Betrayed (Rosato & DiNunzio, #2)(69)
“Detective, I admit, I don’t know what I’m looking for. If I did, I wouldn’t be looking for it. Maybe abuse of prescription medication, counterfeit medication, something like that.”
“Point of information, what comes in from Mexico isn’t prescription meds or counterfeits. It’s heroin. And it doesn’t originate in Mexico but comes through it, because it’s easier to smuggle heroin into Mexico than the States. Generally, the dealers pay mules to carry it up north, for distribution and sale.”
Judy couldn’t picture Iris as a heroin smuggler or dealer, but something still stunk to high heaven. “Do you have a heroin problem in the county?”
“No more than elsewhere in the state, to my knowledge.” Detective Boone paused. “If the pathologist had found trace evidence of heroin on her hands or fingers, it’d be different. But he didn’t.”
Judy checked the report, flipping to the external examination of Iris’s hands, which read, broken fingernails on right index and right middle finger with superficial scrapes on fingerpads. “Look at this, the broken fingernails. How did she get those?”
“She could have done that a number of ways, none of which is suspicious at all.”
“In a struggle?”
“There weren’t any signs of any struggle or defensive wounds of any kind.”
Judy tried another tack. “What about heroin on the money? How do I get the money tested?”
“I believe there are private labs that do that. Check online.”
Judy gathered the autopsy report in case her aunt wanted to see it. “What about the fifty grand, the assault on me, and Father Keegan? How do you explain it?”
“Rest assured, we’re investigating the hit-and-run and will continue to do so. Father Keegan meant a great deal to us, and we will give him a hundred percent of our efforts. As for the money”—Detective Boone shrugged mildly—“granted, I can’t explain it, but there’s no crime that has been committed and even if there were, it’s a matter for the Kennett Square police. They have only twelve officers full time, so they work closely together. They’re all aware of what happened at your aunt’s house. That’s how you got past the front desk to me tonight, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Judy had to concede.
“Trust me, it’s the talk of the squad room. Leave it to them. They’re small-town, but they’re professional. Don’t underestimate them just because they’re not big-city.” Detective Boone rose, brushing down his slacks. “If you observe anything further or, God forbid, are a victim of another attack, you need to call them.”
“I appreciate your time, but I just can’t accept this, not yet anyway.” Judy rose, feeling as if she had failed Father Keegan, Iris, and her aunt. Even herself. “Maybe if the only thing that happened was that Iris had a heart attack, I would believe it, but taken as a whole, I’m just not buying that it’s all innocent.”
“Good night.” Detective Boone walked to the doorway, put his hand on the doorknob, and opened the door. “If there’s anything you need to know, we will contact you.”
“Thank you,” Judy said miserably, but she was already thinking of her next move.
Chapter Thirty
Judy pulled over and let the engine idle across the street from Jamie’s Restaurant, unable to get closer because the area had been cordoned off with parked cruisers, flares, and sawhorses. Uniformed police and other personnel gathered in groups inside the perimeter, and reporters clustered on the outside. A chubby traffic cop stood with an orange flashlight, ready to direct traffic around the scene, though the only car was Judy’s.
The coroner’s van must have already gone, and a police truck was towing away an old blue minivan, presumably Father Keegan’s. Judy felt a pang at the sight, thinking how awful it must have been for the priest to die this way, by the side of the road, in shock and pain. She felt a new wave of guilt and grief, and being there felt like an awful replay of Saturday night, when Iris had been found in her car.
Judy cut the ignition, and got out of the car to look around. The air was cold, and Warm Springs Road would have been pitch black except for the lights from the police vehicles. She surveyed the street, which was just as she had pictured it, completely deserted and lined by tangled underbrush and thick dark woods on both sides, with no houses or shops. It was barely wide enough to accommodate two lanes, which ran in different directions and curved dramatically around the restaurant, a small converted house of white clapboard that couldn’t have held more than eight tables. Light came from inside the restaurant, and she could see police personnel milling at the counter.
Judy walked along the road toward the restaurant, and now that she could see the lay of the land, it was easy to reconstruct how Father Keegan could have been killed. The restaurant was situated at the elbow of the curve, and a car driving past could have targeted someone walking toward its parking lot, with their back turned. There was neither a curb nor a shoulder, just some gravel, and nothing would have protected the priest from a driver cutting the corner, intentionally or not.
Judy hurried across the street to the perimeter, but noticed she had drawn the attention of the traffic cop, who lumbered toward her, waving his orange flashlight. She pretended not to see him, turned away, and hustled in the opposite direction along the perimeter. When she got closer to the opposite side of the street, she could see in the flickering of the flares that several bouquets of flowers had been left there, a sight that broke her heart.