by Lisa Regan
“Have you had any luck finding the footage we discussed? Of the apartment entrance?”
“I should have it within the next day or so,” Larson answered. “I spoke with my contact at Rowland Industries, and they’ll be emailing it over. The last two weeks. I will try to isolate any footage with Ethan and James on it.”
“Perfect,” Josie said. “When you get it, turn that over to the Philadelphia police. They’ll likely ask for it right away anyway. Again, if you could let me know what you find on the footage, it would be very helpful. Also, perhaps the last time you can find the two of them together—that would help as well.”
“Of course. Thank you, Detective. I’ll keep you posted. Have you given any thought to my proposal that you and your twin participate in my study?”
“No,” Josie said before he could launch into a spiel on the benefits of epigenetics. “I’m sorry, but we’re not interested.”
They hung up, and Josie again ruminated on the bizarre relationship—or lack thereof—between Ethan and Doug Robinson. It should have been his father showing this kind of concern, not his landlord. Unless the entire thing was just an excuse for Larson to call and try to get her and Trinity involved in his research.
Noah plopped into the chair behind his desk and tossed a sheaf of papers over to her. They fanned as they landed on her desk.
“This is from Gretchen’s house?” she asked as she sifted through the pages.
“Yeah, her prints are all over the house, obviously. They found Omar’s prints on the porch but not in the house. There are a number of other prints in the house, all unidentified, but those could be from former residents, or anyone who came in to repair something.”
“What about the photo?”
“No prints on the photo,” Noah said. “I mean there were a few partials on the back, but they were so old, the techs couldn’t get anything.”
“But Gretchen’s prints weren’t on it,” Josie noted.
Noah stared at her. “Somehow, I don’t think the DA is going to put much stock in that. Not when she went to the house just before Omar was shot, the bullet they dug out of the kid was the same caliber as her gun, and she went MIA and removed the MDT from her car.”
Josie bristled but said nothing.
Noah booted up his desktop computer. “We should order food,” he said. “’Cause we’re gonna be here all night doing paperwork.” He lowered his voice. “When we’re finished, I think you should come home with me. We’ll get a couple hours of sleep…” He trailed off.
Josie’s desk phone rang before her mind could fill in the rest. Hoping it was ATF agent Jack Starkey returning her call, she snatched up the receiver. “Quinn.”
Sergeant Lamay’s voice sounded strange, his words seeming to flutter in and out. “Uh, Boss? Can you… can you come down here?”
“What’s going on, Sergeant?”
There was a long pause. Then Lamay said, “Uh, Detective Palmer’s here, and she wants me to arrest her.”
Chapter Thirty
Josie practically leapt the short flight of stairs to the first floor. Noah’s feet pounded down the steps behind her. She burst into the lobby, pulling up short when she saw Gretchen standing in the center of the room, looking pale and wan. She wore the same pair of black slacks and the same white Denton PD polo shirt she’d been wearing on the day she disappeared. Except unlike the video from the CCTV footage, now her white shirt was smudged with dirt and what Josie thought looked like drops of blood. A tear in the left knee of her pants exposed a shock of white skin. Dried blood caked around a two-inch gash over her left eyebrow.
“Gretchen,” Josie said.
Her brown eyes darted all around the room, as if she could hear Josie’s voice but not see her standing right in front of her.
Josie heard Noah tell Lamay to call an ambulance, which seemed to snap Gretchen into focus. Briefly she met Josie’s eyes and then looked behind her to Noah and Lamay. “No, no,” she said, extending her wrists toward the three of them. “I don’t need medical attention. I’m turning myself in for the murder of James Omar.”
Noah stepped forward, moving in front of Josie. “Gretchen,” he said softly, “you’ve got quite the cut over your eye there. You probably need stitches.”
Her arms shook. For just a moment, a look of desperation passed over her face. Then it was gone, and the blankness was back. “No,” she insisted. “I don’t need stitches. Just take me into custody. I want to turn myself in.”
