Which left them nowhere.
Cash had recanted, but the DA wouldn’t drop the charges. Word was he’d gotten himself a high-powered defense attorney to sort the mess out. Still, unless someone found the real shooter, the charges against Cash would stand. Trouble was, they didn’t even have any suspects. Jocelyn had no interest in saving Cash’s ass, but she had a vested interest in finding Sydney Adams’ real killer.
Tears welled behind her eyes as she thought of Knox dying in her lap, telling her she did good. He had brought Jocelyn the case—his last case, the thing that had eclipsed even his family in the remaining years of his life—and she’d failed him. She’d fucked up grandly, killing Francine and, with her, their best chance of finding out the true identity of Sydney’s shooter. She kept revisiting the moment Francine raised her gun, kept seeing her finger on the trigger, wondering if she could have done things differently.
Always, the image of Olivia’s beautiful face flashed in her mind.
No, she’d handled it the only way that she could. She could take no chances. She had to be there for her daughter. She had come too close the year before. Besides her sister and uncle, both of whom were embattled in their own ways, Jocelyn had no real family to speak of. She knew that Inez would take care of Olivia, and Kevin would help too, but it wouldn’t be the same. Jocelyn was Olivia’s mother. She needed to be there for the girl, damn the cost.
She’d just have to find Sydney Adams’ killer the hard way.
“Detective?”
Zachary Whitman stood before her, smiling that ever-present amiable smile of his, the same one he’d given her a year ago when he was in police custody for possession of child pornography. Sure, he’d been exonerated of the child porn charges, but the smile still gave her the creeps. He looked the same. Maybe a little thinner, a little grayer, but he had the same brown hair parted in the center and feathered on the sides, the same wire-rimmed glasses over a straight, narrow nose, and the same slight frame.
“Whitman,” she said, standing.
He extended a hand, but she didn’t take it. He put his hands behind his back and looked briefly at the floor. “Well, come in,” he said, gesturing to his open door. Jocelyn passed through and took the first chair she saw. Whitman sat behind his desk, and Jocelyn felt her anxiety ease with the barrier between them. The office was small. Whitman’s large, metal desk took up most of it. Like the hallway, the walls were painted gray cinderblocks. There was no window. The muted blue outdoor carpet seemed to add to the gloom. Fluorescent lights hung overhead, but Whitman kept them off in favor of a table lamp he’d obviously brought in himself. It sat atop a tall, black filing cabinet, casting a soft glow over the institutional room. The rest of the walls were lined with overflowing bookcases. He stared at her, watching her take it in.
“It just screams ivy league, doesn’t it?” he joked lamely.
She bit back a caustic reply, managing a tight smile instead.
“So,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Jocelyn mouth suddenly felt dry. “My sister would like you to testify at our uncle’s trial.”
“Your uncle framed me. Obviously, I’m going to testify,” he said. “I’ve already spoken with the DA.”
“I mean about what you did to her.”
The smile again. “Well, that goes to the heart of the matter, doesn’t it? It speaks to your uncle’s motive.”
“Of the three of you, Pearce is dead and Evans’ attorney has advised him against testifying at all. It’s important to Camille that you are honest, that you tell what you did to her.”
“She’s looking for validation.”
“Call it whatever you want. We know your attorney is going to want you to go into as little detail as humanly possible. I’m asking you to tell a jury exactly what the five of you did. No censoring, no editing. Camille needs this, and you’re going to give it to her.”
He chuckled lightly. “Really, Detective Rush, you don’t have to strong-arm me. I am happy to do as Camille wishes. This is the only way I can perhaps take some responsibility for her rape. There is no question I’ll do it.”
Of course he would. The statute of limitations had run out years ago. Whitman could go on the damn Today Show and tell the whole world what he and the other boys had done, and nothing would happen to him. Still, Jocelyn felt some relief that he didn’t put up a fight. Camille would be glad. She couldn’t bring herself to thank him so she just said, “Okay.”
She stood to leave but Whitman said, “You seem tired and tense. Is everything okay, Detective?”
The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Jocelyn stared at him. “You know we’re not friends, right? I mean, you know that the only thing that stops me from shooting you is the threat of prison, right? Some people are of a forgiving nature. I am not one of those people.”
He folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. “Yes, I’m aware. I was simply making an observation. Is it a case that’s keeping you up at night?”
She put a hand on one hip. “What the fuck is this? What are you doing?”
He looked up at her and opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “And don’t say you can help me.”
He smiled again, this time with a sardonic twist to his lips. “Okay,” he said. “I was just curious about what you were working on. I . . . I miss it. I miss the work. I used to get requests from police detectives all over the country for consults. Getting to consult on real cases was just as gratifying as teaching. I don’t even get to teach advanced courses here.” He raised both hands. “Not that I’m complaining. After all that’s happened, I’m just grateful to have a job. I just miss the stuff that used to go along with it. I don’t get those calls anymore.”
“You expect me to feel sorry for you?”
He met her glare head on. “Of course not. I’m only suggesting that we set aside our past associations for a few minutes. I’ll be a criminal psychologist and you’ll be a detective, and we’ll talk about your case. I can hel—I may have insights that would be useful in your investigation.”
She held his gaze for several seconds, every nerve in her body on edge. Her impulse was to tell him to go fuck himself, spin on her heel and walk out, leaving him unsatisfied and humiliated. Given their past associations, it must have taken a lot for him to admit to her that it bothered him—what he had been reduced to. Not that she felt badly for him. She couldn’t. It wasn’t in her. Watching a gang rape and doing nothing to stop it was not forgivable in her book. It would never be.
But she didn’t give in to her impulse. Maybe because she was so tired. Maybe because between the two of them, she and Trent had precisely zero leads in the Sydney Adams case. Maybe because she was so desperate.
She sat back down and rubbed the nape of her neck. “This is confidential,” she said.
He nodded.
“I’m in private practice,” she added. “I’ve got my own P.I. firm. I’ve been working with the police on this cold case.”
She gave him a run down, starting with what the file had contained when Knox brought it to her, all the way up to the fatal confrontation in the Rigos’ kitchen and the interview with Hubbard. Her words came out stilted and awkward at first, but the longer she talked, the more her body relaxed and the easier it was to relate the facts. She didn’t relax entirely, but enough for her skin to stop crawling. Mostly. Whitman listened carefully and attentively, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was silent for a moment when she finished. Then he said, “Francine is as fascinating as she is abhorrent, isn’t she?”