Thursday Early Afternoon
“You’re quiet,” Jerry said as they drove to the Sun Tower Suites. “We’ve done nearly a dozen of these interviews this week, and you’ve always had an opinion. You think he’s lying?”
“No,” Lucy said.
Melancholy, she supposed, would be the right word. They didn’t say anything to Marissa after talking to her brother-in-law—Lucy wanted to talk to her about the rape, but the woman was eight months’ pregnant. The stress of discussing it wouldn’t be good for her or the baby. But at some point—if Chris Smith had anything to do with Julio’s murder—she would have to give a statement.
“We’re going to have to talk to Smith.”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Why not? He has motive—if we believe Vallejo, then Dario is his kid. Something like that could set something off. And remember—Julio was killed with a blow to the back of his head. Everything else was just window dressing.”
“There may be a motive to kill Julio, and there may be a motive to kill Standish, but it’s not the same motive. And if we take what we know as gospel, they are the moral victims. Standish’s wife cheated on him with at least three men. Julio’s best friend raped his fiancé. We know that the same killer killed these three men. Even if we discount the consistent MO, they were shot with the same gun.”
“I agree, but that doesn’t mean don’t question Smith. His name came up, there was a confrontation, and Julio is dead.”
“Vallejo said that Julio saw Smith in the hotel. If they did have an altercation, someone there must know about it. Let’s find that person—or persons—and that gives us another reason to talk to Smith.”
Jerry didn’t say anything for a moment, then nodded. “I see what you’re getting at, but we already have a reason. If this guy is guilty, I don’t want him to get off.”
“Guilty of killing Standish and James? Because why? He may have a motive for killing Julio—Julio lied about the paternity of Dario—but what would be the motive for the others? We would have to find a connection between Smith and the other two victims before we go there.”
“There could be a connection.”
“Yes, but the best case right now is to pursue his altercation with Julio, and if we bring up the reason, then it’ll tip him off.”
“To what?”
“What if he doesn’t know that Dario is his son? I don’t want him to learn it from us. He could make Marissa’s life hell.”
“He raped her.”
“Oh, come on,” Lucy said. “We both know rape is going to be almost impossible to prove after seven years. He could sue for a paternity test, then sue for custody. I’m not going to give him that option. He doesn’t need to know any of this, which is why we find an actual witness to the fight between Smith and Julio. With Vallejo it’s hearsay with no one to corroborate because Julio is dead. We find a witness, we have reason to talk to Smith and ask for his explanation, his alibi, maybe learn something if we play this right.”
This time, Jerry was silent.
“What?” Lucy finally said.
“I’m not arguing with you. We do it your way. It’s just—I don’t know. There’s something different in your approach with this.”
“I have investigated dozens of sex crimes.” She hesitated, wondering how much she should share with her temporary partner. She really didn’t want to talk about her past now. It wasn’t professional, or appropriate. Maybe later, if it would help, but right now she wanted to think about how to nail Chris Smith. A seven-year-old rape—even with the ten-year statute of limitations on most sexual assaults in Texas—would be difficult to investigate. Especially if Smith was aware that they were looking into it. But if he didn’t know … if they could get something they could follow, a conflicting statement, someone else who might know the truth, then she could pass it on to SAPD Detective Tia Mancini. Tia was one of the best cops in the division, she specialized in sex crimes, and she knew how to build a case to satisfy the DA.
And how and when to talk to Marissa Garcia.
But that was later. If Smith was guilty of multiple homicides, rape was the least of his worries. If he was innocent of murder, then Lucy would follow through. There was no way she could let him get away with it, not as long as she had a badge to investigate.
“Lucy? I see you thinking, but you’re not talking.”
“I want to bump this over to Tia Mancini with SAPD.”
“A sex crimes detective.”
“If we learn Smith didn’t kill Julio, I want to pass on what we know.”
“Marissa Garcia hasn’t filed charges.”
“And maybe she won’t. Maybe she wants to forget. But she’ll never forget, it will stay with her forever, made worse now that the man she sees as her soul mate and her protector is gone. Who else has Smith assaulted? Sexual predators don’t usually stop with one victim. Tia will find his other victims. Someone will have evidence. There is strength in numbers.”
“Slow it down,” Jerry said. “One case at a time. Let’s find out if Smith is a possible suspect for murder, and then go from there.”