Noah looked back at Josie, as if to ask what to do. Josie reached for Gretchen’s shoulder, but she shrugged her away. “Okay,” Josie said softly. “How about this? We’ll go into the conference room, just down the hall.”
Fury flashed across Gretchen’s face. Ignoring Josie, she thrust her arms at Noah, palms upward. “Take me into custody. I’m turning myself in.”
“Gretchen,” Josie interjected, “let’s just sit down and talk, okay?”
“I don’t want to talk,” she snarled. “I want you to do your fucking job.”
Josie kept her voice calm. “I’ll do my job. But you have to let me.”
“Arrest me,” Gretchen said.
“We can arrest you. There’s already a warrant out for you. But if you’re going to make a confession,” Josie replied, “then we’ll need to call the state police.”
She signaled to Lamay, and he said, “I’ll call,” but kept standing there, watching the exchange. It was protocol for them to call in the state police if one of their own officers was going to confess to a crime. This avoided any conflict.
Josie turned back to Gretchen. “Are you sure you don’t want to have a seat and collect yourself first?”
Gretchen’s voice was practically a growl. “Arrest me.”
“Fine. Since you’re turning yourself in, I don’t think we need to cuff you. If you’re going to be in custody, then we have a responsibility to see that your medical needs are taken care of. We need to get that cut looked at before we do anything else. Gretchen, you know this—”
Gretchen’s punch came hard and fast—so fast that Josie had no time to react to it. She didn’t even know the older detective could move that quickly. Or perhaps it hadn’t been that fast. Maybe it was just that Josie was unprepared for the strike because it was coming from Gretchen. One moment Josie was watching anger and desperation flash across Gretchen’s face, and the next she was on her ass on the tile floor, her cheek stinging with pain. Noah and Lamay pinned Gretchen to the floor beside her, yanking her hands behind her back. Josie’s fingers touched her cheek and came away wet with blood. She stared across at Gretchen, whose cheek was now pressed firmly against the tiles as Lamay cuffed her. Her eyes were closed, but her face—relaxed now, its lines loose and slack—registered a single emotion: relief.
Chapter Thirty-One
Josie sat on the edge of the hospital bed, trying not to wince as a young doctor probed the raw skin of her cheek. Gretchen had managed to hit her right below the eye socket on the cheekbone, splitting the skin. Gloved fingers pressed along the edges of the cut, and pain throbbed through the entire side of her face. For a split second, she was taken back to her childhood—to being six years old with a large slash down the side of her face, the nurses holding her down to clean it. An involuntary shudder worked its way through her body. The doctor paused and moved his head back to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You okay?”
Josie’s hand reached up to the cut, but the doctor gently stopped her, guiding her hand back into her lap. “Please,” he said, “we want to keep the area clean.”
She wanted to push past him and go home so she could numb the pain with a few slugs of Wild Turkey. But she couldn’t. Instead, she silently reminded herself that she wasn’t six anymore. That this wasn’t her mother’s work. Her friend and colleague was in trouble. The punch was a message to Josie, and Josie’s job was to decipher it. “Just tell me if I need stitches,” she told the doctor.
He smiled at her, his straight wh
ite teeth reminding her of the one photo she’d seen of James Omar smiling. The one of him and Ethan Robinson at the Broad Street Run. “No,” he said. “I think just a butterfly closure should do the trick. Use some bacitracin and vitamin E on it, and you shouldn’t have any scarring. Ice for the swelling. It will probably hurt a lot more tomorrow.”
Josie stood up, ready to leave, but the doctor held up a hand and laughed softly. “I know you’re in a hurry, Detective, but please. Just let me clean and bandage it.”
Frustration made her face feel hot. It took everything in her not to take it out on this poor, well-meaning man who was only trying to help her. She did her best to flash him a smile, trying to make her tone pleasant instead of caustic. “Just hurry if you could, please? I have to get back to work.”
He gestured for her to sit back down on the bed. “Of course.”
