Her Deadly Touch: An absolutely addictive crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Josie Quinn Book 12)

by Lisa Regan

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the car, Josie asked, “Are we going to talk to Nathan Cammack next?”

  Gretchen put on her seatbelt and pulled away from the Cammack home, one hand adjusting the AC in the car. Even before ten a.m., the heat outside was punishing. “I want to stop somewhere first. Virgil Lesko’s attorney is ignoring me.”

  Josie watched the streets of West Denton flash past. The memorial came into view again. She turned her gaze straight ahead. “Ignoring you? You just left a message for him last night.”

  “Right,” said Gretchen. “I called again this morning and his secretary told me not to hold my breath for a return call. I don’t think there’s anything to the meeting Krystal Duncan had with Virgil Lesko that is going to connect to her murder but now that I’ve been told no, I feel compelled to get more information.”

  Josie said, “I think that telling the police no is one of the first rules in the defense attorney handbook.”

  Gretchen laughed. “True. The thing is that Krystal Duncan didn’t have much human contact after her daughter died. It was work and the support group and that was it. That doesn’t give us many avenues of investigation. If there is even the slightest chance that she said something to Virgil Lesko at their meeting that might lead us in the direction of her killer, then I need to know what happened at that meeting. I don’t think there will be anything—”

  “But you have to cross it off the list,” Josie filled in. “I get it. You think Krystal knew her killer?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Josie thought about it. “No sign of a struggle. All her personal belongings left behind. No sign of forced entry. Yeah, I think she probably did.”

  “If there is even a one percent chance that she said something to Virgil Lesko that could be helpful, we need to know about it. If she’d met with him three months ago or six months ago, I wouldn’t be interested, but just over two weeks is too close to her murder.”

  “Fair enough,” said Josie. “Who is the defense attorney, anyway?”

  Gretchen slowed to a stop at a red light. Her head swiveled slowly in Josie’s direction. A grimace twisted her features. “Andrew Bowen.”

  Josie’s stomach lurched.

  “I’m sorry,” Gretchen said.

  “It’s fine.”

  “You don’t have to come in with me.”

  “And miss an opportunity to make that jerk uncomfortable? I don’t think so.” She sighed. “This certainly explains a lot.”

  The light changed and Gretchen pulled through the intersection, heading into central Denton. Andrew Bowen’s office was only a few blocks from city hall. “What do you mean?” Gretchen asked.

  “Virgil Lesko admitted to drinking the day of the bus crash, right?”

  “Yeah, although he retained Bowen as counsel before he was even discharged from the hospital.”

  “Smart,” Josie remarked. Bowen was the best criminal defense attorney in the county. He also hated Josie and most of the Denton PD with a white-hot intensity after they’d put his mother away for a decades-old murder.

  Josie said, “It had to be Bowen’s idea to plead not guilty and force a trial.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Gretchen agreed.

  The bus accident had garnered a lot of news coverage and outrage in the community. No one wanted to see Virgil Lesko plead down. He was responsible for the deaths of five innocent children. It was legal maneuvering, Josie knew, and Bowen was good at it. She didn’t know what his defense was going to be, but she knew that whatever it was, he’d try to reduce or eliminate the number of years that Virgil would need to spend behind bars. There was always a chance Bowen could strike a deal with prosecutors in the weeks leading up to trial. No wonder he had agreed to let Krystal Duncan meet with Virgil with the trial only weeks away. It was exactly as Dee Tenney suspected. Bowen had hoped to get one of the parents on Virgil’s side. If that didn’t sway prosecutors, certainly it might sway a jury.

  Gretchen parked in front of Andrew Bowen’s office, which took up the first floor of an old brick building that reached four stories high. A small sign hung next to the imposing red door, marked “Andrew Bowen, Attorney At Law”. There was nothing more. Not even a phone number. But an attorney as successful as Bowen didn’t need to advertise. They got out of the car. Gretchen fed quarters into the meter along the sidewalk.

  “You sure he’s here?” Josie asked.