“Of course. Murder has a much longer sentence, and Texas has the death penalty.”
It didn’t ultimately matter what Jerry wanted to do. If Smith wasn’t guilty of murder, Lucy would bring everything to Tia. She didn’t need his approval or his permission.
But she did want his blessing, so she shelved the topic until they had more information.
Sun Tower Suites was a convention hotel on the Riverwalk, smaller than some of the larger chains, but nicer in many ways with large rooms, a pair of five-star restaurants—one with a view of the city—and one of the nicest gardens that was the backdrop of many weddings, receptions, and special events. It was pricey, but never seemed to be lacking for guests.
They spoke to the head of security first, a large beefy former cop named Vince Paine. Jerry knew him from the job, and they chatted a few minutes, then Jerry said, “We talked on Saturday, you confirmed Garcia’s time here, no disciplinary actions, well liked.”
“He was. Very much, especially among his staff.”
“In the last couple of weeks, were there any problems? With a guest or staff? Even if it was minor—nothing that would go on his record—was there any verbal or physical altercation?”
“That doesn’t sound like Julio. He was a peacemaker. Never raised his voice, as far as I know. And any physical altercation would almost certainly result in termination, except under extraordinary circumstances. Why? Did someone say he was in a fight?”
“We’re talking to everyone who knew him. His brother-in-law thought he’d had a disagreement with someone, didn’t say specifically that it was work-related. We’re trying to run it down.”
“I didn’t know Julio well, but I knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t instigate a fight. You can talk to anyone on the catering staff—they know him best—or even the folks in the main kitchen. He was well respected.”
“We’ll be talking to everyone, if you can direct us?”
“Start with his assistant, Mitchell Duncan. He worked closely with Julio. If there was anything wrong, he would know.”
Having security escort them to the kitchen where Julio worked as head chef of catering helped give the vote of confidence to their investigation, and Mitch was more than happy to talk about his boss. Mitch was in his fifties, bald and portly, with a smooth baby face. He called over another cook and gave him instructions, then motioned for Jerry and Lucy to follow him to a small office that had Julio Garcia’s name on the door.
“I’m still in shock,” Mitch said. “Julio was a good man, a great boss, devoted to his family. Anything I can do to help find out who did this to him.”
“We appreciate that,” Jerry said. “This was his office?”
“Yes, though he spent very little time in here. Mostly to talk to vendors or the catering manager about upcoming events. He was a great chef—it takes skill to run a catering kitchen, where you may need to prepare five hundred identical meals to be ready at the same time. And he could present a low-budget buffet with the same class as a high-end wedding banquet. Honestly, he’ll be hard to replace.”
“You haven’t replaced him?” Jerry asked.
He shook his head. “It’s not my skill set. Just managing this kitchen this week has raised my blood pressure. I was his assistant, but that didn’t mean I did what he did. He ran the kitchen. I managed staff, mostly. Made sure everything was done to his specifications, directed traffic, so to speak. Julio didn’t have a mean bone in his body—if an employee wasn’t pulling their weight, was habitually late or something like that, I took care of it. Julio sometimes—well, he had a big heart. He believed every sob story. Me? First time, I get it. Second time, they’re on notice. Third time—sorry, you’re out. Julio would have given people a hundred chances, then apologized for firing them.”
“How long have you known Julio?”
“Since I started here three years ago. He’d just been promoted to head chef, catering, and I replaced him as the assistant. But he was able to put his footprint on the kitchen, and we shifted responsibilities so he could focus on the food, and I could focus on production. I loved that about him—he listened and adopted new procedures in order to streamline the process and increase quality. And I made sure he had the staff to do it.”
They knew that Julio had worked for Sun Tower for nearly eight years—since he’d graduated from a culinary school in the city.
“Were you working Friday night when Julio left? He clocked out at eleven twenty-three that evening.”
“I left at ten. We had a wedding reception here, but once dinner was served most of the staff left. Julio and I stayed, and half a dozen others, for the dessert bar. Everything was done, it was just a matter of setup and teardown. Julio has been working extra hours—he doesn’t mind doing the grunt work as well as running the kitchen. But he was prepping for a breakfast we had for Saturday. I know he wanted the extra hours because of the baby.” His voice cracked. “I called Marissa the other day. Just to tell her I’m so sorry. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Did Julio seem preoccupied lately? Worried about something? Did he express concern for his safety?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
Lucy clarified. “Did his attitude or behavior change in any way over the last few weeks? Did he confide in you about anything, work-related or personal, that might have bothered him?”
