Losing Leah Holloway (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 2)

by Lisa Regan

  Back in her bed, Connor lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Claire laid her head on his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re amazing,” he whispered.

  She said, “You should sleep.”

  He turned his head and looked at her bedside clock. “I have to be back at the division in an hour. Genechek will be open by then. I have to make some calls, then meet Stryker and Boggs at the coroner’s office.”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Stop,” she said. “You need to sleep for at least a little bit or you’ll be no good to Jade. Captain Boggs told you to get some rest, right? Take two hours, at least. Genechek isn’t going anywhere. I’ll wake you up, I promise.”

  She leaned across his body and pushed several buttons on her clock before setting the alarm. “See?” she said.

  He managed a smile. “Okay,” he said. “Just don’t leave.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  True to her word, Claire woke him two hours later. She made him eggs and toast and sent him on his way with a travel mug of coffee in one hand—an excessive amount of cream and two sugars, just the way he liked it—and a fully charged cell phone in the other. He kissed her on the porch while Wilson whined beside them. Connor felt like whining too. He wanted to stay there with Claire, in her house where nothing bad happened, where he didn’t have to think about Jade and her brutal murder.

  His heart ached as he got in the car and looked back to see Claire and Wilson standing side by side, watching him go. Guilt assailed him. Hours ago, his friend was murdered. She had died alone. He should have been there. The Genechek lead could have waited until the morning. But then he never would have gone to Claire’s in the state he’d been in. They might never have finally come together. They hadn’t discussed it, and Connor hadn’t wanted to jinx it by saying it out loud, but they had reached a huge milestone in their relationship. In fact, they’d gotten past the one thing that had always kept them from having a relationship. He knew it didn’t mean smooth sailing from here on out, but it was a pretty big deal for them. His thoughts of Claire got him to the parking lot. They helped keep the sight of Jade’s face at the periphery of his mind. Then he was at the division, and he had no choice but to think about Jade.

  The mood was somber and subdued. No one spoke. They just went about their work in absolute quiet, faces drawn, visages dark. Connor spotted Matt hunched in front of a computer in his shirtsleeves, three empty Styrofoam cups beside him. His knee bounced up and down rhythmically.

  “Did you even go home?” Connor asked.

  Matt shook his head without looking up. “No. Stryke did. He should be back in soon. I’m working on the reports.”

  Connor clapped the man on the shoulder. “Go home, Matt.”

  Connor was almost to his desk when Matt said, “I can’t. I keep seeing her. In my head, you know?”

  “I know. But, Matt, you did good work out there. We need you on this. Go home. Do whatever you have to do to get some sleep.”

  “In a few minutes, I will,” Matt promised.

  Jade’s empty desk stopped Connor in his tracks. A lump formed in his throat, and unshed tears stung the backs of his eyes. Don’t lose it, he told himself. Not here. Her chair sat a couple of feet away from the desk, its back turned slightly so the chair itself faced his desk. As if she had turned toward him and then stood without pushing the chair back in. Files were stacked on the desktop, some partially covered by random paperwork. A stack of Leah Holloway’s medical records threatened to tip over. A half-finished bottle of Coke Zero stood beside the plastic bowl of rice that couched Holloway’s defunct cell phone. Connor took a couple of steps, pushed Jade’s chair in, and returned to his own desk, determined not to look to his left the entire morning.

  Compared to his Globocell experience, dealing with Genechek was an absolute dream. The third person he spoke to was able to locate both the warrant he had faxed and Leah Holloway’s file.

  “Would you like me to mail this? Or if you’re in a hurry, I can email it.”

  God bless her.

  “Emailing it would be great,” Connor told the woman. He rattled off his department email address and thanked her profusely. The click-clack of her fingers moving over a keyboard filtered through the receiver.

  “Now, there are two separate tests,” the woman said. “Do you want me to scan both files into one PDF or just send them in two separate files like they are right now?”

