The Girl Who Survived(36)

As if they hadn’t checked it out too hard. Thomas said, “He was. Is. That hasn’t changed.”

Her chin jutted a bit and she argued, “But the case has changed. The evidence that it hung on, the sword, it’s as good as gone.”

She was right, but it bothered him, as if she were subtly grandstanding, showing him up.

She said, “I finally got through to Randall Isley’s wife. I wanted to talk to him about what he knew, why he brought up the problems with the evidence chain on the sword now, but we might not be able to speak directly to him. Isley is in an ICU ward at a hospital in Omaha. Congestive heart failure. She’s not certain he’s going to pull through.”

“What?” Thomas said in a breath. Why hadn’t she told him?

“Jesus.” Lieutenant Gleason sucked in his breath. “God, that’s too bad. I worked with Randy. Good cop. Decent guy. Our kids went to school together.” He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, derailed for a second.

“I’ve already asked for another look at the DNA,” Johnson said. “From hair and blood samples collected at the scene, cigarette butts, glasses, whatever. I figure testing has come a long way in twenty years. Maybe something will turn up.”

Gleason was nodding. “Good thinking.”

“I told them to put a rush on it,” Johnson added.

“Great. Double-check everything.” Gleason moved a finger back and forth, indicating both detectives. “And I mean everything.”

“We will,” Thomas said, unable to hide his irritation. “We will.”

“And locate the sister. Marlie. Talk to the ex-girlfriend who testified and the younger girl, Kara, as well as her guardian.”

“Faiza Donner,” Johnson supplied.

“Right and while you’re at it, see what all those ex-wives and husbands of the murdered couple have to say. I know the kids were set to inherit millions, but my guess is that Johnson, here, is right.” He nodded to Thomas’s partner, who had the good sense not to smile. “There were probably lots of other people waiting in the wings, hoping to get their hands on that fortune.” When Thomas started to argue, Gleason held up a big hand. “I know. We think we got our man. I agree. Just check out other possibilities. They’ll probably be dead ends or circle right on back to Jonas McIntyre, but let’s prove it.”

“Again, you mean,” Thomas clarified over the sound of a huge truck passing on the street outside, then stopping in a hiss of brakes. “You want us to prove it again.”

“Right.” The lieutenant nodded. “And yeah, he can’t be convicted for the same crime, but at least he did twenty years of his sentence and the department will look good, like we covered all our bases.”

Thomas said, “Or our asses, as you said.” Again noise from the street, this time the steady beep of a large vehicle backing up.

“And that’s the goal? Appearances?” Johnson asked just as the exterior noise quieted again.

“One of many.” Gleason managed a cold grin. “Jonas McIntyre, he’s got a legion of fans, y’know. And they’re vocal.” Gleason’s lips twisted as if he thought what he was assigning was the biggest waste of time on the planet. “And more importantly, they vote. Both the sheriff and the DA are up for reelection next year, so we do what we have to.” With a sigh he leaned back so far in his chair that it groaned in protest. “This doesn’t mean we let up on the rest of the work. God, no. We just add this on, because it’s flashy. It makes headlines, but the other cases, they can’t be ignored. The good news is that right now, things are quiet, right? Not a lot going on? No homicides since Labor Day, right? And there haven’t been all that many assaults.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “But the bad news? The holidays are right around the corner, and that means families and friends get together, have drinks, celebrate, all that good cheer, right? And it always turns out that suicides and homicides take a little bump. Stress of the holidays, or whatever.” He glanced out the window to the slate-colored sky beyond. “The upshot is, this just means we all get to work harder. So”—he flashed a humorless smile—“Merry Christmas.”

*

The attorney wasn’t picking up.

Her texts—eight of them counting those she’d written yesterday after she’d heard Jonas had been released—remained unanswered.

She drove to the redbrick building that housed his office. The parking lot hadn’t been plowed, so she parked across the street, then punched in Merritt Margrove’s number for the third time this morning. She was immediately shuffled to voice mail. Again.

“Fine,” she muttered, even though it wasn’t. Nothing was.

She flung open the Jeep’s door, waited until traffic had cleared a bit and dashed across the street, her boots slipping slightly as she stepped into a puddle of slush at the far curb.

Though she knew it was an effort in futility, Kara tried the door. Locked. She rapped loudly beneath a tattered awning, but no one, not anyone in the few rented offices or a maintenance man, appeared. All remained quiet and dark within. The building was obviously only partially occupied, a huge FOR LEASE sign posted in the window confirming what she already guessed. She rapped loudly again, then saw a bell and pushed the button, but nothing happened and she suspected the doorbell didn’t work.