Cover Your Eyes Page 6
Colleen shook her head. “I don’t have a great feeling about this.”
“I don’t either but better to open it and find out.”
Colleen fished out her cell. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Disaster.” Colleen had grown up in a well-to-do family who’d been more amused than encouraging of her decision to attend law school. Her mother expected her to abandon the law and marry well. Colleen, with no eye toward a society life, had agreed to cast her lot with Rachel after a chance meeting in law school. Though Rachel admired her friend’s drive, she still laughed at the sheltered upbringing.
“I think we’ll be fine.” Rachel sliced into the top layer of tape until the top flaps separated and opened. Despite brave words, Rachel held her breath as she peeled back the flaps. Both women studied the popcorn-filled box. Rachel flexed her fingers and then dug them into the popcorn. Colleen tensed.
“Snake!” Rachel screamed and jerked out her hand.
Colleen screamed and backed up a step. She had trembling fingers as she dialed. “I’m calling the cops! Are you bleeding?”
Rachel laughed and waggled all her fingers. “Sorry. Bad joke. Couldn’t resist.”
Colleen hugged out a breath. “Bitch.”
“Guilty.” She pulled out a stack of letters, bound by a faded red ribbon. The letters were in creamy envelopes yellowed and curled with age.
“Letters,” Colleen said as she put her phone away. “At least it wasn’t a snake or a bomb.”
Rachel laughed. “You didn’t really think it was a snake, did you?”
“Maybe not a snake but definitely a bomb.”
Rachel undid the ribbon and carefully set it aside. She lifted the first letter and unfolded it. “It begins with, Sugar, you make my heart sing.”
“A love letter? Why would someone send you old love letters?”
Rachel studied the soft fluid handwriting, so precise and lovely. “I’ve no idea.”
“Looks old.”
“The paper feels brittle.”
“Who wrote the letter?”
Rachel flipped over the first page. Her heart lurched. “It’s from A.”
“A. As in Annie? As in Annie Rivers Dawson?”
A chill oozed over Rachel’s spine. “I don’t know.” She started reading the letter out loud.
October 13
Sugar!
You made me laugh today. Not a snigger or a giggle but a belly-clutching laugh! And that was a complete shock. I’d expected you to be stuffy and humorless but you had me giggling all the way home.
“Damn,” Colleen said. “If A. is the Annie in question who is Sugar?”
“I don’t know.”
“Annie was married at the time of her death.”
“I’ve not dug deeply into her past. I’ve read police reports but I couldn’t tell you much about her as a person.”
Colleen held the yellowed envelopes to her nose. “Lavender.” She scanned the text. “The gal who wrote this sounds pretty fun-loving.”
“Makes sense from what I did read about Annie. She was a singer who left her small Tennessee town to hit it big.”
Colleen held up the envelope, letting the light shine through the thin paper. “Who gave up that career and settled into a routine life.”
“She got pregnant. That changed a lot, I suppose.”
“What happened to Annie’s baby after she died?”
“Again, I need to find out. I’ve been focused on Jeb and getting the DNA and I’ve not had time to dig.”
Carefully, Colleen refolded the letter. “There’s no sense until you get the DNA back. Not like you’ve lots of Nancy Drew time in your docket.”
“Right.” Rachel dropped her gaze to the letter and reread it. “There’s a month and day but no year. And A. doesn’t necessarily stand for Annie.”
“Yeah, but why send you old letters from another woman?”
“To throw me off. To mess with me. You’d be surprised what people do.”
A frown wrinkled Colleen’s forehead briefly. “But if your Annie wrote these letters, we know it’s at least thirty years old. And I don’t know about you, but I’d like to know Sugar’s identity.”
Rachel held the sheet of paper up and studied the faded pigment and the slightly yellowed edges. “That would be huge if the letters were written by Annie. A voice from the past.”
“A peek into her private life.”
Rachel wanted the letters to be real but feared to hope. “Why send them to me?”
“Why not you? You landed right in the center of the case last night on the news.” Colleen cocked a brow. “Let’s face it, no one stayed up all night, forging letters on thirty-year-old paper. Even for you, that’s a bit of a conspiracy theory.”
Rachel pulled her finger over the neat stack but didn’t read another.
“Aren’t you going to read them?”
“I need to put on rubber gloves before I photograph these. If these letters are real then I don’t want my fingerprints smeared over them. How do you think it will look if I turn these in to the police? They’ll be dismissed by virtue of the messenger.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Cops distrust by nature. I’ve irritated more than a few with this case. These letters delivered by my hand would raise questions.” Had she touched a nerve with someone yesterday? She feared to hope. “And these letters could be fake. Old doesn’t mean Annie wrote them.”
Colleen rolled her eyes and raised her hand. “Let’s suppose they are real, for argument’s sake.”
“Fine.”
“We’ve established you are the center of this brewing storm.”
“Yeah.”
“Whoever sent them to you must believe in what you are doing,” Colleen said. “Maybe they have information you don’t and want to help.”
“Or they sent fake letters to me hoping I’d take them to the cops and then be discredited.”
