“Supposed to be hot tomorrow.” His dad slumped back in a chair and stared out at the yard. “Hundred and one, if you can believe that.” Another gulp of lemonade and he looked at Jonah. “You been to the funeral, I take it.”
“Jodi Kincaid.”
Duchess settled at Jonah’s feet and he bent down to scrub her ears.
“Hell of a thing. I read in the paper this Himmel had pancreatic cancer. Think it got to his brain?”
“The ME says no.”
Jonah knew what his dad was thinking. When Charles Whitman was autopsied back in ‘66, doctors found a tumor in his brain, which confirmed a lot of people’s feelings that his ninety-six-minute shooting spree was the work of someone sick in the head.
Jonah wasn’t so sure. Some experts said that given the size and location of the tumor, it probably had no effect on the sniper’s behavior that day. It made for a convenient explanation, though.
Jonah’s dad had been a rookie cop in Austin the day of the Whitman shooting. It had to have been one of his toughest days on the job, but he rarely talked about it—which was probably why over the years Jonah had read everything he could find on the subject. His mom had once told him Charles Whitman was the reason they’d left Austin. The clock tower was the tallest building in the city, and she couldn’t look at it every day and think about what had happened.
Jonah folded his arms over his chest and glanced at his dad. “We’ve got evidence that could indicate someone else might have played a role in the attack.”
His gray eyebrows tipped up. “A second shooter?”
“Maybe a driver. A witness thinks she saw someone besides Himmel driving his car.”
“Just one witness?”
“So far, yeah.”
He rubbed his chin, as he always did when he was considering something. “Eyewitnesses are a tricky thing.” He shook his head. “Sometimes they lie, or they forget, or sometimes they just see things funny. Pretty unreliable, you want to know the truth. You got DNA or prints or anything?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
“There are some other things that bug me, too. This guy wasn’t from around here. We still don’t know what his connection was to the university. Why’d he do this here? And he took the trouble to file the serial numbers off his guns. Why bother? He had to know we’d run down his prints eventually. He was in the army.”
His dad emptied his glass, then sighed. For a few minutes, they looked out over the lawn. No matter how many times Jonah offered, the man wouldn’t accept help. One of these days, Jonah was just going to show up and do it.
Jonah checked his watch. He needed to get home and do his own yard. “Do me a favor, don’t give yourself a heart attack out here.”
His father heaved himself out of the chair. “You sound like Macey,” he groused.
Jonah stepped off the porch. “About the investigation—”
“You don’t have to say it.”
It was understood that when they talked shop, it was confidential. But Jonah needed to emphasize the point. This case was the talk of the town, and he knew neighbors would be looking to Wyatt for details that weren’t in the newspaper.
His dad put his cap back on and turned to look at him. “Don’t beat yourself up over all these questions. You’re trying to make sense of something crazy.”
Jonah shook his head and looked away. He’d said almost the same thing to Sophie just the other day, but now he was having trouble following his own advice.
“It’s just, where do I go from here?” Jonah felt foolish voicing the question, but if there was one person on earth he could talk to, it was his dad. “I’m not sure what I should do.”
He slapped him on the back. “Do your job, Jonah. This town’s hurting. They need you. Close this case and let these folks get on down the road.”
•••
Sophie lay in her bed, listening to her neighbor’s television and trying not to think about Jodi Kincaid. She’d done everything she could to distract herself before bed tonight. She’d washed her car, she’d done her grocery shopping, she’d even gone to the gym for a double spin class. But although her muscles were sore and her energy was spent, the insomnia wouldn’t leave her alone.
She closed her eyes and she was back behind that statue, watching a woman’s life drain out of her.
Why hadn’t she done something?
She could have sprinted over and pressed some clothes against her to stop the bleeding. Maybe she could have given CPR or even dragged her out of there.
And he would have shot you, too.
The answer came back, again and again. Every time someone had tried to move, or get up, or run for safety, they got hit with a bullet. She’d done the only thing she could have done, which was wait for Jonah’s team to go up there.
So that they could be the ones to put their lives on the line for other people.
The irony didn’t sit well with Sophie. Why was she still here, in her cheap, single-girl apartment where nobody needed her, while Becca Kincaid was sleeping in a house tonight without a mother?
Robert Kincaid had called this morning, just as Sophie had been turning her place upside down looking for the obituary she’d clipped from the newspaper.
Please don’t take offense, but it might be better if you didn’t come today. If Becca sees you, I’m worried it might upset her.
The logic seemed pretty backward to Sophie. What could be more upsetting to a child than attending her mom’s funeral, no matter who was there? But Sophie had respected the request and instead gone to the professor’s service, where she’d heard about his distinguished career and his academic achievements. The eulogies had been long, the ceremony somber and dignified.
