Suspicion of Guilt (16 page)

“I hope you don’t mind that I picked you up instead of your dad,” Reece said, grabbing her hand and lacing his fingers in hers.

Denni thrilled at the contact. She smiled. “Of course not.”

Keri and her family had gone back home after assuring themselves that Denni was fine. But Dad and Ruth were still in town. And Raven had called in some personal time in order to do a story on the Mahoney House.

Denni knew what the extra time off meant for her go-getter sister. Each day away from the station, she risked having her dream job slip through her fingers and straight into the lap of a conniving, manipulating new
graduate who by all rights should be fetching Raven’s coffee.

“I’m a little surprised Dad didn’t insist on picking me up, though.”

“Let’s just say, in the battle of wills, I was the victor.”

Cate let out a laugh. “They were in a dead heat until Ruth swung the advantage in Reece’s favor by telling Mac you’d rather have Reece come get you. And I rode along because I had a doctor’s appointment.”

Denni swept over the first part of the comment and focused on the latter. “Oh, what did the doctor say?”

“It could be any time or two weeks.”

Denni laughed. “Well, that’s why he gets paid the big bucks.”

Cate moved ahead, opened the passenger door, and carefully maneuvered her swollen body up into the vehicle.

Reece pulled Denni over to his side and opened the door. “You can sit next to me.”

Denni felt heat rush to her cheeks and could find no words. “Are you taking me home?”

He nodded. “The gas company gave it the okay, replaced the hose and installed carbon monoxide detectors.”

“Oh, good.”

“Your dad and Ruth are at the house cleaning up the party stuff.”

Denni’s stomach jumped with nerves as they approached her home. For the first time, she wasn’t confident about going inside. She loved this house. It had been a gift from God. The amount the previous owners were willing to come down in price and the fact that it was the perfect place to house a group of girls could only be a testimony of God’s provision. But now all she
could think of was the fact that someone had tried to kill her in her own home.

Would she ever feel safe again?

R
eece rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and sank into his recliner in one motion, toeing off his black dress shoes and kicking up the footrest.

What an exhausting week!

After Denni’s close call and overnight hospital stay, he’d spent a solid forty-eight hours on duty, frantically trying to piece together this puzzle of disjointed incidents. It was one thing when there was only theft and sabotage, but now they were investigating an attempted homicide. He hadn’t slept in two nights, hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and had sucked down enough coffee to fill a coffee shop. And his body was letting him know just how much it resented the abuse. He was definitely getting too old for this.

With a gnawing sense of dread at confronting the inevitable, he snatched up his phone and dialed his voice mail.

If not for the chance of getting a message from Denni, he would have saved the task until later, but just
the thought that he might hear the sound of her sweet voice yanked him from his tendency to procrastinate.

The recorded voice mocked him with the reality of his neglect. Twenty-five—how could he possibly have that many voice messages waiting to be dealt with? He didn’t even have that many friends.

Reece growled at the phone, but pushed the chair back to a full recline and settled in to listen to a week’s worth of missed calls while he rested his aching back.

Absently, he grabbed the TV remote, pointed it at his dusty TV, and pressed it on.

“Mr. Corrigan,” a wimpy male voice on the other end of the phone line said, “This call is to inform you of Jonathon Griggs’s demise…”

The voice was shut out by the blast of volume coming from the TV. Reece frantically pressed the volume-down button and the sit-com laughter faded.

“Please contact Mr. Cheney at the Booneville Correctional Center at your earliest convenience.”

Reece’s heart pounded against his chest as memories slammed to the surface of his mind. Wild images of blood and death and an eighteen-year-old boy high as a kite, standing over the bodies of the dearest people who ever walked the face of the earth.

Nothing short of death or chains would have kept Reece from Jonathon’s trial. The prosecution hadn’t had to ask or instruct him to testify. He was a more-than-willing participant.

He’d watched Jonathon’s expressionless face, every minute of every day during the two-week trial. The jury came back with a guilty verdict within three hours. First-degree murder. Reece had been livid at the verdict of fifty years to life for Jonathon, instead of the death penalty.

He stared at the phone in his hand. It was about time justice was served. Even if Jonathon’s death were merely a case of
poetic
justice.

He listened to the message again. “This call is to inform you of Jonathon Griggs’s demise. Unfortunately, he passed away of a brain aneurysm at five o’clock yesterday afternoon. I’m sure this is difficult, given the nature of your relationship to Mr. Griggs and the crime for which he was convicted. However, you are listed as next of kin so we have no choice but to contact you. The body has been sent to the city morgue. Unless we hear from you by tomorrow morning, May fifteenth, Mr. Griggs will be cremated and his ashes disposed of. You should also be aware that there are a few personal items that are rightfully yours as next of kin and without a beneficiary specified by Mr. Griggs. Please contact Mr. Cheney at the Booneville Correctional Center at your earliest convenience.”