  “Whatever is fastest,” Connor said. Then: “Wait, what do you mean there are two separate tests?”

  “Mrs. Holloway paid for both a paternity test and a maternity test. Both were positive matches. She was notified by phone on Saturday.”

  “Right,” Connor said as though he had known this all along and just forgotten.

  “I’m sending them over now,” the woman said. “Will there be anything else, Detective?”

  His mind was still a little punch-drunk from everything that had happened in the last twelve hours, but he remembered to ask, “Do you still have the samples that Mrs. Holloway sent in?”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry. We don’t retain the samples once they are analyzed. But the DNA profiles for each person will be in the PDFs I am emailing you.”

  Given that he and Jade had theorized that Leah had been having an affair nearly two years ago, it made sense for her to have sent in for a paternity test. But the maternity test? What was that about?

  At least Connor had the DNA profiles coming. That could be helpful in locating the person she’d been having an affair with. But that hope was shot all to hell once Connor downloaded the file and printed it out. Genechek required customers to fill out detailed forms with the name and biographical information for the owner of each sample, together with signed consent forms. He studied the forms for the maternity testing first. The test positively matched Leah to her son Tyler. Proof of something everyone already knew. It was useless and bizarre. Why would she need a maternity test? Surely she remembered giving birth. Connor had records proving that she had given birth to baby Tyler. He studied the application, the profiles, and the maternity test results but found nothing that might explain why she had felt compelled to test her own maternity. Frustrated, he turned to the paternity test. The paternity test wasn’t to match some other man to baby Tyler, it was to match Jim Holloway to the child, and he was a positive match.

  “Shit,” Connor muttered, more loudly than intended. He drew a few stares from other detectives seated at their desks, all of whom quickly returned to their own work.

  Stryker appeared behind him. He gestured to the papers in Connor’s hands as he came around and perched on the edge of Connor’s desk. “What’ve you got?”

  Connor looked at his friend and bit back a Holy shit. Stryker had done as Boggs instructed and gone home, but he obviously had not slept. Huge bags hung beneath Stryker’s eyes. Stubble grew over his cheeks and chin in uneven patches. Connor could see why he never grew facial hair. A ghost of a moustache shadowed his upper lip. His scalp, normally close shaved and shiny as chrome, was stippled with black hair. He seemed to have lost twenty pounds overnight, his suit hanging on him a little, his cheeks sunken. His normal olive complexion had taken on a sickly gray hue.

  Connor got it. It was even more personal for Stryker than the rest of them. Stryker was in charge of catching the Soccer Mom Strangler. Not only had the guy killed someone on Stryker’s watch, he’d taken one of their own.

  Reminding Stryker of this would not help, so Connor said, “Leah Holloway sent in a request to test her own maternity. She’s Tyler Holloway’s mother, by the way. Oh, and Jim Holloway is Tyler Holloway’s dad.” He shoved the DNA profiles and paternity test application at Stryker.

  Stryker flipped through the pages until he came to the application forms that had accompanied Leah’s request. “Why the hell did she need a maternity test?”

  “That’s what I can’t figure out,” Connor said.

  Stryker pointed to
the bottom of one of the pages. “Jim Holloway signed this a few days ago. He never mentioned this to you or Jade?”

  “No. They had no problems in their marriage. His wife was a saint. Everything was fine.” Connor could practically hear Jade’s voice, as though she were standing over his shoulder, whispering some snide remark, like, He’s a dumbass.

  “I think we need to ask him about this,” Stryker said. “He’s here.”

  “You brought him in?”

  “We asked him if he would come in this morning to answer some more questions. If he’s the Strangler, I don’t want him at large. Until we clear him for good, I need eyes on him. With Jade’s murder, we’re running out of manpower. I’ve got someone trying to track down Mr. Rohrbach to let him know there was a murder in his backyard and to find out the name of the landscaper that stole his wife. There are still other Strangler leads to follow up on. Everyone is exhausted and sick over Jade. It was easier to get Holloway to come in. He seemed happy to get away from his mother or maybe his kids. Or both.”

