Chapter 15

15

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 9:05 A.M.

DETECTIVE CLANCY CRADLED HIS CUP of coffee in his hands. "Clearly this has something to do with Miss Winslow, given that someone's broken into her house several times now. Also, that someone broke into your offices, Burke, and stole two of your laptops, shooting Joy Thomas in the process and chasing Miss Winslow through the Quarter. And that the gun that killed Jack Elliot ended up in Medford Hughes's dead hand. And that some two-bit thug who still won't tell me his name broke into this house last night intending to burn it down. And, finally , that you all are here and brainstorming. I don't expect you're here for the biscuits and gravy, even though they're amazing." He pointed to the easel against the wall. "I'm betting that there's a whiteboard around here somewhere with your notes all over it. Captain Holmes has told me about how y'all work," he finished with a drawl. "So…what in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks is going on here?"

Cora froze, waiting for someone at the table to speak, but everyone was looking at her. Like this was her choice. She glanced at Phin, who was watching Clancy carefully.

"Do you trust him?" she asked Phin quietly.

Phin nodded slowly. "I think so."

"He's never given us a reason not to," Burke added. "Although lots of others hadn't given us reasons not to trust them until they did. It's up to you."

"At least I know it's going to be good," Clancy said. "Look, Miss Winslow, I know that you all have been searching your attic for the past two evenings, well into the night." He took a sip of coffee when Cora turned her surprised stare on him. "I put an unmarked car at the end of your street after you came to see me on Tuesday morning. After you fled for your life from whoever shot Joy Thomas. I apologize that whoever took your statement after the break-ins didn't treat the situation with the urgency it deserved. Had I known, I would have at least ordered drive-bys. Once I'd talked to you, I did put surveillance on your house. Last night it was me."

"I wondered how you'd gotten here so fast," Stone observed. "You walked in with the uniforms who responded to the 911."

Cora had to process that. "Wait. You were here, at the end of my street, for two days? You said that I couldn't have protection."

"It wasn't protection. It was surveillance. And I was only here last night. I had someone else here during the day and the night before. After my guys told me that you all had been searching the attic Tuesday night, I decided it was worth my time to check it out."

Cora turned to Antoine. "And we didn't know he was there? Our cameras didn't pick him up?"

Antoine looked embarrassed, as well he should, Cora thought, irritated. "There were no lurkers within our camera range," Antoine said. "How far down were you? I'll get wider-angled lenses on the property, stat."

Clancy chuckled good-naturedly. "I was sitting in my back seat, so you wouldn't have caught me on your cameras, even if they'd been wide-angled. The back seat's more comfortable and I could slouch down and watch without you seeing me."

Nasty shivers raced over Cora's skin. "Did anyone else do that?"

Clancy sobered. "Yes. There was a Toyota Camry parked not too far from where I was last night. Ran the plates. It was a rental. I was about to approach, but then all hell broke loose at your house. I saw the little asshole climbing into your window and then I heard Dispatch request a unit to your address." He gestured to Molly. "Miss Sutton had called 911, and I responded. I'd called in the license plate of the Camry right before Dispatch announced your 911 call, but the Camry was gone by the time we finished up here. I figured an intruder in your house outweighed a possible reporter." He looked around the table. "That was a mistake, I take it?"

"I don't know," Cora said honestly. "What was the license plate of the Camry?"

Clancy frowned. "He's followed you before?"

"Yesterday," Val said. "He tailed us when we were leaving the library. Cora had gone into work for her laptop, only to find out that the Camry had been there that morning, waiting for her in the parking lot."

Clancy straightened, putting his cup on the table. "Who saw the Camry at the library?"

"My boss, Minnie Edwards," Cora said. "She thought the guy was a reporter. She said that he was young, handsome, and somehow familiar."

"I'll go chat with your boss this morning," Clancy said. "I want to get her with a sketch artist. Now, don't think I've been distracted from my original question. What's going on? I need to know."

Cora sighed. "We aren't sure exactly. It has something to do with my father. He had some kind of…side business." She had to be careful with what she said. Her father's clients had escaped for reasons. Some of them might not have been legit, but some, like Alice VanPatten, were. "We only have hints. Like, he had a secret Swiss bank account. We were going to the bank today to find out more about it. He left receipts for items that had nothing to do with the accounting business he legitimately ran."