All the energy sifted from Reece as he thumbed off the phone. He had no intention of calling the prison. Today was May seventeenth, so he didn’t even have to deal with whether or not to make arrangements to bury the man who had murdered the people who were, for all intents and purposes, Reece’s parents. By now, Jonathon was nothing more than a pile of ashes scattered in the wind.

Why would Jonathon have him listed as next of kin, anyway? They were nothing to each other. They had lived as foster brothers for barely a year. Had run with different crowds and essentially didn’t get along.

With a shuddering sigh, Reece closed his eyes, trying to squeeze the screaming voice of accusation from his head. The one that said he was as much to blame as Jonathon for his foster parents’ death.

With her elbows resting on the kitchen table, Denni pressed her chin firmly into her palm and blew out a dejected sigh. Over three days. And no word from Reece.

Okay so he had worked solid for two of those days. It wasn’t unreasonable that he would need to go home and sleep, shower, do a little laundry maybe. That shouldn’t have taken more than twenty-four hours. But it had been a good—she glanced at her watch—thirty-three and a half hours since his shift ended, and still she hadn’t heard a peep from him. If the girls hadn’t been called in one-by-one for questioning, during his time on duty, she would have thought he’d fallen off the face of the earth.

She’d probably lost a good five pounds just from the calorie-burn of running for the telephone every time it rang.

“Will you focus, already?” Raven pulled her sleek black hair away from her neck and lifted the heavy mound to the top of her head, securing it only with her hand while she glowered at Denni. “I have to leave in just a couple of hours if I’m going to get home in time to avoid rush-hour traffic. Do you want me to do this story or not?”

“I do. You know I do. But I’m having a little trouble concentrating.”

“Well, snap out of it. So what if he didn’t call for three days? You’re the one who told him to get lost.”

Denni tossed a towel at her sister’s head. “I did not. I just told him I couldn’t become involved with him romantically. That didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends.”

Oh, brother. Who was she kidding?

Raven rolled her eyes. “Do you know what that little let’s-be-friends speech does to a guy’s ego?”

“If anyone knows about that, it’s you.” Fatigue, loneliness and a general feeling of uneasiness dulled Denni’s sensitive nature, and she blurted out her opinion before she could even consider the possibility that Raven might not take it as a joke.

Raven dropped her heavy tresses, which cascaded down her back like a waterfall. “I’m going home.” She jumped to her feet and started loading the camera into her bag. “I have enough footage to do a bleeding-heart piece. Janie can edit it and plug in my voice-overs later.”

Denni laced her fingers together on the table in front of her. “I’m sorry, Rave. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Raven waved away the apology. “Look, I know you and Keri get a real kick out of my track record with guys. But you know what? I don’t want a permanent Mr. Mahoney. And if I did, I’d get one. I like my career. I like dating—no strings attached. And I’m always up front about that. If some egomaniac doesn’t believe me and decides he’s in love, well, then, I have no choice but to resort to the let’s-be-friends speech.” She zipped the bag and rested her hands on the black leather. “But you, kiddo, are not me. You adore this man. And Reece is in love with you. You should have seen him carrying you out of that house. If a man ever loved me that way…it might convince me to change my entire philosophy of life in general.”

Stunned speechless by Raven’s discourse, Denni stared while she processed the monologue. The girls had relived those moments with her countless times, amid sighs and giggles, over the past few days, and Denni thrilled to each telling of it. Too bad she couldn’t remember a single second of the most romantic moment
of her life. But hearing it through Raven’s lips made it more…real. More grown up.

Reece’s rescue had been like something out of a romance novel. He was officially her hero, but was he a man in love?

With a scowl, she jammed her chin once more into her palm and stared glumly at her sister. By ignoring her for days, he wasn’t acting much like a man in love.

Why was he here? Why the compulsion to contact the prison and get himself roped into the three-hour trip? And what exactly had he said that had induced them to sic the chaplain on him, then make him wait thirty minutes? He glanced about the less-than-homey waiting room and his remaining shred of patience snapped. He ought to just leave. Seriously. That’s what he was going to do.

Reece stood, accidentally kicking back the brown, metal chair. The clang resonated off the white concrete walls. Reece winced, feeling as if he’d broken a rule. He bent to pick the chair up just as the door opened.

A middle-aged man, roughly the height of an average-size teenage boy, walked toward him with a confident stride and an outstretched hand. “You must be Detective Corrigan.”

Something in his eyes relaxed Reece. Kindness, sympathy, warmth. A sudden and inexplicable longing shot through Reece as he looked into that gentle face and tried to decipher exactly who the guy was feeling sorry for.

