Climbing to her feet, she said, “I can always grab him on his way out of the precinct. I can corner him on the street if need be, but I’d prefer to question him here, on camera. And wouldn’t you rather be present and make your own observations instead of hearing about the results from me after the fact?”
“What you’re saying is you’re going to question him whether I like it or not.” Baskin rubbed the back of his neck. “Stubborn little filly, aren’t you? I have to be honest. I’m afraid you might spook him.”
“I know how to conduct an interview, Detective. And I’m not bragging, just letting you know I’ve been well trained.” She tilted her head and threw in the kitchen sink. “Besides which, I’ve learned so much from watching you and your men at work.” She offered him a genuine smile and said it without a twinge of conscience. Her statement might’ve been aimed at greasing the wheels, but it was also true she’d soaked up a great deal of police procedure by watching the task force in action.
He pressed his lips together, then nodded. “Let Cantrell know who you are up front, and if he agrees to talk to you, knowing you’re Thomas Cassidy’s daughter, then I guess it’s okay by me. Sound fair?”
“Sounds perfect.” Baskin certainly didn’t have to allow her in that interview room. He’d just agreed to do her a big favor—one that might land him in hot water with his chief, and she was grateful. “Thank you . . . Riley.”
His face flushed, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile. “You’re welcome, Caitlin.”
BASKIN ENTERED THE interrogation room ahead of Caitlin, then gave Detective Thompson the there’s-the-door thumb. On his way out, Thompson brushed against her, his bare forearm, sweeping slowly across first one breast then the other.
“Pardon me.” His gaze ran up and down her body. His tone spoke volumes, like he wanted her to know this had been no accident, but he could get away with it easily.
Her stomach twisted in disgust. “Fuck you, Thompson,” she said, barely resisting the urge to coldcock him as she slipped past him into the interrogation room. Shutting the door behind her, she took the one remaining chair in the room, positioning herself next to Baskin and directly across from Cantrell. The man bore little resemblance to the Randy Cantrell she remembered. During her father’s trial, every day without fail, Gail’s fiancé had glared at her from across the courtroom aisle. Back then, his skin had been tanned and his body toned. His hair had been highlighted blond, and his eyes had oozed hatred. Today, his hair had returned to what she assumed was a natural, medium brown, and his physique had softened into that of a near forty-year-old who’d fallen out of love with the gym a long time ago. She doubted he could be the powerful man who’d attacked her at the crime scene, but she couldn’t be sure.
She offered him her hand. “Mr. Cantrell, I’m Caitlin Cassidy.”
“I know who you are.” His eyes scanned her from head to toe, but not in the creepy way Thompson’s had—Cantrell’s gaze seemed more curious than anything.
Surprising that he’d recognized her. She wouldn’t have recognized him after all this time. And Baskin couldn’t have told him to expect her because he’d only walked into the interrogation room a moment before Caitlin.
“You’re Thomas Cassidy’s daughter,” Cantrell said. “You look older than I expected. Weren’t you like eight or something during the trial?”
The trial. That’s how she thought of it, too. “I was fourteen. I might have looked younger because of my pigtails.” She sucked in her breath, half expecting him to blow poison darts at her.
“Right. I remember now how it pissed Gail’s dad off—the way that lawyer paraded you in front of the media every day.” He’d kept his tone even. No poison darts . . . yet.
And he was right about one thing. Baumgartner had paraded her in front of the media for the purpose of gaining the jury’s sympathy. But sympathy was the last thing anyone had shown Thomas Cassidy’s child. The verbal taunts aimed her way during the trial had cut her so deeply, she still felt their sting today—mostly because they’d targeted her father—the man she loved above anyone else in the world. To hear him called a pervert, a monster, the devil’s helper, had been more than a fourteen-year-old daddy’s girl could take. But the trial, the sentencing, and later the appeals seemed to go on forever, and by the time she was eighteen, she’d already developed her hardened shell. She knocked a fist on her chest now, tapping her armor securely in place.
