Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

you live in New York City.”

      “That’s right.”

      Brennan paused as if to choose his words carefully.

      “I know this would be very difficult, and I apologize for the imposition, but would you be willing to bring the necklace to Rampart to show us? It might help with an ongoing investigation.”

      “Couldn’t I just send you a picture?”

      “We’d prefer to see the actual necklace—we might have other questions.”

      Kate’s stomach began tightening.

      “Can you tell me more about the case, Detective?”

      A few moments passed.

      “This is confidential,” Brennan said.

      “Of course.”

      “We’ve found a necklace at a crime scene that fits with the description you gave. However, the engraving is unclear at this point. It’ll need further analysis because it was badly charred.”

      “Charred?”

      “Unfortunately, it was discovered in the remains of a fire at the scene of what appears to be a murder-suicide. We have a white female in her twenties deceased, who was burned beyond recognition. We’re doing all we can to confirm her identity.”

      Kate put her hand to her mouth, then glimpsed her daughter happily playing in the tub.

      “You say it’s a murder-suicide, what—what else can you tell me?”

      “The male’s identity is also unconfirmed. We’ve not released many details to the public at this point. I am very sorry to put you through this. But we wouldn’t have imposed if we didn’t have reason to believe your cooperation might assist us. Will you be able to bring the necklace to Rampart?”

      “Yes. Yes, I’ll be there with the necklace tomorrow.”

      After hanging up, Kate got Grace to bed, then called Chuck Laneer’s cell phone. Although Reeka Beck was her immediate boss, and going over her head would create tension, Kate preferred to talk to Chuck about this. They had a good relationship going back to Dallas when she’d told him about Vanessa’s tragedy.

      “That’s an incredible development for you, Kate,” he said when she filled him in. “I don’t see a problem with you taking a few days off to follow up. But to steer clear of any potential conflict, you’re not going up there as a Newslead reporter.”

      “Right.”

      “You’re going on your own cost and time, to follow up on a private matter. I’ll let Reeka know you’re off for a few personal days.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Good luck with this, Kate. It can’t be easy.”

      Kate then made arrangements with Nancy to watch Grace. She used her points to book a flight and car and started packing.

      Then she went to her jewelry box and took out the necklace bearing the tiny guardian angel with the name “Vanessa” engraved on it. She held it in the palm of her hand until tears rolled down her face.

       I tried to hold you. I tried so hard.

7

      Rampart, New York

      The calm clip-clop of a passing Amish horse and buggy carried through the window of the Rampart Police Department, belying Kate Page’s unease.

      After her plane had landed in Syracuse, she’d made the two-hour drive in a rented Chevrolet Cruze. Mile after mile her knuckles were white on the wheel, until she’d reached the edge of town where Rampart’s sign welcomed her to the Home of the Battle of the High School Bands.

      Following the GPS, she went straight downtown to the limestone building housing police headquarters. A receptionist directed her to a creaky hardback bench where she waited for Detective Brennan. Still anxious from her trip, Kate checked local coverage on her tablet.

      Mystery Surrounds Double Death. The headline in the Rampart Examiner stretched over a sweeping aerial photo of the crime scene. The charred blotch of the obliterated barn was branded on the lush woods like a wound.

       Is this where my sister died?

      For much of her life Kate had cleaved to the remote hope Vanessa was alive, and, now, to learn that she might’ve died here was overwhelming. But Kate held on to her composure by concentrating on news reports.

      A new one posted on a radio station’s site said police still hadn’t identified the victims. However, sources had told the station that the male was believed to be Carl Nelson, an IT technician at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center. They described him as a shy, “near-reclusive” man, whose truck was found near the burial grounds, the site of the fire. Mystery continued to swirl around rumors that a note was left in the apparent murder-suicide. Police remained tight-lipped about the investigation, the report said.

      Kate saved the story with others she’d collected.

      As she wondered about Carl Nelson, she looked up when someone said her name.

      Two men in sport jackets stood before her.

      “I’m Ed Brennan, this is Paul Dickson. We appreciate you coming all this way. How was your trip?”

      “It was all right.”

      “Good. We’ll go in here to talk.”

      They went into a windowless meeting room, where Brennan offered Kate something to drink.

      “Thank you, water would be fine.”

      “I understand you’re a reporter in New York with Newslead, the wire service.”

      “Yes.”

      A shadow of concern passed over Brennan’s face and Dickson shot him a subtle glance.

      “But you’re not here to report on this case. This is a personal matter.”

      “Yes.”

      “What we discuss here must remain confidential, do you understand?”

      “I do.”

      “Good.”

      Brennan positioned a chair for Kate and gave her a bottle of water. She sipped some, reached into her bag for the angel necklace and put it on the table. Brennan looked at it then opened his notebook to a clean page.

      “For our benefit, Kate, would you please give us an overview of your family’s background?”

      Kate recounted the history of the necklace again.

      “Would you be willing to volunteer your necklace for us to process for comparison?” Brennan asked.

      “Of course. May I see the one you found?”

      Brennan was silent for a moment.

      “No, I’m sorry, that’s physical evidence. But we’ll show you this.”

      He slid a file folder to Kate. She caught her breath at the crisp, enlarged color photograph of an angel necklace. It was battered; the engraving was illegible. It was blackened, set against a white backdrop, next to an evidence tag and photo-document ruler to show scale.

      “They are similar,” Brennan said. “We’ll pass yours to the forensic unit.”

      Absorbing the charred necklace in the picture, Kate’s thoughts rocketed to Vanessa, the barn fire, the agony she must’ve suffered.

      “I just don’t understand,” Kate said.

      “What?”

      She lifted her head from the photo. “If this is my sister’s necklace, then how did it get from