Her Final Confession: An absolutely addictive crime fiction novel

by Lisa Regan

“In what way?”

  Boyd leaned back in his seat and looked around the small sandwich shop. “Look, we work the case, right? Whatever it is, we work it. A murder’s a murder. But when you get a seventeen-year-old student raped and murdered waiting for the bus, or a toddler hit by a stray bullet, or an elderly person beaten to death in a home invasion, it hits you harder. Maybe you work a little faster, spend a little more time on it, want to solve it more than, say, the murder of two people who chose a lifestyle of violence and killing.”

  “Linc Shore and Seth Cole were high-risk victims,” Josie said.

  “It was only a matter of time for guys like that. You join an outlaw biker gang, chances are you’re going to end up murdered in a pretty unpleasant way. Most of us don’t get invested when it comes to vics like that. We still do the job, but we’re not as tied to the outcome ’cause as soon as you put away the killers, two more prospects will get patched in and take their places. But Gretchen—man was she emotional about that one. I never saw her like that before. I caught her crying a few times. It was just strange. It should have been just another case. Plus, none of the rest of us really wanted to touch it. You get involved in something like that—really double down—and you put yourself in the crosshairs of the gang whose members you’re trying to put away. Gretchen didn’t give a damn. She worked that case harder than any one she ever caught before that.”

  “Did she know either of them?” Josie asked, perplexed.

  “No, that was the weird thing. There was no connection. I’m still not sure why the case meant so much to her. But anyway, she got the arrest and handed it off to the DA. They got the convictions—both Dirty Aces members got life in prison—and then Shore’s crew gave her this jacket.”

  “Was it his jacket?”

  Boyd shrugged. “Don’t know. She never told me. Could have been Linc Shore’s jacket or maybe the prospect’s. Or maybe just a jacket they bought for her. But it was old. Looked like it had been stripped down of its patches. Anyway, I saw her after sentencing. A lot of times, if we’re down at the criminal justice center for testimony, we’ll shoot over to the Reading Terminal and get some lunch. Lots of different food places in there. Anyway, I was there for a hearing and stopped over for some lunch, and there was Gretchen in the burger joint with a Devil’s Blade guy and Linc Shore’s old lady.”

  “His wife?”

  “Oh hell, I don’t know. Wife? Girlfriend? I just know she was involved with Linc. She was at the trial the whole time. So was the guy she was with. Anyway, they were there with Gretchen. They gave her the jacket, and Gretchen never took it off after that.”

  “Did you ever ask Gretchen about why she took the jacket?”

  “Course I did,” Boyd said. “She told me it was none of my damn business. So I kept asking. She told me it was between her and Linc’s friends, that I wouldn’t understand, and that was all I needed to know. I badgered her some more, but it became pretty clear she wasn’t ever going to tell me anything else, so I stopped asking.”

  Silence fell between them for a few moments. Josie listened to the sounds of the kitchen behind them—shouted orders, the clang of a metal spatula over a grill, the sizzle of meat cooking, the beep of the deep fryer announcing a batch of fries were finished. Gretchen was more of a mystery to her now than ever. She sighed. “Were there any other cases she got emotional about?” Josie asked.

  Boyd took a moment to think about it before answering, “No, none that I can think of. None that stand out like that one did.”

  “Is it possible for me to have a look at that file? The Shore/Cole murders?”

  Boyd frowned. “It’s an old file. Closed. I’ll see what I can do. For now, you could google it, go on philly.com and look it up. It got some press coverage at the time. If I can get my hands on it, I’ll send you whatever I get—how’s that?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Josie didn’t go directly home. She checked out of her hotel in Philadelphia, fought the afternoon traffic, and drove instead to Gretchen’s house while she still had a bit of waning daylight left. She parked on the street and walked up to the house, ducking under the crime-scene tape still pulled tight across the driveway and porch. Failing rays of sunlight bounced off the windows at the side of the house. Josie stood on her tiptoes and gently touched the spikes along one of the windowsills. Knowing what she did from Steven Boyd, Josie understood Gretchen’s fierce paranoia about making sure no one got into her house—at least not without injuring themselves first. Had she been worried that the Dirty Aces would come after her for putting away two of their members? Had the gang tracked her down in Denton and taken their revenge after all? But if so, where did James Omar fit in? He couldn’t be a random passer-by in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not if he’d rented a car and driven from Philadelphia.