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable talking about this.”
“It’s important,” Jerry said. “Even if it has nothing to do with what happened to Julio last week, we need to build a time line of his days.”
“About a month ago, maybe five, six weeks? A week or two before Labor Day, I know that. Julio came in late. He’s never late—I wouldn’t have even said anything to him, except that he was—well, not himself. He was tense and looked really angry about something, and he’s not a guy who gets mad easily. I get a slow driver in front of me or an idiot who doesn’t go at a green light, I’m pissed. I’ll honk, rant about it later. Julio, no. He’d just assume that the driver was preoccupied or being safe. He always gave people the benefit of the doubt—I have to be the bad guy when staff is trying to get away with something. So when he came in, sort of heated and his shirt untucked, I was surprised. I asked him about it. He wouldn’t say anything, not then.”
“But?” Jerry prompted.
“That night—most of the crew had gone home, and he was sitting in his office just staring at the wall. I came in with a couple shots of whiskey. Put one in front of him and said, ‘Can I help?’ That was it. Just let him talk. He said he might be fired because he punched one of the executives. I didn’t believe him, said so. He then said it was Chris Smith, who of course I’d heard about—he’s the grandson of the owner, learned everything about the business here, then moved to Arizona to open the Sun Tower there. Managed it for a few years, just returned. What I didn’t know was that Smith and Julio had gone to school together—you wouldn’t think it, you know? A rich white kid and an eighth-generation Hispanic Texan. But apparently they met playing baseball when they were little kids, and were friends ever since. I guess not anymore. I asked why he hit him, and he wouldn’t tell me. Not the whole story. Said something happened right before Smith left for Arizona. He hadn’t spoken to him since, and when he saw him he lost it. Those were his words. I know he was angry, and he was worried—because Marissa is pregnant, and his mother has been sick. Julio keeps his problems to himself, but Marissa had a difficult first pregnancy and he was worried about this one.”
“Did anyone see the fight?”
“I doubt it. No one came to talk to Julio, I asked a week later if he was reprimanded or something, and he said no, and Smith was going to open a new hotel in Florida. But Smith is still around, so I don’t know when that’s going to happen. It’s not like I’m in the loop about corporate decisions.”
If Julio knew that, then he must have talked to Smith or someone else after the altercation. And it was odd that Smith didn’t report it. A sign of his guilt? Or because of their lifelong friendship?
“Is there anyone else here whom Julio talks to regularly? Someone he trusts and confides in?” Lucy asked.
“Everyone likes Julio, he is—he was—a good guy. But he didn’t have many close friends, outside of his family. I know he’s close to his brother-in-law. Bob—Rob, Robert, that’s it. Maryanne Sanchez is in charge of housekeeping—she’s been here forever, and she was Marissa’s boss when she worked here, before her first kid was born. I know they’re still friends—like socialize outside of work kind of friends. Maryanne has a grandson Dario’s age. One of the bartenders—he’s a cousin to Julio, Julio got him the job, they sometimes have a drink together after work.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Peter Garcia. He might be Julio’s nephew—the son of his oldest brother or something. I really don’t know, he has a huge family.” He paused, then said, “I doubt he’d have told Peter anything private. He’s a good kid, has been going to college part-time and working and has a private bartending gig on the side, but he’s still a twenty-three-year-old with a penchant for girls and parties and fun. Julio was a good influence on him—I mean, Pete has a solid work ethic, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t see Julio sharing anything sensitive with him. Maryanne though? Yeah. They’re tight. She’s Dario’s godmother.”
Jerry thanked Mitch for his time, and he and Lucy stepped out. She suggested that he talk to Pete the bartender and she talk to Maryanne.
Jerry was skeptical. Did he not trust her to interview a witness alone? She said, “If Maryanne is close to the Garcias, and she’s been here since Marissa worked here, she might have more information, but she’ll feel more comfortable talking to a female cop than a male cop. Plus, I speak fluent Spanish, if language is a barrier.”
It was clear Jerry didn’t want to let Lucy do it alone, but he couldn’t find a good excuse. “We meet back here in the lobby in thirty minutes and talk to Chris Smith, agreed?”
