“Any chance they could’ve been on their way to see a detective?” Ian held out his phone to display the photo he’d taken.
Her eyes flashed wide. “If they were, it might make more sense that someone ended their lives to stop them.”
As it neared the dinner hour, Malone climbed into the Nighthawk SUV with Ian and the Byrd brothers for the drive home. Her stomach was tied in knots. It had been a good news, bad news kind of day, and she was letting the bad news win. On the positive side, Emory had located DNA on the tie rods. On the negative side, her parents might’ve been on the way to see a detective when they died, and her mind was racing with reasons why they needed to see one.
Had someone been threatening them? Harassing them? Had they been afraid for their lives? Terrified even?
She knew how that felt. Sort of, anyway. Through her clients. Battered women who wanted to protect themselves and their children from monstrous men who loved to pummel others. As the miles rolled past, the memories of the fear in those women’s eyes just kept battering Malone, and her gut was on fire with acid.
Please, please don’t let my parents have been fearing for their lives. I can’t bear the thought of the people I loved most in the world being in such a situation.
But the note was written in her mother’s handwriting, and Detective Wisniewski did exist. While they’d waited for the forensics to be processed on the vehicle, Ian had made some calls to ask about the detective. He finally learned that the guy had worked at the Washington County Sheriff’s Department, the agency that patrolled the area where her parents’ home was located. The detective was retired now, and the sheriff’s office didn’t have a current address for him, so Ian was trying to get the detective’s details.
His phone chimed, and he looked at the screen. “It’s Nick.”
Ian answered. “I’m with Malone and a few of the Byrd brothers. Mind if I put you on speaker?”
“Go for it. They’ll want to hear this.” His adrenaline-packed voice came over the phone even before Ian tapped his speaker button.
“Okay, go ahead,” Ian said.
“My search to connect Ground Floor Builders with Flagg Contracting was a bust. I didn’t find any projects they worked on together or any connection between the company executives and Flagg. And both companies have solid reputations.”
“I didn’t think you’d find a connection, even a legit one,” Ian said. “Two different construction worlds. Plus, I might not like Flagg’s personality, but he seems like he’s on the up and up.”
“That’s my take,” Nick said. “I can keep the search running indefinitely, but I wouldn’t pin my focus on this connection.”
“Okay,” Ian said. “What else do you have?”
“Your shooter’s name.”
“Way to bury the lead,” Ian grumbled.
“Who is it?” Malone leaned closer to the phone.
“Mickey Snipes. He’s Olivo’s other lieutenant.”
“How did you find him?” Ian asked.
“We got a few responses to the partial facial recognition photo, so when you texted me the info about Junior’s connection to Olivo, I added those details to my algorithms. Snipes came up and looks like he’s our guy.” Nick sounded so proud of himself, and he should be. “I’ll text photos for you to look at as soon as I hang up.”
“We still don’t have a way to place him at the murder scene,” Ian said, sounding discouraged. “At least not a way that will get us an arrest warrant. Our best hope is connecting him to the other murder where the gun was first used.”
“I thought about that, too, so I cross-referenced the information on the gun,” Nick said. “Snipes knew the guy who was taken out, but I didn’t find a strong connection.”
“I’ve got a call in to the drug squad for them to locate the old murder file for me,” Ian said.
“Get back to me if there’s anything you learn that might help my searches,” Nick said. “And after you look at the pictures of Snipes, let me know if you don’t think he’s your guy, and I’ll keep searching.”
“Thanks, man.” Ian ended the call. His phone dinged. “Pictures of Snipes from Nick.”
He held his phone out to Malone.
Her stomach clenched as a mug shot of a white male with dark hair cut short, a broad nose, and a long narrow face filled the screen. “The shape of his face is right. I need to see a full body picture.”
Ian swiped through a few more closeup photos to a shot where Snipes stood outside a local bar, his thumb hooked into his jeans.
“Oh my gosh.” She pointed at his hand. “That’s what I’ve been forgetting. He has a birthmark in the shape of a heart. It’s so small you can almost miss it. But I saw it when he put the gun in my hand. Zoom in so we can see if I’m right.”