Me?

That was laughable. This was the best day of his life. The day he could finally put all thoughts of Jonathon
out of his head for good. That’s why he’d come. Closure. Once and for all. No more of Jonathon’s wild-eyed stare invading his dreams. It was done.

“That for me, Chaplain?” Reece indicated the manila envelope stuffed under the preacher’s arm.

“Oh, yeah. Here you go.”

With a pounding heart, Reece accepted Jonathon’s worldly goods. He fumbled with the fasteners, but hesitated short of examining the contents.

“Do you want me to leave?” the chaplain asked.

Reece felt a little guilty that he’d all but ignored the man since he’d walked into the room. “No. You might as well stick around. As soon as I look at it, I’m out of here, and you can do with his things as you see fit.”

“You don’t intend to keep any of it?”

Reece listened absently as he tipped the envelope and let the contents fall to the table with a thud and clatter. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know. I just thought…”

“What?”

“You might find a way to forgive him for what he did if you look through his things—get to know the man he became.”

Bewilderment swam over Reece. “What do you mean, forgive him? Why would I want to do that? Besides, he’s dead now. So even if I wanted to—which I don’t, how would I?”

He smiled. “I don’t have any proof, but I’m firmly convinced that forgiveness does more for us than it does for the person we forgive.”

“Well, Rev, I appreciate your insight, but I don’t happen to want to forgive Jonathon. As a matter of fact, I’m glad he’s finally stopped living off the taxpayer’s
money. Personally, I think he ought to have been chaired to begin with.”

“Chaired?”

“Yeah, as in electric.”

Understanding dawned in the man’s eyes, and Reece could see he was struggling not to show his dismay at Reece’s callous answer.

Reece stared at the contents on the table. Letters. Who was writing Jonathon letters, if he’d had no one outside of the prison walls? He picked up an envelope and turned it over. Scrawled on the front was his name. Reece frowned, then he remembered. Three years after Jonathon’s incarceration, the letters had started arriving. Like clockwork, once a week. And for five years, Reece had returned every one of them unopened. These must represent a sampling of those. Of the dozen or so envelopes, each carried his name.

He dismissed the letters and glanced at the other items. A decent watch that, ironically, had been a gift from the Ides on Jonathon’s eighteenth birthday, shortly before he’d killed them.

Rage snarled up Reece’s spine. His fist curled around the watch and in a heartbeat, he pitched it against the wall. The crystal shattered. The chaplain jumped. A guard appeared, his hand resting on the PR-24 hanging from his hip. Reece’s senses alerted and he assumed a defensive stance. Cop or no cop, he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of that stick.

The chaplain turned and raised his hand. “It’s all right.”

With a wary glance at Reece the officer stepped reluctantly from the room, leaving the door ajar. The chaplain smiled indulgently and crossed the room. He pushed the door shut then turned back to Reece.

“May I tell you about Jonathon’s last years?”

“No.”

“All right. How about telling me about yours?”

Resentment welled up in Reece at this preacher’s blatant attempt to draw him out. Why was he even staying? He was no prisoner. He could walk through the gates any time he wanted. So what kept him planted to his seat? He glanced at the chaplain.

Those eyes. They weren’t effeminate or in any way expressions of weakness. Merely kind. Compelled, and yet uncomfortable at the same time, Reece shifted his gaze back to the items on the table. For the first time he noticed the black book. Like a moth to a flame he couldn’t help himself. He reached forward and took the Bible.

A short laugh left him. “Let me guess…Jonathon found the straight and narrow in here?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Surprise? No.” Didn’t they all find religion in prison? Wasn’t that their way of making it through? No better endorsement than a chaplain’s at a parole hearing. “I guess it’s pretty typical.”

“Jonathon wasn’t typical.”

The image of those wild eyes flitted across Reece’s mind. “No I suppose not.” Absently, he flipped open the Bible. His eyebrows lifted. The pages were thin and marked up. Obviously, Jonathon had been trying to make a convincing impression.

“Ironic.”

“What?”

“That you’d open to Jonathon’s favorite Bible verse.”

Reece’s first instinct was to smash the book closed, but he couldn’t. That shouldn’t have surprised him. The entire day had been unreal. He’d gone against every in
stinct. Just being here in the first place went against every sense of logic he held to. He found himself glancing down at a passage, underlined in red and with stars marking either side of the column.

A wave of dizziness swept him. How could Jonathon have loved
that
verse?

“Jonathon knew that if He could find him in the darkness of prison, then He must also have known him in the darkness of his mother’s womb. When he felt alone, it comforted him to know that God was still writing the story of his life.”

“I have to go.” Reece shoved to his feet and stumbled to the door.