  “Well, let’s go talk to him, then,” Connor said.

  Jim Holloway sat in an interview room much the same as the one he’d occupied the day before. He still hadn’t demanded a lawyer. Connor couldn’t figure out if he was just that stupid or if he was just that innocent, although it seemed to Connor that even an innocent man would have asked for an attorney by now, given how many questions he was being asked. Maybe the man was just so relieved to be away from his kids that he welcomed the long, silent hours in the interview room.

  He sat slumped at the table, one hand wrapped around a Styrofoam cup. It was empty, but Connor could see the remnants of coffee beading the inside of it. Holloway sat up straight when they entered, his face searching and earnest. “What’s going on?” he asked. “How’d that cop get killed by my house? Why was she sitting on my street, and what the hell is going on with my wife’s case? You guys don’t tell me nothing. You ask a whole lot of questions, but no one tells me jack shit. You ask me to come in here, and then you leave me in this room. What the hell are you guys doing?”

  It was the most Connor had ever heard the man say. It was also the most animated Holloway had been since his wife’s death. Maybe the shock was wearing off. He was coming out of the mental fog he’d been plunged into when Leah went into the river with the children.

  Connor pulled out the chair across from him and sat. Stryker remained standing. It was nearly identical to the scene that had played out the day before, except Stryker took Jade’s place. Connor swallowed over the renewed lump in his throat and smiled at Holloway. “I’m Detective Parks.”

  “I remember you.”

  “That’s Detective Stryker.”

  Holloway looked at Stryker but said nothing.

  “Mr. Holloway,” Connor said. “We told you everything we know about your wife’s death already.”

  “She wasn’t drinking,” Holloway insisted. “You need to check for a heart attack or—or my mom said she could have had a brain aneurysm.”

  Stryker met Connor’s eyes. Connor could see from the muscle pulsing in Stryker’s jaw that he was losing patience with Holloway, and they hadn’t even started yet.

  Connor stood and put both hands on the table, leaning forward. His tone was firm and commanding, leaving no room for questions. “Mr. Holloway, I know this is difficult to hear and to accept, but your wife did not have a heart attack. She did not have a brain aneurysm. There was no sudden medical event that caused her to do what she did on Saturday. Your wife purposely got drunk. She killed four people on the overpass. She purposely tried to kill herself, your kids, and the Irving children. We are trying to figure out why. The sooner you accept the coroner’s findings, the sooner you can help us find out why your wife went from being ‘fine’ to being suicidal and homicidal.”

  Holloway said nothing, his gaze dropping to the table. They waited for further protest, but none came.

  Connor slid the Genechek form across the table. “Mr. Holloway, is this your signature?”

  He glanced at it and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Stryker moved closer to the table. “Do you remember signing that form?”

  Holloway looked more closely at it, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”

  Connor tapped the top of the page, where the title of the form was clearly stated in bold. “It’s an authorization for a paternity test.”

  Holloway’s eyes jumped to Connor’s face. “A paternity test? I never signed no paternity test. A test for who?”

  “Mr. Holloway,” Stryker said, “did you give your wife a DNA sample to use for this paternity test? They’re usually done by buccal swab—meaning a swab from the inside of your cheek.”

  Holloway looked like someone had hit him over the head with something large and heavy. “The inside of my—what? What? No. What the hell are you guys talking about?”

  “Your wife used a mail-order DNA testing outfit called Genechek to get a paternity test for your son Tyler.”

  Holloway’s expression slackened. “Tyler?”

  Connor nodded.

  “That’s impossible. You have the wrong person. My wife wouldn’t do this. I mean, why would she? I’m telling you—you’ve got all of this wrong.”

  Connor said, “Mr. Holloway, your wife did this. I know it’s hard to believe, but your wife apparently did a lot of things that you didn’t know about, including ordering a paternity test.”

