LUCY: The Complete Lucy Kendall Series with Bonus Content (The Lucy Kendall Series Book 5)

by Stacy Green

  I stood up easily, a grim smile on my face. Showing weakness to Lennox was a mistake I didn’t intend to make. He waited in the hall, his shoulders even wider in his bulky jacket, and wasted no time getting to the point. “So. Your trip back to the city and into Chris Hale’s apartment, this is the personal errand you just had to run. Why? His uncle and I searched it before we left for Maryland. We have everything of interest to the case, unless there’s something you’re not telling us.”

  “What I’m not telling you,” I said, “is personal and between me and Chris. It has no bearing on the case, and I was upfront with his aunt about why I was there.”

  “But you’re not going to share with me.”

  “It’s not necessary,” I said. “I assume Todd told you I found evidence Chris visited his father?”

  Lennox nodded. “I called the supermax in Greene County and asked for the visitor’s log for the last six months. I’m still waiting. It’s possible he visited a long time ago. But I’d like to know how he got in without raising any red flags. We’re supposed to be notified if John Weston talks to anyone.”

  It took me a minute to realize he meant SCI Greene in Waynesburg, Pennsylvania’s only maximum-security prison. “I don’t know that he did talk to him. But Weston had to sign over his personal effects to Chris. I didn’t find any other sign of correspondence between them.”

  “We’re checking that too,” Lennox said. “For more than twenty years, John Weston has refused visitors and says very little when some new agent thinks they can break him. After the truth about Mary’s involvement broke last fall and the case was handed to me, I went back and interviewed him myself. Same results. Warden says he’s a model prisoner, and his mail consists of the usual cross between fan worship and disgust.”

  Fan worshipping of serial killers–a concept I still couldn’t wrap my mind around. “I don’t think Chris talked to him.”

  “He might not have,” Lennox said, “but you also didn’t know he was communicating with his mother. If I understand things correctly, you haven’t been yourself since the events of last month.”

  “Would you be?” I immediately wished I hadn’t asked the question.

  “Killing someone is a tough thing, even when it’s self-defense,” Lennox said. “It takes a bit of the soul, I think.” He let the silence simmer, and I suddenly felt like I’d been dropped into the boiling pot. “But there are some really interesting rumors about you. I don’t know if they’re true or not, but I do know you’ve taken a strong stand against sex offenders. And those two people in the garage were just more of the same scum, right?”

  My throat felt dry. “I’m not sure what rumors you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s skip that.” Lennox’s easy cadence and friendly expression were meant to lure me into giving something away. “I know Detective Beckett approached his superiors last fall about the possibility of your involvement in the murder of Cody and Brian Harrison. There wasn’t enough evidence, and for some reason, he decided to drop it. But information like that doesn’t go away, especially when you make headlines like you have. After you survived the attack in Jake’s garage–against two capable people who both ended up dead–people like me really start to wonder. Especially when the body of Jake’s main man turns up in the Allegheny Forest. Preacher. You’re familiar with him, of course.”

  My stomach actually heaved as though Lennox had just sucker punched me. I struggled to keep the proper mask of confusion and indifference, even as the roots of my hair dampened with sweat and my palms grew clammy. I’d known it would be just a matter of time before Preacher was identified. “I hadn’t heard about that. What happened to him?”

  Lennox gave me a cagey smile. “I can’t discuss the details of the investigation with you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you already knew the answer.”

  I stared back at him, knowing full well any sort of act I put on wouldn’t work on this man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll let it sit right now, because I’ve got more important things going on,” Lennox said. “But I’m telling you, if Mary Weston–or anyone connected with this investigation–somehow ends up dead and you’re anywhere near the scene, I’m opening up a full-scale investigation into your extracurriculars, and I will find out exactly what you’ve been up to.”

  “Feel free,” I said. “This is nothing but a figment of Todd’s imagination, and you said yourself he’d let it go. Although I don’t know why you care about Mary Weston’s life.”

  “Because I want the whole truth,” Lennox said. “We’ve got no idea how long she’s been operating or how many other victims are out there. She dies and all those families have lost their shot at closure.”

  “Anything else?”

  Another friendly smile, just two buddies catching up. “For now, no. Just remember what I said.”

  As if I could forget. I just added it to the list that kept me awake at night.

  20

  Lennox stalked out, and I allowed myself a minute to gather my thoughts. Not that I could do anything about the situation. Everything had already happened, and standing around stressing out about the past wasn’t going to help find Chris. I gathered my composure and rejoined the group.

  Kelly had taken part of the stack of folders. A pile sat near my seat. Todd had a third. Ryan looked up shyly from his laptop. “So to recap, we know Mary and John met in 1978, so we’re looking for any crime similar to Mary’s known ones. Since we know John Weston worked on I-95 in 1977 and 1978, we’re starting with these.” He gestured to the unsettling amount of folders. “These are police records from along that route, all pre-ViCAP days. Unfortunately, some of the smaller jurisdictions didn’t get on the system until a few years later, so we’re probably going to have some records in the late eighties and early nineties. Ignore those, at least for now. Stick to the dates we’ve discussed.”

