“No problem.”
The first page carried the details of the shooting. Karen Poole, along with the clerk, was killed. Karen had been standing by the counter of the Pit Stop convenience store, talking to the young man behind the counter. It was just before shift change at twelve midnight. She was shot at point-blank range. The young man, a kid with dishwater-blond hair and a stud through his eyebrow, had fallen behind the counter, shot through the eye. The killer had managed to get him to open the cash register and took what little money was there.
Tess watched and rewatched the surveillance tape. The man who entered the store wore a black ski mask and a hoodie. The sweatshirt he wore either made him look bulky or he was heavyset. Under the ski mask his head looked substantial, and from the way he moved, Tess thought he was older—pushing forty. Definitely not a kid.
Tess asked Searles, “Have you made any progress on this case?”
“Unfortunately, no. The only witnesses are dead. And the guy must have run off to a car parked nearby.”
“Anything unusual?”
“No. Except usually the robberies are committed by younger males.”
She saw no nervousness. No panic. No hesitation.
He was good with a weapon. Just from the trajectory, just from the way he killed.
“How much money was there in the drawer?”
“Twenty dollars.”
Tess went back and forth through the report. It looked an awful lot like Karen Poole had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was just too much evidence that this was a convenience store holdup.
But she didn’t believe that.
Tess had already formed an opinion, already thought the shooter was Wade Poole. Everything she’d learned about him pointed to that. But the evidence just wasn’t there. There didn’t seem to be a way to orchestrate it. No way to make it happen. Too many variables.
Tess said, “So what do you think?”
“The guy’s a good shot.”
The image was grainy and dark. The man had walked out the door to the right, money stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie. To the right along the walkway and out of view. Gone.
“Can we look at it again?”
“Sure.”
Tess watched it three times.
“Can we go back?”
“Sure.”
“There.”
Detective Searles stopped the tape. There was a lot of static, everything frozen, gray and black, blurry image, the greenish light of a car going by, headlights hitting the wall.
“What does that look like to you?”
“His hand?”
“Yes.”
“He’s wearing gloves.”
“Yes, he is. But there. You can see the outline of a ring. On his right hand.”
“Looks like some kind of man’s ring. Biggest ring I’ve ever seen.”
The ring was bulky and square, stretching the leather glove.
Tess had seen a clunky ring like that before. She’d seen it on the third finger of the right hand of the cheerful rancher type she’d met at Jaimie Wolfe’s place.
How he’d grinned and looked around at the stable yard, at the riding ring, and the barn. “Name’s Barnes,” he’d told her.
She saw him reach down to lift a potted plant off its saucer, exposing the key to the house. Saw the clunky ring sparkle in the sunlight as he twisted the key in the doorknob, all the while making small talk. She remembered asking him for his contact information so she could talk to him later, and how he’d put her off by asking her to give him her card.
“I’ll copy you on the file and the tape,” Jenny Searles was saying. “The detective on the original case is Sol Green. I think his number’s still good.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Great,” Tess said. But she hardly registered the walk back out to the front doors of the station.
She was still back at Jaimie’s ranch, watching Wade Poole let the dogs inside the house as he gave her the biggest snow job ever.
Tess called Sol Green’s number but got no reply. She checked in to a Red Roof Inn off the freeway—on her dime—and called Bonny at home.
“Where are you again?”
“I’m in Phoenix.”
She ran it down for him.
“Any progress?”
“I don’t know. I thought while I was here I would see what I could find out about Pat Schofield’s sister’s homicide.”
“What’s that got to do with it? How long ago was she killed?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“I don’t see what you’re looking for.”
“I don’t, either. It’s probably nothing. But Pat Scofield, George Hanley’s daughter, ran into Wade Poole, Karen’s husband. She’s afraid of him, and thinks Karen was a victim of domestic violence.”
“That’s not your case. What’s it look like?”
“It
“Then why are you still there?”
“I’m sleepy, and I don’t want to make the drive.”
A pause.
Tess wondered, in that moment, if she’d just driven over the line.
“Good enough,” Bonny said at last. “Keep me posted.”
The next morning Tess called Danny, who was awake and on his way in to work. “Do you have the Scofields’ number?”
“No, but it’s in the file.”
“Will you text me?”
“Sure.”
“How’s Elena?”
“Perfect. Although you’d be amazed how such a puny little thing can make such noise. We’re in for a long long year.”
More than a
Tess called Sol Green again. This time he answered—on the first ring. “I was just about to call you.”
Tess asked if she could come by and talk to him. He gave her directions to an older section of Phoenix. Brick ranch houses, lots of large trees and lawns—something you didn’t see in new sections.
Sol Green and his wife were just finishing breakfast when Tess showed up.
They insisted she have breakfast.
Tess asked him a number of questions about the homicide. His wife at that point took the dishes to the sink
