Chapter 66

SIXTY-SIX

The Jack Russell terrier was sunning on its back in the middle of the yard. It didn’t move when Josie and Turner walked past it, but it did turn its head and give a perfunctory growl. Mrs. Bonitz took a few minutes to answer the doorbell. She greeted Josie with a smile. “So good to see you, young lady.”

Then she looked behind Josie, where Turner’s huge frame blocked all the light from the door. Scowling, she said, “You again.”

Turner didn’t respond.

“May we come in?” Josie asked.

Mrs. Bonitz looked behind her where the foyer narrowed into a hallway leading to the kitchen. Wringing her hands, she said, “Well, if you don’t mind company. An old neighbor stopped by to chat. Haven’t seen her since she was headed off to college.” The deep lines around her eyes crinkled as her expression darkened. “We were just talking about Roger since we both knew him from way back when. It’s a shock, I’ll tell you. Those poor women. I had no idea what he was up to, you know. No idea it was even him until I saw the news.”

A fluttering sensation filled Josie’s chest. Briefly, she looked over her shoulder at Turner. Surprise flickered in his eyes. Then his features turned stony. “Mrs. Bonitz,” he said. “We’re sorry to interrupt your reunion but we’d like you to come down to the stationhouse. There are some questions we need to ask you.”

Mrs. Bonitz swayed as she stepped backward. She rested a hand on the circular table in the center of the foyer to steady herself, sending the Tiffany-style lamp bobbling. Josie followed, catching it before it toppled to the floor. For the first time, she noticed that the molding and the wainscoting looked new. Even the pine floor looked level and freshly lacquered. In fact, all of the woodwork and flooring in the foyer as well as the stairs and entryway into the parlor looked newly restored. The last time she’d been inside, the house had been shabby and neglected, much of the woodwork warped, splintered, or rotted. Mrs. Bonitz was on a fixed income. She didn’t have the budget for major repairs.

“You want me to come to the police station? I don’t think I—well, I’m not really dressed for it, and I…I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Turner crossed the threshold. “A misunderstanding we can discuss at the station. Why don’t you let your guest know you’re coming with us, and we’ll give you a ride?”

Mrs. Bonitz didn’t budge. Her fingers stroked the lace doily on the table nervously. It was only marginally cooler in the house than outside. A small air conditioner hummed in one of the front windows, doing little to bring the temperature down. “I told you, I didn’t know that young man was Roger Bell. I didn’t recognize him. He came and offered to do work for me. Didn’t want a cent from me. Just asked me to help him with something. I never would have helped him if I thought he was a murderer, although I never did think Roger Bell was a killer. He worked for me before the Cooks. Did you know that?”

“Mrs. Bonitz,” Josie said. “Why don’t we find your purse so we can get down to the station. Anything you need to tell us can wait until we get there.”

She seemed not to hear Josie. “Back then, Roger was a lovely young man. Sweet and kind. A gentleman. I knew he didn’t hurt the Cooks. I never believed it. He stayed with me, you know? After the trial. He had no one. The whole city hated him. Except me. That was the last time I saw him. Then a couple of months ago this other man shows up. Wanted to work for me. Fix up all the—” She gestured around them. “Wood, like Roger did before on the second floor. I offered to pay him but all he wanted was a favor. Give a man some money so he could have access to some cars. Pick him up from places. The middle of damn nowhere.”

Josie touched Mrs. Bonitz’s shoulder. “We can talk about that at the station. Where’s your purse?”

Mrs. Bonitz pulled away from Josie, planting both hands against the table. “I just told you I didn’t do anything wrong, and I have company?—”

Turner’s fingers drummed against his leg. “Listen, lady?—”

A female voice cut him off. “Are you really going to drag a woman in her nineties down to the police station like some kind of criminal?”

Vicky Platt stood in the doorway of the kitchen. In heels, a fitted black skirt, and a sleeveless silk blouse, she looked every bit the powerful television producer. One hand rested on her hip while the other hung at her side, clutching her cell phone.

