“So no one’s confessed. That won’t stop you, right?”
“No. But it takes an awful lot of legwork, paperwork, and brainwork to solve a whodunit like this. From what Sheriff Nemec tells me, digging around in thirty-year-old dirt might not even lead us anywhere. Even if I’m not the one to dig that dirt up.” He raised his eyebrows.
So the sheriff had gone and told him about my visit to Cloris’s attic. “Why not be direct, Sergeant? Might save us both some time.”
“Okay,” he said, “I want whatever evidence you took from the Grayson house.”
“Have you decided to investigate Cloris’s death, then?”
“Maybe. Two people in the same family dying from cyanide poisoning—even if the murders were years apart—is no coincidence,” he said.
“So,” he interrupted, “either you cooperate and turn over what you found, or you could be investigating the inside of a Harris County jail cell.”
I sat back, my enthusiasm melting like a chocolate bar left on the dashboard. “When have I not cooperated?”
“I don’t call taking away evidence cooperation. But if you had a motive to kill Mr. Grayson, I haven’t found one. Not even blackmail. And now, with the similarities between Ben’s death and Cloris Grayson’s, I—”
“Wait a minute. Blackmail? Why would Ben blackmail me?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
“So you still think I might be hiding something?” This was ludicrous. Clearly Ben’s death was related to a murder that occurred fifteen years ago, one I knew nothing about until last week.
He chewed languidly for a few seconds before speaking. “Ben Grayson was probably living on your property because he had a good reason to be there—which logically might involve the people who live in your house. Your father’s dead, your sister spends every waking hour in the library when she’s not with Terry Armstrong, and you... ? Well, I’ve learned you have a less restricted schedule.”
My cheeks tingled. “And what, exactly, do you know about my so-called schedule?”
He said nothing.
“Oh. I get it. You’ve been watching me. Following me.”
He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time since we’d met.
“Has this been going on since the day of the murder?” I knew I was glaring, but hell, this pissed me off.
He put both feet on the floor and squared his shoulders. “Routine stuff. Nothing personal.”
“You haven’t answered my question. How long?”
“After Nemec phoned and said he screwed up and let you take stuff from the Grayson house, we had to watch you more closely. And that’s the reason I brought you down here. Following people can get you in lots of trouble. You nearly got more than you bargained for with that car thief in Galveston.”
“So the big black dude who nailed James Franklin wasn’t merely some good Samaritan, huh?”
“Not exactly.”
Another tension-filled silence followed before I said, “You’re wasting time and taxpayers’ money pursuing me. You could have been up in Shade, where you might actually find answers—like I did.”
His neck was blotched, the fire spreading up to his ears. “Carting off evidence before the police have a chance—”
“Nemec came to Ruth’s house earlier and chose not to take anything, so I figure she could give me whatever she wanted.”
“You figured wrong. I’m dropping the polite approach with you, Ms. Rose, so quit—”
“You actually believe you possess a polite approach?” I said with a laugh.
He leaned toward me, arms folded on his desk. “Okay. You think you’re a detective? Why don’t you just tell me what you know about the cold case?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled, realizing this was not about egos—his or mine. This was about murder. And if I could help, I wanted to. More than anything.
“Here’s what I know.” I told him what I had taken from the attic, then said, “I think Cloris Grayson was actually a teenage runaway named Connie Kramer. She may have had a child out of wedlock that she gave up for adoption thirty-odd years ago. I believe she was looking for the adoption agency when she was murdered.”
“She waited fifteen years to look for her kid?” said Kline.
“No Internet back then. And from what I can tell, the lady was poor. It might have taken her that long to get a lead.”
“So maybe Ben killed her because of this baby rather than for the insurance money?” he said. “That doesn’t work for me.”
I wanted to shake the man by his ears, but I stayed calm. “Read my lips. Ben did not kill Cloris.”
“If I accept that as fact, tell me how this ancient history relates to his murder. You think he started looking for his dead wife’s child after all these years?”
“Yes. He had money after the insurance paid out.”
He nodded, seeming to consider this. “And someone didn’t want him snooping around in old business. Not out of the realm of possibility. Still doesn’t explain why he showed up at your place using a fake name.”
“I’m working on that,” I said.
“See, that’s a huge problem,” he said. “You have no business working on this. I can’t afford to keep a man on you.”
“You didn’t need one ‘on me’ to begin with.”
“You just don’t get it. I can foresee arriving at a crime scene to find you’ve become the victim of an ingenious new method of killing with cyanide. And I wouldn’t like that, okay?”
I crossed my arms. “So now I’ve gone from suspect to potential victim?”
He closed his eyes, looking frustrated and tired. “There’s a whole lot about this case neither of us knows. But let me explain something. I’ve got six fresh homicides right here.” He slapped a stack of folders. “That means I can’t spend all my time on one case. Especially one with ancient connections.”
“Oh. So you’ll slide this case over to the ‘too tough to solve’ column and move on to another murder?”
As soon as the words left my lips, I knew I’d gone too far.
He stared at me for a full ten seconds, chewing the life out of that gum. “You know,” he finally said, “you’ve got way too much time on your hands. I have priorities, Ms. Rose, and I’m sure you do, too. Difference is, no one’s judging yours.”
Sometimes I can accept the truth, even when I’m upset. This happened to be one of those moments, but I wasn’t willing to give Kline the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead, I stood and turned to leave.
“I like that,” he called after me.
I stopped, still facing the other direction. “You like what?”
“A woman who knows when she’s wrong.”
I whirled. “I never said I was wrong.”
“Bet you never do, either. I can’t spend any more time and manpower watching you, even if you might need protection.”
“Protection?” I craned my neck toward him. “Why should I believe you care one ounce about my safety, Sergeant Kline?”
“Because I called you here to warn you. Not to arrest you for interfering in an official investigation, like I could have. Do me a favor and stick to computers. Something you know about.” He removed two more sticks of gum, unwrapped them, and aimed the wadded-up papers at the neighboring trash can. He missed.
“You hate it, don’t you?” I said.
He smiled. “On the contrary. This sparring match is the best time I’ve had in a while.”
And that was when I really noticed him for the first time—through this, his first real smile. Those tiny creases surrounding his eyes probably signaled too many sleepless nights and his having been the bearer of bad news day after day. But right now his smile was young and his stare had softened to one more simple and honest.
In a quiet voice I said, “No... I mean you really hate giving up on something, even though you may have to
