All the Dark Places(56)

I blow out a breath, sink back in my chair. “So she was killed in the Bradley basement?”

“Looks that way.”

“Then we have a lot to talk about, Agent Thorne.”

“We do,” he says.

Is he implying more than police work? I take a deep breath, drop my feet to the floor. “Alrighty then, Joe. Let’s get to it.” After arranging the particulars, I hang up. Chase is standing in my doorway.

“What did you hear?” I ask, hoping that the blush on my cheeks has dissipated.

“Not much? Who’s Agent Thorne?”

“FBI. They’ll be here Monday.”

*

I hear voices in the hall and loud footsteps. Someone’s in a hurry. Mrs. Bradley and her sister burst into my office, Chase in their wake.

“We need some help here,” Corrine Alworth says, slamming an envelope on my desk.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“It was in my sister’s mail yesterday.”

Mrs. Bradley has dropped into the chair across from me, pulled up her legs, and practically rolled herself into a ball like a scared kid might. Her dog pants at her side, lolling tongue, perky ears. Emotion radiates from all three of them,

I inspect the return address. Hmmm. Sing Sing. Read through the letter. “This was sent to Dr. Bradley?”

Mrs. Alworth nods. She’s standing behind her sister, a hand on her shoulder.

I drop the letter on the desk. “Just another subject for his book, right?” I ask tentatively, but something’s up.

Mrs. Bradley chokes out a sob and covers her eyes with her hands. Something is very strange here.

Mrs. Alworth draws a deep angry breath. “Keith Russell is in prison for assaulting my sister when she was just a child.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I get it. That sucks that the doctor would be interested in talking to him then.

“Detective.” Mrs. Alworth is leaning over my desk, teeth bared. “My sister is Melinda Wright.”

Okay, that name rings a bell. Think, Rita. I know this case. It comes back. Bits and pieces. It was a very long time ago. But it was a national sensation. Two little girls abducted and held in the cellar of an old farmhouse for three days. It was an ugly story.

The realization hits me right between the eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bradley,” I say, afraid we haven’t been sensitive enough. Afraid we’ve added to her pain. Jesus, she’s a misery magnet. No wonder she needs a therapy dog. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask quietly.

Mrs. Bradley’s bloodshot eyes meet mine. “I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want this. Any of it.”

“Why tell me now?”

Mrs. Alworth clenches her fists. “She’s been getting crank calls since her husband was killed.”

I dig for my notebook. “What kind of calls?”

Mrs. Alworth describes them, stopping occasionally to get corroboration from her sister that she’s got it right.

“The caller is threatening you, Mrs. Bradley?”

“Yes,” the sister answers.

“Why?” It doesn’t really make sense. How does it fit in with her husband’s murder? Maybe it doesn’t. The perp had at least two opportunities to assault Mrs. Bradley, but he didn’t. She was asleep upstairs when her husband was killed. And then when the perp came back, he went into the garage but made no attempt to get into the house, where Mrs. Bradley was alone and vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” she chokes out.

“Okay. We’ll see what we can do.” I tap my notebook with my pencil.

Chase steps forward. “I can handle it, Rita. I’ll take Mrs. Bradley’s statement and see if we can trace the calls.”

The three of them exit my office, dog in tow, and I take a deep breath. This case is getting more complicated by the minute.





CHAPTER 40


Molly


I’M CURLED UP ON MY BED AT CORRINE’S. SHE ASKED ME IF I WANTED to come out and eat dinner, but I don’t. My stomach is in knots. When we drove up to the apartment, several news vans were parked at the curb. Have they finally started putting the pieces together? Thank God, there’s a gated parking lot, and they couldn’t follow us.

I flip on the TV just to block out the hum of Corrine and Rich’s conversation in the other room.

An entertainment news show starts. After upbeat bumper music plays, the news anchor comes on. She’s smiling broadly, and her slick blond bob glistens under studio lights. My picture, a small square in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, appears, and my heart pounds. There has been coverage on the local news of Jay’s murder and the woman found at the mountain house, but nothing national so far that I’ve seen until now.

The anchor’s red lips part.

“Melinda Wright Bradley is no stranger to tragedy. On Sunday, January fifth, someone broke into her Massachusetts home and brutally murdered her husband, psychologist Jay Bradley, while Melinda slept upstairs. But that’s not the first catastrophe to befall this hard-luck beauty. In 1991, the nation fell in love with little red-haired Melinda when she, along with neighbor India Arndt, disappeared from the Arndt backyard in upstate New York. After a three-day search, the girls were located in the cellar of an abandoned farmhouse, where they had been brutally assaulted by a disturbed teenager. Unfortunately, little India did not survive her ordeal.