by Debra Webb
“Thank you. It was a blow.” There was no other way to put it. Losing her grandmother had shaken Sasha’s world. Perhaps that was why she was here as much as for any other reason.
“I hear you’ve made quite the name for yourself in New York.” Brennan smiled. “Your mother would be proud.”
Sasha nodded, the burn of emotion suddenly attacking her eyes. She really needed to get a hold on herself. “I’m good at what I do.”
“And you have a daughter. I understand she’s quite the dancer. I’m sure you have your sights set on Juilliard.”
Sasha wanted to ask if Brennan had remained close with her grandmother but it didn’t feel right. Why wouldn’t her grandmother have mentioned talking to Brennan?
“She does,” Sasha allowed. “Personally I have my hopes set on Columbia or Princeton.”
Brennan nodded. “Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we expect.”
There was a sadness in her eyes and her voice as she said the words.
“No one knows that better than me,” Sasha agreed. “One day my life was the perfect nine-year-old’s world and the next my parents were dead. Murdered.”
Brennan blinked. “It was a tragedy.”
“My mother was worried about something those last few days of her life,” Sasha lied. She actually had no recall of her mother being upset about anything except her father’s job issue. “You were helping her. I remember you calling and leaving her a message.”
Fear or something on that order flashed in the other woman’s eyes before she schooled the reaction. “Perhaps you didn’t know that your parents were having a difficult time. Your father had lost his job and they were arguing a lot. I tried to be there for her but I’m afraid I failed her miserably. If I’d had any idea Brandon would go that far I would have done something. The fact is, I was out of town on business for days before and after...that night.”
“Is that why the police didn’t interview you?” It seemed strange to Sasha that the police would not have interviewed the victim’s best friend.
“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
One aspect of Sasha’s work that she was particularly good at was reading her clients. It was extremely important that she recognize when one was lying. It wasn’t that she took only clients who were honest and aboveboard—that wasn’t the case at all. But she didn’t take clients who lied to her.
Leandra Brennan was lying.
“Oh.” Sasha frowned. “I guess you haven’t heard.”
Brennan frowned as if she had no idea what Sasha meant.
“Chief Brannigan is reopening the case. New evidence has come to light that suggests my father was innocent. In fact, the same person who murdered my mother murdered him, as well.”
Blink. Blink. Shock. “What new evidence?”
Sasha sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it. I can tell you that someone broke into my grandmother’s house last night and left me a threatening message. It wasn’t pleasant. The chief feels that’s all the more indication that the new investigation is on the right track.”
Sasha hoped the other woman wasn’t so good at ferreting out untruths because she had just woven an elaborate tale that was only partly true.
Brennan put her hand to her chest. “That’s terrible—about the break-in, I mean. I’m glad you’re all right. What kind of message did the intruder leave?”
Sasha held her gaze for a long moment, mostly to drag out the tension. “He said I should have died that night. I guess the killers didn’t realize I was hiding under the stairs and heard everything.” She shook her head. “There were two of them in the house. It’s a shame Chief Holcomb didn’t listen to me all those years ago or my parents’ killers wouldn’t have gotten away with murder.”
“I had no idea.” Brennan’s words were cold and stilted.
“No one did. But now they’re going to know. Because I won’t stop until I find the truth. Actually, I’m hoping you can help me.”
Brennan looked startled. “How would I be able to help you?” As if she’d only just realized how her words sounded, she added, “Of course I will be happy to help any way I can, but I’m not sure how that’s possible. It’s always been my belief that Brandon was the one...and as I said, I was out of town.”
Sasha stood. She reached into her bag and pulled out one of her cards. “I’m certain if you think about it, something will come to you. I still have your message to my mother the day before she was murdered. You were worried—you wanted to warn her about something. When you remember what that something was, call me. Please.”
She placed her card on the desk and turned away from the woman’s stunned gaze.
Sasha had a feeling she’d just shaken the lion’s cage. A roar of a reaction would be coming.
Good. That was the point.
She rode the elevator down to the lobby and walked out of the building. She could almost feel Brennan’s eyes on her as she climbed into her rental car.
All she had to do now was wait for the domino effect.
Chapter Ten
Luther Holcomb no longer lived in Winchester proper. After he retired four years ago, he divorced his wife and moved out into the woods in the middle of nowhere. He spent most of his time fishing or hunting.
Branch supposed a man who’d spent his life being a cop had the right to do whatever he wanted when he reached sixty-five without getting himself dead. Now, as Luther approached seventy, it seemed he rarely even came into town anymore.
Branch parked his truck and stared at the cabin directly in front of him. Was this what happened to a man who spent his life focused on catching criminals? Luther and his wife never had children and then after all those years they just walked away from so many decades invested in a marriage. Had they been living separate lives all along anyway? Branch knew lots of lawmen who did exactly that. The lives they led with the badge were the ones that consumed their existences. Their wives and kids had their own lives. Once in a while—like birthdays and holidays or graduations—those two lives intersected.
