Chapter 52

FIFTY-TWO

The ibuprofen Josie had taken at the stationhouse burned a hole in her gut. Just sitting outside Andrew Bowen’s house in her parked car, in the dark, sent a coil of anxiety slithering up her spine. She tried to recall how many children there’d been in the framed family photo she’d seen the last time she was in his office. That was years ago, which meant the children would be teenagers by now. Two? Three? At least one girl.

“I should do this,” Gretchen said from the passenger’s seat. “He’s fairly neutral when it comes to me.”

Turner rapped against Josie’s window. “Are we going to do this or what?”

“We should let Douchebag do it,” Josie suggested.

“That’s not a bad idea. I’m pretty sure he and Bowen speak the same language.”

Under any other circumstances, Josie would have laughed but she couldn’t stop thinking that the next victim could be a kid. They got out of the car, joining Turner in the driveway that meandered up to Bowen’s palatial estate. This is what defending people had bought him. Josie had no doubt many of his clients were innocent, but he had also represented a man who’d slaughtered a family, a man whose DNA was on the murder weapon, and celebrated his acquittal.

Josie wondered if Andrew Bowen ever lost sleep over Roger Bell walking free.

Probably not.

They let Turner take the lead, ringing the doorbell in rapid fashion until Gretchen hissed at him to stop. It was after one in the morning. Lights blinked on inside. A surveillance camera affixed to the doorframe sent out a burst of static. Then Bowen’s voice squawked through. “Can I help you?”

“Andrew Bowen?” Turner said.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Turner took out his ID and shoved it against the eye of the camera. “Denton PD. We need to talk. We think one of your kids might be in danger.”

The door swung open. Andrew Bowen stood before them in a faded Duquesne T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Pushing a hand through his blond hair, he blinked. “Did you say one of my children is in danger?”

Gretchen stepped forward. “Yes. You have three children, correct?”

Bowen shook his head. “Wait, wait. Is this some kind of prank?”

“I’m afraid not,” Turner said. “How old are your kids?”

“My kids are asleep in their beds,” Bowen snapped. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information but it’s incorrect. Now, I’d appreciate it if you left us alone.”

A soft female voice called out from behind Bowen. “Andy? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, Evelyn. Just a case of mistaken identity.”

“I promise you, it’s not,” said Gretchen.

“Good night, Detectives.” Bowen started to close the door.

Josie muscled her way between Gretchen and Turner and wedged her foot between the door and its frame. “Bowen, please. Hear me out.”

A pale face, framed by brown curls, glared at her from over Bowen’s shoulder. “What is she doing here?”

“ She works for the Denton Police Department,” Turner said. “ She is here doing her job. You are making it harder by not listening to us. Go check on your fucking kids.”

“Turner,” Gretchen admonished, but her tone was soft.

Josie kept her foot inside the door. She was grateful for the thickness of her boot because Andrew Bowen continued to try to close the door on it. Still, it smarted. Quashing her desire to pull it back, Josie tried to keep her tone reasonable, unemotional. There was a lot of history between the two of them, none of it good. If the Bowens weren’t inclined to listen to Turner or Gretchen, then there was little to no chance of them entertaining Josie’s explanation, but she had to try. There could be a girl out there, already dead, or at the mercy of a killer.

Josie wasn’t leaving her post again.

“Please,” she said. “Mr. and Mrs. Bowen. You know I would not be here unless it was critically important. You can keep hating me. Call me every name in the book. Spit on me.” She inhaled sharply as Bowen increased pressure on her foot. “Crush my foot.”

Turner’s long arm reached around her and pushed the door, easily sending Bowen stumbling backward. He bumped into his wife, who cried out. “Are you crazy?”

Josie said, “The person who killed Cleo Tate, Stella Townsend, and Everly Rowe is targeting people involved in the Cook family murders. Do you remember that case, Bowen?”

He blinked again, paling. “Roger Bell was my client.”

“I don’t remember that,” Evelyn said, wrapping a hand around his upper arm.

“I’d only been practicing a couple of years. Bell didn’t have much money. He couldn’t afford me, really, but I needed the work and no one else would take his case.”

“Because he was a murderer,” Gretchen said.

Turner scoffed. “I’m pretty sure that’s not a problem for defense attorneys.”

Evelyn stared at the side of her husband’s face. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? That no one else wanted his case?”

Andrew blew out a breath. “Not because of guilt or innocence. Everyone is entitled to legal representation. It was because he was broke. He was acquitted.”

Josie flexed her foot. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty.”

“Andrew?” Evelyn said, a question in her voice.

Andrew Bowen remained impassive. Josie was certain Bell wasn’t the only guilty person Bowen had successfully defended. Maybe the most violent, but not the only one.

“Someone is killing the children and grandchildren of everyone connected to the Cook case,” Josie said. “Not just those of us who screwed up at the scene that day.”

“Kellan Neal—Cleo Tate’s father—was the prosecutor,” Gretchen said. “He failed to keep the murder weapon in evidence.”

Bowen swallowed. “I’m terribly sorry that Kellan’s daughter was killed. He’s a good man and he was an admirable opponent in the courtroom, but this has nothing to do with me or my family. I did my job. All of you did not.”

“You’re really thick, Counselor,” Turner said. “It’s because you did your job so well that we think you’re the next target. Not you, specifically, but one of your kids. Probably the oldest girl. You’ve got daughters, right?”

Before Bowen could answer, Evelyn was gone. All Josie could see were the backs of her calves as she raced up the steps in the grand foyer behind her husband.

Bowen didn’t react. Like Kellan Neal, he was a skilled litigator, a master at concealing his true emotions. “We have one daughter. Our oldest. Juliet. She’s sixteen.”

Evelyn’s screams cut through the stillness of the house. Josie felt them like a thousand daggers piercing her heart. It didn’t matter to her that the Bowens hated her or that Andrew had consistently proven himself to be morally questionable—his career as a defense attorney notwithstanding. At the end of the day, they were just parents whose lives would be irreparably shattered when they lost their child.

No. If they lost their child.

Josie knew her optimism was misguided and unrealistic but she couldn’t help it.

“Andy! Andy!” Evelyn’s feet slapped against the hardwood steps as she raced back toward them, clutching something against her nightgown. Her eyes were wide and terrified, gleaming with tears. “She’s gone. Juliet’s gone. Her bed is still made and…this…this was on top of her pillow.”

The hand pressed to her chest unfurled, trembling so badly that Andrew grabbed her wrist to steady it. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Josie took a step forward, crossing the threshold even though they hadn’t invited her inside. She felt Turner and Gretchen at her back, leaning in to see what was in Evelyn’s palm.

“Is that…” Turner started.

“It is,” Gretchen said.

“Shit,” the two of them said in unison.

A polaroid danced in Evelyn’s quivering palm. Blood smudged the pristine white edges.

Gretchen said, “Can you tell what it shows? Is it as blurry as the last ones?”

“What last ones?” Bowen said, voice sharper now.

Josie’s lips worked to reply, to tell Gretchen that it wasn’t blurred or distorted. This one was as crisp and clear as was possible for a polaroid. But she couldn’t speak. A dizzying wave of pure terror threatened to crash over her and then suddenly, she was floating above the Bowens’ front step, looking down on the five of them as they peered at a polaroid picture of the shelf in hers and Noah’s living room where their wedding picture was displayed.