Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) (7 page)

But what she’d loved most was how he’d let her hold his wallet. Even before she’d understood the value of money, she’d known this wallet was important to her dad. He never left home without it. Yet he’d trusted her with it every Sunday morning.

John Warren had always known how to make people feel important—and valued.

Kelly blinked back the sudden tears that blurred her vision and stroked the worn leather, now cracked in a few places. It was stiff when she tried to bend it, like an arthritic knee, and empty when she opened it. The photos of her and her mom were gone, the plastic holders bare and cracked, and the window that had once protected her dad’s driver’s license had yellowed.

She bowed the compartment for bills, where her dad had always kept his singles, fives, and twenties lined up in military precision, all facing the same direction, each denomination together—the very same way she did it now. That, too, was empty.

Except . . . what was the small whitish triangle sticking out near the bottom, in the corner?

Curious, Kelly worked her finger into the space. It felt like the corner of a piece of paper. She ran her finger over the leather, detecting a vertical crack—or slit. By inserting her fingernail, she was able to create an opening large enough to ease out the small slip of paper.

Once she had it in hand, she set the wallet aside. The soiled, yellowed paper was folded in half, and she opened it carefully. Despite the grime, she could make out a sequence of digits.

It was a telephone number.

Kelly frowned and picked up the wallet again, scooting beside the window to let the light shine into the dark corner where the paper had been hidden. Although the leather was cracked in a few places from age, the slit that had given her access to the phone number seemed too precise—too deliberate—to be a random split.

It was as if her dad had created a hiding place for this slip of paper.

How odd was that?

She reread the unfamiliar local number. Was there any chance it would still be a working line? Her dad hadn’t used this wallet in at least a dozen years, not since she’d upgraded him to a Gucci version with part of the payment from her first watercolor commission.

Sixty seconds later, after tapping the digits into her cell phone, she got the recording she expected. The number was no longer in service.

She checked her watch. She needed to leave
now
to meet Cole. As it was, if the streets around Galleria were deadlocked with traffic, she’d be late. Parking could be a problem too.

Switching gears, she retrieved her jacket from the kitchen, still distracted by the carefully concealed number. Puzzling as it was, what bearing could a number twelve-plus years old have on her father’s death?

Yet she’d found nothing else, despite her diligent searching. And she couldn’t shake the sense that this discovery was relevant.

She picked up her purse from the counter. Hesitated. What would Alan Carlson say if she told him about her find—and her intuition that it was important? Would he think she was grasping at straws and dismiss it?

Maybe.

But Cole wouldn’t. Not to her face, anyway. Why not run it by him first? See what he thought before she approached Carlson?

Settled on that plan of action, Kelly detoured to her father’s bedroom and put the note and the wallet in her purse. It wasn’t much to go on, and she tried not to get her hopes up.

Yet as she set her father’s security system and exited, she couldn’t suppress a small surge of optimism that perhaps, at last, she’d stumbled upon a clue that would help her get to the bottom of her father’s death.

Cole checked his watch.

Kelly was late.

Then again, he’d been early.

Too early.

But three minutes later, as he checked voice mail and returned calls to pass the time, she pushed through the front door, the blustery November wind whipping her hair around her face. She spotted him at once and waved, looking harried—and gorgeous—as she hurried toward him.

“Sorry.” Cheeks flushed, she wrinkled her nose as she gave him a breathless apology. “I got tied up in traffic.”

“No problem. I made calls while I waited.” He slid the phone back onto his belt.

“Well, let’s get a table. I’m sure you’re on a tight schedule.”

Nope. He’d cleared his agenda until two-thirty, in case their lunch ran long.

He hoped.

Once at the table, he helped her with her jacket, then slid into the booth across from her. “You look like you’ve fully recovered from the weekend’s excitement.”

“I have.”

“And everything’s been quiet?”

“Yes. No sign of the mysterious older man in the coffee shop. Are you still worried about him?”

He was. But after a few discreet calls, he’d concluded the man hadn’t been caught on any security video. So he was out of luck trying to identify him.

“I think a little extra caution would be wise for a while.” He kept his tone casual as he draped his napkin across his lap.

