I reach out, put a hand on his arm. “Reverend Takahashi — Seth — please, if you can, keep him here. Convince him to stay. Or if you can’t, find out where he’s going.”
“I’m not his keeper, Audrey. He has the right to go where he likes, when he likes.”
“I know, but please. An innocent woman may go down for this.”
He covers my hand with his own. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”
We stand for a few seconds. Then I say, “Why didn’t you contact the police?”
He takes a step away. “Because Travis wouldn’t talk to the police. But you’re not a cop, and he remembered you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I GO BACK home, too agitated even to walk the perimeter. I can’t explain how I feel. Vindicated. Terrified. Relieved. Incredulous. A gigantic mix of emotions that swamp my inner tidelands with a tsunami of feeling.
But all that feeling is detrimental to criminal investigation. So I push it away, wipe it off my shoes and wring out my socks and try to look at the situation objectively.
Okay. I have a real witness. Someone who has actually seen and heard what to date I have only experienced inside my own head. Although I’ve been assuming my vision is authentic, to know that the events had an objective reality outside my mind that someone else could and has perceived takes a tremendous load off my shoulders. I feel light as a feather. A pink balloon, bouncing.
So. Now what? Still far away from catching the guy. Evidence is lacking. Eyewitness, sure. Sorta. Think of the questions from the defense. ‘Was he sober? Of sound mind?’ Would he even testify? I have doubts. He’ll be classed as an unreliable witness at best.
No shortage of those around here.
Come up with a useful idea for once, will you?
Get North to confess.
He doesn’t seem like the confessing kind. And it’s not like I have access to an interview room, with other cops to help with the interrogation. Plus proof. As in, none.
So? You’ve got the details. Convince him you know everything. Get him to admit something no one else could know. Jog his memory. Take him back to the scene of the crime.
I think about that. I mean, what if? But I need more than just my own or Travis’s testimony. I needed someone else to hear and understand what they are hearing. I need some help. Preferably someone official. Another cop.
Detective Jane Candide.
Yeah. Good luck with that.
I have to tie up all the loose ends before I approach her. She isn’t going to be interested in half-baked theories. I look through my scrawl of notes taken over the last few weeks. One anomalous item catches my attention. ‘Welding torch.’
I’d forgotten to ask Eric why he wanted it. Or needed it. And also why he’d had Jason get it for him. What could you do with a welding torch besides, well, weld?
Burn down a building.
I scroll through the internet but am no wiser. Except, now I know what one looks like. It’s a nozzle with a pipe-like fitting that attaches to a fuel tank.
A pipe-like fitting. A narrow, cylindrical fuel tank.
The murder weapon for Daniel Chandler. I’d stake my life on it.
I try to imagine what might have happened. Maybe North approached Chandler about the unauthorized sale of the artwork. Or maybe Chandler had figured out North’s involvement in the murder and confronted him. Whatever, North had shown up with the torch. Not an ideal murder weapon — why hadn’t he brought something more appropriate, assuming this was pre-meditated?
No, it must have been spur of the moment, using the tool he had to hand. North had made the decision at the scene. He’d either been surprised by something Chandler had said, or hadn’t expected to find him there. But it still seemed unlikely. Why bring the torch at all?
Maybe North had intended to burn the church then, and Chandler had surprised him. Then for whatever reason, panic, or something else, the artist had left without finishing the job. Only to return a few days later, when Candide and I were inside.
Right, and then he just returns the thing to Jason? Hello, DNA? The guy’s not an idiot, Lake. Unlike some I could mention.
No, he wasn’t. But how likely was it that the police would make the connection? It was pretty thin. And even if they somehow got a line on the weapon, it would only lead them to Jason Morganstern. Who’d been fired for stealing tools, and had a record for criminal mischief. Even if he said he’d taken it for North, North would only have to deny it. Morganstern’s word would be nothing against a respected local artist.
And I still don’t know why he killed her.
How in hell am I going to get this guy? Before Claire goes down for his crimes?
I head down to the basement to the incident room, feeling useless and guilty. Check the locks on the walkout door, circle to check the windows. Dislodge some spiders. Spot my coat hanging on the nail where I’d hung it after the fire. Still stinks a bit, but this is the only coat I have that repels water. Lifting it off the nail, something rattles in the pocket. Can’t be keys, I’ve got those. I reach in, exploring, and encounter a handful of flash drives. Memory sticks. The ones I snatched off Daniel Chandler’s desk when Candide was grabbing the computer.
I run upstairs, tripping on the treads in my haste. Open my laptop and jam the first one into the USB port. Spreadsheets, lists of Ebay auctions, bids and buyers. This is what Claire must have been talking about when she called. I eject the flash drive and shove in another. More spreadsheets, tax records. I’m not an accountant so I don’t even bother to try to interpret them. Third one has a single text document entitled Creative Healing. I double-click on the icon