Branch didn’t want that kind of life. Maybe it was the idea that he was barreling toward forty but he didn’t want the family life he hoped to one day have to end up a casualty of his career. He wanted what his parents had. He wanted what his grandparents had shared.
He thought of Sasha and her daughter. What kind of life did they have together? Without the girl’s dad in the picture? Her daughter—Brianne—had looked nothing like Branch had expected. He’d expected her to have her mother’s dark hair and green eyes but she’d been blonde with blue eyes. Before he could stop his mind from going there, he imagined Sasha with some New York City hotshot. His gut tightened with envy.
A rap on the glass made him jump. His attention whipped in that direction to find Luther staring at him.
“You gonna sit in there all day?”
Branch couldn’t believe he had allowed the old guy to sneak up on him. He opened the door and climbed out. “Hey, Luther, how are you doing?”
“Well, I’m still above ground, so that’s always a good thing.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Is this an official visit?” Luther eyed him speculatively.
“Kinda sorta.” Branch closed the truck door and leaned against it. “Is that okay?”
Luther shrugged. “Sure. Why not? I just made a batch of shine if you’re interested.”
Branch shot him a grin. “I’ve had your shine before, Luther.” He pressed a hand to his stomach. “I don’t think I should go down that path today.”
“When did they start making you guys so soft?” The older man laughed as he led the way into his house.
Branch followed, removing his hat at the door. “They like us to keep a clear head these days.”
Luther grunted. “Is that supposed to make you better lawmen?”
>
“Presumably.” Branch glanced around at the sparse furnishings and then at the bulletin board with its big calendar and all those crossed-out blocks. “You lining up your fishing calendar?”
“Oh, yeah.” Luther poured himself a little shine in a mason jar and gestured to the seating area. “Sit. Tell me what you’re up to, Mr. US Marshal.”
Branch settled in the nearest chair. “Technically, I’m on vacation, but I’m helping a friend. You remember the Lenoir case?”
Luther collapsed into an ancient recliner. He knocked back a slug of his drink and then nodded. “How could I forget? It was an ugly mess. That poor little girl was shattered.”
“That poor little girl is all grown up now,” Branch commented, “and she wants to know what really happened that night.”
Luther’s gaze narrowed. “You think there was something wrong with the way I conducted the investigation?”
Branch had expected a bit of defensiveness. It was human nature. “No, sir. I reviewed the reports and I think you did everything you could with what you had to work with at the time.”
The tension in Luther’s expression relaxed marginally and he indulged in another shot of homemade liquor, winced at the burn.
“I actually just have one question.”
“What’s that?” Luther set the mason jar down. “The scene was cut-and-dry. Easy to read. A blind man couldn’t have missed the clues to what happened that night.”
“Almost too easy,” Branch noted. Then he asked his question. “Why didn’t you put the little girl’s statement in the file?”
Luther’s eyebrows reared up. “You mean the one she came up with a week later?”
Branch didn’t miss the guy’s skepticism. “She insists she mentioned it the night her parents died but no one was listening.”
“Let’s take a minute and go over what I had,” Luther suggested, “if you have the time.”
“I have the time.” Obviously Branch had struck a nerve. Not surprising. No lawman ever liked having one of his cases called into question.
“Brandon Lenoir got fired for drinking on the job. His blood alcohol level that night, by the way, was point one, well over the legal limit of impairment.” Luther flared his hands. “Do the math. Taking into consideration his size, that means he had at least six beers or drinks in the couple of hours before he died. He didn’t have a reputation for drinking, so I’m thinking that level of alcohol was unusual for him. People do crazy stuff when they’re inebriated—especially someone not accustomed to being in that condition.”
There was no denying that assessment. “So you’re convinced Brandon Lenoir did this? No matter that he had no violent tendencies and from all reports loved his wife.”
Luther shrugged. “Every killer starts somewhere. Many of them were never violent before their first kill. Sometimes people just snap. When he realized what he’d done, he killed himself.”
“Why didn’t he kill his daughter?” Branch countered. “He had to know where she was. If he wanted to kill his family, why leave her alive?”
Luther picked up the mason jar and had another swallow. “We explored the possibility that his wife was having an affair, but we found no evidence of infidelity—on either side.”
“So basically they were a happy family with no serious problems. In fact, losing his job wasn’t a major blow to their financial stability.”
“Maybe it was a pride thing,” Luther offered.
Branch wasn’t buying it, particularly after last night. “You didn’t answer my first question.”
“The victim’s advocate urged Mrs. Simmons to take the child to a psychiatrist. I did the same. She made an appointment immediately and the psychiatrist’s report indicated the girl’s story was something her mind conjured to make her feel better—a defense mechanism. What else was I supposed to do? Pursue a lead on a voice or voices that didn’t exist?”
Branch couldn’t deny the conundrum the man had faced. “You know my grandmother is still convinced Mr. Lenoir didn’t kill his wife.”