“I saw on the news you got shot. I just wanna tell you I know you didn’t deserve that, and I’m glad you’re okay.”
From the corner of her eye, she could see Baskin’s posture relax, as if he were pleased by Cantrell’s acceptance of her presence here today.
“Thank you.” Her eyes locked with Cantrell’s, and they both leaned in, as if drawn together by a magnetic force—two scarred survivors of the same terrible tragedy, on different paths in life. Yet those paths had crossed in a way that had changed them both forever. “You seem okay, too. I’m glad of that.”
A long sigh escaped his lips. “I have my moments, but I’ve moved on. I teach at the university now, and at least until today, I’d gotten to the point I could even walk by that hill where they found Gail and not think about the way she died. I try to remember the way she lived instead. I have a wife, and beautiful little daughter . . . we named her Rosalind Gail.”
Caitlin’s breath hitched in her chest. His words rang so true, they all but convinced her of his innocence. Because that was how she, too, had survived—by not thinking about how her father had died but rather about how he’d lived. For a moment she couldn’t speak. Searching Cantrell’s face, she looked for the hatred she remembered but found the years had seemingly erased it. In his eyes she saw only sorrow and maybe resignation.
Cantrell’s alibi’s not just airtight. It’s vacuum-sealed.
She cut her eyes to Baskin. “Has he seen the ring?”
Cantrell’s knees jittered under the table, making a soft banging sound. “I’d like to get it back—can I get the ring back, please?”
“Not at this point. It’s evidence in two murder investigations now—if we reopen Gail’s case that is.” Baskin pulled up a set of photographs. “I can’t let you handle it right now either, but I’ve got some real good close-up shots for you to look at, including a few magnified ones of the inscription. Take a look at these if you don’t mind.”
Cantrell grabbed the photos and studied them only a moment before returning them to Baskin. He looked directly at Caitlin. “That’s the engagement ring I gave Gail. That’s what you wanted to know isn’t it, Dr. Cassidy?”
Mutely, she nodded, struggling to compose herself. “Are you absolutely certain this is the same ring you gave Gail? How can you tell it apart from any other pink sapphire?”
“Because of her initials.”
“Sure. But she’s not the only woman in the world whose initials are GF. And someone who wanted to convince us it was hers could easily have had it inscribed. It was reported in the news that a pink sapphire ring with the initials GF was taken as a trophy. This is a round cut, which is the most common. So unless there’s some other distinguishing feature, I’m afraid we can’t be certain it’s the same ring.”
“It’s not just the initials. It has that same fancy script—I paid extra for all those curlicues. Nobody ever said anything about the fancy script in the media—I didn’t even mention it to the police, so no one would know how to copy it. The ring is Gail’s.”
“If that’s true . . .” She pressed her hands to her sides, hesitating, choosing her words carefully. If Cantrell was not a killer, she didn’t want to cause him more pain, but the truth is the truth, and closure isn’t worth a damn if it’s based on a lie. “If the ring is genuine, that means Gail’s killer may still be at large.”
His gaze seemed to freeze on his left hand, and Caitlin noticed a tan
line where his wedding ring had been. Maybe there was trouble at home. “If the ring is genuine,” he said, “that means your father was innocent. I understand why you’re so keen to know if I’m certain. I don’t know if just having the fancy script would hold up as proof in court, but for your own peace of mind, let me say I’m absolutely certain the ring is Gail’s.” The lines around his mouth deepened, and he swung his gaze to Baskin. “I’ve identified the ring, which is why you said you called me down here. If that’s all, Detective, I’d like to get back to my family.”
“Just a couple of more questions if you don’t mind.” Caitlin held up a finger.
Resentment replaced the polite expression on Cantrell’s face, like a switch had flipped. “I do mind, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to stop you.”
“You may be right about that. Please state your name and occupation for the record,” Caitlin took the reins before Baskin could.