At least you paid your respects. Jonah’s words came back to her, along with the stark realization that she hadn’t paid anyone anything. She shouldn’t have gone. Sitting in that service, she’d felt a suffocating anger, and being there had done nothing to help her get past the utter pointlessness of it all.
At last the TV next door went silent, and Sophie could hear the music drifting from her stereo. It was the rainforest track, and she took a deep breath and tried to relax. Insomnia sucked, and she’d tried everything these last few months, but music was the only thing that worked.
Snick.
Her eyes popped open. The noise came from her living room. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
Was someone in her apartment?
She listened through the soft patter of rain and tried to discern what she’d heard.
Snick.
Someone was at her door.
Sophie slid open the nightstand drawer and reached for her gun. With the revolver heavy in her hand, she kicked the covers off and crept to the hallway. Maybe she’d been hearing things. She’d been so rattled lately, even a little paranoid—although she’d never admit it to Jonah.
She peered down the hallway, but the apartment was dark and still.
Sophie crept into the living room, listening for the slightest sound out of place. She parted the blinds on the window facing the balcony. No one there. She peered through the peephole. Nothing. She double-checked the dead bolt and then secured the chain she’d forgotten to attach before going to bed.
Was that all it was? She’d forgotten the chain on the door and so she’d felt jumpy? Or had she really heard a noise?
Sophie despised this feeling. One of the worst aftereffects of her attack was the persistent self-doubt. Her trust in her own instincts had been shattered, and she went around all the time now second-guessing herself.
Sophie eyed the cell phone on the coffee table and had the urge to call Jonah. It was a stupid urge, and she hated herself for it, but still her fingers itched to pick up the phone. Jonah was a good cop. He had a protective streak a mile wide. If she called and told him she was scared, he’d be over in a heartbeat.
And he’d think she was more delusional than ever.
Sophie picked up the chenille throw
from her armchair and sank onto her sofa. She rested her gun on the table and cast a longing look at the phone before reaching for the Tv remote. She knew this feeling well, and there was no use fighting it. No matter what she did, tonight would be endless.
And so would tomorrow night. And the next night. And the next. And she knew that the restless, itchy feeling keeping her from sleep wasn’t going to go away.
Not until she did what she had to do.
Sophie wasn’t home when Jonah dropped by the next morning, and when her phone went unanswered after two calls, he started to get uneasy. That shiny silver cell phone went everywhere with her.
But then he saw her rounding the corner and jogging up the path to her apartment complex. When she reached the parking lot, she halted and bent at the waist, panting.
He smiled as he sauntered over. Not exactly an ad for Runner’s World, but those long legs got the job done.
“Didn’t know you were a jogger.”
She stood up straight and sucked down big gulps of air. “I practice many forms of torture.”
She watched him curiously as she caught her breath, probably wondering what he was doing showing up at her place on a Sunday morning. She wore a blue spandex running top and black shorts. Her body was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, and he suddenly had a vision of her wrestling with him in his bed.
She started for the stairs to her apartment. He followed.
“Is this a social call or something about the case?”
“The case,” he lied. “I had a few follow-up questions.”
She pulled a key from a little pouch in her shorts and unlocked her door.
“Give me a minute to shower.” She dropped her key on the coffee table and disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the shower go on, and then she poked her head out. “You had breakfast yet?”
“No.” Another lie. But as he stood there in her living room, he realized it was imperative that they get out of her apartment. From his place near the door, he could see down the hallway to the corner of her unmade bed. And hearing that water running … But the most disconcerting feature was the laundry basket on her coffee table, brimming with a rainbow assortment of lingerie.
He wandered over to the breakfast bar to distract himself. On the counter was a newspaper article profiling Eric Emrick. Beside it was a steno pad with notes jotted in Sophie’s loopy script.
SWM 19
Norman, OK
Comp sci / Math
Microsoft
D-Syst
Shelley Harris??
He unfolded the paper: The San Marcos Bee. The reporter was someone named Tyler P. Dorion. “Special to the Bee,” it said under the name.
A college kid? Maybe someone on the school paper, with an eye toward a job after graduation? Jonah didn’t know who else would use a byline like that in such a rinky-dink newspaper.
He skimmed the rest of the story as his subconscious brain registered the water shutting off. The door popping open. The rustle of air in the hallway as steam escaped and a damp, towel-clad, sexy-as-hell woman breezed down the hallway into the bedroom.
Jonah read the entire article, but what he was really thinking about was how much he needed to get laid. Soon. Before he lost the tenuous control he had over himself and did something extremely stupid with a woman who was now—for better or for worse—actively involved in his investigation.
“Ready?”
She stood there watching him. Denim shorts, black T-shirt with the word P!NK emblazoned across the front. Her damp hair was twisted up in some kind of clip, but it was the little purple straps behind her neck that captured his attention. She had a swimsuit on under those clothes.
“Who’s Shelley Harris?” he asked.
“Eric Emrick’s girlfriend.”
“You’re researching the victims?”