Clancy's brows shot up. "Legitimately? So the side business was not legitimate?"

Cora shrugged. "He had a secret Swiss bank account, Detective. You tell me. All I know is that he was involved in something that he kept very secret and that he was murdered. And that whoever killed him kept the gun and used it again on Medford Hughes. Or maybe it was stolen by whoever killed Medford Hughes. That person also wanted my private investigator's laptops, presumably for information about me. They got nothing from the laptops, by the way. They were wiped."

"We figured that ourselves, too," Clancy said dryly. "My IT people think you're a god, Mr. Holmes."

Antoine looked slightly mollified from his earlier humiliation. "It's true."

Clancy laughed. "God. You've surely got yourself a passel of characters, Broussard. So, Miss Winslow, you're looking for records of whatever your father was into, I take it."

"We are," Cora confirmed.

Clancy tilted his head, studying her. "And what have you found?"

"Receipts and a Swiss bank account." That was God's truth. She'd found Alice VanPatten through her own Google search. "We're still trying to learn who wrote me all those letters."

"Ah, the letters." Clancy picked up his cup again. "I got a hefty envelope from Detective Goddard in Houma late last night. He sent me copies of the letters. He said he'd be sending me the originals by courier today."

"What else did he send you?" Cora asked.

"Nothing yet. He's preparing to transfer everything he has in evidence. Mainly things found around the body." He hesitated. "Are you sure you want me to continue? The victim was your father."

"I'm sure," Cora said and almost believed herself.

Phin tapped Delores, who was sitting next to Cora. "Switch with me."

Delores complied, giving Phin a sweet smile. "Of course."

Phin sat beside Cora, taking her hand. "If you want him to stop, you just say so. You and I can go out to the garden while he tells Burke."

What a sweet man. Cora squeezed his hand, grateful for his very visible support. "Thank you. I will say something if I can't handle it, but I've heard most of this before. I know he was found with one chipped rib, probably from a bullet, and two bullet holes in his skull. Those two bullets were found with the skull." Which was how they'd tested the ballistics of the weapon that had fired them.

"And so far, that's all I know," Clancy said. "He was wrapped in plastic, which didn't stop the decay but it did protect the bones."

Cora swallowed. "And his hair. That's how they got the DNA they used to ID him."

Clancy nodded. "You told me that when you came in on Tuesday morning. That you'd donated your own DNA to find out if you had any other relatives on your father's side because you'd been unable to locate your father to donate bone marrow for your brother. I'm sorry, Miss Winslow. That has to be hard, to discover that your search was in vain. But it did allow the Terrebonne Parish sheriff's office to ID your father's remains. So there was purpose."

"I know. I'm coming to grips with that. What else do you know, Detective Clancy?"

"Not much. I'll go see your boss as soon as I leave here. I want a description on whoever was following you. Does the library have cameras?"

"We do, but only around the book return slot." She grimaced. "People abuse that slot."

Everyone around the table grimaced along with her. "So gross," Val murmured.

"It really is," Cora agreed, pleased with how she'd shifted the conversation away from her father's side business. She wasn't going to give Alice up. The woman had suffered enough.

She rose, ready to have the detective out of her house. He'd managed to clean his plate amid the conversation, but she could be charitable. "I can fix you a plate to take with you, Detective. But I need to be getting to the bank."

"I'm good, Miss Winslow, but thank you. You're a damn fine cook." He stuck out his hand for Burke to shake. "Call me when you're ready to tell me everything. Make it soon, please. Subpoenas are a pain in my ass."

Burke shook his hand. "When we get a clearer picture, we will."

Clancy frowned. "Translated, there are things you aren't telling me and probably never will. Miss Winslow, I can't help you if I'm flying blind. Can I at least get those receipts you mentioned?"

Cora turned to Molly. "We have copies, yes?"

"Of course we do," Molly said. She produced a folder from her large handbag. "They're right here."

"That was too easy," Clancy grumbled. "I'll be going now. Y'all have a good morning. Call me if the Camry tails you again. I'll get an unmarked car to your location and they can follow the Camry after you've lost it."