The waiter appeared, and after he ran through the day’s specials, they placed their orders.

“Thank you again for the invitation.” Cole settled back in the booth and smiled at her. “My typical lunch is a burger grabbed on the run. This is a treat.”

“It’s small repayment for monopolizing your Saturday.” Before he could tell her he hadn’t minded in the least, she linked her fingers on the table and gave him a serious look. “Besides, I want to pick your brain about something I found at my dad’s house this morning.”

His radar went up. “Okay.”

“I know Detective Carlson is my official contact, and I don’t want to put you in the middle, but before I go to him with this I thought I’d get your read. If you tell me I’m overreacting, I won’t bother him.” She unzipped her purse and withdrew a beat-up wallet and a small slip of paper, which she set on the table.

He listened as she explained how and where she’d found the items. Then he picked up the wallet and examined it. She was right. From what he could tell, the slit did appear to be deliberate—as if it had been made to create a hiding place.

“I wasn’t surprised when the number was out of service.” She tapped a finger on the table as she concluded her story. “And since Dad hasn’t used that wallet in a dozen years or so, it may be a stretch to think this is relevant to his death. But he wasn’t a secretive man. I can’t imagine why he’d keep a number hidden like that.”

Cole examined the smudged slip of paper. He could think of several reasons. But none of them fit the profile Kelly had painted of an upstanding Christian man. “I’ll tell you what. Let me have our Communications people see if they can put a name to this number. It might end up being totally innocent, but there’s a chance it could turn out to be a lead.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure.” He pulled out a notebook and jotted down the number. “Hang on to these until I get some more information.” He slid the wallet and slip of paper back to her side of the table.

She stowed them in her purse and shot him a smile. “Okay. Enough business. This isn’t supposed to be a working lunch. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? I feel at a distinct disadvantage, since you’ve read so much about me in the case file.”

“What would you like to know?”

Grinning, she took a piece of bread from the basket. “Tell me what you do for fun.”

Socialize with women who like to
have
fun.

That was the truth of it. And with anyone else, he’d have said exactly that with the rakish grin he’d perfected. The kind of women he dated would laugh, or feign a pout, or edge in closer if the seating arrangement allowed.

But Kelly didn’t fit that mold. And he could imagine her reaction if he gave his usual response. Disappointment. Disapproval. Withdrawal.

None of those were acceptable.

Because even though this lunch didn’t qualify as a date, he hoped they
would
have some real dates down the road.

As a result, he did something he hadn’t done with a woman in years. He spoke from the heart.

“I hang out with my family a lot. I have a brother and sister, and while we can get on each others’ nerves, I love spending time with them. My mom’s great too.”

Her expression grew wistful, and a smile softened her lips as she rested one elbow on the table and propped her chin in her palm. “I always wished I had siblings. Tell me about yours so I can live vicariously for a little while.”

He complied as they consumed rigatoni and lasagna, regaling her with tales about their growing-up years, as well as Alison’s Social Services children’s work and Jake’s career as a deputy U.S. marshal and a member of that organization’s elite Special Operations Group. She plied him with eager questions, her eyes alight with enthusiasm and interest, and as the meal wound down he realized he hadn’t shared this much about his life with anyone outside the family—ever. Nor enjoyed himself so much.

“You know, if you ever get tired of being an artist, you should apply for a job as an investigative reporter. Or an interrogator. The FBI could use you.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and grinned at her.

She smiled back and buttered the last bite of her bread. “I loved hearing about your family. Talk about a high-performing bunch. How did you all end up in justice-related professions, anyway?”

“I think it’s in the genes. My dad was a police officer. Just a beat cop, as he always put it. That’s all he ever wanted to be. A guy on the street, helping people. He didn’t care about glory or promotions or citations. He cared about justice and about keeping people safe. He was the most selfless, principled man I ever met.” His voice hoarsened, and he covered the uncharacteristic display of emotion by taking a swallow of coffee and shifting the spotlight to Kelly. “How did you become an artist?”

