.”

“You’re not bullshitting me again,” she said defiantly.

“Actually, it’s the truth.”

“Right. Fool me once…”

“Agent Decker, do you want these in the small conference room?”

They looked over to see a young uniformed officer wheeling a hand truck down the hall on which were stacked four large storage boxes.

“Yeah, thanks. My partner’s in there now. I’m just on a coffee run.”

Brimmer watched incredulously as the man headed down the hall to the conference room.

“So you weren’t bullshitting me. Which case?”

“Meryl Hawkins.”

“Don’t remember it.”

“Way before your time.”

“Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the guy who was just murdered?”

“Yep.”

“But that’s a current case.”

“It is. The reason he was murdered probably goes back to four homicides that took place about thirteen years ago.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I was one who investigated it.”

“Four homicides? Who was the killer?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

He walked on in search of coffee and found it in the break room. Instead of vending machines, however, they had a Keurig. Times did change, and incremental progress was made. Decker prepared two coffees and was about to head back when his attention was caught by something on the TV that was bolted to the wall of the break room.

It was a local station and the weather report was just now coming on. The forecast was for late afternoon storms.

As soon as Decker heard that, something clicked in his head.

Rain.





Chapter 10



“WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE, Decker?” asked Jamison. “You never said.” She added under her breath, “As usual.”

Decker didn’t appear to have heard her. He was staring at various spots in the living room of the Richardses’ old home, particularly the floor. In his mind he dialed back to that night and laid what was there on top of what he was seeing right now.

And they tallied pretty much exactly.

“Rain.”

“What?” said Jamison, looking confused.

“It rained the night of the murders at the Richardses’ home. Bucketed down. Started at around six-fifteen and continued until after Lancaster and I got there. It was a whopper of a storm. Lots of thunder and lightning.”

“Yeah, his lawyer mentioned that. So what?”

Decker pointed to the floor. “There were no wet footprints inside the house other than those of the first responders. No traces of mud or gravel. And Mary and I and the techs put on booties.”

“So how could the killer, who clearly came after the rain was pouring down, have not left any wet marks on the floor or carpet?” She paused. “Wait a minute, you didn’t think of this until now?”