  “Yeah. I called the clerk of courts to check his schedule. He’s got a hearing at eleven, which is an hour from now. He’d have to be here prepping for it.”

  Josie followed Gretchen into the office. Gleaming hardwood floors stretched out before them. There was a small seating area to their right—one table and two chairs. No magazines. Bowen didn’t want his criminal clients lingering. To the left was a large wooden desk with files stacked neatly two feet high on both sides. Between them was a laptop and behind that, a woman in her fifties, her graying brown hair tied back in a bun. Over reading glasses, she glared at them. “You don’t have an appointment,” she said. “You can make one or you can leave.”

  “Charming,” Josie muttered under her breath.

  From the look on Gretchen’s face, Josie knew she was stifling a smile. They approached the desk and held out their police credentials to the secretary. She glanced at them and then looked back up at Josie and Gretchen, an expression of disinterest on her lined face. “So?” she said. “You want to make an appointment?”

  Gretchen pocketed her identification and motioned to a large set of closed wooden double doors opposite the front entrance. “We want to talk to Mr. Bowen.”

  “You can’t. I know you called here earlier. He’s preparing for a hearing. He’s not to be disturbed.”

  From behind the doors, Josie thought she heard muffled voices. Male. She cocked her head to the side, trying to make out some of the words. “ … don’t care…” said one voice. Josie couldn’t tell if was Bowen or not. Turning back to the secretary, she said, “But he’s meeting with someone right now.”

  The woman’s jaw fell open for a second, then she snapped it shut. Instead of giving her time to recover, Josie walked over and rapped her knuckles against one of the doors. The muffled tones on the other side ceased.

  “Hey,” said the secretary, now on her feet, rounding the desk. “You can’t just come in here, and—”

  The door swung inward. A man stood before Josie. Not Andrew Bowen. This man was younger and dressed in what looked like a delivery uniform. Food delivery, judging by the smell of garlic and onions that wafted from him. His face was tan and covered in stubble. His frame filled out the door as he stepped toward Josie. He was easily six feet with the upper body of a weightlifter and the lean lower body of a runner. The white T-shirt he wore clung to his chest. His brown eyes panned downward, taking in the gun and badge at her waist. As he turned back to the inner sanctum of Bowen’s office, Josie saw thick brown curls peeking from beneath a black baseball cap. “The police are here,” he said.

  Footsteps sounded behind him. Then Andrew Bowen’s face appeared next to the man’s shoulder. His look of surprise turned to a scowl. “You? They sent you?” he said to Josie.

  “Yeah,” she told him. “I’m a detective for Denton PD. Typically, I’m asked to handle police matters. That’s kind of how this works.”

  Bowen’s face flushed red all the way to his pale blond roots. He pushed a hand through his hair. His mouth worked but nothing came out. Gretchen stepped forward, edging in front of Josie. “Mr. Bowen,” she said. “I need to talk to you about a meeting that your client, Virgil Lesko, had with Krystal Duncan just over two weeks ago.”

  The man next to Bowen said, “Well, shit.” Turning to Josie, he smiled and extended a hand. “I’m Ted. Ted Lesko. Virgil’s my dad.”

  Josie shook his hand, noting a tattoo between his wrist and the base of his thumb. Five dots. Four corners and one dot in the middle. “Detective Josie Quinn,” she said.

  “Krystal Duncan i
s the lady they’ve been showing on the news, right? She was one of the moms… from my dad’s accident.”

  “She’s been murdered,” Josie said.

  Ted’s face went slack. “Oh shit. Are you—are you sure?”

  “Her murder has been in the press,” Josie said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been working like crazy the last couple of days. Last I saw, she was missing. What happened?”

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss the details of an open investigation,” Gretchen put in.

  Ted shook his head. “That’s really awful. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Did you know Krystal Duncan?” Josie asked.

  “No. Not personally. I knew who she was, obviously. My dad’s on trial for killing her kid. But I never met her. Speaking of my dad, you guys know he’s been in jail for the last two years, right? If you’re thinking he had something to do with her getting murdered, it’s just not possible.”