“She made her feelings known well enough.” He laughed. “She complained louder than Mrs. Simmons.”
“Did you consider why Mrs. Simmons kept so quiet? Is it possible she was afraid for her granddaughter’s safety?”
This suggestion got the man’s attention. “Did she tell her granddaughter that?”
Branch shook his head. “Nope, but someone broke into Mrs. Simmons’s house last night and left a message for Sasha. You were supposed to die that night.”
“I guess word has gotten around that she’s looking into the case. Some folks don’t like the past being dug up.”
“Unless they have something to hide, why all the fuss?”
“You got a point there, Marshal.” He tossed back the last of his shine. “Let’s talk off-the-record.”
“This entire conversation is off-the-record,” Branch reminded him. “I’m on vacation and anything I do or say is strictly coming from just me.”
“No one really believed Brandon Lenoir would kill his wife, but stranger things have happened. The evidence was clear. There were powder burns on his hand. No indication of forced entry. No evidence of foul play anywhere on the property.”
“But,” Branch argued, “I’m guessing it was the psychiatrist’s conclusion that Sasha had made up the voices that convinced you to close the case?”
“If I have to pinpoint one thing, yeah. It was his report.”
“Why isn’t that report in the case file?” Seemed strange to Branch to leave out the primary reason for his conclusion.
“Mrs. Simmons didn’t want any record of her granddaughter having emotional issues. I guess she was afraid the conclusion would haunt her in the future. I figure that honoring her wishes was the least I could do under the circumstances.”
“Can I pass the psychiatrist’s name on to Sasha? If he’s still practicing she may want to meet with him.”
“Sure. It was Dr. Bruce Farr. His office is across from the hospital. He doesn’t see many patients anymore. He’s some big-deal board member at the hospital these days.”
Branch stood. “Thanks, Luther. I appreciate your help.”
Luther pushed to his feet, gave Branch’s hand a shake. “I’m not so sure I helped.”
“If you think of anything else that might be useful, I would appreciate a call.” Branch reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his cards.
“Sure thing.” Luther took the card. “Bill called me. He wants to meet later to do this same thing.”
Branch wasn’t surprised. “It might be better if you don’t mention I was here.”
Luther grinned. “I never kiss and tell.”
Branch was back on the main highway before his cell service kicked in again. He pulled over to review a couple of text messages from Sasha. She had met with Leandra Brennan and learned very little. Chief Brannigan wanted to meet with her, so she was headed to city hall. Branch sent her a message explaining he’d met with Luther and intended to follow up with the shrink who had examined her, and then the coroner.
She promised to call him as soon as her meeting with Brannigan ended.
Branch drove back to town and took the turn that wound around by the hospital. Dr. Farr’s office was a brick building directly across the street. Branch pulled into the small lot and climbed out. He settled his hat into place and walked to the entrance.
The door was locked. The office hours posted on the door showed Wednesday through Friday from one to four. There was an emergency contact number but Branch preferred catching the man in person to question him. He didn’t want to give him a chance to prepare answers or to blow Branch off.
He moved on, heading to the veterinarian’s office on Decherd Boulevard. The drive took only a few minutes. Burt Johnston had been the county coroner for about forty years. He also operated two
large veterinarian offices. By trade the man was a veterinarian. Though he mostly oversaw the operations from a distance these days, folks still considered him the top vet in the area.
Didn’t seem to matter to anyone that he also pronounced their deceased loved ones.
A technician waved Branch through. He found Burt in his office. Branch knocked and was summoned inside.
“Well, if it’s not our celebrity US marshal. You chasing down another big mob element here in Winchester?”
Branch laughed. “No, I think we’ve cleared all that up.”
Burt gestured to a chair. “What can I do for you today, Branch?”
“Tell me what you remember about the Lenoir case. Anything that stood out as a question for you?”
Burt shook his head. “It was a pretty straightforward situation.” He shook his head again. “That poor child was the worst part. She was crying at the top of her lungs. Until we got her grandma there, it was a nightmare.”
“Did you see anyone near the house that night who shouldn’t have been there? Maybe someone who was there to see the show?”
Crime scenes were like car accidents—people often went out of their way to see.
“Not that I can recall. Two of Luther’s boys got there first. Officers Kenyon and Lacon. When I arrived, Kenyon was in the front yard puking his guts out and Lacon was trying to calm the kid down.”
“No neighbors or code scanners showed up?” Some folks listened to the police scanners and rushed to the scenes of crimes. The internet had made the uploading of photos and videos for titillation a way of life.
“The officers were there. I came next. I was already in the area when I received the call. The ambulance was right behind me and then Luther brought up the rear.”
“As you know,” Branch ventured, “Viola Simmons passed away and her granddaughter is in town settling her affairs. She has a lot of questions about what happened and she’d like to have answers to those questions while she’s here. She’s waited a long time to put this behind her. I’ve offered to help her find those answers.”
