Which was why Jocelyn had insisted on a slumber party. It was their long-standing ritual.
Inez tucked her legs up beneath her, sipped her wine, and motioned to the television. “This is really fascinating shit, Rush, but I thought we were going to watch the new Denzel Washington movie. Holy shit. Is that a VCR?”
Jocelyn paused the tape she’d been watching of Knox interrogating Cash Rigo on June 27, 2000. She shifted the legal pad she’d been jotting notes on and picked up her wine glass. She smiled at Inez and sipped the Moscato, savoring its sweet taste on her tongue. “It sure is,” she told Inez. “Three guesses where I got it from.”
It only took one. “Kevin Sullivan is the only person I know who would still have a damn VCR.” Jocelyn laughed, nodding as Inez went on. “When did you finally convince him to get rid of his flip phone?”
“Two years ago,” Jocelyn supplied. “Yeah, he loaned me the VCR so I could watch all the tapes on this Sydney Adams case.”
“Your first major case as a PI, huh?”
Jocelyn nodded again and ran it down for Inez. Then she rewound the tape to where Rigo first started sobbing like a baby. “Look at the time stamp,” Jocelyn said, fast-forwarding again. The clock in the upper right-hand corner sped up. “This son of a bitch weeps for fourteen minutes straight.”
On the television, Rigo’s shoulders quaked like he was doing some kind of funky chair dance. During the last minute, Jocelyn pressed play and turned the volume up so Inez could hear him howl with grief.
“What the hell?” Inez said. “You said this is the coach?”
“Yes! It’s weird, right?”
“Last time I saw a man crying like that was that guy over in Olney who backed up over his kid out in front of his house.”
“Exactly,” Jocelyn said. She took another sip of wine and got up to change the videotape. “Watch,” she said. “The boyfriend doesn’t even take it that hard.”
Thin wiry Lonnie Burgess fidgeted in the metal chair Knox offered him, his fingers tapping against his thighs. He wore a plain white T-shirt and drab green cargo pants. He looked impossibly young—his face fresh and unlined, and, except for the sadness that sat on his shoulders like a yoke, he seemed confident and hopeful in the way only a child can. The video wasn’t the greatest quality, but it was good enough to see him hastily wiping tears from the corners of his eyes when he thought Knox wasn’t looking. It was clear that he was distraught but trying to maintain his composure.
“I assume this kid has an alibi,” Inez said.
“Yeah,” Jocelyn replied. She got up and changed the tape again. This time, the video wasn’t from inside of one of the Homicide Unit’s dank, cigarette-scarred interrogation rooms. It was a Channel 10 evening newscast from May 9, 2000. The lower, left-hand side of the screen showed a time-stamp of six twenty-five. On the other side, it said LIVE. The reporter was interviewing Lonnie Burgess about the vandalism at Franklin West. He stood outside of the school, talking in earnest about the need for security cameras on the premises while people milled about behind him. Some gathered in knots on Franklin West’s steps, talking and smoking, while others went in and out of the building.
“Good God, look at those clothes,” Inez said. “Do you think we looked that dated back then?”
“Please, the only thing we were wearing then were our uniforms. I worked so much overtime, I slept in that damn thing sometimes.”
“I still do,” Inez quipped.
Jocelyn got up and put in the last tape—the one of Francine Rigo. She was small and plump with a round face, her brown hair pulled back in a French braid. She sat primly in her chair across from Knox, her hands folded on the table. Knox was mostly concerned with what time she had gotten home from Franklin West to find her husband ill. He zig-zagged in his questioning. It was a technique used to throw people off, to keep them off balance.
“You arrived home at nine-thirty. Did you go right home from Franklin West, or did you stop somewhere?”
Francine’s voice was soft and had a musical quality to it. “Right home,” she answered. With a wan smile, she added, “It had been a long day.”
“Did you know Sydney Adams well?”
If Francine was put off by the sudden change of topic, she didn’t show it. “As well as a school nurse gets to know any student, I suppose. She came to my office now and then for a headache, or you know, other things.”
“Other things?”
Francine unlaced her fingers and spread her palms in a sort of helpless gesture. “Female things,” she clarified. “Menstrual cramps, or if she needed a pad or tampon.”
“Oh, okay.” Knox jotted something down on the pad in front of him.
“I went with Cash and the team to some track and field meets, and Sydney was there. She was very . . .” she trailed off and leaned out of the frame. When she returned, she had a tissue in her hand. She dabbed her eyes as she continued. “Sydney was a sweet girl. Very smart, very kind.”
“Was she close with your husband?”
Francine nodded. “Yes. He helped her with her college applications and wrote her a glowing recommendation letter.” The tears came faster than Francine could dab them. “Such a bright future ahead of her. It’s just so sad.”
“What route did you take home that night?” Knox asked, going back to the night of Sydney’s murder.
Francine sniffled and fisted her tissue. “Same as always. I took Kelly Drive to Lincoln Drive into Mount Airy.”
“And where was your husband when you got home?”
“Where? In the bathroom vomiting.”
“Did he ask you to take him to the hospital?”
“I really can’t recall whose idea it was, I just know he was in very poor shape—badly dehydrated. It’s not like I had an IV and anti-nausea meds on hand.”
She frowned then, finally seeming to figure out that Knox might be after something, like her husband. “Why are you asking me about Cash? It’s Sydney who was murdered.”
Knox gave her a tight smile. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. We are just trying to rule people out at this point.”
Francine’s head reared back. “Rule people out?” Her voice lost its musical quality and took on an edge. “For what?”
Knox stared at her with a hangdog expression. “Mrs. Rigo,” was all he said.
The hand with the tissue in it flew up to her chest. “You think my husband had something to do with Sydney’s murder.”
It wasn’t a question. Knox said nothing, letting her stew in the realization. Finally, she said, “My husband would never do anything like that.”
Jocelyn stopped the tape as Inez hummed a few bars of Stand By Your Man.
“What about her?” Inez asked.
Jocelyn pointed to a file box on the floor near her feet. “I already checked. She’s on video at the Home and School meeting from six-thirty until just after nine. No way she could have done it. Knox was right. Rigo is the only person who can’t account for all of his time that night. He would have had plenty of time to shoot Sydney and be home in time for his wife to find him ill. Yet, everyone Knox talked to said Rigo was a good guy, a nice guy,” Jocelyn said. “Students said he was ‘cool.’”
“So he was the Friend Teacher,” Inez said.
“Yeah. Looks that way. He probably never enforced a rule in his life.”
“Well, that’s a slippery slope.”
Jocelyn downed the rest of her wine. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”