Again, he swiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of rust-colored soapsuds on his forehead. The things she and Whitman had discussed flew round and round in Jocelyn’s head. Part of her wanted to tell Cash everything she had learned about psychopaths and how neatly Francine seemed to fit the mold, but she figured shooting his wife had forfeited her right to posit any theories about Francine’s psychological make up. So she kept her mouth shut and let him talk.
“About two weeks before my wedding, we were out with the wedding party at this Irish bar, partying hard. We were all drunk. The place was packed. There was a live band. It was really chaotic in there. Francine and I got separated. I didn’t think too much of it. We finally caught up after an hour or so in the hall to the bathrooms. She told me my best friend—my best man—had felt her up on the dance floor, tried to kiss her and grabbed her tits. I confronted him. He swore it was the other way around, but naturally I didn’t believe him. We never spoke again. She said she never liked him, that I was blind to who he really was, and then she said that bullshit about people showing their true colors. Now I wonder. I mean, I guess now I know my friend was telling the truth, not Francine. I don’t know why I never made the connection. I mean just a couple of weeks later, she showed me her true colors.”
Jocelyn stood frozen in place, arms crossed over her chest, listening. Cash swished the scrub brush around in the bucket and moved over a foot so he could work on a new set of blood-stained tiles. “How many times do you think she did that? How many people do you think she threw under the bus like that, to cut them out of my life? Cause that’s what happened. I lost my best friend. I keep thinking of different people in my life that I dropped over the years because they did something to offend or upset Francine. It was all her.”
He stopped scrubbing and drew a finger along the grout between two of the tiles. He looked back at her. “You said peroxide?”
Jocelyn nodded. “Yeah, it’s your best bet.”
“Okay.” He threw his scrub brush into the bucket. It splashed bloody suds up and into the air, landing in an arced pattern on the kitchen cabinets. Cash laughed drily. “Fuck this.” He stood, walked to his kitchen table and sat down. Jocelyn remained standing.
He looked her in the eye as he wiped his palms on his already soaked sweatpants. “When I woke up this morning, do you know what I felt?”
Jocelyn didn’t answer. She didn’t think he expected her to. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I woke up in jail. I felt disoriented. Took a minute for everything to come rushing back and when it did, I felt relief. Relief.” He laughed again, harsher this time. “Francine always said I was a shitty husband.”
“Mr. Rigo,” Jocelyn said. “The person who shot Sydney is still out there. I believe whoever killed her was also a student at Franklin West.”
“What about her boyfriend?”
“He has an alibi, you know that. No, we’re talking about someone your wife was close to, someone she may have cultivated a relationship with. Perhaps a troubled boy, someone with a history of disciplinary problems, suspensions.”
Cash shook his head. “Francine didn’t have relationships with the students. She wasn’t even a teacher.”
“But students came to her office when they were sick. She had access.” Jocelyn reached into her pocket and pulled out the list Lonnie had helped her compile. “Can you look at these names? Maybe one of them will ring a bell.”
He stood slowly, the chair beneath him creaking. Immediately, it brought to mind the sounds she had heard over the phone during Knox and Francine’s conversation. Knox had shifted in his chair several times before he collapsed. Jocelyn held the list out to Cash. He took it from her and studied it, his face paling. He pointed to the third name on it. “Oh my God,” he said. “This kid. He was here. She had him here for dinner once after his mom died. He’s the one who vandalized the school—her office, in fact.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
Cash shook his head. “No, I never heard—wait, wait. I know he worked for a contractor after he was expelled. They were doing renovations on the school in 2005, and he was a worker. I remember because it was right around the time that Becky died.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I was surprised they let him back into the building, but Francine thought it was poetic, him repairing the school he had once vandalized. It almost became a controversy, but then Becky died, and no one cared about the contractors.”
“Do you remember the name of the company?” Jocelyn asked.
“No, sorry. You think he was the shooter?”
Jocelyn took the list back and slipped it into her pocket. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
Chapter 48
November 20, 2014
She found Trent at Knox’s apartment. He wore jeans and a faded, drab olive-green Marine Corps T-shirt. He held a trash bag in his hand, picking his way through the living room, throwing beer cans and old food containers into it as he went. He’d left the apartment door ajar, and when Jocelyn stepped over the threshold, she realized why. It smelled like the floor of a crowded bar—old food, stale beer, the hint of cigarette smoke, and the faint scent of spoiled garbage. She covered her nose with a shirt sleeve and waded in. Only the coffee table remained pristine, with Sydney’s school picture framed atop it. A large, bulky manila envelope sat beside the frame. In his shaky handwriting, Knox had used a black Sharpie to write his daughter’s name on the envelope.
Trent glanced over his shoulder at her. “Rush, you ever think about going home? Getting some damn rest? Don’t you have a kid you gotta pick up or something?” His voice held no malice or even annoyance. He sounded worn out, and Jocelyn couldn’t figure out if he was joking or not, so she said, “Olivia’s with her aunt. Look, I found something.”
He didn’t stop and didn’t look back at her. He chucked a stack of old newspapers into the trash bag, some Chinese takeout containers, and a man’s loafer, its sole peeled away from the shoe. Jocelyn followed him as he neared the darkened kitchen. “Did you hear me?” she said. “I think I know who shot Sydney and where you can find him.”
Trent paused. He turned to face her, clutching the garbage bag in one hand. “My friend died,” he said. “No one cared when my mom was killed. No one. Until Knox. He cared. He cleared the case. Maybe he was a drunk and a shitty father, but he was my friend, and now he’s dead. I took the day off because some crazy-ass psycho bitch killed my friend, and I need—” he faltered, his voice cracking. He looked at the floor, but not before she saw the tears in his eyes. “I need to take a minute.”
“My client died,” Jocelyn responded. “My client died thinking that I solved his case, but I didn’t. I haven’t caught the shooter, and I damn well can’t go to Knox’s funeral knowing I didn’t do that. I need your help, Trent.”
He said nothing, staring at the floor where he had unearthed a square of the threadbare brown carpet.
“Sydney’s case was the only thing he cared about, Trent. I mean, look at this shithole. The whole place is trashed. Except for that.” She pointed at the coffee table. “He cleared the most important case of your life. I’m asking you to clear the most important case of his. Right now. Today. Please.”