Her Last Word(21)

“I did, but a few years ahead of you.” Mention of Saint Mathew’s redirected his thoughts back to the Mason case. “So you would also have heard about Gina Mason.”

“Everyone at Saint Mathew’s knew about Gina. It’s a small school. There were just over sixty kids in the graduating class. The news hit everyone hard. At the ten-year reunion the class president had a moment of silence for her.”

“Were Jennifer and Gina good friends?”

Larry took his hands off the desk and stood more erect. “How does Gina relate to Jennifer’s death?”

“You just said everyone knew each other, and both these girls are dead. Just making sure I have all the pieces.”

“Sure, they were great friends.”

“Did you know a student named Kaitlin Roe?”

“Kaitlin? Sure. She was Gina’s cousin and a couple of years younger. Everyone at Saint M. knew about Kaitlin’s circumstances. It was a small community.” He fiddled with his watch. “Funny you should mention Kaitlin. She came by here last week.”

“Why?”

“She’s making a podcast about Gina. She’s on this mission to find the truth about her.”

“Why was she talking to you?”

“She’s talking to everyone in Gina’s class. She can’t guarantee what she’ll use.”

“How did you feel about the podcast?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like it will do much in the long run. But I guess it makes Kaitlin feel a little less guilty for leaving her cousin. I didn’t have any new information to tell her. Most likely my interview will end up on the cutting-room floor.”

“Were you there the night Gina vanished?”

“I was on vacation with my parents. I didn’t know what had happened for several days. It was a surreal time. Soon after, all the kids went to college. I guess life just kept moving forward.” He slowly came around the desk. “How did Jennifer die?”

“I can’t say right now.”

“And this happened last night?”

“It did.”

He twisted a gold cuff link. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“How many employees do you have?”

“It’s just me.”

“And you had a key to her house?”

“As did the housecleaning service.”

“Where is the key?”

“In a locked box.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.” Jenkins moved to a metal cabinet mounted to the wall in a back office. He punched a number into an electronic keyless lock, and the door opened. There were several dozen sets hanging in the cabinet. He handed Jennifer’s key to Adler.

The key was labeled with the number twelve and a four-digit code. “What are these numbers?”

“The small number corresponds to her address logged in a separate location, and the four-digit number is her security passcode.”

“Who else has access to this cabinet?”

“Just me. I planned to go out there today to put a lockbox on the front door with a key inside it. Should I still go?”

“No. It’s an active crime scene now.” Adler pocketed the key and handed him his business card. “Please call me if you think of anything else.”

Jenkins studied the card as if it held a clue about what just happened. “I should call Ashley. She must be so upset.”

“I’m sure she could use a friend now.”

Adler left, and fifteen minutes later when he pulled onto Jennifer Ralston’s street, it was quiet. The forensic van and cop cars had cleared away. No watchful neighbors or reporters lingering for now. He parked in front of her house, climbed the stairs, and broke the yellow crime scene tape seal.

As he entered the foyer, the security system chimed in the eerie stillness of the house. When he’d been here last night, the small space had been buzzing. There’d barely been enough space to move around.

He commonly returned to murder scenes after the chaos had cleared. It gave him the chance to process the observations made earlier and begin to imagine the scene from both the killer’s and victim’s perspectives.

Inside, he paused to tug on black latex gloves while he studied the high heels still undisturbed at the front entryway table. He examined the purse and keys as the foyer mirror tossed back his reflection. He looked ten years older since the bombing. He felt even older.

He imagined Jennifer would have looked in that mirror every day. Women tended to use mirrors, sometimes to admire but more often to critique. He looked away, seeing little point in either.

He moved to the kitchen and tested the back door. It was locked. He flipped the dead bolt, and as he opened the door, the alarm again chimed a warning. Why hadn’t the killer tripped the alarm? He closed and locked the door.

He opened several cabinets to find dishes perfectly stacked. In a utensil drawer, the forks, spoons, and knives were polished and arranged in neat stacks. On the counter was an arrangement of apples. All the stems were facing up. Complete order.

Opposite the counter was a nook area serving as a home office. There were several pictures pinned to a bulletin board above the desk. All featured a smiling Jennifer with her cat, a dark Siamese with a bent right ear.

A small laptop rested in the center, papers stacked uniformly on the left, unopened mail on the right. He flipped through the unopened mail to find several bills and a couple of pieces of junk mail. He sat and opened the small drawer. Pens, pencils, paper clips, and stamps. He wondered how she found the time to be so meticulous.