  Josie circled the house and came back to the front door. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something. But no new detail announced itself. At least not outside. She slipped under the yellow tape across the porch and tested the front door. It was unlocked and creaked as she pushed it open and went inside. Dust motes floated lazily through the shafts of sunlight peeking through Gretchen’s gauzy curtains. The only thing different this time around was that Josie could see traces of fine dark powder where her evidence response team had dusted for prints. Again, she studied the dust-free circular imprint on Gretchen’s living room end table. She knew that Noah had found it significant, but she wasn’t certain that it meant anything. That was the problem with crime scenes. It was hard to know what was meaningful, so you had to treat all the clues as if they were—at least at first blush.

  She moved through the house again, slowly, eyes searching for something that she had missed the first time around. But the only thing she noticed this time that she hadn’t on her first pass was that all of Gretchen’s dinnerware was made from plastic. Josie stood in front of the open kitchen cabinets, cataloguing each item. Four bowls, four dinner plates, four large cups—all plastic. Her coffee mugs were all plastic travel mugs. Eccentric for sure, but did it really mean anything? Josie could practically hear Noah’s voice in her head: “Maybe she’s clumsy.” But she didn’t drop things at work and had no issue using ceramic mugs at the station house.

  Josie’s cell phone chirped in her jacket pocket, startling her. She fished it out and glanced at the screen. Dr. Larson had texted her Doug Robinson’s name and phone number. She texted him back a thank you, turned off all the lights in Gretchen’s house, and walked back to her car. She didn’t start it right away, instead dialing Doug Robinson’s cell phone number. It rang four times before a man answered.

  “Mr. Robinson?” Josie said. “Doug Robinson? My name is Detective Josie Quinn. I’m with the Denton Police Department. We’re in Pennsylvania—”

  “Oh, hey,” he said, interrupting her speech. “Yeah, uh, that professor Larson called me. Hey, I’m real sorry to hear about James. What a shocker. That’s… that’s real terrible.”

  Josie was glad that Dr. Larson had saved her the trouble of breaking the news. “Did you know James?”

  “Oh, I met him a couple times. Ethan had him out here last year on spring break, took him on a tour of Portland. Good kid. Real serious.”

  “Mr. Robinson, when is the last time you heard from your son?”

  There was a mumbling like he was calculating. Then he said, “Oh, maybe three weeks?”

  “No calls? No texts? Is that unusual?”

  Robinson laughed. “For Ethan? No, not at all. He’s funny that way. Not real social. Never was, really. Didn’t have a ton of friends at school. Always had his head in a book or glued to a computer. Great student, but hard to draw out, you know? My wife—his mom—she was real good at getting him out of his shell, but she passed away when he was in high school.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Josie said.

  “Thanks. Yeah, he took it hard. He’s been doing good since he went to college though
.”

  “I understand he’s a graduate student. Where did he do his undergrad work?” she asked.

  “Oh, right there at University of Pennsylvania.” He laughed. “Right down the street from Drexel, and just as expensive. But I’m not complaining. He’ll get a good start.”

  Josie brought the conversation back to his contact with Ethan. “So your son often goes long stretches without contacting you? What’s the longest he’s ever gone?”

  “Maybe six weeks? Look, Detective, Ethan’s a big boy, you know? Got his own life out there. I’m here for him—he knows that—but I don’t bug him. Except when he’s late on his rent and Larson gets on me.”