Val walked him to the door and Cora began clearing the breakfast plates, feeling grim. "That Camry better just be an overzealous reporter," Cora said, her jaw tight.

"We can hope," Burke said, equally grim.

"You were awesome, Cora," Val said when she returned. "Nice evasion. Burke really should be paying you."

"I'm not snitching on Alice VanPatten." Cora wished that she and Phin were back in their blanket fort. She'd felt safer there. But hiding wouldn't help. "My father's murderer is close by, isn't he?"

Burke shrugged. "We can't afford not to proceed that way, at the very least. You'll wear Kevlar when we go out today, Cora. Everyone will. To the bank, to see Detective Goddard in Houma, when you go out to walk your dog in the backyard. No complaints. Val, do you have an extra vest?"

"In my car," Val said. "I'll get it for you, Cora."

Phin had tensed, his fingers back in SodaPop's coat. It had been at the mention of Kevlar, which wasn't a huge surprise. Gunshots would likely be triggering.

"You don't have to go with me," she whispered, selfishly hoping he wouldn't take the way out she'd just offered. But she wouldn't ask him for more than he could give.

He gave her a grumpy look. "Don't even suggest it. I'm going. Besides, I've never been in a Swiss bank before."

Stone laughed. "Swiss banks look just like any other bank," he said. "When I was younger, I thought they'd wear those striped Swiss Guard uniforms, like the guys who guard the pope. I was very disappointed. Burke, how long before Clancy gets a warrant for Cora's attic? Because he's going to."

"We have at least this afternoon," Burke said. "We turned over the receipts we found readily. If Clancy figures out the tie to Alice VanPatten on his own, we'll deal with it, but I don't think he'll find it too easy to get a warrant on Cora considering she's been up front with the police so far."

"I'll call Alice," Cora said. "She has a life now. I don't want her blindsided by this. At least if she's warned, she can come up with a plausible reply if Clancy comes knocking."

Antoine dug into the pocket of one of his laptop cases, producing a burner phone. "Use this."

"Thank you. I had to give the police the one I used to call 911 from your office washroom. I'll get the papers I'll need for the bank. I'll take care of the dishes later."

Delores shook her head. "You cooked. I'll clean up. Don't forget about the secret passageway. And the antique cookbooks."

Cora smiled at the tiny woman. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Uptown, New Orleans, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 10:15 A.M.

Sage slipped a hundred-dollar bill to the guard in front of his grandfather's gated community. "Text me if he comes in?"

"You got it. He just left an hour ago. He's unlikely to return any time soon."

"That's what we thought yesterday."

The guard grimaced. "His schedule has been less predictable lately."

Because Alan was distracted by whatever trouble Cora Winslow had brought to his door.

Sage set out on foot, walking to his grandfather's mansion. He'd parked about a half mile away but hadn't driven his own car. The Porsche was far too memorable. He'd divested himself of Sanjay's Camry after driving it to the old librarian's house and then to where Sanjay would have picked it up.

Taking care of the librarian hadn't been that difficult. Taking care of Sanjay had been much harder.

Sanjay had met him at the coordinates that Sage had provided the night before. Sage had prepared himself to shoot the man, but Sanjay's look of shock and betrayal still haunted him.

Sage had made it quick, shooting Sanjay in the head and leaving his body in the Camry. And then he'd taken Sanjay's two-year-old Kia to a chop shop, trading it for a clunker that the owner of the shop swore still ran like a dream.

Sage cared more that the fifteen-year-old Toyota Corolla had clean license plates, like the guy promised.

Sage had worn the disguise he used when he went clubbing when he'd traded Sanjay's car. He didn't want anyone recognizing him.

Like Minnie Edwards had.

He'd worn a ski mask when he'd broken the joke of a lock on the old librarian's kitchen door, gaining entry in seconds. He'd been armed with the small handgun he'd taken from Joy Thomas, not that he expected to use it. It would be too loud. He'd decided that a pillow would do.

But the old woman had woken as he'd stood over her, one of her pillows in his hands. Surprisingly strong, she'd fought him, yanking the mask from his head.

There had been a moment of terror in her eyes, and then there'd been recognition—of him from the library, he'd assumed. And then her expression had changed and he'd seen true recognition.

He'd heard it in her whispered "Sage."

