Danielle’s phone message stated Hank Foster had keys to the house. And he planned to go by the ostentatious residence this week. Well, that would prove interesting—especially if Hank was looking for the box of journals now in Arlen’s possession.
Arlen frowned. Hank was a lawyer. A savvy one. Good thing Arlen worked through Danielle and had all the appropriate paperwork to justify his claim on Nancy’s years of notes and research. But just to be sure, Arlen needed to work through those books lickety-split.
After signing off on the last of the day’s paperwork, he heaved a sigh. Arlen had a choice. He picked up the phone and dialed his wife’s number.
“It’s after seven,” Irene said in that calm way of hers he’d come to rely on. But beneath the serenity, her tone held a hint of surprise.
“I know. I should have called a few hours ago. Got backlogged with the new cruiser request and—”
“As interesting as all that is.” Irene’s tone let him know she did not find the conversation interesting. “Are you coming home for dinner or should I bring something up?”
Arlen glanced at the journals, then at the notes he’d made of Danielle’s call. He wanted to be at Nancy’s house should Hank swing by.
“You mind bringing me a bite?” Arlen asked.
“You working on that old case?” Irene asked. Her voice powered through the speaker, causing Arlen to think she’d squeezed it between her ear and shoulder, probably pulling Tupperware out of the fridge.
“Yeah.”
“You think it’s going to pan out? This new information you got?” Irene asked. Arlen heard her rip off some tinfoil. Damn, he married a good woman.
“I want to think so. But it’ll be a lot of work, Reenie. I gotta go through these books and keep an eye on a couple of guys.”
“Just remember your blood pressure, Arlen. You promised me a month in Florida when you retired. I plan to hold you to that.”
Arlen pulled up the first journal and opened to the first page. “As you should. Thanks, Reenie.”
“Be there in fifteen.”
Arlen skimmed the page of Nancy’s journal as he set down the phone in its cradle.
The casket was closed. Hank and I fought about that.
We seem to do that a lot now. I didn’t get to see Jonny. How can I know he’s gone if I didn’t see him there, eyes closed and body too still?
Hank said there was no way he’d have Jonny’s casket open.
Hank can’t understand that I needed to touch him one more time. To see Jonny in death. Because right now, even still, I can’t accept Jonny’s gone.
Hank can say that to me because he’s the one who identified Jonny’s body.
Hank came home so pale, his body convulsing. He looked so old and broken.
Shit.
These books were going to be harder than hell to read. He glanced down at the box and shook his head. Nancy had filled fifty of these bad boys. That was over five thousand pages.
Arlen picked up his phone. He spun the Rolodex until he landed on one of his buddies who worked up at the Dallas Police Department. Time to start calling in the favors he’d accrued over the years.
“You want me to what?” Jim Kondren asked.
“I know it sounds far-fetched, Jim, but just . . . trust me on this. Couple of days tops.”
“You’re asking me to put resources toward a stakeout. Of a dead woman’s house. On a thirty-year-old cold case.”
Arlen rubbed his thumb between his eyebrows, trying to ease the tension headache building there.
“I am.”
Jim remained quiet. “How big we talking? I mean if this lady was right—if you find evidence in her personal effects?”
“If I’m right . . .” Arlen waved Irene in, smiling at her. She smiled back but worry shadowed her eyes. “This could rock some big boats, Jim.”
“Arrests?”
Irene set a plate on his desk, next to Nancy’s journal. “That’s always the goal,” Arlen responded.
“I can get you a guy over to Highland Park residence tonight ’cause we’re slow. You’re damn lucky I work in that jurisdiction.”
No, it wasn’t luck. Arlen had made friends in that police force on purpose. Not that he planned to tell Jim that.
“Thanks, Jim. Appreciate it. I’m worried,” Arlen said on a sigh, shifting gears. “There’s been no activity we can attribute to our killer in over four years. That’s the longest stretch he’s gone.”
“Could be he died. Or quit, then,” Jim said.
“Or could be we’re about to find another dead boy. We got that Amber Alert today. Could be the same guy.” Probably wasn’t. Jonathan’s killer liked old pickups. “You really want to take that chance?”
Irene laid her hand on Arlen’s shoulder. He patted the back with his free hand.
“Dammit, Arlen. No. Fine. I’ll figure something out to keep a guy there—just nights, right?” He waited for Arlen’s affirmation “But now you owe me.”
“Thanks, Jim.” He settled the phone in the cradle and closed his eyes. Thinking back to Jim’s parting words, Arlen muttered to himself, “Get in line.”
“You think it’ll come to that?” Irene asked. “Another little boy murdered?”
Arlen brought his wife’s hand to his cheek. “Yeah, Reenie. I don’t think he’s stopped. It’s too strong an urge.”
“Sick one,” she said.
He breathed long and slow, keeping his blood pressure in mind, like he’d promised. “That’s why I gotta see this through.”
“No, Arlen,” Irene said, her voice and face calm and full of an understanding he probably didn’t deserve. “You do this work because it’s your life’s calling. But I’m still making you go to Florida next month.”
“You got it.”
She kissed him—a short perfunctory kiss that said she understood where his mind was at and didn’t plan to interrupt him. “Find that man, Arlen. I want you to enjoy your retirement.”
Arlen pulled the journal and his plate of lasagna to the edge of his desk. He dug into both—he planned to find Jonathan’s killer because he wanted to enjoy his retirement, too.