“We’re doing our jobs.” Turner appraised her. “I suggest you gather your things and get out of here.”

Vicky returned his slow perusal, unimpressed. “I liked you better the last time we spoke.”

“Yeah, well, most women don’t like me at all.” Turner muscled past Josie and gently placed a hand on Mrs. Bonitz’s back, ushering her across the foyer toward a closet. His careful movements were at odds with his bad attitude. Fishing around inside the closet, he came up with a purse and a cane.

Josie was frozen in place, watching as Vicky bent her head to her phone, thumbs tapping wildly. Mrs. Bonitz had called her an old neighbor. Not a producer from WYEP. Not the press. They’d both known Roger Bell. Finished with her text, Vicky looked up and locked eyes with Josie. The eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed before? Then again, why would she have noticed? She’d spoken to Vicky before they knew about the Cook case.

“Quinn,” Turner said as he and Mrs. Bonitz shuffled toward the front door.

“Just a minute,” Josie said. “I want to talk to Tory.”

He huffed. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll wait in the car. Give me your keys.”

Without breaking eye contact with Vicky, Josie got them out of her pocket and dropped them into his waiting palm.

Once the door closed behind Turner and Mrs. Bonitz, Vicky smiled. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“I didn’t,” Josie said. “Your name isn’t in the police file. Roger was the one who told me. Right before he died.”

Pain rippled across Vicky’s face. For a moment, Josie thought she was going to cry.

“He called you Tory. I didn’t make the connection until just now. Victoria. You went by Tory then.”

Vicky’s eyes watered. “I started going by Vicky when I got married. Vicky Platt sounded better than Tory Platt. At least, my husband thought so. We got divorced after two years but I just stayed Vicky Platt. You were…you were with Roger when he died?”

Josie nodded.

A tear rolled down Vicky’s cheek. She used the heel of her palm to wipe it away. “He talked about me?”

A tingle began at the base of Josie’s spine. Things started to shift in the shadowy place in the back of her mind. The place where her brain dumped little facts and loose pieces of information that didn’t seem important. Random floating particles connected to nothing. Meaningless without context.

“You were in love with Roger Bell.”

Vicky didn’t answer, instead palming away more tears. She was a producer for WYEP. According to Dallas Jones, she was aggressive in pursuing stories, almost to the point of harassment. Yet, in the aftermath of Roger Bell’s dramatic death and the resurfacing of the Cook family murders, she hadn’t used her connection to him at all to further her career.

From outside, Josie heard Mrs. Bonitz admonishing her dog. Turner complaining loudly. “You were having an affair with him.”

Sniffling, Vicky said, “It’s not illegal. We only…started recently. Only found one another again in the last year. Roger was separated from his wife. If you’re thinking that I knew he was planning to go on a murder spree, I didn’t. If you want me to come to your station to tell you that, on the record, I will.”

She did want to take Vicky down to the station because she didn’t believe her. But her gut told her that the ride to the station would only give her time to compose herself and rehearse her denials. “If you’re prepared to come down to the station,” Josie said, “you won’t mind if I Mirandize you.”

Vicky gave her a wobbly smile and wiped at her nose. “Can you do it in the kitchen?”

Josie nodded and followed her into Mrs. Bonitz’s kitchen. Apparently, Roger Bell’s work hadn’t extended to this room. The floorboards were dull and warped in some places. The wooden cabinets were a faded sea-moss green, some of their knobs gone. The heavy oak table in the center of the room canted to the side. Two unfinished coffee cups sat atop it. A massive box air conditioner sat in a window next to the back door, the frame sagging under its weight. An uneven glugging noise sputtered from its vents as it labored to push cold air into the room. While Josie recited her Miranda rights, Vicky tore a paper towel from the roll suspended over the sink and dabbed at her face. Once she acknowledged that she understood her rights, Josie resumed her questions.

