The Dark Man Read Free

had been married to her husband, Dave Craghorn, for just under two years when Mayor Gardner approached her about a promotion.
    And, evidently, the stipulations included an inappropriate relationship, considering he had been married to the same woman for forty-nine years. She’s alive and well, and also happens to be quite the public socialite around the Hampton Roads area. Ellen Gardner is still sparkling in her early seventies and loves to entertain guests, and from what Detective Thomas says, the diary revelation hasn’t slowed her down in the slightest.
    Detective Thomas clears his throat and takes a sip of steaming coffee. “You want some?” He holds the mug higher and tells me, “Should warn you, folks around here make it strong enough for a spoon to stand upright.”
    “As delicious as that sounds, I’m good. Had my fair share already.” I lean back in the uncomfortable chair across from him and cross my legs. “So you explained some of the history on the phone, Detective. What’re we looking at here and how do you think I can help?”
    “Straight down to business. My kinda guy.” He picks up a file box that’s stuffed to the rim with folders and clasp envelopes. “This is the Craghorn case history. Or, well, I should say that it’s the start of it. There are four more in our file room downstairs. And … now it might be more appropriate to call it the Craghorn-Gardner case.”
    My eyebrows arch at the sheer amount of it all, and my head ricochets backward like I just bumped it on a low doorway. “That much, huh?”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “You had that much evidence, and the case still went cold?”
    He pulls a shoulder up along with the corner of his mouth. “It happens. Sometimes you just … sometimes the bloodhound loses the trail.”
    I nod and clasp my fingers, then lean in on my elbows. Once in a while, I have to play the role of human investigator to get at the root of what someone is really looking for. It helps when I switch to my normal role of paranormal investigator.
    I ask the detective, “What were you going to say there, just now? You stopped yourself.”
    The telephone on his desk rings loudly. He ignores it in favor of staring at me, waiting as if he’s trying to decide how to answer.
    That is, how to answer me , not the phone.
    Five rings pass before he picks up the receiver and immediately slams it back down, hanging up on his clueless caller. “Sometimes,” he says, “you just give up. I hate to admit it, but after you’ve exhausted every possible option, after you’ve got a few more gray hairs and the bags under your eyes look like they’re carrying bowling balls, you have to admit defeat. Sometimes, the bad guys get away with it, Mr. Ford.”
    “Understandable. Who was the lead on the case back in ’04? Is that detective still around?”
    Detective Thomas raises his hand, almost sheepishly, without saying a word.
    “You? I didn’t think active homicide detectives tackled cold-case investigations. Or is that just an assumption I made up?”
    “Once Elaine Lowe—that’s the surviving husband’s housekeeper—once she came forward with the diary she found, I requested this assignment. Immediately dropped everything I was working on because I wanted another shot, and here I am, six months later, no closer than I was back in 2004. New evidence, a new list of suspects who were cleared, and a whole lot uglier.” He sighs as he flips a folder closed and drops it on his desk.
    “And murder was your original conclusion way back when?”
    He nods, grimaces when he sips his steaming hot coffee.
    “I read the content you sent me, Detective, but from what I gathered, the body had, uh, it had decayed so much that you weren’t quite sure.”
    He grins at me. “Then you didn’t read all of it.”
    He’s got me there. I didn’t, because when he called and asked me to hop on the next flight to Norfolk International, I was bone weary after the third farmhouse