Colleen winced. “Cynical.”
“To the bone.” Rachel rubbed her sore jaw knowing she’d be reaching for aspirin soon. “The question is why send the letters to me? And who sent them?”
“I don’t see Margaret Miller sending the letters to you. She’s not on your side.”
“No.”
“The letters are addressed to Sugar. Maybe someone out there knows Sugar’s real name. Maybe Sugar killed Annie.”
The idea had merit, but her mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. “Jeb could have been Sugar.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Annie was beautiful and her eyes were set on the big-time. What good would it do her to love a handyman with an eighth-grade education?”
Rachel laughed. “That’s kind of a cold way of looking at love. What happened to the heart wants what it wants?”
“That’s for saps,” Colleen said. “What little I do know about Annie is that she was a woman with ambition. She wouldn’t saddle herself with a man who barely had a hundred dollars to his name.”
“So cold.”
“Practical.”
Rachel reached for her cell. “I need to photograph them and then I’ll send them off to be authenticated. If Annie didn’t write them, then Sugar doesn’t matter. And if they are real I need to be able to prove it to the cops.”
“Whom are you sending them to?”
“There’s a private detective I know.” She turned to her desk and flipped through the large Rolodex until she reached the name Lexis Hanover. “She helped me with my brother’s case and I helped her with a legal case last summer. She’s good at what she does and I trust her.” She plucked the card free and reached for the phone. “She did all the work for Luke pro bono.”
“Why?”
“Mumbling about paying it forward, but I sensed there was more. I never pressed.” The ink of Rachel’s law degree had barely been dry. She’d been trying to look and sound like a seasoned lawyer when she’d petitioned the court for her brother’s retrial. Four years’ di
stance from that day and she cringed at her naive bravado in the face of the judge’s dismissive attitude and denial.
Lexis had been in the courtroom and approached her later. “I can help.”
“Why?”
“I like your spirit and despite a sloppy presentation you made good points. Let me ask around.”
“I don’t have money.”
“Not asking for any. Someone did me a favor once and now I’ll do one for you. Like paying it forward.”
Rachel had been suspicious, but also desperate and so she’d taken Lexis’s card and soon sent her Luke’s files. To her astonishment Lexis had helped, found key leads that had given Rachel the ammo she needed for a retrial. And then Luke had been murdered in prison. Now Rachel had a chance to pay Lexis back again. She dialed. “Lexis knows handwriting and if these are fake she’ll tell me.”
“You’re going to need a baseline, won’t you?”
“Lexis figures all that out.”
Rachel neared the Vanderbilt University arches in her car when her cell rang. Distracted by her mission she picked up the phone without glancing at the number.
“Rachel Wainwright?”
“That is correct.”
“This is Susan Martinez, Channel Five.”
The light at 16th and Broadway turned red and Rachel gratefully accepted the delay. “Susan. We’ve been playing phone tag today.”
“I know and I’m sorry about that. How’s your jaw?”
Hurts like hell. “It’s fine. Barely a mark.”
“I called Miss Miller this morning. I’ll be interviewing her and wondered if I might be able to follow up with you.”
As much as Rachel wanted to keep her story in the spotlight, she hesitated before saying, “What kind of questions are we talking about?”
“Background on your client. What it’s been like for him the past three decades.”
Sounded good but she sensed bait on a lure. Still, the chance for more airtime could not be passed up lightly. “Sure. What time?”
“Say four. I’d like to make the six o’clock news.”
“Sure.”
“Your office?”
Her brain catalogued how much she’d have to clean before the news crew arrived. “Four it is.”
“Great. See you then.”
Rachel rang off as the light turned green and followed Broadway as it branched to the right. Five minutes later she’d parked on the street by Vanderbilt.
She walked down the brick sidewalk through the gates of the university and to a cluster of buildings called the Stevenson Center. The math department was in Building One where Lexis taught math. A short elevator ride found her approaching Lexis’s basement office. She saw the name plaque that read DR. L. HANOVER and knocked.
“Enter.”
The thick scent of cigarette smoke greeted her as she entered the cramped office packed with shelves crammed tight with books and papers. Lexis sat behind a small desk teeming with stacks of books. An in-box overflowed with papers, an ashtray brimmed with ash and a half-dozen coffee cups lined the desk’s edge. Judging by the stale smell, this place hadn’t been cleaned in months.
Dark square glasses and a black turtleneck sharpened the lines on her angled face and whitened gray hair that flowed to broad shoulders. “Rachel. Loved the show on the news last night.”
Rachel grimaced. “Not one of my finer moments.” Lexis stood. “Not at all. You’d not have made the news if that lady hadn’t slugged you. Was she a plant? Did you stage that?”
Rachel rubbed her still-tender jaw. “No, it was not staged.”
“Then count your lucky stars. Jeb Jones wouldn’t have hit most radar screens if you’d not been slugged.”
“Good to know it wasn’t all in vain.”
“Not at all. There a bruise?”
She tapped her chin gingerly with her fingertip. “Oh, yeah.”