“Sure, why not?”
He just looked at her.
“It’s pretty obvious that if Himmel had an accomplice, there must be more going on here than a typical school shooting,” she said. “Maybe he meant to kill one of those people.”
“Didn’t realize you were an investigator.”
“I’m more of a concerned citizen. Are you ready? I’m starving.”
“I’ve been ready.” He took out his keys and followed her out of the apartment. As she locked the door, she shot him one of her looks.
“Are you actually complaining about how much time I spent getting dressed?”
“You put on makeup.”
“So?”
“So, kind of high-maintenance for breakfast.” He headed down the stairs, and he could feel her heated gaze boring into his back.
“High-maintenance? I took all of ten minutes!”
“Fifteen.”
“Oh, please. I showered, shaved my legs, put on makeup, and returned two text messages in the time it took you to snoop around my kitchen. I’d say that’s pretty good.”
He led the way across the parking lot to his truck, her sandals making little snapping noises against the pavement. He opened the door for her and managed not to glance at her legs as she climbed in.
He went around to the driver’s side, and she eyed him narrowly as he slid behind the wheel.
“When was the last time you had a girlfriend?”
He looked at her.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Pancakes or doughnuts?” He started up the truck.
“I can tell, it has been.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because you’re completely out of touch with the typical woman’s beauty regimen.” She flipped down the vanity mirror and pulled a lipstick from her purse as if to emphasize her point. She put some on, then turned to look at him. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“I’m guessing two years, right? Since you’ve had anything besides a casual fling? I’m not saying you haven’t had sex, because obviously you have.”
“Obviously?”
“Oh, come on. Look at you. You’ve got the swagger, and it’s not just because you’re a cop. I’ve seen plenty of that, too, but some of those guys are losers. They’re not fooling anyone. Come on, how long has it been?”
“None of your business.”
“God, is it three years? Please tell me it hasn’t been. Guys go too long without a woman in their life, they start to have weird views about personal hygiene. And I have two brothers—one who’s divorced—so I’ve seen this phenomenon firsthand. Seriously, you can tell me. I won’t make fun of you.”
“How ’bout the Pancake Pantry? They’ve got the best omelets in town.”
She rolled her eyes. “Coward.”
Ten minutes later, they were seated across from each other in a brown vinyl booth. Jonah had his back to the wall, as was his habit. While Sophie chatted up the waitress, he kept an eye on the door and watched the parade of hungover young people filing in for morning-after eats.
When the waitress disappeared, Sophie guzzled half her ice water and plunked the plastic cup on the table.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
“Ready for?”
“You said you had questions. There must be a new development in the case. I’m all ears.”
Jonah watched her for a long moment. There was a new development, but he didn’t plan to share it with her. She was a witness. There was a small—but growing—possibility that her account of events might become critical to the investigation, which meant that from here on out the information was going to flow one way.
“Tell me about the VW driver.”
She sighed. “This again?”
“It’s important.”
“I told you, I barely saw him.”
“But you saw something, right? I mean, he cut you off. According to your story.”
That got a rise out of her. “Are we back to this now? Why even bring me here if—”
“Relax.” He held up a hand. “I didn’t mean I don’t believe you. It’s just that if he to
ok your parking space, which probably ticked you off, I’d think you’d at least notice something about what he looked like.”
She searched his face warily. Trust was a big thing with Sophie, he’d figured out. She didn’t like her credibility questioned—or her intelligence, for that matter. Maybe she’d heard a few too many blonde jokes over the years. He didn’t know why, but he knew she was sensitive.
She closed her eyes now and leaned back against the booth. “Let me think.”
He took the opportunity to study those little purple straps again. Bikini or one-piece? What was she doing after this?
And was she doing it alone?
“He was tall.”
“Tall?”
She opened her eyes. “Well, the way the light was, he was kind of in shadow. But I’m remembering now that his head almost touched the roof of the car. That would make him tall, wouldn’t it?”
“A Volkswagen’s pretty small. It might make him average.”
“Well, that’s all I got, Detective.”
He looked at her for a long moment. She could probably provide more, under the right circumstances.
“You know, I’m pretty good at interviews,” he said.
“Are you?” She feigned surprise.
“Yeah, actually, I am. But there are forensic artists out there who can get amazing things from witnesses—stuff they didn’t even know they had. Would you be willing to talk to one?”
“What would I say? I told you, we’re talking about a fleeting glimpse.”
Jonah thought about the pushback he was going to get if and when he teed this up to Reynolds. It would help if he had some corroboration first. Anything at all that didn’t come from Sophie.
She leaned forward conspiratorially. “What’s this about, anyway? What did you guys find?”
It wasn’t what they’d found, but what they hadn’t found that had kept Jonah up most of last night. Not a single fingerprint on the box of items in the back of that VW. Not on the knife, or the pistol, or any of the five grenades. Not even on the box itself.
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