  He glanced shyly at Kelly, whose head remained down, her eyes glued to her stack of files. “Kelly has all cases prior to 1977, looking for similar crimes on a tri-state level. Meaning Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia. If we’re lucky, we’ll find proof Mary was active long before she met John. If we can narrow her pattern to a few places, we’ll have a better chance of digging up her real name and possibly finding information leading to where she might be now.”

  I nodded and sat down next to Kelly, who looked at the folders and paper as if they might give her hives. “And there’s no computerized record of any of this?”

  “In the bigger cities, there’s a few,” Ryan said, smiling as he no doubt understood her pain. “But we’ve got a lot of small towns on the route.”

  “This is like searching for a needle in a haystack,” I said. “I’d rather be out there, actively searching.”

  “It’s probably best you stay here.” Todd gave me a hard look. “And you never know, we might find the smoking gun right here.”

  I rolled my eyes and reached for a donut. There wasn’t enough sugar in the world for this job.

  By noon, we’d found a number of unsolved murders along the I-95 corridor, but none of them glaringly matched the assaults on the known Weston victims. We found no mention of wooden spoons, a fun fact that turned Ryan slightly green. It looked like John and Mary either had been very careful before they moved to Lancaster, or they didn’t kill together before then.

  Kelly made a clucking noise next to me, so soft I barely heard it in my half-awake state. Hours of combing through these files, with so many personal details omitted by thick black mark-outs, threatened to put me to sleep.

  “Luce.” Her whisper possessed an urgency that gave me a thread of hope.

  “What?”

  She pointed to her file. “Rollins. I remember this name from earlier research.”

  I glanced at Todd, intent on his own file, but no doubt listening. “What earlier research?”

  “Months ago,” she said. “Mary Rollins in Harford County is a name I cross-referenced, but I had no
reason to tie it to Mary Weston. But here it is again, in 1972. Harford County.”

  I read over her shoulder. Richard Rollins had died in a house fire in 1972, leaving his widow of one year, Mary, a small life insurance policy. Mary wasn’t on the property at the time. She’d been with her father on his truck route.

  My heart skidded. “Mary Weston told the Hale family she worked with her father, and he drove a truck.”

  Todd looked up from his pile, his eyes bleary behind his reading glasses. “You have a name?”

  “Kent,” Kelly said. “Alan Kent.”

  The air raced out of my lungs, leaving a hollow burn. “Chris’s middle name is Alan.” I saw him clearly then, sitting across from me at Cheddar’s that first night, so cocky and confident. My throat tightened, and a wave of fear left me mute. Whatever the lies he’d told me, Chris had saved my life. He’d trusted me when few others did. Where was he now? What sort of pain was his mother subjecting him to?

  I should have taken his calls. I could have talked him out of it, at least stalled him so I could call the police and give them the heads-up. I never should have brought Chris into my games. But it was too late for him now.

  “What else do you have?” Ryan asked. “Harford County is actually one of the few that has gone back and digitized some of their records, but the last one I’m finding is 1975. Nothing in 1972 or for any Rollins.”

  Kelly cleared her throat, her neck and face turning red as all eyes focused on her. She pushed the file to me with trembling hands.

  “The fire occurred at 22 Stapely Road in Harford County, in Churchville.” I looked at Ryan. “Can you pull that up on a map?”

  Ryan did as he was told. “It’s a unincorporated community about sixteen miles southeast, on the other side of Bel Air.”

  “The cause of the fire was believed to be accidental,” I said. “Several dishrags containing ammonia and other combustibles were left in a cleaning bucket in the kitchen. The fire started overnight. Richard Rollins’s body was found in the downstairs bedroom, which was across the hall from the kitchen.” I squinted at the small print, wishing I’d succumbed to the need for reading glasses. “It was so badly burned the coroner at the time couldn’t tell if he’d inhaled smoke or not. There were no signs of an accelerant on or near his person. Some investigators were suspicious of his being in that bedroom, as he and his wife slept upstairs, but there was no proof of foul play. The corpse was too badly burned to tell if he’d been tied down or given any sort of drugs.”

  “Wow,” Ryan said. “I know it was the seventies, but that’s some weak investigation.”

  “A lot of things have changed,” Todd said. “And remember, small towns had less resources–and still do.”

  “That might not be the only reason.” Instinct crackled in the synapses of my mind, almost as though Mary Weston had crawled into my ear and found a way to whisper her secrets. “Richard Rollins was black. He’s actually listed as Negro.” I shook my head in disgust. “His wife is white, per the description in the report. So their interracial marriage bothered officers enough to note it on the report. Who knows how well his death was investigated? If they did anything more than the bare minimum, I’d be shocked.”

  “Shocked might be an understatement,” Ryan said. “The interracial marriage wasn’t even fully legalized until 1967, so it was still new in the seventies. Especially in the South. There were plenty of rumored lynchings even after the law was passed.” He flushed as he realized we all stared at him. “Sorry, I’m kind of a history buff. Continue.”

  “Rollins had life insurance,” Kelly pointed out. “$25,000 of it, which was a lot of money in those days. He was a construction worker, and he got the insurance through the union.”

  “Does it have any information on his family?” Todd asked.