“Unlike you, I can’t claim to have followed in my father’s footsteps—except when it comes to neatness.” A smile tugged at her lips. “He was a numbers man. He used to kid that he couldn’t draw a straight line, and there was a lot of truth to that. But he appreciated art and encouraged me to develop my talent. He always paid for extra art lessons and summer art camps and supplies . . .” Her words trailed off and her smile faded. “He was a wonderful person. Kind of like your dad.”

Without stopping to think, he reached across the table and covered her fingers with his. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t retract her hand.

“If I haven’t said it before, I’m sorry for your loss. And I admire you for loving your dad enough to keep digging for information to prove your theory about his death.”

“Some days it feels like an uphill battle.” A quiver ran through her words, and the muscles in her throat contracted as she swallowed. “But when I got those bulbs, I felt like it was a message from Dad, telling me there was more to the story. It was the impetus I needed to get back in the fight, even though the case was closed.”

“You’re not alone. Enough has happened to make me suspicious too. Let’s see what we can turn up on that number from your dad’s wallet.”

Their gazes locked, and a flush rose on Kelly’s cheeks. Then she tugged her fingers from beneath his and picked up the credit card slip.

He missed the warmth of her hand at once.

“I didn’t mean to take up this much of your afternoon.” She kept her head bent as she signed the slip.

“My schedule is flexible today.” He set his napkin on the table. “Ready?”

In answer, she slid out of the booth. He stayed a step behind her as they wove through the tables toward the front door, and insisted on walking her to her car after discovering she’d parked in the garage.

The blustery wind and unseasonable cold wasn’t conducive to conversation as they set off at a brisk pace, and she shivered as they stopped beside her Focus in the shadowy garage. “It’s much too early to be this chilly.”

“I agree.” He did a quick sweep of the garage as she unlocked her car. Few people were about. “No more parking garages until we get this thing sorted out, okay?”

She turned to him, her brow furrowed. “You’re going to make me paranoid.”

“Think of it as being prudent.” He pulled the door open for her. “I’ll call you about the number. And thank you again for lunch. I enjoyed it a lot.”

Once more, her color rose. “Me too.”

For a moment, she hesitated. As if she wanted to say more. Instead, she slid into the car.

He closed the door, stepped back, and waited for her to start the engine and pull out before returning to his own car, glad he’d reserved a full two hours for lunch.

And glad the number in his pocket gave him an excuse to call her again.

Soon.

A missing person’s case kept him on the go for the next two days, but by Friday afternoon Cole had a chance to connect with the Communications Bureau and pass on the number Kelly had found. Identifying a line out of service for more than a decade was dicey, as they reminded him. Four or five years was usually the max, but it might be possible to track it if the phone company was still in existence.

Meanwhile, he intended to take a closer look at the medical examiner’s report on John Warren. After his first meeting with Kelly, he’d focused on the summary and cause of death, skimming the details. The conclusive findings hadn’t seemed to merit a detailed review.

But in light of all that had happened, he decided to follow Kelly’s example and start using a fine-tooth comb with this case.

Pulling up the report on the screen, he leaned forward and read through the data. He’d sat in on enough autopsies to understand the terminology, to know that the states of rigor and livor were consistent with Alan’s conclusions. But one small note in the external description did catch his eye.

John Warren had had a small round scar on the left side of his lower back.

Round.

What would cause a round scar?

A bullet?

Her father had also had a narrow three-inch scar on his left abdomen.

Were the two scars related?

Filing those questions away, Cole moved on to the results of the internal examination.

The lung cancer was noted, but nothing else jumped out at him until he came to the gastrointestinal system. There, the forensic pathologist had observed old damage to the large intestine on the left side.

Was that related to the scars?

He read the rest of the report, including the toxicology findings, which confirmed the presence of ethanol and zolpidem. That was consistent with the beer and pills found with the body and in the house.

Tapping a finger on his desk, he scrolled back to the first page. Dale Matthews had done the exam. A smart guy. Intuitive. Precise. Thorough. Cole had sat in on some of his autopsies, and he’d been impressed by the man’s deductive reasoning. Matthews’s off-the-cuff verbal observations never made it into the final report. A postmortem was about fact, not conjecture. But his insights were sound, and Cole was interested in his take on the scars and the damaged intestine.