That had startled him. He'd hesitated for a heartbeat, but knew that he'd have to follow through. She had to have recognized him from his grandfather's TV ministry. Or from one of the ads on billboards all over town. One pillow to the face later, and Minnie Edwards was no longer a threat.

He should be feeling worse about what he'd done. It kind of bothered him that he didn't. Yes, he felt guilty over Sanjay because he'd known him. He hadn't known the librarian, but she was still a person. He should be feeling worse about her death.

Regardless, it was done. His loose ends were snipped. And now he'd find out exactly what his grandfather had hidden in that safe. He took off at a jog, his workout attire helping him blend in on the sidewalks of the high-priced community.

He slipped into the house, avoiding the help. He knew their routines. Knew that the cook would be watching television and the maid would be taking her hour-long smoking break.

Alan was filming at the central offices today, so Lexy would be there, too. The smiling couple with the perfect life.

If their faithful parishioners ever found out…

Pulling on a pair of gloves, Sage locked the study door behind him, making a beeline for the hinged bookshelf. A single tug had it moving fluidly aside, the shelf balanced perfectly. The builder must have known what he was doing.

He twisted the dial. One-zero-fifteen.

Holding his breath, he pulled at the handle and stuck his hand inside.

The photograph was near the back of the safe, lying on top of a stack of thick folders. Hands sweaty inside the gloves, he held the photo up to the light, just as Alan had done the night before.

It was a girl. She was wearing a graduation cap and gown, her smile bright. Her hair was golden and curly, her eyes wide and trusting.

Sage had never seen her before, but her face was familiar, as were her blond curls. Same with the dimple in her left cheek, deepened by her smile.

Sage's hair was the same color. He saw that same dimple in the mirror every time he shaved. Their eyes were the same.

She was family. He was certain. But who was she?

And what did she have to do with Cora Winslow?

The details around the young woman were slightly blurred, but he could still make out a few letters in the sign behind her. He hoped he could figure out who she was and where the photo had been taken.

He snapped a photo of the photograph with his phone. He'd work on deciphering the details later after he was back in his apartment.

He pulled the first folder off the stack and rifled through its contents. He recognized these papers. They were the reports he himself had made on the individuals Alan had him either follow or search their homes.

Those were people who sought to steal from them, to take advantage of Alan's generosity. Two had wanted to shake Alan down, demanding money for protection.

Nice auditorium you've got here. Pretty stained-glass windows. Be a shame if it all burned down.

Sage had found sufficient dirt on them to keep them all away. But most of the people Sage had investigated were just con artists trying to make a buck or two or a thousand. The details in Sage's reports had been used by Alan to get his enemies to back off.

Sage hadn't thought anything wrong with what they'd done. They'd simply used the subjects' own pasts against them. Everyone had at least one skeleton in their closet.

Sage had learned to exploit those secrets. Just like he'd do to Alan.

They'd never physically hurt anyone.

Until Alan had killed Medford Hughes and his wife.

And until I killed that old librarian.

And Sanjay.

Sage didn't believe in God. Didn't believe in hell, no matter how many times Alan had ranted about it. He wasn't afraid of eternal damnation.

But he'd never actually killed before. He thought about the way the old lady had struggled. How betrayed Sanjay had looked.

Stop. He couldn't dwell on them now. He'd have a crisis of conscience later.

He looked through the next folder and his eyes grew wide.

Holy shit. This is about me. Every detail of Sage's life, including the clubs he liked to frequent—far from New Orleans, of course, where someone might recognize him. He always went to Gulfport, Mississippi, and he wore the same wig and glasses that he'd worn to the chop shop that morning.

He hadn't thought that anyone had recognized him in the clubs. But clearly someone had known he was there.

There were pages and pages of information. Photographs of the men and women he'd taken to hotels after the clubs had closed. Each report was signed by his grandfather's private investigator. A guy by the name of Dave Reavey.

Sonofabitch. His grandfather had built a blackmail file on Sage, too.

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he was.

He shouldn't have been hurt, but he was that, too.

He set that folder aside. He'd be taking it with him.

The next folder was an eye-opener, too. Alan had been having Lexy followed for a long time by the same PI he'd set on Sage. Alan had been spying on Lexy since the very beginning of their marriage. Seems like the PI's sole function is to keep tabs on Lexy and me.

