Jericho spent the rest of the morning making phone calls to Ohio. He didn’t know how the department paid for long distance, but he was probably putting the system to the test, and without getting any real results. Anne Wooderson no longer lived at her address in Akron, Ohio, or anywhere else in the area; the principal of Jefferson Lake Elementary School was the only person who could speak about past students, and she was out of the building for several days; and no one at the Akron PD seemed to have any interest in Keith Wooderson. Jericho did a search of unsolved murders in the city, focusing on those involving prostitutes, but nothing jumped out at him.
He sat at his desk, staring at the computer keyboard, willing the letters to form into some recognizable message. Then he laid his fingers on the keys, and instead of searching the unsolved murders in Akron, he looked at the solved murders. And just like that, he found a match.
Melanie McKay, thirty-six years old, known prostitute and addict. Suspect Jared Scott, thirty-four years old, severe cognitive delays. Committed suicide while awaiting trial. Case closed. Detective Angela Fernandez had taken the lead on the case.
Jericho was dialing the phone before he’d made the conscious decision to move. Goddamn it, there was a pattern. Not only the victim of the murder, but the victim of the framing, as well.Maybe it’s a coincidence, don’t get too excited.But he ignored his inner voice, just like he always seemed to. He had enough real people bitching at him; he didn’t need to pay any extra attention to one more voice.
“It’s Under-sheriff Jericho Crewe calling from Mosely, Montana. Yes, again. I’m hoping to speak to Detective Fernandez, if she’s available?”
He waited through the grumbling on the other end of the line. Possibly he’d been a little impatient earlier, and now karma was paying him back. But he eventually was put through, and a female voice barked, “Detective Fernandez,” in his ear.
He was suddenly—not shy, exactly, but hesitant. It had all seemed so clear before he dialed the phone, but now he was struck with self-doubt. What did he have, really? A prostitute victim and an intellectually disabled suspect? Both groups were represented at higher than usual rates in the criminal justice system. Two points weren’t enough to make a pattern; it was probably just a coincidence.
But he thought of Will, withdrawn and confused in the holding cells. “My name’s Jericho Crewe. I’m an under-sheriff in Mosely, Montana, and I’m working a case where I’m seeing some parallels to the Melanie McKay murder. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me about that?”
The pause was too long before Detective Fernandez quietly said, “Jesus Christ. Shit.” Then, after another pause, “He did it again. The fucker did it again.”
Jericho’s chest tightened. He’d been expecting another dead end, he realized. “Maybe,” he said carefully. “Who are you referring to?”
“Wooderson.” She spat the name like an obscenity. “Is that who you’re calling me about?”
“Keith Wooderson,” Jericho agreed, almost dizzy. “I have no proof, yet, but I’m looking at him in connection with a case that sounds a lot like yours. Prostitute murdered, clear evidence pointing to an intellectually disabled perp. But something doesn’t feel right. Jesus Christ, this was a long shot, calling you. Chasing him down at all. I thought he was just—just another asshole. But there’s more?”
“Where did you say you were calling from?” She sounded tired, but determined. “We should sit down.”
“I’m in Mosely, Montana. It’s a full day’s drive from Ohio.”
“What’s the nearest airport?”
“You might get a flight into Kalispell, but it’s more likely to be Bozeman. And we’re four or five hours from there.”
“Give me your information. I’m going to try to get a flight, and then I’ll call you back.”
Damn, this woman didn’t mess around. “Your department wants him that bad? They’re going to pay for this?”
“My department thinks the case is solved and closed.I’mgoing to pay for this.” A pause before she muttered, “I’ve been paying for it for over a year now.”
There wasn’t much else to say. Jericho gave her the contact information, then went to update his boss. But when he opened Kayla’s office door and saw her standing in the middle of the room, the expression on her face stopped him short.
“Shit, Kay, what’s wrong?”
She wasn’t crying, but it might have been easier to handle if she was. Instead, she looked . . . shocked, maybe. Dead, more like it. The light that usually animated her, the passion and enthusiasm that drove her, was completely gone.
He stepped toward her, and she stepped back, her hand out to hold him away. As if he could ever seem like a threat to Kayla.
“What happened?” he whispered. She seemed physically okay herself, and had no kids, no siblings. Two ex-husbands she generally just shook her head about. The only person she was really close to was— “Your dad? Is this about your dad?”
Her eyes widened. “You knew?”
“What?” Oh shit, this was about the corruption. “No, I thought—I don’t know, I thought he had a heart attack or something. But—”
“But youdidknow,” she said, her eyes wide and searching. This time, she was the one moving forward and he was the one tempted to move away. “Youknew, and you didn’t tell me?”
“Slow down, Kay. I’m not sure what you’re talking about, and I want to be on the same page, having the same conversation. What are you upset about?”
“He’s been passing on information,” she said, snarling like it had beenJerichowho’d betrayed her. “I’d tell him things—he’s the ex-sheriff, we’retrainedto talk to retired cops when we need advice, and he’s— Jesus, Jericho, he’s mydad.” She still wasn’t crying, but her face was twisted and broken. “Why would he do that to me?”
“Shit,” Jericho said, and this time when he moved forward, she let him, let him wrap his arms around her and hold her up as she sagged into him. “I’m so sorry, Kay, I don’t know why he did it.”