“Yes.”
Relieved, Lucy talked to the security chief and found Maryanne in the middle of inventory on the twenty-first floor. She showed her badge and handed Maryanne a card, and said that she was cleared by security to talk to her about Julio Garcia’s murder. At the mention of his name, her eyes dampened, but she held her chin up and motioned for Lucy to follow her to a room. “It’s vacant, but hasn’t been cleaned yet,” she said. “We’ll have privacy.”
When Maryanne closed the door, Lucy said, “You don’t seem to be intimidated to talk to me.”
“Why should I be? I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s about time someone came here asking questions. Julio has been dead a week tomorrow. A week. His funeral is on Saturday, and the man who killed him is still out there.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Do you know who killed him?”
“No,” she said, arms across her ample chest. “But I don’t think the police much care, otherwise they would have been here asking questions.”
“My partner did talk to management, and we have been asking questions, but an investigation like this takes time.”
“Hrumph.”
Lucy decided not to try to justify how they approached this investigation, because it was too complex to easily explain.
“Mitchell Duncan, Julio’s assistant, said you were Julio’s closest friend in the hotel. Is that true?”
She looked momentarily flustered, then nodded. “I suppose it is. I love him like a son. And Marissa like a daughter.” She took a deep breath. “I went over a couple times to see her, her sister takes good care of her. She’s like a zombie. She needs to take care of that baby girl.”
“Did Julio tell you about an altercation he had with Chris Smith? Five or six weeks ago?”
Silence, but it was clear that Maryanne knew exactly what Lucy was referencing.
“It—it was obviously minor. Julio wasn’t fired, so it was clearly not a serious fight.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“From who?”
“Maryanne, I want to find out who killed Julio. I want justice for his family and to put a killer behind bars. That is my job. Help me do my job. What do you know about the argument between Julio and Chris?”
“Do you know who Mr. Smith is? He is the owner’s grandson. He is wealthy and powerful and if there was no reprimand, it was not an important argument. Julio and Chris had once been friends. They played baseball together, went to the same high school.”
Lucy wanted to be forthcoming and tell her what she knew about Marissa and her first pregnancy, but that would be severely violating the confidence and discretion that Robert Vallejo asked for. It might come out at some point, but not from Lucy, not until she could be guaranteed that Chris Smith couldn’t—or wouldn’t—come after his victim and her son.
“Mr. Duncan told us of the fight, and he was clear that he didn’t know why. We know that Julio and Smith were once friends, but that they had a major falling-out and didn’t speak for the last six or seven years. So you know what their falling-out was about?”
“How would I know?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Are you interrogating me?”
“I’m trying to find out who killed Julio.”
“The news says it’s a serial killer. Mr. Smith may not be a nice person, but a serial killer? That is preposterous.”
“Why don’t you believe Mr. Smith is a nice person?” Lucy said.
“He is my boss’s boss. I can’t talk about him. Do you want me to be fired? Do you know that Sun Tower is one of the few companies that has a retirement savings account for housekeeping staff? I’m not going to risk that talking about gossip and innuendos and hurting people who have suffered enough. You find out who killed Julio, that is your job.”
“If people won’t talk to me, how can I find out?”
“There is evidence, there would have to be something.”
Lucy was about to argue with her, but she realized that there might very well be evidence of the fight. A security tape, maybe. Why didn’t security know about it? Where had the fight occurred? She didn’t even know exactly what date or where. But she had an idea.
“Maryanne,” Lucy said quietly, “I know you are trying to protect Julio and Marissa, and I respect that. Let me ask you this in a different way. Have you met Chris Smith?”
She fretted. “Yes,” she said.
“When was the first time you met him?”
“Years ago. When he was little. I’ve worked here for nearly thirty years, ever since Mr. Smith—Richard Smith, his grandfather—bought and renovated the Tower. He is a great man.”
“The grandfather.”
“Yes. He retired, now a management company runs the hotel, but he still owns it and has a stake. Semi-retired I think they call it? Where he is still involved?”
“Yes, semi-retired. And is Chris Smith involved in running the hotel?”
“Not here. He opens other hotels. He left and he wasn’t supposed to—” She stopped herself.
“He wasn’t supposed to come back?”
“He’s leaving again. They are opening a hotel in Florida, and he will be there. It was delayed because of the hurricane, but he will be leaving soon.”