There was nothing here. Lexy had done nothing wrong. She met with charities and visited sick people in the hospital. She had standing appointments with her hairdresser and her personal trainer, but there was no dirt there, either.

Lexy was a model wife.

Sage wondered what she'd think about this. He grabbed one report at random and slid it into the folder with his own.

Leverage with Lexy, should he need it.

His phone buzzed with a text. Dammit. He wasn't finished yet.

He checked the message, expecting it to be from the guard at the gate, but it was from his grandfather.

I need you to meet me in my office at the church in 30 minutes. Do not be late.

Sage looked around the study. Had the old man installed cameras of his own? Was Sage being watched right now?

He was tempted to tell the old man to fuck himself, but he wanted to know where he stood. He was armed and now he had evidence on the old man. He wasn't sure what the photo meant, but he'd find out.

He'd begun to put the folders back when he found two manila envelopes in the back of the safe. One held cash—stacks of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. There were five stacks of fifty. Twenty-five grand in all. The year on the bills…twenty-three years ago.

Lots of things happening twenty-three years ago.

If the money was connected to Jack Elliot's death, he wanted no part of it, so he put the envelope back.

The other envelope contained more photographs, all of the same girl. Most seemed to have been taken from far away, with a long-range lens, maybe.

They started when she was a toddler, playing on a jungle gym on a playground. Another was the same girl at about age eight. She wore a Girl Scout uniform and sat at a table outside, selling cookies. There was a photo of the girl in a formal dress with a corsage strapped to her wrist. Another of her walking down the street, an older woman at her side.

Sage captured all the photos with his phone.

This girl was the source of his grandfather's distraction.

This girl had something to do with Cora Winslow.

This girl could bring Alan down.

Now Sage just needed to find out who she was.

Closing the safe, he hurried out of Alan's study, out of the house, then caught a cab home. He'd come back for the chop shop's Corolla later, if it was still there.

He needed to change his clothes and do his grandfather's bidding.

He should be nervous, but he found himself only curious.

What had the old man done now?

Houma, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 12:05 P.M.

"I hope this goes better than the bank did," Cora grumbled as she freshened her lipstick. She was nervous about seeing the detective in Houma.

Today she'd be asking harder questions than she had on previous visits. Today she'd be asking for photos.

At least she had support. Three of their team had accompanied her—Phin, Val, and Burke. Val was driving the bullet-resistant SUV and Phin was in the back seat with Cora, SodaPop at their feet.

Burke followed them in his truck. If the black Camry or any other vehicle started to tail them, Burke would herd them away, so that the local cops could pick them up.

"The bank didn't go badly," Val said. "I'd have been shocked if they'd handed you the statements from your father's account. There's always paperwork."

There had been. Stacks of paperwork. And Cora had read every page before signing. Phin had stood watch over her while she'd pored over each document the bank handed her. Burke stood guard inside the bank, Val outside.

No one was getting to Cora on their watch.

Their investigation on Cora's behalf had started out as a way to get to whoever had shot Joy. Now, it was personal for all of them.

Cora sighed. "I honestly thought that all I'd need to do is prove I was Jack Elliot's daughter and they'd at least give me a printout of the transactions."

The bank said they'd get back to them in a few days.

Plenty of time for Clancy to get a subpoena, dammit.

"Are we getting out?" Cora asked.

Val nodded. "Just waiting for Burke to park his truck. We're going to have you surrounded at all times."

Cora slumped. "And I appreciate it. It's just…confining."

"It won't be forever," Val said cheerfully.

Phin hoped it would be for a long time, though. He hadn't gotten his fill of Cora Winslow yet. Not by a long shot. He hoped she felt the same.

She took his hand and squeezed it. It was a good sign. He hadn't had a chance to kiss her again, but right now she was stressed. He made do with kissing her temple and she relaxed into his side.

Burke's truck rolled to a stop and he got out first. Phin tugged Cora to his side of the SUV, helping her out, his dog falling into step beside him. He, Val, and Burke surrounded her as they walked into the building that housed the Terrebonne Parish detectives.

Cora had called Detective Goddard when they'd been about twenty minutes out, letting him know they were coming. Burke had been against it, thinking that would give the man ample time to leave if he didn't want to talk to her. But Cora insisted that it was only polite and one caught more flies with honey.

