The Sorority Murder (Regan Merritt, #1)(19)

He glanced over his shoulder. A boxy car—a Jeep, he thought, though it was hard to tell in the dark—was slowly driving up the hill behind him, lights off. He hoped they weren’t drunk. Just to be safe, Lucas moved farther to the right, as far from the street as he could get without falling into the ditch. The Jeep continued up the hill and passed him, lights still off but not driving erratically or doing anything that would prompt Lucas to call the police to report a drunk driver.

Sometimes people were just clueless.

He continued up the hill, turned right, then walked up the stairs to his apartment. It was a nice place, eight units, and the owner–manager Mrs. Levitz lived on the first floor with her four cats. He and Troy fixed a few things for her, and she made them cookies at least once a month and left care packages for them. Her cooking was pretty good. Not as good as his mom’s, but better than what he could put together for himself.

Troy and Denise were on the couch watching a movie when he walked in. “Hey,” he said before going into his bedroom, not wanting to disturb them.

He sat down and checked the podcast email. A dozen messages basically calling him a jerk.

And then there was one that didn’t.

The subject line was can i trust you.

It had been sent through an anonymous address, maybe an email created just to communicate with him, a bunch of numbers and random letters at a Gmail account.

He opened it.

i listened to your podcasts. i almost called in, but i’m in sigma rho, and they would recognize my voice. i saw candace driving like a bat out of hell into mountain view parking. it was around ten at night, two days after the party, sunday night, and she almost hit me. i don’t know if that helps you, but i’d get in trouble if i called. call me a concerned sister.
p.s. i’m sure you’ve figured out that the sorority put a total lid on talking to you. they say they want to protect candace’s image, but it’s really more the sorority’s image they care about. but some of us listen to you, hang on every word, because we want to know what happened to candace as much as you do.
maybe even more.


Seven


Tuesday

Regan met her best friend, Jessie Nez, for breakfast Tuesday morning at Marcy’s Grill, a diner that had outlived the original owner by twenty years. Marcy’s granddaughter Susan ran the place now, and very little had changed—which suited Regan and everyone else who ate there regularly. She and Jessie had breakfast together at least once a week since Regan came back. Jessie ate here every morning because she hated to cook.

“You look like shit,” Jessie said as she sat down, adjusting her heavy utility belt and putting her radio down on the red-checked plastic tabletop.

“No tact, but to the point, I give you that,” said Regan. She had arrived early and was already on her third cup of black coffee.

“You’d better not fucking be canceling our hike on me.”

“I’m not canceling. Though, I think the weather is going to turn.”

“Shit.”

Jessie swore as easily as breathing. Regan had never heard her parents utter a bad word, but Jessie had littered shit and fuck and damn into her speech from the day Regan had first met her in middle school. Jessie, born on the Navajo reservation to a Navajo father and white mother, had moved to Flagstaff with her mom when her parents divorced. Those teenage years had been difficult for Jessie, and she had her own way of coping with it.

She’d run away from home several times. She lived with her father for six months in eighth grade, then realized why her mother divorced him: he was sweet as molasses when he was sober, unpredictable and violent when he was drunk. In high school, she’d once dyed her long black hair bright pink. She later admitted that had been stupid. In college, she cut it off at her ears to get rid of the remnants of pink. Now, she wore it medium-length, which she usually pulled back into a ponytail.

“You look soft,” Jessie said. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to do this one? It’s the most difficult trail in Sedona.”

Her comment didn’t deserve a response, so Regan ignored it. “I wanted to pick your brain. Do you remember three years ago a sorority girl, Candace Swain, who was found dead at Hope Centennial Golf Course? In the lake.”

“Yep.”

“You answered quickly.”

“I listen to podcasts in my truck. You know how much I can’t stand driving, and that seems to be half my job now. I found the one about her death. The Sorority Murder. Kid from the college. I didn’t think you’d have the patience to sit still and listen to anything.”

“I spoke at the Criminology and Criminal Justice school yesterday, and Lucas Vega, the host, asked to interview me.”

“No shit. You doing it?”

She nodded. “The case is intriguing, and I think I can help. I’m just concerned about the directions of his questions, so I need to lay down some ground rules. I’m very private.”

“Ya think?” Jessie snorted.

The server returned with their food: three eggs over easy, bacon and toast for Regan, a loaded omelet for Jessie. She refilled their coffees and walked away.

“Do you remember the murder?” Regan asked as they ate.

“Sure, it was on my radar—FPD issued a BOLO for Candace Swain, missing person, so it was posted on our board and in my truck. Also a BOLO for some homeless guy, Abernathy—the Vega kid mentioned him. So you’re going on the podcast to help? Share your expertise?”