hammer would've been dropped on him, hard. Maybe Brenda Lane would be alive. If anyone had known about it. My blood pressure spiked. "Why the hell didn't you tell someone?"
"I was twelve years old," she said, her anger flaring to match mine. "I barely knew what the hell happened the night my mom was shot. I was in Child Services for two days before anyone even told me she was dead. And I still didn't believe it was Michael, not even after he was arrested. It took me a long time to accept that and what happened at the trial didn't help."
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. "Sorry. It's just a hell of a thing to miss when you're trying to nail a guy for murder. And he walks."
We were both quiet. I stared down at the sidewalk under my feet. I counted five cracks before I said, "That fills in some gaps but doesn't change the past. What's going on now?"
She stopped abruptly and dropped her backpack to the ground. She unzipped a small pocket, fished around, and removed a Ziploc bag, Then, from the plastic bag, she pulled out exactly what I didn't want to see.
A small white carnation.
Chapter Three
"I found it in front of my door two nights ago."
"Couldn't be an accident? Roommate, boyfriend, secret admirer?"
She shook her head. "No roommates. Too long since the last boyfriend. And it's an odd gift for a secret admirer, wouldn't you say?"
"Where do you work?"
"I'm a graduate student at George Washington University. Women's Studies."
I looked at her. "Students, rival grads, angry professors?"
"How would they know? What significance does it have if it's not from Michael?"
I took the flower from her and twirled it by the stem. A few petals fell off, littering the ground. It was a shoddy way to treat evidence, but the thing had been squashed in her backpack for two nights, destroying any integrity it might've had. Oh, and I wasn't a cop anymore. "So," I said, handing it back. "Why now?"
"I know. I asked myself, why should he come looking for me? It sounds stupid when I say it out loud."
"No, the why isn't stupid," I said. "There could be a hundred reasons why. The question is why now ? Where's he been? And wherever that is, what's happened to trigger contact after so many years?"
"I did some digging around," she said. "You know, the kind of things you can do on the web."
"Sure," I said, like I knew. "What'd you find?"
"Nothing," she said. She hauled her backpack over a shoulder and we started walking again. We'd covered some serious ground and I was starting to feel it. "Not a damn thing. It's as if Michael was locked up for a decade, then walked out and decided to find me."
I grimaced and said, "We both know that didn't happen. The being locked-up part, I mean."
"I know. But it really is as if he vanished."
"It's not that hard to disappear," I said. "Especially for an ex-cop who knows the ropes. And, especially--no offense--to someone not trained to find people."
"I didn't just Google him," she said. "I've got friends at the university that can look into some sophisticated stuff. Not NSA-level, sure, but access to credit reports, arrest records, job applications, stuff like that."
That got my attention. "Really?"
"GW has programs for journalists, law enforcement officers, lawyers, poli-sci analysts, most of whom intern at government agencies or high-powered law firms. They've got juice."
I snorted. "Juice?"
A blush started under her chin. "I heard it on TV."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "What did you find?"
"Everything I got was from the initial search. There was big press about my mom's murder when it happened, then a resurgence when Michael got off, then nothing. It became old news, fast. It was the Wild West in the mayor's office. He was making enough headlines to bump anybody off the front page."
"Tell me about it. I worked for the guy. Then what?"
"Then nothing," she said. "There were some follow-up articles about him moving out of the city, but they never said where he went. After that, it's as if he
"I was twelve years old," she said, her anger flaring to match mine. "I barely knew what the hell happened the night my mom was shot. I was in Child Services for two days before anyone even told me she was dead. And I still didn't believe it was Michael, not even after he was arrested. It took me a long time to accept that and what happened at the trial didn't help."
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. "Sorry. It's just a hell of a thing to miss when you're trying to nail a guy for murder. And he walks."
We were both quiet. I stared down at the sidewalk under my feet. I counted five cracks before I said, "That fills in some gaps but doesn't change the past. What's going on now?"
She stopped abruptly and dropped her backpack to the ground. She unzipped a small pocket, fished around, and removed a Ziploc bag, Then, from the plastic bag, she pulled out exactly what I didn't want to see.
A small white carnation.
Chapter Three
"I found it in front of my door two nights ago."
"Couldn't be an accident? Roommate, boyfriend, secret admirer?"
She shook her head. "No roommates. Too long since the last boyfriend. And it's an odd gift for a secret admirer, wouldn't you say?"
"Where do you work?"
"I'm a graduate student at George Washington University. Women's Studies."
I looked at her. "Students, rival grads, angry professors?"
"How would they know? What significance does it have if it's not from Michael?"
I took the flower from her and twirled it by the stem. A few petals fell off, littering the ground. It was a shoddy way to treat evidence, but the thing had been squashed in her backpack for two nights, destroying any integrity it might've had. Oh, and I wasn't a cop anymore. "So," I said, handing it back. "Why now?"
"I know. I asked myself, why should he come looking for me? It sounds stupid when I say it out loud."
"No, the why isn't stupid," I said. "There could be a hundred reasons why. The question is why now ? Where's he been? And wherever that is, what's happened to trigger contact after so many years?"
"I did some digging around," she said. "You know, the kind of things you can do on the web."
"Sure," I said, like I knew. "What'd you find?"
"Nothing," she said. She hauled her backpack over a shoulder and we started walking again. We'd covered some serious ground and I was starting to feel it. "Not a damn thing. It's as if Michael was locked up for a decade, then walked out and decided to find me."
I grimaced and said, "We both know that didn't happen. The being locked-up part, I mean."
"I know. But it really is as if he vanished."
"It's not that hard to disappear," I said. "Especially for an ex-cop who knows the ropes. And, especially--no offense--to someone not trained to find people."
"I didn't just Google him," she said. "I've got friends at the university that can look into some sophisticated stuff. Not NSA-level, sure, but access to credit reports, arrest records, job applications, stuff like that."
That got my attention. "Really?"
"GW has programs for journalists, law enforcement officers, lawyers, poli-sci analysts, most of whom intern at government agencies or high-powered law firms. They've got juice."
I snorted. "Juice?"
A blush started under her chin. "I heard it on TV."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "What did you find?"
"Everything I got was from the initial search. There was big press about my mom's murder when it happened, then a resurgence when Michael got off, then nothing. It became old news, fast. It was the Wild West in the mayor's office. He was making enough headlines to bump anybody off the front page."
"Tell me about it. I worked for the guy. Then what?"
"Then nothing," she said. "There were some follow-up articles about him moving out of the city, but they never said where he went. After that, it's as if he
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