The Cheerleaders(48)

* * *



—

The house is empty when I get home a little after four. My mom won’t be home until five, and I know Tom took half the day off to see Petey’s soccer game.

Ginny and I are sitting at the kitchen island, a hunk of cheddar on the cheese board between us. Ginny arranges a slice of cheese neatly on a cracker from the box I dug out from the pantry, while I wolf mine down and slice another chunk for myself.

We spent the ride home brainstorming ways to get our hands on the witness statements from the night of the murders. My laptop is on the counter in front of us, next to the cheese board, a PDF about the Freedom of Information Act open on the screen.

Ginny reads off the page silently, lips moving. “It looks like civilians are allowed to request police records, though the police departments have to approve the release of information through FOIA, and the person requesting the information has to provide a compelling reason for needing it.”

I deflate. “?‘I need witness statements for a five-year-old murder case because I think you screwed up the investigation’ is bound to raise some red flags with whoever is in charge of records at the Sunnybrook PD.”

A smile quivers on Ginny’s lips. I slice her another piece of cheese, but she doesn’t take it. “What about the reporter?” she asks. “The one who gave you some of those details, like Jack Canning getting arrested when he was younger?”

“I don’t know. I assumed a cop told her about that,” I say. “But I guess there’s a chance she saw the record herself.”

“It’s worth trying,” Ginny says, but I’m already unzipping my wristlet. The business card Daphne Furman gave me at Starbucks is wedged between my debit card and the inside of my wallet.

I tap her number into my phone, but hesitate with my finger over the call button. Daphne did say I could reach out at any time.

The line rings and rings, and I’m ready to end it when a harried voice answers. “Hello, this is Daphne.”

“Hi. This is Monica.”

“Monica?”

“Rayburn. We talked a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I’m on a deadline and I can’t remember what day it is. What’s up?”

“I had some more questions about what we talked about.” I hit the speaker button so Ginny can hear Daphne. “The stuff you told me about the crime scene—like the forced entry stuff—did you get that from the police report?”

“Not exactly,” Daphne says. “I had a source in law enforcement who was willing to sneak me little bits and pieces.”

“I figured.” I pause. “Is there any way he can get you the witness statements from my neighbors?”

Daphne is silent for a moment. “After my story was published, the Sunnybrook Police Department realized someone was leaking from the database. My source got fired, and the police sealed the file.”

“Wait. Your source was fired from Sunnybrook PD?” I know Daphne will never give me his or her name, but I could easily figure out who it is.

“No, he didn’t work for Sunnybrook,” Daphne says. “He worked at another department. There’s a statewide database, so other departments can share information and work together.”

“When you say the file is sealed, do you mean no one at all can get it?”

“I don’t know. I’m assuming people who work in that department could access it, if they really wanted to.”

“Okay. Thanks, Daphne. Sorry I wasted your time.”

“No, no, not at all. I wish I could be of more help.”

I pause. “Is there any way your source—”

“Oh, Monica, you know I can’t give you his name.”

My heart sinks, even though I knew what the answer would be. “Got it. Figured I’d try.”

Daphne pauses. “He works as a private investigator now, though. If you ever need info on a specific person, he owes me a favor.”

Ginny catches my gaze. Mouths, Ethan?

I cover the speaker with my finger. “I don’t want to waste the favor digging stuff up on him. We might need a bigger favor down the line.”

Ginny nods, and I remove my finger from the speaker. “Thanks, Daphne.”

“No problem. Talk soon.”

When I end the call, Ginny says, “That police database. How could we get on it?”

I pause with a hunk of cheese halfway to my mouth, taken aback. “I don’t know.”

“Everything would be on there,” Ginny says quietly. “The witness statements, the report, the crime scene…”

She stops short of saying “photos.” My stomach turns over. Below the kitchen island, Mango is scratching at my calf, his eyes on the block of cheese. I break off a crumb and feed it to him.

“Tom’s ID card,” I say. “He uses it to get on the database at home. There’s a thing he sticks it in—some sort of reader.”

Ginny nibbles the edge of her cracker, watching me over it.

“It’s a lost cause, though,” I say. “He keeps it in his wallet, and he never lets his wallet out of his sight. Even if I got it somehow, I wouldn’t be able to access the database and replace his card without him noticing.”

At my feet, Mango perks up. A car door slams, and he takes off, barking. I snap my laptop shut. Moments later, my mother calls out to me from the hallway. “Monica? Whose car is that?”