Lexis moved closer and inspected the spot. “Rub off some of that makeup and let the bruise show. Badge of honor.”
“Feels like the mark of a fool. I should have seen it coming.”
Lexis shrugged. “That reporter called you for a follow-up?”
“I spoke to Ms. Martinez minutes ago. We have another interview today.”
“Good.” She reached for a fresh cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. “How’s Mr. Jones doing?”
Rachel frowned. “He’s not well. And he fears he’ll die in prison.”
A frown furrowed her brow as she flicked the silver engraved lighter. It didn’t ignite. “You’ll make a difference.”
“Let’s hope a better job than I did for Luke.”
“That wasn’t your fault.” Lexis shook the lighter, flicked again and a flame jumped. She lit the edge of her cigarette.
No take-backs, Rachel! “I could have kept him out of prison.”
“He had no right to ask you to lie.” She drew in smoke and then blew it out slowly. “You could have landed in jail yourself.”
A wane smile curved the edges of her lips. “Woulda, shoulda, coulda.”
“Remember you can’t fix everyone, Rachel. You did a lot for Luke. How many times did you drag him out of bars or out of the gutter?”
More times than she could remember. “I’ll always feel like I failed him.”
“You changed your life for him. Not many go the distance like that, Rachel. I admire that in you.”
An unexpected tear slid down her cheek and she swiped it away, embarrassed. “I didn’t intend for this to be a therapy session.”
Lexis smiled and inhaled. “I like to think I’m a jack of many trades.”
Rachel laughed. “And does handwriting analysis still fall in your wheelhouse?”
“It does, as a matter of fact. Verifying signatures is a growing trend in the last year. No one trusts anyone.”
“Makes good business for us both.”
“I won’t get rich on an adjunct’s salary.” She stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray.
Rachel looked around the room. “Kids treating you well?”
“I’ve a graduate class that is tolerable but the eight o’clock undergraduate class rarely is awake long enough to learn. Bit like talking to potted plants. Tell me about these letters.”
Rachel recapped their early morning delivery and the content. “I wore gloves when I handled all but the first letter. I read them and photographed them.”
“Thinking like a true conspiracy theorist.” Lexis accepted the shoe box. “Who delivered them?”
“Standard courier. He’s delivered to me before. And I called his dispatcher. The package was dropped at the courier’s office early this morning. Paid in cash.”
Lexis adjusted her glasses and studied the box of letters. “I did a little reading up on Annie Rivers Dawson after your television debut. She’d been married less than seven months at the time of her death. Her newborn was five days old. I don’t know much about her husband.”
“I’ve done a little digging too and have a list of people I need to talk to. Annie’s husband, Bill Dawson, is top of the list.”
“Do you really think someone out there is trying to help you?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve touched a nerve.”
Lexis removed the lid but did not touch the letters. “Be careful, Rachel. When secrets have been buried a long time there are people that don’t want them dug up.”
“I hear you,” Rachel said. “And I’ll be careful. When do you think you can get to the letters?”
“Later today. As soon as my office hours are over I’ll head to my home office where I have all my equipment.”
“What about a baseline for Annie’s handwriting?”
“I’ll find one.”
Caution crept up her nerves like an early warning system. “I might need to defend the source in court.”
“Won’t be a problem.” Lexis reached for another cigarette. “What do you think you’ll find?”
“The real killer’s name would be nice.”
“I’m due for some luck.”
“Aren’t we all?”
October 28
Sugar,
My heart just about jumped out of my chest . . . Pow, Zap, Zing! You said the L-word while you were cuddled up to me last night. I pretended to be asleep, but I heard that soft sweet voice in my ear. “I love you, Annie.”
Well, I love you too, Sugar. And no matter what, you and I are gonna be stuck together like glue. You never got to worry about me leaving you.
A.
Chapter Four
Friday, October 14, 1 PM
The heat of his boss’s glare scraped against Deke’s skin. When he worked the streets, survival often relied on a gut feeling, a glance, or a glare. Days on the streets were never predictable, always edgy, but there’d been a freedom he’d liked. He was back in a conventional unit, taking briefings, writing reports, but was still judging angry glowers not from snitches and drug dealers but bosses. Shoving aside annoyance, he looked up.
Captain Harry Saunders was a big man whose wide shoulders and tall stature all but ate up door frames. When he walked, the floor vibrated. When he smacked a fist against your desk, pictures rattled. A not too gentle giant, he was a real hard case who rarely minced words.
“Captain.” Deke closed the file and studied the older man’s deep frown lines. “That’s not your happy face.”
Gray eyes narrowed as he advanced a step into Deke’s office. “It sure as shit is not my happy face. It’s my irritated face.”
Deke folded his arms, unaffected by his boss’s ire, and yet still respectful enough to keep his thoughts to himself. “Why are you irritated?”
“You didn’t see the news last night? That damn woman is making us look like fools.”
“Rachel Wainwright. No, didn’t see the news but I was on hand to witness the live performance.”
Saunders placed large hands on his thick waist. “Why didn’t you stop her?”
Deke rose. “She’s got the right to free speech.”