  Josie didn’t know how to feel about how unconcerned the man seemed. Did he not worry about his son, or was Ethan that unpredictable and prone to going off the radar? She wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling her, if there had been some kind of falling out between Ethan and his father. She knew not every family maintained close bonds, but she found Doug Robinson’s cavalier attitude toward his son strange, especially given the fact that his roommate had just been murdered. “Well, if I could just ask you a favor,” Josie said. “Could you try to get in touch with Ethan for me? In light of James’s death, I’d really like to know he is safe and accounted for. Also, if I could have his phone number as well, that would be great. Although, if he’s as private as you say, he probably won’t answer a number he doesn’t know.”

  “Sure thing,” Doug said.

  “Also, I didn’t see his name on James’s list of Facebook friends. Does he have social media accounts?”

  “Nah,” Doug replied. “Not that I know of—thinks he’s being rebellious that way.”

  “One more thing,” Josie said. She told him that a photo of a boy had been found at the crime scene; they weren’t sure if it was important or not, but they were trying to identify the boy. Robinson readily agreed to have a look, but only seconds after receiving it, he told her he’d never seen the kid before.

  Now she had more dead ends and missing persons than she knew what to do with.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Before she pulled away from Gretchen’s, Josie texted Noah.

  Did the search teams find the phone or the MDT?

  He tapped back almost instantaneously.

  Nope. Nothing. A dead end.

  With a sigh, she moved on to something more personal, typing in:

  I’m home. Want to come over tonight?

  His reply was rapid.

  Would love to. Believe me. But my mom’s hot water heater crapped out, and I’m helping her put a new one in. Will be a late night.

  Josie sighed again as she fired up her Escape. Noah’s parents had divorced when he turned eighteen. He was the youngest of three, and the only one of his siblings who had stayed in Denton. Josie couldn’t help but adore the way he looked after his mother. She almost typed back, Tell her I said hi, before remembering that the one time she’d met Noah’s mother, the woman had looked Josie up and down and said, “This is the woman who shot you, huh?” Noah had explained ad nauseam about how Josie had been trying to rescue a teenage girl when she shot him, how she’d thought she was doing the right thing, how he hadn’t pressed charges and had forgiven her instantly, but Mrs. Fraley still didn’t warm up. Josie really couldn’t blame her. She still grappled with her own guilt over the incident. She texted back, No problem. See you tomorrow, and pulled out of her parking spot, heading home.

  The lights were still on at her house, and from the driveway she could see the flicker of the television through the living room window. Trinity’s sporty red Fiat was parked in her driveway. Josie was surprised by the feeling of relief that washed over her. After a night alone in Philadelphia, she was glad to still have company. Inside, Trinity sprawled across Josie’s blue couch, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt bearing the logo of her network news show, the remote clutched firmly in her hand. On the coffee table in front of her sat a large bowl of popcorn. Trinity pressed a button on the remote, freezing the action on the TV when Josie entered.

  “You’re still here,” Josie said.

  Trinity laughed, sitting up and patting the couch cushion beside her. “I’m happy to see you too.”

  Josie dropped her bag and her jacket on the foyer floor and plopped down next to her twin. She grabbed a handful of popcorn and ate it, talking around it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought you had to be back at work.”

  “I go back to New York tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind me crashing here.” She waved the remote around the room. “It still fascinates me to be in your space.”

  Now it was Josie’s turn to laugh. “You should invite me to New York so I can see your space.”

  Trinity swatted her thigh lightly with the remote. “Please. You’d actually have to give work a rest to do that. Unless I could come up with some clue to whatever case you’re working in the heart of Manhattan. That would get you there.”

  They were both equally as career-driven, so Josie made no apologies. Instead, she said, “Speaking of which, have you ever heard of the Devil’s Blade or the Dirty Aces?”

  “Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs,” Trinity said. “OMGs. You’re not working a case involving either of them, are you? They’re bad news.”

  Josie had to stifle her groan. The last time Trinity had told her someone was bad news, the bodies piled up faster than Josie could count them. “I’m not sure. I mean, not directly. I don’t think.”

  “That clears that up,” Trinity joked.

  “Do you know a lot about them?”