“You were Miranda O’Malley’s best friend. Yet you fell in love with the man everyone thought killed her. Did you know Roger didn’t kill the Cooks, or did he convince you of that when you reconnected?”

Vicky leaned her hip against the edge of the sink. The light was better in here and Josie spied faint fingerprint bruises on her throat, mostly covered with foundation. “I knew he didn’t kill anyone. He was far too sweet and kind and caring to do anything like that. I mean, he was obsessed with getting Miranda out of the house.”

There was a hint of petulance in her voice when she said Miranda’s name. Her eyes lifted up and to the left, as if she was about to roll them but then she caught herself.

He was obsessed with getting Miranda out of the house.

She didn’t sound like someone who was grateful that an adult was taking charge and trying to help her best friend out of a dangerous situation. She sounded like a girlfriend who was annoyed that her man was paying attention to someone else.

Josie moved out of the doorway to the head of the table, now only a few feet from Vicky. “Were you and Roger seeing one another then?”

Vicky crumpled the paper towel in her fist. On the back of her hand was another bruise, dark and angry. “I was a minor.”

“That never stopped a man before.”

Vicky laughed and Josie could hear the undertone of bitterness. “Right. Well, it stopped Roger. He wouldn’t touch me.”

“Did he touch Miranda?”

Vicky picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her blouse. “No, but sometimes I thought he wanted to.”

“And Miranda?” Josie coaxed. “What did she think?”

Vicky’s upper lip curled in an almost-sneer. It was disconcerting considering they were talking about a girl who’d been brutally slain, a girl who was supposed to be her best friend. “She thought he was a knight in shining armor. Her savior. The day before…it happened, she told me she thought she was in love with him. He’d offered to come get her and take her to his place until she could be reunited with her parents. She didn’t say, but I thought she was going to try something once they were alone in his apartment.”

“But if Roger wouldn’t touch you because you were underage, why would he become physical with Miranda?”

Vicky shrugged and for a heartbeat, she looked like the teenage girl Josie had seen standing on the sidewalk, watching police go in and out of her best friend’s house. “I don’t know. Probably the same reason Simon was obsessed with her. All I ever wanted was Roger. I was in love with him first. I had his attention first. She knew that! She just didn’t care. All she cared about was him being her personal hero and getting him alone in his apartment.”

“You’ve always been in love with him, haven’t you?” Josie watched her face carefully. “In fact, you would do anything for him, wouldn’t you? Even try to access sealed court records.”

Vicky went very still. The corners of her mouth twitched. “I didn’t need to access court records to find Roger. He saw me on television. We did a behind-the-scenes, meet-the-producers piece. He recognized me and tracked me down.”

“And asked you to help him locate Simon?”

Vicky said nothing.

“You used Stella’s desire to do a big story on her grandfather to manipulate her into accessing Simon’s new identity.”

Vicky sighed. Something in her eyes shifted. Her face hardened. A mask slipping off to reveal something very different beneath it. “I suggested that she should start with the Cook file. I might have told her that her grandfather royally screwed up the case and got away with it, to properly motivate her. We just needed to find Simon and Roger so we could interview them. I had already found Roger, but she didn’t need to know that.”

Denton PD had gotten access to Simon Cook’s new identity but hadn’t been able to locate him. He lived in a rundown house on the outskirts of Bellewood, forty miles away, and worked under the table for a roofing company. His boss hadn’t seen him in weeks. “Did you pass Simon’s information on to Roger?”

“I couldn’t,” Vicky whispered.

Over the gurgling of the air conditioner, Josie thought she heard heavy footsteps.

“Why couldn’t you tell Roger where to find Simon?”

Vicky’s head swiveled toward the back door. Josie followed her gaze but saw nothing. The footsteps had stopped. Tension hung in the air like an electric charge. The phantom fingers of fear skittered across Josie’s scalp. Her hand went to her holster as the lizard part of her brain registered a threat before she could actually see it.

Josie heard Vicky’s next words as if from a great distance. “I couldn’t let Roger find Simon because I created a monster.”