Once we were seated, her on the couch and me in a worn recliner that I realized too late had probably belonged to Frank, I said, "I hate to tell you this, but someone stole the file you loaned me."
She tilted her head, her face expressionless. "Really?"
"Yes. I feel so stupid for not taking better care of it. I should have locked it up or something before—"
"But that's wonderful." She smiled.
I was so stunned by her response I couldn't speak for a second. "You don't have a sarcastic bone in your body, so I assume you're serious."
"Don't you see, Abby? That means Frank was right. Lawrence Washington was innocent. Why else would someone want that file? This would have meant so much to Frank."
She might be making a leap in logic—or more like faith—but it did make sense, in a way. "I'm relieved you're not mad about me losing the files."
"They were stolen, not lost. That's a huge difference."
Will had said the same thing, and as the weight of guilt lifted from my shoulders, I smiled. "You don't have to make me feel better."
"I'm not, Abby. What would I do with the file if you brought it back? Believe me, I have plenty more things in this house that need to go. I feel like I can't move on until I've finished what Frank so desperately wanted after he retired. Even in death, if he helps to right one wrong, then his obsession with those old cases was worth it. I believe you are an angel sent to help him rest in peace."
First golden lights and now I was an angel? What was I missing when I looked in the mirror? "You are one of the kindest people I've ever met, Joelle. Thank you. Was there anything else Frank kept besides the files? Because even though I only had one real run-through on the information, I've learned he might have missed something—and that doesn't seem like him." I was thinking of the girlfriend angle that Frank apparently had failed to uncover.
She sat back against the cushions. "As I'm sure you've figured out, Frank wasn't the most organized soul in the universe. Maybe we should check the attic? Before he went back to San Francisco after the funeral, our son hauled plenty of boxes up there. I'm not sure what was in them and I don't go up to the attic. Pull-down stairs are hard to climb when you get past fifty."
So I was the one who climbed the pull-down stairs, my second climb in search of evidence today. It was hot and dirty up there, and I was dressed in a skirt and blouse. Not exactly attic attire. At least I hadn't been stupid enough to wear hose.
I removed my clogs to better navigate plywood and beams, and started my search. I found lots of old soccer and baseball equipment, a three-speed bike, a disassembled crib and plenty of clothes in plastic bags. I bypassed bolts of material, an old sewing machine, photography magazines, stacked police journals and Christmas ornaments while balancing my way to the cardboard file boxes I'd spotted in a far corner. The boxes weren't marked, but that was to be expected from Frank. The first few I opened held slides and photos damaged by years in the heat of a Houston attic. Nothing police-related. Looked like the beginning attempts at Frank's photography hobby.
I moved these aside and opened the last box. When I did, I discovered my trip to this corner had been worth it. Inside were evidence envelopes from HPD. The first one made me wince when I looked inside. It was marked "Rape-Murder, Jane Doe #2" and held a box cutter. I decided not to check any of the others unless they were marked AMANDA MASON. Close to the bottom of the box I did find that Mason envelope, and inside was a bullet.
Yes. Pay dirt.
I'd been resting on my already sore knees and nearly slipped in my haste to get up, but I finally navigated my way back to the ladder, grabbed my clogs and was soon in the nice, cool hallway.
"Got something," I said, holding up the envelope.
Joelle smiled and pulled me by the hand toward the kitchen. "You need a drink. You're so flushed."
After I gulped down a huge glass of water, I thanked Joelle, left, and called Jeff from the car.
"I am drowning in reports. Glad to hear your voice," he said.
"Can I come see you? It's important."
"You've got something?"
"I do. You may think I'm crazy but—"
"I know you're crazy, but that's what you do the best and I happen to like it."
I smiled, thinking about the pastor. I could show Jeff "crazy" he might not like so much. "I'll be there as fast as I can," I said.
"Without a tail, I hope? Because someone has been stuck to you like a bad smell lately."
"Don't remind me." I hung up, but his reminder made me pay more attention to my driving than I usually do, alert for that tail. I didn't notice anyone, though.
Once I met up with Jeff in his cubicle on the homicide floor, I sat down and held out the envelope. "I found this at Frank Simpson's place."
Jeff took it but kept staring at me. "What happened to your hair? You been hanging around spiders? And your shirt looks like—"
"Shut up," I said, wiping at a gray smudge. "I got down and dirty in an attic."
"Down and dirty," he said, grinning. "You and I could use a little of that."
"Great. You're horny and I'm trying to—"
"Sorry," he said. "What have you got?"
"I think this is the bullet that killed Amanda Mason."
Jeff's expression went from playful to unhappy in a hurry. "Simpson took more than notes and files? He could have gotten himself in big trouble, Abby."
"It was a closed case. Don't you get rid of evidence after awhile?"
"They do clean out the evidence lockers after appeals are exhausted. Sorry for being critical, but from all you've told me, I like this Frank Simpson. Stupid of me to worry about a dead cop getting in trouble."
"Reputation is important to you guys," I said. "I understand your reaction."
He smiled. "You understand a whole lot about me. Guess this bullet would have been destroyed if he hadn't taken it. You know the Mason case better than I do. How can this help with the Olsen woman's death?"
"Here's the deal. The gun that killed Amanda Mason was never recovered, was not part of the evidence they found in Washington's bedroom that night. They figured he ditched it. What if that gun is still out there? What if it was used in some other crime later on and you have ballistic evidence waiting to be found in your police database?"
"I would have said you were nuts an hour ago, that you were reaching, but guess what we discovered when we ran the bullet we pulled from Thaddeus Washington's wall?"
"What?"
"It matches the one the ME dug out of the Olsen woman's chest."
My mouth went dry. "Uh-oh. You mean Verna Mae's killer shot at Thaddeus and me yesterday?"
"That's the logical conclusion, a possibility I like about as much as I enjoy Kate's cooking," he said. "Maybe next time it won't be a warning shot."
I took a deep breath. "Yeah. Scary. What about looking for a ballistics match to the Mason murder?"
"It's a long shot—no pun intended," Jeff said. "But maybe someone's been hanging onto a .38 for a very long time."
"Would the Mason ballistic evidence still be in the system?"
"Probably never was. DRUGFIRE didn't exist in 1987."
"DRUGFIRE?"
"The ballistics database. We do have two bullets already and now this one. If the Mason bullet matches the others, we'll have hard evidence that everything that's happened in the last week is connected to Will's abandonment. Probably not usable in court since you found this in a dead cop's attic, but still a clue. Let me get this to the right people and we'll know."
I returned home and showered the cobwebs out of my hair along with the grime and sweat off my skin. Once I was dressed in sensible clothes—denim shorts and a crop top—I transferred the picture of the youth group from the camera phone to my desktop computer.