  “I know a little. We did a big story on them last year. One of my producers had a deep contact within the Dirty Aces organization. They weren’t the only OMG we covered, but they were the one we learned the most about. The Aces deal heavily in drug and illegal arms trafficking. They’ve staked their claim on the East Coast, and they don’t take kindly to the other gangs encroaching on their areas. Anyone who gets in their way is either killed or mysteriously disappears.”

  “I heard that,” Josie said. “My source said they leave a calling card.”

  “A half-burnt ace of spades,” Trinity supplied. “That’s not a calling card, it’s a warning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Trinity placed the remote on the coffee table. “The Dirty Aces are responsible for a lot of murders, but they only leave the burnt ace of spades when they want to send a message to rival gangs.”

  “Okay, what about witnesses?” Josie asked. “Say someone saw one or two of their members commit a murder, and that someone was going to testify against them in court.”

  Trinity shook her head. “They make witnesses disappear. Those bodies aren’t found.”

  “Do they ever target prosecutors or police officers who work on the cases?”

  “Sure, but it’s more effective to target witnesses, because cops and prosecutors need witnesses to prove their cases.”

  “But they wouldn’t leave an ace of spades if they killed a police officer or made one disappear?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Is this about Gretchen? You think the Aces did something to her? You didn’t find an ace of spades at the crime scene, did you?”

  “No, and I don’t know. She worked a case a few years back where she put away a couple of Aces for killing some Devil’s Blade guys. I’m grasping at straws. Especially with our grad student murder victim, and the—”

  Josie stopped short at telling Trinity about the photo of the mystery boy.

  “It’s okay,” Trinity said. “I know you can’t tell me certain things. Not that I care now. I’m not covering the local news anymore.” She picked the remote back up and turned her show back on. “But you’re not grasping at straws if you can find a connection between Gretchen, your victim, and the Aces.”

  Josie barked a laugh. “Easier said than done.”

  “Don’t worry,” Trinity told her with a wink. “You’ve accomplished a lot more with a lot less.”

  Josi
e stood and started walking out of the room.

  Trinity said, “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  Josie turned and stared at her. “Upstairs. I need to do some research.”

  Trinity arched a perfectly plucked brow and motioned toward the couch again. “Laptops are made to be mobile, dear sister, so bring it down here and do your research while I binge-watch this show. I’ll make you coffee if you think it’s going to be a late night.”

  Josie raised her own brow to match Trinity’s. “Are you buttering me up for something?”

  Trinity laughed. “No. I’m still just trying this whole twin sister thing out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Two hours later, Trinity snored beside her as Josie combed the Philadelphia news websites for news of the Linc Shore/Seth Cole murder and the conviction of the two Dirty Aces members responsible for the slayings. The mug shots of the two Aces killers showed two nearly identical men in their late forties with round, bearded faces and graying hair tied back in ponytails. Both too old to be the boy in the photo. There were photos of both Linc and his prospect as well—mug shots or driver’s license photos, Josie couldn’t tell—but neither of them looked familiar to her. Linc was too old to be the boy in the photo pinned to James Omar’s body. In his fifties, Linc Shore had greasy shoulder-length black hair and a long black beard threaded with gray. His brown eyes stared defiantly at the camera, and the smallest hint of a smile turned his mouth upward. He looked like a man who was keeping a secret. Or waiting for the punchline to a joke.

  Seth Cole was young enough, but because the boy in the photo was only shown in profile, it was difficult to tell if they were one and the same. She paused her search for articles about the murder to punch Seth Cole’s name into Google as well as a few police databases. He had almost no online footprint. A Facebook account showed a profile picture of him on a Harley Davidson, smiling with a beer in his hand. His hair was long and blond, past his shoulders. A long, crooked nose sat off-center on his ruddy, stubbled face. He looked much older than his twenty-one years. Either his Facebook page was little-used, or he’d switched his privacy settings to the strictest available, because there was nothing else on his page besides his photo and that he lived in Seattle. Her police databases offered little more. Only that he’d been convicted of a couple of misdemeanor drug offenses before taking up with Linc Shore and the Seattle chapter of the Devil’s Blade.