“Does it matter, now that Julio is dead?” Lucy asked bluntly.
The blood drained from Maryanne’s face.
“Yes it matters! Of course it matters!”
“Why?” Lucy asked. “Help me help the Garcia family.”
“Understand this: Nothing you can do can help. But you can make everything worse. I do not like that man, but he would not kill Julio. I don’t see him killing Julio, no matter what happened between them.”
“What if Julio threatened to expose him for a crime?”
Maryanne stared at her. She knew what had happened to Marissa, and she was stunned that Lucy knew.
“Some crimes cannot be proven,” Maryanne said quietly. “I need to get back to work.”
Lucy gestured toward the business card Maryanne held tight in her fist. “If you want justice for Marissa, call me. I can help.”
Lucy was late meeting Jerry. “The nephew was a dead end,” Jerry said. “Young kid, upset about his uncle, but he doesn’t know anything. Doesn’t know about a fight or a disagreement.”
“Maryanne knows, but she’s not talking.”
“Maybe we should bring her in, compel her to talk.”
“She’s scared of losing her job. She’s also worried about the repercussions to Marissa. She confirmed that she heard that Chris Smith was going to Florida to open a hotel, that it was delayed because of the hurricane.” Lucy paused. “She doesn’t like Chris, but she has known him since he was a child, and doesn’t see him as a killer.”
“That means squat.”
“Just repeating what she said. But if we can find a connection between Chris and the other victims, we might have something here. We need to find out when he returned to town. The exact date.”
“That should be easy enough. We’ll ask him, then confirm. But if he was in town for all three murders, he goes way up on our suspect list.”
Chris Smith had an office on the executive floor. There was no name on the door, but that didn’t surprise her—he wasn’t usually in this hotel. He voluntarily let them in his office. “My security chief said you wanted to talk about Julio Garcia’s murder.”
“Yes, if you have a minute,” Jerry said respectfully.
“Of course. Everyone here is upset—he was well liked and respected. My grandfather is going to his funeral Saturday.”
“Not you?”
“I—no.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not important.”
“It might be.”
Chris wasn’t an idiot, and he looked from Jerry to Lucy and back to Jerry. “I’m going to flat out tell you I didn’t kill Julio. I’m not stupid, I know what you’re getting at. Everyone knows that Julio and I used to be friends and now we’re not. I’m really sorry he’s dead—we had a falling-out, but in no way did I want anything bad to happen to him.”
“We have a witness who said that you and Julio had a disagreement that resulted in a physical altercation a few weeks ago. What was that about?”
Chris stared at them. “None of your business.”
“If it was serious enough to come to blows, it is our business, now that Julio is dead,” Jerry said.
“Look, I’m getting ready to leave for Florida. I’ll be there at least two years. That’s my life now, getting new hotels off the ground. I can’t help your investigation.”
“So what you’re saying is, you’re the only person who has had a disagreement with a well-liked, well-respected employee—a disagreement that resulted in a physical fight—yet the employee wasn’t fired or reprimanded. Why didn’t you turn him in? Your security officer said that there is a zero tolerance policy for fighting.”
“That’s my business.”
“Now it’s our business.”
“No, it’s really not.”
Jerry was getting agitated. Lucy had buried her anger. She was good at that. She had to be, or she’d never be able to do the job. In a cool, calm voice she said, “When did you leave Phoenix? That’s where you were living for the last few years, correct?”
He was surprised at the change of questions. “Um, August.”
“August what? This is important, Mr. Smith. What day did you return?”
“Um—it was about a week before Labor Day. My grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday was September first, I was here for that. I flew in the morning…” He turned to his computer, typed, and said, “I came back Sunday, August twenty-fifth, on Southwest Airlines, arrived at eleven twenty a.m.”
Lucy wrote it down. Standish was killed in early August, and James killed the Friday after Smith returned. She wanted Chris Smith to be guilty, but he would have to be here for all three murders … unless he had a partner, which just didn’t seem to fit.
“Before you returned, when was the last time you were in San Antonio?”
“Why?”
“We’re putting together a time line, Mr. Smith. It’s important.”
“Last Christmas, for a week or so. I can get you the exact days if you need them.” He paused, looked from one to the other. “You know, I’ve screwed up in my life, I’ve done many things I’ve regretted, but I’ve never killed anyone. Even when I was drinking, I never killed anyone, though God knows I could have.”