  “We’re aware, Mr. Lesko,” said Gretchen. “We’re not trying to put any stress on your father or you. We’re only here to discuss the content of the meeting between your father and Ms. Duncan in case it may shed light on the murder case.”

  He looked at Bowen. The attorney shrugged. “We’re under absolutely no obligation to share the contents of that meeting. Unless these detectives want to get a warrant, and they know as well as I do that no judge is going to grant one. Like you said, your father has been in jail for two years. There is no way that he could possibly have any connection to the death of Krystal Duncan.”

  Gretchen said, “If that’s the case, then just show us the tape.”

  Bowen said nothing.

  Josie said, “Do you want to be that guy, Andrew? Someone killed this poor woman just weeks before Virgil’s trial. The mother of one of the West Denton Five. She was preparing to testify at the trial. The police just want to talk to anyone who had contact with her in the weeks leading up to her murder to try to establish her state of mind and find out whether she mentioned anyone giving her trouble. Your client was one of those people who had contact with her. Like you and Ted said, he’s in jail so we couldn’t possibly like him for this murder. We just want to talk. But his attorney said no. His attorney refuses to help in the investigation of the murder of the mother of one of his client’s child victims. Is that the guy you want to be, Andrew? In the press?”

  One of Ted’s eyebrows kinked upward as he stared down at her. The slight curve of his lips told her that he was enjoying watching her get under Bowen’s skin. “Yeah, Andrew,” Ted said, drawing out Bowen’s first name. “Do you want to be that guy? Is that what my dad would want?”

  The flush covering Bowen’s cheeks deepened. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You’re not paying me to cooperate with the police on an unrelated investigation. I’m trying to keep as many years off your father’s sentence as possible.”

  Ted shook his head. “Good luck with that. Even with a reduced sentence, he’s going to die in prison.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Bowen spat.

  “Whatever,” Ted replied. “Listen, I don’t want my dad looking like a douche on top of everything else. Everyone already hates him. Don’t make it worse. Just show them the tape of the meeting.”

  Andrew shook his head. “I have to discuss it with Virgil first.”

  Ted put a large hand to his chest. “Did my father just give you two grand or was that me?”

  “Your father is my client,” Andrew said, the pink hue of his cheeks now spreading to the tips of his ears. “And besides, you’re two full months behind paying me. You know what? I’m not comfortable talking about this in front of the police.”

  He turned to retreat to his office. Ted followed, looming over him. To Bowen’s back, Ted said, “Show them the damn tape.”

  Bowen whirled on him just as he reached his desk, nearly bumping into Ted’s broad chest. He poked Ted’s collarbone. “No.”

  Josie and Gretchen stepped inside the door. Gretchen said, “Mr. Bowen, if you show us the tape, we’ll be out of your hair in time for your eleven o’clock hearing.”

  Ted said, “Why are you making something out of this when it doesn’t have to be anything? Is it because you don’t like that one?” He pointed at Josie.

  “N-no,” Bowen spluttered. “I’m a professional. I—”

  “Then show them the tape,” Ted said, sounding calm and reasonable.

  “You don’t know what’s on it,” Bowen pointed out.

  Ted shook his head. He reached up, took his hat off, and pushed his thick brown hair around on his head before putting the hat back in place. Suddenly, his face looked haggard and tired. When he spoke, his voice was resigned. “I don’t need to see it. In his whole life, my dad only committed one crime, and he’s going to pay for it. No matter how much you try to stop it, no matter how much money you squeeze out of us, he’s going away. As he should. You kill kids, you should go to prison. Period. He’s okay with that. I’m okay with that. You should be, too.”

  Bowen squeezed the bridge of his nose between an index finger and thumb. “Ted, your father hired me to help him. My entire job is predicated on it not being okay for him to die in prison. If I recall, you availed yourself of a defense attorney several years back when you got in trouble yourself.”

  Ted pursed his lips. Turning his head toward Josie and Gretchen, he gave them a tight smile. Josie thought of the tattoo on his hand. The five dots. It was a common prison tattoo. The four dots represented the four walls of a cell. The fifth dot was the prisoner. She said, “Your defense attorney must not have been very good. You did time.”