Despite the small odds of reaching the man on a first try, Cole put in a call.

Much to his surprise, he caught Matthews in his office. The pathologist pulled up the autopsy as Cole gave him a topline review of the case.

“Yeah . . . I’m skimming the report as we speak. I remember this one. I don’t see that many carbon monoxide deaths. What’s your question?”

“You noted a round scar on the victim’s back and another long one on his abdomen. And you called out some damage to his large intestine. Do you think all three could be related? Off the record.”

“That would be my assumption. They’re all consistent with a gunshot wound. My guess is the bullet entered the back, damaged the intestines, and was removed through the abdomen.”

Matthews’s conclusion confirmed his own suspicions.

Kelly’s father had been shot.

“Any idea about the age of that damage?”

“The scars were old. Twenty-five, thirty years would be my guess. It’s harder to tell with the intestine.”

“Okay. That helps a lot. Thanks.”

“Not a problem. Good luck with whatever you’re working on.”

As the line went dead, Cole set the phone in its cradle and leaned back in his chair. He needed to run this latest news by Kelly. If the damage was from an old war wound, she might know about it.

But he had a feeling this news was going to take her by surprise. That the injury was from a trauma her father had never shared with her.

For that reason, this wasn’t a discussion he wanted to have by phone.

He pulled his cell off his belt, scrolled through his directory, and tapped auto dial. She picked up after two rings with a cheery hello.

“Hi, Kelly.” He turned a pen end to end on his desktop. “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to swing by your house tonight after work.”

“Sure.” She sounded surprised but pleased. “Did you track down my mystery number?”

“No. The Communications people are still working on it. But I learned something else interesting today I’d like to share with you.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you what . . . since you’re coming around dinnertime, why don’t you share your news over dinner? I’m planning to grill salmon. Unless . . . it
is
Friday. You probably have other plans.”

His usual Friday night routine included socializing with some of the other single detectives, but that hadn’t even been on his agenda for tonight—thanks to the russet-haired beauty on the other end of the line.

“I don’t have any plans. And dinner would be great. Look for me around six, if that’s okay.”

“Perfect. See you then.”

As he dropped the phone back in the cradle, Alan spoke over his shoulder. “Sounds like you’re not in the market for happy hour tonight.”

Cole pivoted toward him and flashed a smile. “I got lucky early.”

“You wouldn’t be referring to a certain redhead we both know, would you?”

“Maybe.” Cole needed to tell Alan about his discussion with Matthews. He didn’t want his colleague to think he was going behind his back. Where was Alison when he needed her, to coach him through this tact business? “But it’s mostly business.”

The other man grinned. “Right.”

“No. I’m serious.” He tried to couch his explanation as diplomatically as he could. “Kelly found a phone number this weekend in a secret compartment in her father’s old wallet. I’m running it through Communications. Since new information keeps appearing, I took another look at the autopsy report for Kelly’s father and noticed a few things I missed on my first review. Some external scarring, and damage to the intestine. I just had an interesting conversation with Dale Matthews, whose opinion corroborated my own conclusion. We think her father was shot many years ago.”

Alan’s face went blank with shock. “How did I miss that?”

“Given the circumstances of his death, I doubt I’d have paid any attention to old injuries, either. Considering all the recent developments, though, I’m wondering if there’s a connection.”

“She never mentioned anything about her father being shot.”

“I have a feeling she doesn’t know.”

“So that’s why you’re going over tonight.” Understanding chased away the shock on his face. “To break the news—and see if she can shed any light on this surprising bit of history.”

“More or less. Plus, she offered to feed me.” Cole lifted his shoulder in a what-can-you-do gesture. “Since my mom moved to Chicago and Alison started dating Mitch, my home-cooked meals have been few and far between.”

One side of Alan’s mouth lifted. “I hear you. Go for it. And let me know what you find out from her. I might have to dig back in on this after all. In the meantime, enjoy your dinner.”

With a wave, the other man exited into the hall.

As Cole swung back to his computer, he intended to do his best to follow Alan’s advice and have a pleasant meal.

