CHAPTER 39 - Rita

CHAPTER 39RitaI’M SUPPOSED TO BE OFF TODAY, BUT I WAS JUST DRIVING MYSELF CRAZY at home, so I came in. We need to get our suspects in for questioning, but better to wait until Sheriff Skinner gets back to me with what his forensics team found. That report will be key in our questioning. But I’m antsy as hell waiting. I’ve worked through files on my other cases, made a few phone calls, but the Bradley case intrudes on my thoughts, scenarios running around and around, squirrels in a cage.My phone rings. An unfamiliar number pops up on the screen.“Rita?” At first, I don’t recognize the voice.“Yes.”“Joe Thorne.”I break into a smile. Joe and I go back a ways, but I haven’t heard from him in a couple of years. He’s an FBI agent I’d worked with on a case five or six years ago. And the memories of that case—or, more especially, what happened afterward—bring a flutter to my heart and a blush to my cheeks. He’d reached out a few times in the subsequent years, but I, coward that I am when it comes to relationships, had let things drop. Now here he is again, stepping back into my world, and I’m both excited and troubled at the prospect, but above everything else, I’m a professional. I can handle this.“Great to hear from you, Joe. It’s been a while. How are you?”“Fine. Getting old.” I laugh with him. He doesn’t sound old. “Looks like we’ll be working together on this Annalise Robb case.”“Sheriff Skinner turning the hard work over to you guys?”“Yeah. Since it looks like our focus is turning to several people of interest in Graybridge, he reached out, asked for our help.”“Has Sheriff Skinner told you guys anything new?”“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “The initial lab report on the blood found in the Bradley basement has come back. It’s been identified as Ms. Robb’s.”I blow out a breath, sink back in my chair. “So she was killed in the Bradley basement?”“Looks that way.”“Then we have a lot to talk about, Agent Thorne.”“We do,” he says.Is he implying more than police work? I take a deep breath, drop my feet to the floor. “Alrighty then, Joe. Let’s get to it.” After arranging the particulars, I hang up. Chase is standing in my doorway.“What did you hear?” I ask, hoping that the blush on my cheeks has dissipated.“Not much? Who’s Agent Thorne?”“FBI. They’ll be here Monday.”* * *I hear voices in the hall and loud footsteps. Someone’s in a hurry. Mrs. Bradley and her sister burst into my office, Chase in their wake.“We need some help here,” Corrine Alworth says, slamming an envelope on my desk.“What’s this?” I ask.“It was in my sister’s mail yesterday.”Mrs. Bradley has dropped into the chair across from me, pulled up her legs, and practically rolled herself into a ball like a scared kid might. Her dog pants at her side, lolling tongue, perky ears. Emotion radiates from all three of them,I inspect the return address. Hmmm. Sing Sing. Read through the letter. “This was sent to Dr. Bradley?”Mrs. Alworth nods. She’s standing behind her sister, a hand on her shoulder.I drop the letter on the desk. “Just another subject for his book, right?” I ask tentatively, but something’s up.Mrs. Bradley chokes out a sob and covers her eyes with her hands. Something is very strange here.Mrs. Alworth draws a deep angry breath. “Keith Russell is in prison for assaulting my sister when she was just a child.”“I’m sorry to hear that.” I get it. That sucks that the doctor would be interested in talking to him then.“Detective.” Mrs. Alworth is leaning over my desk, teeth bared. “My sister is Melinda Wright.”Okay, that name rings a bell. Think, Rita. I know this case. It comes back. Bits and pieces. It was a very long time ago. But it was a national sensation. Two little girls abducted and held in the cellar of an old farmhouse for three days. It was an ugly story.The realization hits me right between the eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bradley,” I say, afraid we haven’t been sensitive enough. Afraid we’ve added to her pain. Jesus, she’s a misery magnet. No wonder she needs a therapy dog. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask quietly.Mrs. Bradley’s bloodshot eyes meet mine. “I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want this. Any of it.”“Why tell me now?”Mrs. Alworth clenches her fists. “She’s been getting crank calls since her husband was killed.”I dig for my notebook. “What kind of calls?”Mrs. Alworth describes them, stopping occasionally to get corroboration from her sister that she’s got it right.“The caller is threatening you, Mrs. Bradley?”“Yes,” the sister answers.“Why?” It doesn’t really make sense. How does it fit in with her husband’s murder? Maybe it doesn’t. The perp had at least two opportunities to assault Mrs. Bradley, but he didn’t. She was asleep upstairs when her husband was killed. And then when the perp came back, he went into the garage but made no attempt to get into the house, where Mrs. Bradley was alone and vulnerable.“I don’t know,” she chokes out.“Okay. We’ll see what we can do.” I tap my notebook with my pencil.Chase steps forward. “I can handle it, Rita. I’ll take Mrs. Bradley’s statement and see if we can trace the calls.”The three of them exit my office, dog in tow, and I take a deep breath. This case is getting more complicated by the minute.