Since she hadn’t received any calls on her cell phone, Brianna checked the phone on her desk for messages. The light on it was blinking. The first message turned out to be from Del Campo.
“Best interview you’ve ever sent me out on, Bri,” she heard him say enthusiastically. “The old guy rambled a lot and he wasn’t all there, so the interview wasn’t really productive, but damn, this really is pretty country. I know where I want to live when I retire. Check in with you in the morning.”
The second call, surprisingly, was from Andrew Cavanaugh. The former chief of police didn’t usually call her directly.
“Don’t know if you’ve heard by now, but the family hasn’t gotten together for over a month, and I feel it’s about time. Brian tells me that you’ve been working a rather tough case, which means that you and your team could use a break for a few hours. I’m having a gathering at my place Saturday. Nothing fancy, just the usual. Good food, good company. Usual time, too, but you can come earlier if you want. Door’s always open.”
Brianna smiled as the message ended. She supposed that far more urbane, sophisticated people would probably laugh at her, but there was something immensely reassuring and comforting about that deep, warm voice extending an invitation and telling her something that she had heard many times before—that she was welcome.
This was something, she was fairly certain, that Jackson never had in his life. She really wished that the solemn detective would let her in. She was positive that if she could get him to open up, he would wind up feeling better overall.
She came to attention as the phone clicked and launched into the third message. She recognized that voice, too, but without the same warm reaction she’d had to Andrew’s.
“Detective, this is Winston Aurora. Sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering how you were doing with the case. Every morning I find myself perspiring as I wait for the story to break on the local news. So far it hasn’t, and I thank you for that. None of us in the family wants to deal with intrusive reporters asking nonsensical questions. I do want to remind you of your promise to call me the moment you find any information about the killer. I’m interested in justice being done as much as you are. Thank you for all your fine work and your consideration. Again, please call me. Night or day.”
“‘Interested in justice being done.’ Now, there’s a phrase to hang up on your wall. Just what are you so antsy about, Mr. Aurora?” she asked as the machine clicked again, this time shutting off after the last new message. “You know more than you’re telling, don’t you? But what is it that you know, and how do I get you to tell me?”
Nothing but silence greeted her words, and nothing came to mind. Brianna decided that she was just too tired tonight to deal with an intricate mental puzzle. Tackling something like that required her being rested and sharp. Right now she felt totally dull and incapable of putting two and two together, much less finding the common link between the old and new murders.
Tomorrow, she told herself. She would approach all this from a fresh angle tomorrow.
After all, she reasoned, the victims wouldn’t be any deader tomorrow than they were now.
She took what she needed from her desk and locked up for the night. Going home and getting some rest were sounding pretty good to her right about now, Brianna thought.
But first, she had two more stops to make before she could make home—and bed—a reality.
* * *
“How are you doing, Jimmy?” Jackson asked, walking into his young brother’s small, utilitarian room at the rehab center. Jimmy was sitting in the room’s lone chair, reading a worn paperback collection of Mark Twain’s short stories, a book he’d read more than once as a kid.
Surprise registered on Jimmy’s gaunt face. The smile that instantly rose to his lips disappeared after a beat, replaced by a look of annoyance.
“You haven’t been returning any of my calls,” Jimmy accused.
“I’m working a new case,” Jackson explained. “And you need to feel like you can stand up on your own two feet when I’m not around. I can’t always be around,” Jackson emphasized.
“You’re my brother,” Jimmy cried, his emotions getting the better of him. “I’m supposed to be able to count on you.”
“I am and you can,” Jackson told him calmly. “But more, you’re supposed to be able to count on yourself.”
“Yeah, right,” Jimmy answered sarcastically. “How can I?” he demanded the next moment. “I’m a product of the old man and her.”
Jimmy hadn’t used the word Mom since she had walked out on them.
“So am I,” Jackson responded quietly. “So am I.”
Jimmy looked at him as if this was a revelation, and from the expression on his face, in a way, it was. Wrapped up in self-pity, it was something Jimmy had never quite considered before. “You are, huh?” he repeated like a man who had stumbled across something that could very well unlock the secret of life—or at least give him the key that would help him try to work the lock.
“I am,” Jackson said in the same quiet voice, putting his hand over his brother’s, silently recognizing and strengthening the bond between them.
Jackson wasn’t prepared for his brother to start crying. The sight of tears made him uncomfortable and left him feeling as if there was something lacking inside him—compassion, perhaps. The truth was that he usually had no idea what to do or say in this sort of a situation.
This time, however, even though he still didn’t give voice to any sentiments, some sort of protective instinct kicked in. Without a word, Jackson took his