But he had a feeling his news might very well kill his hostess’s appetite.

Things were not going as planned.

Kelly Warren hadn’t died, and Cole Taylor was getting much too involved in the John Warren case. With four weeks to go until the last of the money was paid, his debts were piling up. The threat of garnishment on his wages was very real. But he could hold everyone off for one more month.

His main concern was
getting
the final payment. The last third had been contingent on pulling off a clean operation, the time delay built in as insurance against fallout.

The kind of fallout that was beginning to happen.

The kind that had to be contained.

He paced from one side of the sparsely furnished living room in his apartment to the other, frustration tightening the muscles in his shoulders. He’d gone clean, just like he’d promised. He was living like a pauper to conserve cash, something he’d vowed never again to do after the rattraps he’d occupied as a child because his old man had never been sober long enough to hold a decent job. He was keeping his nose clean. He didn’t deserve to have things blow up at this point.

What bothered him most was that he’d brought some of this on himself, thanks to the peanut incident. Instead of distracting Kelly, it had energized her. Stiffened her resolve. Now all kinds of new developments were popping up. A mysterious phone number. An old gunshot wound. A detective who was falling for the victim’s daughter and taking a personal interest in the case.

At least he was getting the latest updates from an excellent source. That was about the only bright spot in the whole picture.

Pausing by the window, he gazed out into the darkness. Night fell early this time of year. That meant the winter cold wasn’t far behind. He hated winter. Once he got this thing straightened out and had the final payment in hand, he was ditching this town and going somewhere warm. Florida, maybe. Or Arizona.

And if he was lucky, he wouldn’t be alone.

He clung to that hope. It was what kept him going. Sure, there’d been a few glitches, but so far none of the new information was providing any worthwhile insights. Nor did it link him to John Warren’s death or his daughter’s allergy attack.

And it wouldn’t. He’d been careful. There was no reason for his benefactor to be displeased with his work. No reason for the final payment to be delayed.

The sudden glare of car headlights arcing across the window blinded him, and he lifted a hand to shade his eyes. Jerking back, he stumbled against the coffee table. Lost his balance. Muttered a curse as he struggled to regain his equilibrium.

As the world stabilized, he sucked in a sharp breath. In general, he was cool under pressure. But this whole situation had him on edge. He was as skittish as a neophyte blackjack player up against high rollers for the first time.

Rubbing his shin, he hobbled toward the kitchen.

He needed a beer.

“So what news did you have to tell me? We’re almost finished with dinner.” Kelly smiled at Cole across the small café table in her kitchen and leaned back, looking as relaxed as he’d ever seen her. Good thing, given the next topic of discussion.

Cole finished off his last bite of salmon and and set down his fork. “First, I have a question for you. Was your father ever in the military?”

“No. Why?”

“Was he ever involved in any sort of hunting accident?”

“That’s two questions, and the answer is still no.” Twin creases appeared on her forehead, and she picked up her water glass, holding on tight as if she were bracing herself. “What did you find?”

“A few things on your father’s autopsy report I missed the first time around.”

“Like what?”

“Notations about two scars and evidence of old damage to his intestine.”

“How old?”

“The pathologist is guessing twenty-five to thirty years, and he said all three are consistent with a gunshot wound.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “A gunshot wound? That’s crazy. My father was the gentlest, kindest man I ever met. He hated guns. And if he’d been involved in some kind of violent incident years ago—a robbery, or whatever—he’d have told me. There must be some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake in terms of the physical evidence, but we can’t prove it was a gunshot wound, either. The forensic pathologist who did the autopsy is a sharp guy, though, and I called him to discuss it. He had the same take I did.”

Kelly lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. Her hand was shaking. So was her voice when she spoke.

“This is getting weirder and weirder.” She set the water down carefully. “But assuming we
are
talking about a gunshot wound, how could something that old have any bearing on what happened to my dad five months ago?”

“That’s the $64,000 question.” He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “In the days and weeks leading up to your dad’s death, did anything out of the ordinary happen that, in hindsight, might be significant? Did your father do anything or say anything that now seems out of character or gives you any pause?”