She'd also already made the call before informing Burke, apologizing versus asking permission.

Phin liked her style.

Goddard ushered them into a meeting room. The man was a fourth-generation cop and had several awards. Phin had looked him up. He'd also served in the navy and while that wasn't as good as the army, of course, it was still a mark in the man's favor.

Goddard gave Cora a smile as she sat at the meeting room table. "I figured you'd be calling me after I got the call from NOPD this morning. Hell of a twist, the gun that killed your father being found at the scene of a staged suicide."

"You could say that," Cora said quietly. "I need some information. I hope that you can help me."

He looked wary. "I'm sending everything I have to Detective Clancy."

Cora shook her head. "I'm not asking you to hold anything back from Clancy. But my life is now being targeted. Someone broke into my house again last night. He was armed and prepared to burn my house down. The intruder who broke into Mr. Broussard's firm on Tuesday shot one of Mr. Broussard's colleagues. She almost didn't make it."

"I heard about that," Goddard said. "You're okay, though? And Mr. Broussard's colleague, too?"

"Cora is fine, and our office manager will be," Burke said, taking control of the conversation. "We have some specific questions, especially given this morning's ballistics report. I think you might have held back information when you first talked with Miss Winslow, out of respect for her shock and grief. But she needs to know as many specifics about her father's death as is possible. We need to know so that we can help her. What can you tell us?"

Goddard studied the four of them for a moment, then glanced down at SodaPop. "Whose service dog?"

"Mine," Phin said, proud that he hadn't felt an iota of shame in the admission. "PTSD."

"I looked you all up when Clancy told me that Miss Winslow had hired your firm, Mr. Broussard. He said you'd be by sooner or later. I honestly wasn't expecting an entire entourage, but given that you've had an armed intruder and someone following you, I understand it."

Phin could see that Burke was irritated because Goddard was letting Burke know that he didn't hold all the control. "What can you tell us, Detective Goddard?" Burke repeated.

Goddard didn't even blink. "Clancy called again this morning with the ballistics report and asked me not to reveal anything we hadn't mutually agreed to."

Cora's shoulders sagged. "Then we've wasted our time."

"Maybe not. I can show you photos of your father's remains. And I can tell you about the summary of the handwriting expert's analysis on the many, many letters."

Cora nodded once. "All right, then. Let's see the photos."

Phin decided to step in. "Perhaps Burke, Val, and I can look at the photos. I'd prefer Cora not have those images in her mind."

Cora raised her brows at him, assuming her regal-heiress persona. "You'd prefer ?"

Phin didn't back down. "You don't want the dreams, Cora. Trust me."

She deflated. "You're right. On this, anyway. What about the handwriting analysis, Detective Goddard?"

"First of all, I just got it myself a few days ago." He took a single sheet of paper from the folder in front of him. "I can't hand this over to you, but perhaps you can give us a lead. In the opinion of the expert, the same person signed all of the letters. Of course, the signature is just ‘Your dad, Jack Elliot,' but there are nineteen years' worth of those same four words. There was a difference in the signatures before and after the four-year time gap."

"From when I was twenty-two until I was twenty-six," Cora said. "They started back up two years ago."

When she'd started looking for her father in earnest.

"Exactly. The signer's signature has grown a little more cramped, suggesting he's experiencing some mild arthritis. Since osteoarthritis is most commonly seen starting at about age fifty, we're estimating that the writer is now in his mid to late fifties or early sixties."

"He would have been in his early to midthirties when my father was killed, then," Cora said. "That's helpful. I guess."

"Your attorney's about the right age," Phin said.

Cora frowned at him. "Harry is not involved. I can't believe it."

"Harry Fulton?" Goddard asked. "Clancy told me that he accompanied you to the police station on Tuesday. Next time, hire a defense attorney," he added. "Clancy said the man was in way over his head."

"He's been my family's attorney since before I was born." She glared at Phin. "It's not him."

"Okay," Phin said.

"Do not patronize me, Phin," she said quietly.

"I'm not. Honestly. It doesn't matter what either of us thinks right now with respect to Harry Fulton. It matters what the evidence shows."

