Minutes to Kill (Scarlet Falls #2)(61)

“I’m sorry.”

Chet pulled a pair of reading glasses from his chest pocket and cleaned them on the hem of his shirt. “Last March, on Teresa’s birthday, I closed the door on this room and promised myself I’d never open it again. I took two weeks of vacation and spent the time hammered on Johnnie Walker. I went to The Pub, turned into my alter ego, Drunken Asshole Man, and picked a fight with the biggest guy in the bar. Luckily for me, he wasn’t a drunken jerk. The bartender called Brody to come and get me. It wasn’t the first time, but I’d been sober for almost a year. My last bender had been right after my wife died. No one was arrested, but word got round, and the captain found out. He gave me my last warning. No drunks on his force. He warned me that I wouldn’t get another break.” He sighed, the exhalation sounding shaky and painful. His eyes met hers. “You don’t have to look so glum. I was coming up on the mandatory retirement age anyway. This week’s stint of stupidity just moved the date up six months.”

Hannah frowned.

Chet held up a palm. “The chief’s not a bad guy. He’s running a police department, not a rehab center. I either need to act like an adult and deal with my shit in a responsible manner, or I have no fucking business being on the police force.” He grimaced. “Please excuse the language.”

“I’ve heard worse in multiple languages,” Hannah said. “And how can you possibly move on after this week?”

“When the DNA results come back, I’ll have to.” Chet stopped rubbing his glasses. “Closing the door on this room didn’t do anything except let me not deal with my problems. I haven’t even answered the e-mail in the account I set up for the search for Teresa in six months. I didn’t return calls from my contacts. That is denial, pure and simple.”

“Brody doesn’t think it’s her.”

Chet’s shoulders slumped. “Brody is an optimist.”

Hannah wanted to assure him that the dead woman wasn’t his daughter, but who was she to say? Hope was a balancing act. Too little left a person unable to hang on. Too much made bad news unable to bear. She had a clear memory of her father telling her that her mother would be fine. That everything was going to be all right. She could beat the cancer. He believed it in every corner of his soul. In turn, Hannah had believed him, even though the doubt in the oncologist’s eyes told her otherwise. “I wish I could tell you to have faith, but it feels like empty advice. I tend to expect the worst.”

“Then we have something in common.” Chet rubbed his eyes, put on his glasses, and turned to face the computer. The monitor had illuminated. Icons lined up in neat rows on an enlarged photo of his daughter at a much younger age, maybe five or six, with a smile that didn’t indicate the devastating mental illness that was to come. “Now let’s see if we can do something to help somebody. I’m starting to feel useless.”

“Where do we start?” she asked.

“Did you bring the composite sketches?”

Hannah pulled the drawings from the manila envelope and handed them to Chet.

“Brody called the cop in Vegas and got him to send the fingerprints they lifted from the rental car.” Chet opened an e-mail. “We have three sets of possible fingerprints, we have a name, which may or may not be the girl’s real name, and a rough idea of what she looks like.”

“That doesn’t seem like much.”

“It isn’t, but what we do have is time. I happen to have scads of that to kill, so there’s no harm in trying.” Chet looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “You have anything better to do?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Now we have two things in common.” Chet pulled a stack of index cards from his drawer. “Let’s start with a timeline.” He dated the first card. “Tell me what happened.”





Chapter Twenty-Three

Brody stepped out of the courtroom, pulled out his cell phone, and turned it on. He scrolled through his messages and paused on one from Vinnie Schooler, a forensic investigator with the CSI division. Nodding hello to a passing assistant prosecutor, he walked to the end of the corridor and returned Vinnie’s call.

“Hey, Brody. I got something for you on your Jane Doe case.”

“Something good?”

“I think so.”

Brody pivoted and strode for the exit. “I’m just leaving the courthouse. I’ll stop by in three minutes.”

The majority of the county municipal buildings were located in a large complex. Brody drove a quarter mile down the road, passed the ME’s office, and parked in front of the CSI unit. Vinnie was waiting for him. Olive complexioned, with black hair and eyes, he looked Sicilian enough to be confused with a Corleone. Vinnie sported a five o’clock shadow by noon.

“Thanks for calling.” Brody followed him down to the forensics lab. “What do you have for me?”

“Hair. Some of these samples were found on the victim’s clothing. Others came from the body.” Vinnie crossed to the countertop. He opened a cardboard box and removed a slide. He held it between his fingertips. A single strand of long brown hair was coiled on the slide. “That’s the victim’s hair.” Vinnie exchanged the slide for another. “This is a different person’s hair.”