“Randall Francis Cantrell. I’m a professor of sociology at Tempe University.”
Baskin frowned and scribbled a note. “Sociology? Not history?”
“Sociology. Look it up if you want.” His jaw clenched. “You asked me to come down here and identify a ring. Then, without preparing me, you bring in Dr. Cassidy. The cherry on top is I don’t even get to see or hold Gail’s ring. And now—now you start in on some tangential line of questioning about what I do for a living. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re looking at me as person of interest in Gail’s murder again.” He spoke through clamped teeth. “How many times do I have to tell you I was on Army Reserve duty that weekend?”
“As many times as it takes. You teach sociology. Do you have any subspecialty or areas of interest?” Caitlin asked, keeping things polite but not letting him get away with dodging her questions.
“My specialty is indigenous Southwestern culture. Is there a point to this line of questioning?”
“Any special interest in Native American art?”
“I collect it. Didn’t know that was a crime.” His voice rose an octave. “My great-grandfather was Native American, and I grew up on his stories. Am I free to go or not?” Cantrell’s eyes seemed to have switched back into that old, angry mode again.
Caitlin studied his face, uneasy about this change in demeanor. Was Randy Cantrell merely a man devoted to his ancestral roots, or was he a cold-blooded psychopath who called himself the Man in the Maze?
“Mr. Cantrell,” Caitlin leaned in and caught his gaze, holding it until he hid from her by pressing his hands to his face. “Mr. Cantrell, did you kill Gail Falconer?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
WHILE CAITY INTERVIEWED Randy Cantrell, Spense watched her on the computer from the precinct viewing room. Her posture was rigid, and her attention intensely focused on the man who’d once been engaged to Gail Falconer. The odd thing to Spense was that when Cantrell declared his certainty that the ring found on Annie Bayberry’s corpse belonged to Falconer, Caity’s body language evidenced no relief. If that ring was the real deal, it almost certainly meant her father had been innocent, yet her facial expression remained stuck in neutral.
Spense could only imagine what it must be like to be in her position. Suppose they uncovered solid proof her father was innocent of Gail Falconer’s murder. How would knowing for certain her father had been executed for a crime he didn’t commit do Caity any good? There was no positive outcome in a situation like this. It was a lose-lose for everyone involved. Either her father was guilty, which would destroy her, or a horrible injustice had been done to him.
He closed his eyes, and a tender wave of admiration swept through him. Caity wasn’t just focused on her own family and her own problems. To him, it seemed she had her fists up, ready to defend any underdog against the whole damn world. He pulled in a deep breath and set his jaw. There was one thing he could do for her: help solve the mystery of Gail Falconer’s murder. It might have seemed an open-and-shut case before, but the placement of Gail’s ring on another woman’s corpse had changed all that.
Wishing he could turn back the clock, wishing he could put things right for her, he gathered his thoughts and looked for a means to achieve some measure of good out of this situation. It crushed him to realize that in this country he loved so much, in this place where the law was meant to protect everyone, the courts often failed to either punish the guilty or acquit the innocent. He hadn’t taken a head-on look at that truth until he’d started spending time with Caity. Whether or not Caity was right about her father, whether or not Thomas Cassidy had murdered Gail Falconer, it didn’t change the cold, hard truth that the system sometimes went badly awry—in both directions.
He was as determined now as Caity was to get to the truth, and he prayed to God that once they found it, the system wouldn’t let her down again. If only she could see Gail Falconer’s killer held accountable for his crime, maybe that would finally bring her some measure of peace. He opened his eyes. The time had come to set things right. The time had come to show Caity that the system, imperfect though it might be, could still work for her. He wanted justice for both Thomas Cassidy and Gail Falconer, and he vowed he wouldn’t give up until he got it.