As promised he was fast, and aside from the sting of the antiseptic he used, Josie felt no pain. In minutes, she was alone behind the walls of curtains, relieved to be finished with the entire thing. A pair of boots appeared beneath the curtain directly in front of her. “I’m in here, Fraley,” she called.
Noah stepped through the opening and pulled the curtain closed behind him. He came closer, tipping her chin with a finger so he could get a better look at her cheek. Just his proximity, and his grimace that turned into a smile when their eyes met, eased some of her anxiety. She pushed out a long breath and leaned her forehead against his chest. For a moment, Noah took her into his arms and held her. The old memories receded. Then the moment was over. He released her and stepped back, leaving his scent lingering on her clothes. Aftershave, coffee, and something that was uniquely Noah.
“What did she say about the gash on her forehead?” Josie asked.
Noah didn’t miss a beat. Their rhythm had been established years ago, and it was a great comfort to Josie, especially in times of stress. “She told the doctors she fell. She won’t say how or where or when. The wound needs stitches, but since she won’t tell them more, and it’s been open longer than twenty-four hours, they’ll have to leave it open for now. They don’t want to seal in any infection by closing it now. The doctors are almost done dressing the wound. She says she doesn’t have pain anywhere else. She looks pretty dirty, but from what we can tell, she’s not otherwise injured.”
“I won’t press charges,” Josie said.
“I think she knows that. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but she only calmed down when Lamay read her her rights.”
“Has she said anything?”
Noah shook his head. “No, not to anyone from Denton. I called the state police. They’re sending someone. Loughlin. I briefed her over the phone. She should be here any minute. Do you know her?”
Josie nodded. Heather Loughlin was an experienced investigator for the state police. Josie had only met her a handful of times, but she was professional and fair. “She’s good,” she told Noah.
“Actually, Gretchen did say she wanted a lawyer. But that was the only thing she said.”
Of course Gretchen would want a lawyer. Countless times, she had been the person on the other side of the interrogation table, asking the questions, hoping that the suspect didn’t clam up and request an attorney.
“I think she’s going to confess, Josie,” Noah added.
Now it was her turn to shake her head. “No, she’s not. She said she was turning herself in. That’s not the same thing as a confession. She’s getting an attorney to cover her ass until this gets sorted.”
“Josie, she punched you in the face so we would arrest her.”
Josie sneered at him, and the motion made her face hurt. “I don’t care what she says or does. She didn’t kill James Omar.”
“What if she did?”
Josie used both hands to push him out of her way. She yanked the curtain back, the rings making a loud, sharp noise as they shot across the rail affixed to the ceiling. Down the hall, in front of one of the treatment areas walled in by glass and hidden by more curtains, sat one of their patrol officers in a folding chair, scrolling on his phone. Josie walked up to him and stood before him, hands on her hips. He nearly dropped his phone, jumping to attention. “Boss,” he mumbled.
“Detective,” Josie corrected. “Is Gretch—is Detective Palmer in there?”
Noah appeared next to Josie. The officer gave him an apprehensive glance. “It’s fine,” Noah told him. “Has Detective Loughlin arrived yet?”
He nodded. “She’s in there now.”
Josie pushed past the guard and slid open the glass door just a fraction so she could listen. Noah stood behind her, crowding her so he could hear too. Through the crack in the door, Josie could see Gretchen in the bed in the same clothes she’d been wearing at the station. A thick wad of gauze covered the gash over her eye, kept in place by rolled gauze that had been tied around her head. Her arms were at her sides. She stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with Detective Loughlin, who stood beside the bed, tall and sturdy, with silky blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Like Josie and Noah, she wore khaki pants and a polo shirt—except hers had the state police insignia on its right breast. “Detective Palmer,” she said, “I understand your colleagues have been searching for you for a couple of days. Can you tell me where you’ve been?”
Gretchen didn’t answer.
Loughlin pointed to Gretchen’s forehead. “Who did that to you?”
“I fell.”
“How? Where? When did you fall?”