Goddard nodded. "He's right, Miss Winslow. For what it's worth, Clancy doesn't believe he's involved, either. He sent me a sample of the man's handwriting—from when he signed in at the station. His handwriting doesn't match the letters. But please, don't go anywhere with him alone until either Clancy—or your PIs, of course—have cleared him."

Cora gave a frustrated huff. "So the letter writer is a man in his mid to late fifties, early sixties right now. What else does the analysis tell you?"

"There's now a slight tremble in the r in ‘your.'?" Goddard put two more pieces of paper on the table and turned them toward Cora, handing her a magnifying glass. "Here's a pre-gap letter and this one is the last letter you received. All of the post-gap letters have that tremble."

Cora squinted at the two pages, then nodded. "I see what you mean."

Burke leaned over to take a look, his admiration reluctant. "I didn't catch that when I read the letters. Your analyst has some expertise."

"Yes, he does," Goddard said. He pulled back the copies of the two letters and returned them to his folder. "He's very good. What else can I do for you?"

Burke frowned. "That's it? Seriously?"

Phin agreed with his boss, but it didn't look like Goddard was going to give them anything more unless they asked the right questions. "We'd also like to know about the burial site," Phin said. "Who knew they'd be pouring concrete that day?"

Goddard nodded. "Good question. I found the foreman who oversaw that building project. He's retired now. Very helpful fella. He said that when the body was recovered, he was stunned. He got two of the workers on that part of the project on a Zoom call the day the body was found. They figured the cops would be asking questions and they wanted to remember how that day went. But twenty-three years is a long time, so they didn't remember a whole lot. They did remember that it had been raining in the days before the day they poured, so their schedule was delayed. The foundation area was prepped and ready to go. One of the guys remembered covering the area with a tarp when the rain started, but it wasn't a tight fit, just enough to keep the rain out. Anyone could have lifted it and lowered the body into the hole they'd dug."

"Someone had to have known that," Phin said. "You don't just show up with a body if you don't know that you'll have a place to hide it."

"That's what I thought," Goddard agreed. "Unfortunately, the foreman said he'd been rescheduling the next steps, so all the contractors knew. He also said that all the business owners in the area would come by to check the progress. Nothing nefarious, just curious. They had to keep repairing the fences around the job site because kids would sneak in to look. It was their biggest construction project up until then—and since—so some of the details stood out."

"So a lot of people knew about the foundation," Phin said glumly. "Dammit."

Cora squared her shoulders. "What about the photos of my father's remains?"

Goddard handed an envelope to Burke. "Don't look at them, Miss Winslow. Please."

Burke took the folder. "Val and I will do that for you. Phin, are you okay to look at them?"

"Check them first. If there's no blood or body parts, I'll be okay." Bones he could deal with.

Burke opened the envelope and examined the photos, his expression neutral. He then handed them over to Val.

Val looked through them, then passed them to Phin. "Just bones."

Phin studied each one, stopping at the final photo. It was a picture of the clothing Jack had been wearing, specifically his pants, dark in color. But there was a darker patch on one of the pants legs. Phin held it closer, focusing in on that dark patch.

"What's this?" he asked Goddard, pointing to the area. There was a streak of blue and one of a yellowish brown. "It looks like a grease stain, but it's not the right color."

Goddard held out his hand for the photos and placed them back in the envelope. "That, Mr. Bishop, is the question of the day. I asked the lab to run tests to identify that spot."

"What are you talking about?" Cora asked.

"Stain on the thigh of the trousers your father was wearing that night," Phin told her. "What did the lab say?"

"First," Goddard said, "I want to remind you that Mr. Elliot's remains were found wrapped in a plastic sheeting that can be bought anywhere, and there's really no way to trace it after all this time. I tried. But the lab report yielded information that's more specific. I just got the report fifteen minutes before you got here and I haven't had time to research what the results mean. My lab guy had an appointment, so I can't dig deeper until he returns."

Burke scowled. "Detective, get on with it, please."

Goddard ignored him, his attention on Cora. "Your father's remains were clothed. Pants, shirt, undergarments, and a windbreaker. The lab found trace elements in the stain on his right pants leg."

"What kind of elements?" Burke asked.

"Lazurite, iron oxide, and manganese oxide." Goddard handed him the report.