Jerry asked, “Are you an alcoholic?”
“Yes. Sober seven years this December. It’s why I originally went to Phoenix, to check into rehab.”
Those in an addiction program were often very open about their process, Lucy knew from experience in interviews. One of the tenets of most programs was to admit to the addiction without hesitation. Had his alcoholism been a contributing factor to Marissa’s rape? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time alcohol fueled violence—nor was it an excuse.
She pulled out her phone and said, “We’d like you to look at some pictures and tell us if you recognize any of the people.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in the middle of a murder investigation and if you want to help us find who killed your former friend Julio Garcia and left his two children fatherless, we would like to know if you recognize any of these people,” Lucy snapped. She didn’t want to lose her cool—if she lost it, she wouldn’t be able to get it back.
He nodded.
She flipped through the photos slowly, carefully watching Smith’s reaction. Nothing on Standish or any of the people connected to him. Nothing on Steven James or the people connected to him. When he saw Julio’s picture, his face fell, and when he saw Marissa’s picture the blood drained. He was visibly shaking. “You cannot possibly believe that Marissa had anything to do with what happened to Julio.”
“But you know her.”
“Of course I know her! She used to work here in the hotel. It’s how she and Julio met. We used to double-date and—” He stopped. “Look, I’ve read the news, seen the reports. I know you’re looking for a serial killer.”
Jerry said, “We don’t know what kind of killer we’re looking for, other than he shoots his victims in their face as if they are nothing to him. Not a father, not a husband, not a friend.”
Smith rubbed his eyes. “I wish I could help you. I really do. But Julio and I didn’t talk. Yes, we had a fight, and no, I didn’t report it because it was personal and no one’s business. I told him I was here temporarily, that I was going to Florida.”
“Why would he care about that?”
“It’s personal.”
Lucy bit her tongue. It wasn’t personal; Smith had committed a horrific crime and Julio didn’t want him anywhere near him or his loved ones. She wanted to be angry at Julio for not reporting this guy, but she understood that deep down he was terrified of losing his family. The system didn’t always work. And sometimes it failed those who were the most vulnerable.
“I can’t accept that answer,” Jerry said. “Your friend was murdered, you had a fight with him only weeks ago, and you can’t tell me what it’s about?”
“I’m not going to, and honestly, you can’t make me. It’s personal, it’s between us, and it’s over. I had nothing to do with Julio’s murder, I’m sincerely sorry that he is dead, and if I had any information that would help you find out who killed him, I would give it to you. But I don’t.”
“Where were you Friday night between ten p.m. and midnight?”
At first he looked confused, then he shook his head. “Shit. You’re really doing this.” He turned to his computer again, typed, turned back to them. “I was here, at the hotel, until nine p.m. working. I can give you a list of a dozen people I spoke to or who saw me. I left just after nine for home—my mother’s house, in New Braunfels, where I’m staying until I leave for Florida. I got there shortly after ten. It’s a gated community, there should be a log—they maintain pictures of every vehicle entering and exiting, time-stamped. She was awake, and we talked for a bit, and I went to bed shortly after eleven. I had an early-morning meeting back here at the hotel—I was up by five, at the hotel at six to work out at the gym, showered, then had my business meeting at seven thirty a.m. My grandfather was there.”
“Thank you,” Jerry said, making note of everything he said. “When do you leave for Florida?”
“Next week. Thursday.”
“Leave a way for us to get in touch with you if we have additional questions.”
Smith nodded. He looked oddly dejected and sad. Lucy had no sympathy for him. Regret for a crime—if that’s what this attitude was—didn’t negate the crime. Too bad his guilt didn’t motivate him to confess.
Jerry and Lucy walked out. “A complete waste of time,” Jerry said. “Unless he flat out lied to us about the dates—which we’ll be able to easily track—there’s no way he could have killed all three men.”
“Following the evidence is not a waste of time,” Lucy said. “But I still think we should consult—”
“Drop it, Kincaid. We go back to the facts that we know, reexamine all evidence and witness statements, see if we’re missing anything from any crime scene, and go from there.”
“And if we’re still back here with no viable suspects, no motive, and no road to follow will you at least consider an off-the-record conversation?”
Jerry didn’t say anything, which Lucy took as a win. Because they had nothing, and she feared another victim was right around the corner.