The Girl Who Survived(35)

“But you don’t think we’ll find anything?” Johnson ventured.

“You mean anything new?” Gleason frowned. “Nah, nothing significant. So there was a mistake in the handling of the weapon. Doesn’t mean we got the wrong guy.” He let out a huff of disgust. “And it’s not as if the entire case is closed, right? There’s still the missing girl, the sister, uh, Marilee—” He checked his computer screen. “No. Marlie. That’s it. What the hell happened to her?”

Thomas had spent most of last night wondering the same thing.

“Let’s find her. Or, more likely, her remains.” Gleason glanced up again. “Again, it’s probably impossible. A wild-goose chase. I know. But technology has come a long way in twenty years. Who knows? Something might turn up.” He meant bones. A skeleton. Or at least part of one. They all knew it.

“It might,” Thomas allowed, though he doubted it.

The lieutenant asked, “Are there any other persons of interest still around?”

“Possibly,” Thomas said.

“Check them out.” Gleason’s lips were compressed as he skimmed the information. “We’re gonna be crucified by the press; they’ll be saying we were tunnel-visioned about Jonas McIntyre.”

“We weren’t,” Thomas said. “And no one’s saying he didn’t do it; he’s out of prison because of a break in the evidence chain. In my mind, he’s guilty as sin.”

“Glad to see you’ve got an open mind,” Gleason said as his phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen. Ignored the text.

“It is what it is.” Thomas was unmoved. “Facts are facts.”

“Yeah, okay. I know. But”—Gleason was nodding—“we just need to cover our asses.” He glanced over the tops of his readers. “Without his fingerprints all over that sword, the case against McIntyre was pretty thin. He was, after all, a victim.”

That was the part that had always niggled at Thomas’s brain and created his five percent of doubt. Jonas McIntyre had injuries himself, wounds that he could have self-inflicted, but would he have? Had he been that desperate? That enraged?

Gleason asked, “Did anyone ever check to find out who would have benefitted financially from the deaths? What about the partner? What was his name?”

“Silas Dean. He was there that day. Rumored to have had it out with Samuel Senior, but the only people who told us about it were Jonas McIntyre, and he was trying to push blame on anyone but himself, and Dean himself.”

“What about the little girl?” Gleason glanced between the two detectives.

Thomas nodded. “She confirmed, I think. But she was only seven, just about to turn eight.”

Johnson said, “In her testimony she said, ‘Daddy was yelling at Mr. Dean.’ Merritt Margrove made a big deal of it in court, but the prosecution shot him down as Dean had been at the house hours before the attack and had an alibi. And he wasn’t in the will, nor was there any life insurance where he was the beneficiary.”

Gleason asked, “So, what happened to McIntyre’s share of the business?”

“Dean bought out the estate’s share. It was all handled through the estate’s attorney.”

“Merritt Margrove,” Gleason guessed, glancing out the window. “Run that down. See what happened there.” He leaned forward again, his chair creaking loudly. “I’m assuming the kids inherited everything?”

“Right,” Johnson said.

“His and hers?” Gleason asked, leaning back in his chair. “All—what was it?—six, no five kids, right? divided equally? Nothing specific for her kids versus his kids?”

Thomas nodded. “If both parents were dead.”

“So the only ones left to inherit were Jonas and Kara McIntyre.” Gleason stated it as a fact.

“Except there was a caveat,” Johnson said. “If you were convicted of a crime or involved in drugs, you were out of the will, at least temporarily. So while Jonas was in prison, he was barred from inheriting.”

“And Kara was too young. Comes of age within a couple of weeks” Johnson said. “How’s that for a coincidence? About the time she’s going to inherit, her only surviving sibling is going to be released from prison.”

“I don’t like coincidences,” Gleason said, tapping a finger on the desk. “If the whole family died, kids included, who was next in line?”

Johnson said, “Samuel McIntyre didn’t have any siblings and his parents were dead, but his wife had—or has—a sister, Faiza Donner.”

“And she ended up being Kara McIntyre’s guardian?” Gleason asked, his brow furrowing as his phone rang again and he glanced at the screen, then sucked air through his teeth in irritation. “Damned things never leave you alone.”

“Faiza had an alibi,” Thomas said, bringing the conversation back to the McIntyre Massacre. “She and the boyfriend were supposed to come to the mountains for Christmas Eve dinner, but they canceled. Something about the boyfriend, Roger Sweeney, not being welcome. Kind of a ‘family only’ affair and even though Faiza had been with Roger for years, they’d never gotten married. Faiza and Roger alibied each other.”

Johnson added, “And everyone already thought Jonas McIntyre was the killer.”