Gretchen’s head fell to the side, her gaze focused on a crash cart in the corner of the room.
“What was James Omar doing at your house? How do you know him?”
“I want a lawyer,” Gretchen said in a low voice. She sounded almost defeated.
Loughlin softened her tone. “Gretchen, you know how this works. I can help you. Whatever happened in your driveway that day, I can help you. But you have to talk to me. I need to know what happened. The truth.”
Gretchen swallowed. “Call Andrew Bowen. Please. Tell him I can pay him.”
Josie turned her head and met Noah’s eyes. Andrew Bowen? she mouthed. Bowen was a well-known criminal defense attorney in Denton. Everyone in the police department knew him, but the Denton police—namely, Josie—had arrested his mother on murder charges six months earlier. The whole business was quite ugly and had put a damper on the easy rapport that Denton PD investigators used to have with him.
Loughlin took out her cell phone and swiped a few times before turning the screen toward Gretchen. “Lieutenant Fraley shared this with me. Can you tell me who the boy is in this photo?”
Gretchen took a quick glance but didn’t answer.
“This photo was pinned to James Omar’s dead body. Who is this boy?”
Something passed over Gretchen’s face—shock or fear, or maybe both—and it was gone as quickly as it came. She didn’t answer. Loughlin held the phone out in front of Gretchen for several more seconds, but when Gretchen refused to look at it, she put the phone back in her pocket. “I’m happy to call Mr. Bowen for you, Gretchen. But you know how this works. You’ve been on my side of these kinds of exchanges what? Hundreds of times? Thousands, maybe? Are you sure you don’t want to talk to me about what happened before we get attorneys involved? Are you sure you don’t want to tell me first who killed James Omar?”
More silence. Then Gretchen turned toward her, looked her in the eyes, and said, “I’m responsible for that boy’s death.”
“No,” Josie murmured, wanting to burst into the room and shake Gretchen. But she knew she couldn’t. Noah’s hand settled onto her shoulder. Josie turned to him and whispered, “Someone else was there.”
Josie turned back in time to see a single tear slide down Gretchen’s cheek. “Please,” she said to Loughlin. “Just call Andrew Bowen. I need a lawyer.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Andrew Bowen looked like he had just gotten out of bed. Looking at the time on her cell phone, Josie thought may
be he had. It was after 11:00 p.m. when he trudged into the police department wearing a pair of suit pants and a wrinkled white button-down shirt. In one hand, he carried a briefcase. His thick blond hair looked hastily combed away from his face. He was in his late thirties, tall, with a handsome, angular face and piercing blue eyes. He glared at Josie as one of the uniformed officers led him down the hallway to where Josie and Noah stood outside the conference room with Detective Heather Loughlin.
“Thank you for coming,” Noah said to Bowen after introducing him to Loughlin. “She’s in there.”
Bowen merely nodded and disappeared into the conference room.
“Well, that was a warm reception,” Josie remarked.
“Guess he’s taking her case,” Noah said.
Loughlin asked, “You said she just showed up here; how did she get here? Did anyone ask her?”
Noah shook his head. “She wouldn’t tell us, but Lamay checked the external footage. She drove up in her Cruze and parked in the municipal lot.”
“So, we’ve got the car?” Josie asked.
“It’s at the impound until the evidence techs can get over there and process it,” Noah replied.
Josie felt something like relief mixed with hope wash over her. No matter what Gretchen said or implied, she didn’t believe for one second that she had killed Omar. Something else was going on. Someone else was involved. Josie would find out who, starting with the car. Gretchen had left and returned in the vehicle. Whoever had been with her had surely been in the car. There had to be something there. Prints. DNA. Even if it was a single hair, Josie would find it.
“What about the gun?” Josie asked. “Her service weapon?”
“Not on her person or in the car,” Noah answered.
Then another thought occurred to her. “Was her jacket in there?”
“What?”
“Her leather jacket,” Josie said. “The one she got from the Devil’s Blade gang. The one she never takes off.”