  “No, no she didn’t. She couldn’t have.”

  Stryker pointed to the paper. “Did you sign this?”

  Holloway held out his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. Leah’s always asking me to sign stuff—for the kids, for school, for our finances and stuff. I usually just sign.”

  “This would have been about three or four days ago,” Connor said.

  Again Holloway shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I guess so.”

  “So you signed this?” Stryker asked. “You didn’t find it odd that your wife was asking you to sign an authorization for a paternity test?”

  Holloway’s cheeks colored. “No, I—I mean I didn’t read it. I don’t read everything she asks me to sign.”

  “So you have no memory of having seen this form before?” Connor asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “But you’re saying that your wife could have put it in front of you, and you would have signed it without reading it?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I mean, like I said, she’s always asking me to sign stuff. She takes care of everything. I just—I just—” Holloway choked on a new onslaught of tears.

  “A figurehead husband.” Connor heard Jade’s voice in his head.

  “You just hand over your paycheck,” Connor said softly, without malice.

  Holloway nodded, his lips pressed together hard, like he was trying to hold something back. Sobs, Connor imagined.

  Connor stood to leave. When they were halfway out the door, Jim’s voice stopped them. “Tyler,” he said. “Is he—is he mine?”

  Connor gave him a grim smile. In spite of Jim Holloway’s utter incompetence as a parent, the hopeful look in his eyes told Connor that he really wanted to be Tyler’s dad. Perhaps that made it easier on him. At least what was left of his family was still intact. He could go on more easily with the illusion that his wife had been a wonderful, honest woman, and that their lives were completely fine.

  “Yeah,” Connor said. “He’s yours.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “It’s a match,” said coroner Roger Zeliff.

  He stood beside Jade’s lifeless body, which mercifully he had covered up for the benefit of Connor, Stryker, and Boggs. He used his index finger to push his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and regarded the three of them like a teacher looking at students. “Did you hear me?” he said.

  Maybe it was the proximity to their fallen colleague, the images of her murdered body still playing in their heads, or just sleep deprivation, shock, or the three of them, b
ut they all stared at the man without speaking.

  Roger waved a hand. “Gentlemen, it’s customary to speak in these situations.”

  Connor noticed that beneath his white Tyvek suit, he was wearing expensive cufflinks. He hadn’t picked up on them at the crime scene. The man had gotten up in the middle of the night and put on a suit before coming to examine Jade’s body on scene and perform her autopsy.

  Boggs said, “The bite mark?”

  Roger nodded. “Was there ever any doubt? The bite mark on Detective Webb’s neck matches those found on the Soccer Mom Strangler victims. The man who killed those women killed Jade. Cause of death was manual strangulation, same as the other women. He broke her hyoid bone, so the degree of force was considerable. She sustained a fracture of her right radius, as I suspected, as well as a skull fracture. No sexual assault. It doesn’t even look like he tried. She struggled but likely not for long. Her injuries would have made it difficult for her to fend him off. She got some of his skin under her nails, so we are running the DNA, but I can already tell you that it was the Strangler.”

  Silence descended on them again. No one so much as fidgeted. Connor found some small relief in knowing Jade hadn’t been raped before she was killed. She’d gone out fighting. It was still difficult for Connor to accept that she’d been bested by the Strangler, but he realized they’d been underestimating the killer. The Strangler was stronger, more ruthless, and more filled with rage than they initially thought. He glanced at Boggs, who kept one hand over the lower part of his face. Stryker’s eyes were wide, as if he were forcing his eyelids apart.

  Finally, Stryker cleared his throat. “The Jim Holloway impression? Does it match the bite marks? In your opinion?”

  Roger frowned. “No, and we had your forensic dentist give it an initial look, and she agrees. Holloway is not your guy, at least based on the dental impression. We’re still waiting on the DNA results.”