  I skimmed the report. “A younger sister who told the police she didn’t trust Mary Kent or her father. But there’s no contact information. Just a name.”

  “Kent,” Todd said. “So that’s the surname listed in the file?”

  “Yes, but there’s no copy of the marriage certificate,” Kelly said. She pointed to the pathetically small paragraph containing the sister’s statement. “They knew her as Mary Kent, father named Alan. There are a few notes in here about the sister calling hysterically after her brother’s death, demanding the police look into Mary’s involvement. It doesn’t appear they ever did.”

  “Of course not.” The idea had already taken root, but I needed to flesh it out for a few minutes. “Back then, police would never question a white woman over a black man’s death. Not in small town Maryland.”

  “So,” Todd rubbed his forehead. “We’ve got Mary Weston’s real name as possibly being Mary Kent, and her father as Alan Kent. We need to look up birth records for those names between 1950 and 1954. That’s a wide net, but with all the lies Mary told, I’m not counting age out as one of them.”

  “Then I might be able to find something,” Ryan said. “Census records are online, and some birth records, depending on the state. Give me an hour and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Ladies,” Todd said. “Shall we break for lunch? There’s a small diner just down the street with great greasy cheeseburgers.”

  Kelly looked at me with frightened eyes, shaking her head.

  “She needs some rest,” I said. “Let’s drop her off at the hotel, and then you and I can grab something.”

  Greasy perfectly described the diner. My shoes squeaked against the floor, and the table felt as if it had been cleaned by yesterday’s dishrag. The place smelled of fried food and an impending heart attack. And it was nearly full. Todd and I jammed into a two-seater table beneath the window, the quarters so tight our knees nearly touched.

  I shook my coat off and sat on it, wary of it falling on the floor. I should have ordered a salad, but the burgers smelled too good to ignore. When our waitress disappeared, Todd pounced.

  “So Kelly’s your hacker.”

  It sounded like more of a statement than a question. I shrugged. “She’s my friend.”

  “Who happens to be a forensic consultant for the Philly police. Funny how you never mentioned her before.”

  “I have a lot of friends you don’t know about,” I lied. The realization left me cold. I’d never had a lot of friends, preferring to live in semi-isolation, but that seemed sad now, as though I’d missed out on so much of life.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “What’s her story? You said she had space issues.”

  “She was a case of mine,” I said. “You can look her up for details, but let’s just say her stepfather screwed her up royally. She was a near shut-in for a long time, and it’s only been in the last couple of years she’s started to venture out more regularly. I’m shocked she wanted to come with me.”

  “She’s a good friend,” Todd said. “You should hang on to her.”

  “I intend to.” I cleared my throat, taken aback by the sympathy in his voice. He’d leave Kelly alone. “So, do you think we have our name? Mary Kent?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously she started somewhere, and the stuff with her father fits. But Rollins was black, and I very clearly remember my stepmother using the N-word quite freely. She had a racial chip on her shoulder the size of the state. My father never seemed to mind.”

  The idea that had first occurred to me in the cramped conference room had been spot on. At least some of my instincts were still reliable. “Exactly. So she seduces Rollins, knowing full well he’s got the life insurance policy. She and her father plan it out.” I tapped my index finger on the table. “I always wondered how she managed to make ends meet, even when she was married to John. In Lancaster, he worked as a handyman and stayed close to home. Yet they bought that property. Who knows how many times Mary worked the life insurance scam before she met him?”

  “The idea of Mary seducing anyone blows my mind,” Todd said. “When I knew her, she was a middle-aged, overweight, angry woman with crow’s feet.”r />
  That’s how I remembered her as well. When I’d first entered the home as a concerned CPS worker, she’d struck me as a small giant whose habitat was being threatened. “You also saw her through the eyes of a seventeen-year-old boy who hated his stepmother. Both ADA Hale and his wife said she was attractive on some level when she was young, and you have to understand, women like her have the ability to use whatever they possess and make it work. They’re like a virus, able to attack the body’s weakest point and infect until the person is fully under their control.” Myself and my mother included. But we’d both been blessed with good genes, and people more easily trusted an attractive person. A fact I’d proven more times than I wanted to admit.

  “You speak as if you know what you’re talking about.”

  I took a long drink of water. “Maybe I do.”

  “Hmm.” Todd nodded at the waitress depositing plates containing our massive burgers. He waited until she’d moved on to her next table. “I remember the first time I saw Mary. I probably would have been six, before they were married–or so they said. I can’t really remember her face, just the impression. Tall and dark, like her face was sunk into her curtain of hair. It was still long then. Normally I thought long hair was beautiful, especially since my mother kept hers short, but Mary’s hair made me think of the things I imagined hiding in my closet. I hated her from that moment on principle.” He picked up his hamburger. “And she didn’t disappoint.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling lousy that was all I could muster. “You and Justin both deserved so much more.”

  “At least we’re alive,” Todd said. “That’s more than a lot of her other victims can say.” His eyes flickered between mine, the implication growing between us. No matter what cruel act my own victims had committed, I’d caused someone in their lives horrible suffering. How was I any different from Mary? And how long would Todd continue to dance around the elephant?