“I have no intention of doing so.” With the call ended, I slipped the phone into my coat pocket, unbuttoning my holster. At this point, I couldn’t be careful enough. Something told me Betty was hiding a secret, a big one. I slipped into her office, pushing the door closed. At least she’d left on her office desk lamp.
I moved from one side to the other, scanning every piece of furniture until I noticed a credenza in the shadows. There were several pictures in frames. One after the other, I picked them up.Most were of accomplishments with the firm, and almost none seemed personal.
However, there was one in the back as if being kept private, two older photographs inside a frame.
As soon as I had it in my hand, a cold chill shifted through me. The first was a young woman with long, dark, curly hair.
Just like Alexia.
The young man was in a uniform. An Army uniform.
I took a deep breath, holding it. The other picture had two infants in her arms. Two.
They appeared identical.
After glancing over my shoulder, I removed the back of the frame, hoping for some additional information. Given Betty’s age, I had a feeling she handled photographs as my mother had done.
By listing the date and general information about who was in the picture.
And there it was.
Two infant children. They were just babies. Maybe six or seven months. Dressed alike.
Steven and Samuel
Frankfort, Germany nineteen seventy-eight.
Information on the back of the photograph of the children.
Jameson
Jameson. There was no hiding who was in the picture. His features were too pronounced even though he was a very young man in the photo. His full name was Jameson Murphy, the former Miami mayor who’d breathed down the necks of everyone to find the killer. Then when I’d brought up the question of whether or not we had the right man, he pressured my boss to shut me the hell up.
Eventually, it had worked.
He was now a top-ranking Florida senator. Some said with aspirations of heading to the White House, although he was getting up there in years. Was it possible he’d shifted blame from one son to another?
And the man’s legitimate son? The prosecutor I’d tangled with over the case. Thirteen years before.
Another photograph slipped from beneath, fluttering to the credenza’s surface. As soon as I pulled it into my fingers, every muscle in my body bristled. The photograph had been taken maybe fifteen years before. Before the killing had started.
But there they were, two men who looked exactly alike.
And they both looked like the Python Killer.
One had the same build as Timothy, although almost every feature was entirely different. But not the eyes. They were the same color.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The sound of my phone interrupted the moment. “Chase.”
“You’re not going to believe this.” He went on to tell me that Betty Landers had been born Hannah Hoffman, the only childof a prominent German family. With Ruger’s help, the dots had been connected with the birth certificate. Jameson was the father, something that a half dozen people had tried to sweep under the rug. He also found some scuttlebutt that there’d been in investigation into Sergeant Jameson Murphy, a rape charge that had eventually been expunged. No doubt after a half dozen palms had been greased. The children belonged to her.
A slight noise caught my attention and I turned to face the door.
Betty stood in the doorway, her eyes locked on mine. A weapon in her hand with the barrel pointed at my chest. I thought for certain she was going to launch into me. “Time to gather the troops,” I told Chase before ending the call.
But as soon as she took a step inside, her shoulders slumped the moment she noticed what I was looking at. Her arm was shaking, her entire face pinched from the horror of my discovery.