  Ted nodded. “Yeah. I did time. No, my attorney wasn’t very good. But I wasn’t looking at murder charges. I had a girlfriend. We broke up. I didn’t take it well. I did some stupid shit. Spent a few years inside. My dad made sure I got my head right after that. Now I work three different jobs to keep his house and pay his legal bills, and he still plans on going to prison for that crash.” He turned back to Bowen. “Do what you have to do for my dad, but let the police see the stupid tape, would you? You heard what they said. One of those parents was murdered, Bowen. My dad would want you to cooperate in the investigation. We both know that. Besides, there can’t possibly be anything on that tape that could be worse than what he’s facing right now.”

  With a heavy sigh, Bowen pushed his way past Ted. “Fine,” he said. “Come with me.”

  All three of them followed him through another set of doors to the right of his desk and into a hallway. He led them past two further doors. Josie saw that one was a bathroom and the other was a darkened conference room with boxes piled on the table and along the walls. The last door opened into a small room with a table and two chairs. In the center of the table sat a laptop. Bowen spent a few minutes booting it up and clicking away at its keys. Then he moved to the far wall where a television hung. He reached up, snagged a remote control from behind it, and clicked it on. The screen came to life, showing a carbon copy of the laptop screen. Bowen pressed the volume button several times and then returned to the laptop, clicking some more until a video began.

  Josie recognized the private meeting room that most correctional facilities used for inmates to consult with their attorneys. Everything was drab gray—the walls, the tiles, even the table and chairs. Virgil Lesko sat on one side of the table with Bowen beside him. Across from them was Krystal Duncan with the telltale bump on her nose. She was dressed for work in a black skirt and purple silk blouse. Her brown hair hung straight down her back. The camera was positioned so that it only showed Krystal, Lesko, and Bowen in profile. Still, Josie could tell from Krystal’s body language that she’d been nervous. One leg was crossed over the other at the knee. Both her arms hugged her chest and the fingers of her right hand tapped out a manic beat against her triceps.

  Bowen spoke first, announcing who was in the room, where they were, the time and date, and the fact that the meeting was being recorded. Then he said, “Ms. Duncan,
you requested this meeting.”

  “Wait,” said Virgil.

  Josie had seen his photos in the press following the crash and more recently now that the trial was in sight. He’d always been handsome in an old-school, dashing, Hollywood way with a tall, broad frame, angular features, and a thick head of black hair. He was only in his early fifties. But in this video, from what Josie could see, he looked much older. He had lost weight and his hair was more gray than black. He reached his hands across the table toward Krystal, but she recoiled, pushing her chair back abruptly. Virgil’s hands retreated. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean—Krystal, I just want you to know that I’m so sorry—”

  “Virgil,” Bowen said sharply, cutting him off. “As we discussed, I advise against making apologies of any kind for what happened on the day of the crash.”

  Virgil’s head fell. When he lifted it again, it seemed to take great effort. “Krystal, I want you to know that I would never intentionally hurt anyone. I made a mistake—”

  Again, Bowen shut him down. “Virgil.”

  Krystal’s body trembled violently.

  Virgil shook his head. “I have a son. I know there’s nothing I could ever say to you that would make up for what I—”

  This time, Bowen silenced his client with a hand on his arm. “Ms. Duncan,” he said. “I really must ask that you get to the point.”

  Her voice was barely audible at first. She stopped and started twice before pushing out the words. “I thought I could talk to Virgil alone.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Bowen said. “Anything you have to say to him, you can say in front of me.”

  She glared at Bowen. “I don’t have anything to say to him.”

  Virgil stared at her with interest.

  Bowen said, “If you have nothing to say, why are we here?”

  “I need to ask him a question.”

  “Then go on,” said Bowen.

  She stared into Virgil’s eyes for a long moment. Josie watched her arms clench tighter around her body. Then she said, “The day of the accident, before you—before you—”