Chapter Three
In late July, Grady sat at his desk with contents of Tori’s file dumped in front of him. Before sending a file to storage, he reviewed photos from crime scenes. Scattered like playing cards, they numbered ten in this stacked deck, stacked by the mob, stacked by those who feared the mob.
He hunkered close to the photo of the murdered owner of the restaurant, Irene Brennan, beaten beyond recognition. Brennan’s autopsy revealed she’d been revived by the insertion of an object down her throat. A broken tooth had been found in her esophagus. Her jawbone had been smashed with the blunt handle of a Kel-Tec automatic. Finally, she could be revived no more. The gun’s metallic texture doesn’t hold prints.
Gordon Montgomery, the police detective on the case, had helped frame another client of his, Billy Williams, for a murder he didn’t commit. The police department pushed for a quick resolution, and Montgomery entered false testimony. Was it false or lazy? Grady did a bit of footwork to find witnesses. Billy Williams had attended a neighborhood barbecue at the time of the murder.
No matter how simple or complicated a case may be, Maeve McGuire, PI, used a systematic method, crucial for his work on appeal cases. Maeve kept a murder book where witness statements, forensic reports, and crime scene photos filled pages. Flipping through the murder book for the third time, Grady read the testimony of the lead witness, a cook, who’d stated Tori committed this heinous crime. Maeve’s sidebar note stated the victim, Irene Brennan, stood four inches taller than Tori. He’d found the chef’s name buried among routine interviews. Tracking down the chef and waitresses had proved fruitful. They named Seamus McGinn as the killer.
Over the course of time, relationships end, loyalties change, and consciences grow. With the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, hope grew in his chest. Ideas reverberated in his head. As with summer, life starts over again. Life had been unfair for Tori.
Maeve appeared in a violet pantsuit. “Hey there. If you’re done, I can drop that file at Iron Mountain.”
“Thank you, fairy godmother.”
“I’m not that plump.” She shoved dyed strawberry straw off her forehead. In her younger slimmer days, she claimed to have been a fashionista. Her phone rang. “I called about squirrels in the attic. That will be pest control.”
“Go ahead. Let them trap and release. Seal up the openings. I’ll write the check.” Precious time ticked along.
“Curse our stingy landlord. You don’t have time to negotiate.” She took the call and noted the appointment on her planner.