Burke scanned it, then handed it to Cora. "What does that mean, Detective?"

Goddard shrugged. "I don't know. I was about to google those three things when you arrived."

Cora drew an excited breath. "Lazurite's in lapis lazuli." She looked up, her brandy-colored eyes wide. "That stain is paint. Old paint. Like paintings from the Renaissance. It went into the ultramarine pigments that are still so vibrant. Vermeer was famous for using them."

"I've heard of him," Val said. "Elijah and I watched a documentary about his ability to portray light. He was what…sixteenth century?"

"Seventeenth," Cora said.

Goddard was staring at her. "How do you know all that?"

"She's a librarian," Phin explained. Yes, he was proud of her. "Knows a lot of stuff."

"Remind me not to play Trivial Pursuit with her," Goddard said wryly. "What about the other two things? The oxide things?"

Cora was practically buzzing. "The iron and manganese oxides are in burnt sienna pigments, also used in old paintings. That's…wow. How would old paint have gotten on my father's pants? He wasn't a painter. He couldn't draw a stick figure with a ruler, according to my mother. And not just house paint or even oil paint, but paints used centuries ago." She frowned. "Not those exact paints, of course. Reformulations, would be my guess. But how did they get on his pants?"

"He could have brushed up against a wet painting," Phin said. "Or the paints might have been transferred from whoever was carrying him the night he ended up in the foundation. Picture your father's body being carried over a man's shoulder. Probably not a woman. Your father wasn't a small man. His thighs would have rubbed up against the clothing of whoever was carrying him. And the transfer had to have happened before his body was wrapped in plastic."

"What was someone doing with old Renaissance-period paints?" Val asked. "They aren't used anymore, are they?"

Cora bit at her lip. "Not widely. Mainly by art restorers. Or maybe by painters trying to re-create old masters. But not by any starving artists. Those old paints are super expensive."

"So," Burke drawled, "we're looking for a man in his late fifties, early sixties, with mild arthritis in his hands who restores artwork. I mean, that's very specific. I wasn't expecting that."

He was right, Phin thought. That was very specific.

And troubling.

Art restorers worked in museums, he knew.

But sometimes in galleries, too. He knew this because he'd repaired the sink of the owner of a gallery only a few blocks away from the gallery owned by Cora's best friend Tandy.

Tandy owned the gallery with her father. A father who was exactly the right age to be the letter writer. Phin wanted to blurt this out, but he stopped himself.

Cora was angry enough that they thought Harry Fulton should be investigated. And Tandy's father hadn't even known Cora until she was eight or so. The girls had met as third graders. The letters had started earlier than that.

He'd hold on to the thought and share it with Burke.

"I'm back to the plastic," Val was saying. "Was the plastic at the job site where Jack Elliot was buried? Did the killer have to go out and buy it? Did he have it on hand, planning the murder? It doesn't seem like it. If I were planning to kill someone, wrap them up, and shove them into a foundation—sorry, Cora—I'd be damn sure I had on clothes that wouldn't give me away. I wouldn't wear clothes that had Renaissance-period paint on them."

Cora turned to look up at Val, who stood behind her. "Are you suggesting my father's murder was unplanned? A heat-of-the-moment thing?"

"Either that or the killer didn't know he was sporting stains," Val said. "Would those pigments have come out in the wash?"

Cora frowned. "I don't know. I'd have to research that. If they didn't come out in the wash, the killer might not have known that he was wearing paint. If they do wash out, then the paint was fresh and the killer had just come from his easel."

Goddard was grinning. "I like you guys. This is amazing. I do have to share it with Detective Clancy, but you saved me a lot of time."

"Librarians to the rescue," Cora said wryly. "At least we have a place to start."

"Thank you," Burke said.

"Thank you," Cora echoed, then extended her hand to Goddard. "I appreciate the work you've put into this case."

"I really wanted to solve it for you," Goddard said with regret. "But maybe Clancy can. Or your PIs. They have a good record."

"Yes, they do. We're going to drive by the site of the building demolition, just so you know."

"Figured y'all would. There's a diner down the street. Amazing shrimp, if you're hungry."

Cora made a strangled noise. "Shellfish allergies."

Phin settled his hand on her lower back. "We'll get a burger instead."