In the midst of his thoughts, the door pushed open, and Caity entered the viewing room, the look on her face entirely unreadable to him. Considering he was a profiler by trade, that was saying something. She’d always kept her cards close to her chest, but he’d hoped by now he’d have made inroads into her trust issues. “You like Cantrell or not?” He spoke quietly, not wanting to show his hand and influence her assessment.
“What about you?” she fired back.
“Ladies first.”
“All right. No, I don’t like him for Falconer or Annie Bayberry either. I didn’t see the man who attacked me, but I still think I’d know him if we were breathing the same air in a tiny room. But maybe I’m fooling myself with that idea.” She aimed a pensive look his way. “If Cantrell isn’t the Man in the Maze, it’s a really creepy coincidence that he teaches at the university, collects Native American art, and specializes in Southwestern American culture. If not for those things, I’d say no way he did it.”
“This is Arizona, Caity. Plenty of people collect southwestern art, especially when they have a distant Native American bloodline like Cantrell. And let’s not forget his alibi is damn good.”
“His alibi’s not the only reason I’d rule him out . . . if not for the whole sociology-professor thing. I’d rule him out because I can actually feel his love for Gail Falconer. Even when he speaks of his wife and family, it isn’t with the same reverence as when he speaks of her. He loved her, Spense. He wasn’t faking that.”
“Love is a terrible motive for murder, but it’s a common one. So even if he did genuinely love Gail Falconer, that doesn’t rule him out as a suspect.”
“Maybe not for a crime of passion. But for a crime like this?”
She had a point. Most serial killers went outside their close-knit circle. But a first kill might be the exception. A first kill might result from an argument with a loved one, a wrong word that triggered painful memories or feelings of inadequacy. A first kill was a whole different animal than subsequent ones, and he had a gut feeling Gail Falconer had been someone’s first kill, even if not Cantrell’s.
Worry lines formed around Caity’s eyes. “I wish things were falling into place for me, but they’re not. Maybe Baskin was right. Maybe I am too close to this case. Usually, I can size a man up in a snap. I may spend hours in clinical interviews before I make a final decision, but my gut generally tells me in the first hour if an individual is capable of maliciously taking a human life. I’m not getting that vibe from Cantrell at all. Quite the opposite, in fact, but it’s hard to dismiss him as a suspect altogether. He was Gail Falconer’s lover. And we know from the evidence files, they’d been arguing over an alleged affair on her part. The thing about airti
ght alibis is they don’t always hold up over time. At the very least, I’d like to double-check with his commanding officer in the Reserves.”
“Agreed.” He’d have to do some tracking down of said commander first. He didn’t even know if the officer in question was still alive, but he kept that worry to himself.
Her shoulders lowered, and she proffered a small smile. “Thanks, Spense.”
“For what?”
“For having my back. For trusting me. For not pointing out that I’m stepping out of bounds with my role as case consultant.”
“I got no room to reprimand anyone for stepping out of bounds.” He respected the system, and he respected the rules, but sometimes you had to look at the big picture, the greater good.
“Terrific. Then you won’t mind making another stop on the way home.”
“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Caity,” he said, “Only don’t keep me in suspense. What do you have in mind?”
“I’d like to stop by the Baumgartner place on our way home.”
Her pronouncement did little to relieve the suspense, but he waited, allowing her to take her time telling him her reasons.
“Ever since Jenny stopped by your apartment that day, something’s been bothering me.”
His interest was really piqued now. Surely she wasn’t jealous of Jenny. He drew his shoulders back, wanting to set the record straight. “Caity, I know it’s nothing you’d ever ask me about, but just so you know, there’s nothing between Jenny and me.”
Her smile tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Jenny is a beautiful, intelligent woman, Spense. I wouldn’t blame you for taking an interest, and she’s obviously into you.”
“All true.” His chest puffed a bit. No point denying what was plain as the freckle on his cheek. “But I’m not into her. I’m into you.” That shouldn’t surprise her, but he wanted to be clear. Sometimes, you have to state the obvious.
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