She greeted him with a demand. “What are you mixed up in, John?”
“When did you start back smoking?”
She took a long drag on the cigarette in her hand and tossed it to the ground. He watched her press the toe of her shoe into it, grinding the butt, probably wishing she was grinding his head in its place.
She let out a stream of smoke. “Answer my question.”
He looked back over his shoulder, though he knew they were alone. “You shouldn’t be here, Joyce.”
“Why won’t you answer my question?”
“Because I don’t want you involved.”
“You don’t want me involved?” she repeated, incredulous. “My life is involved, John. Whether I like it or not, you are my brother.”
He could feel her anger like a heat radiating from her body. Part of him wished she would just haul off and hit him, beat him to a bloody pulp until her fists were broken and her rage was spent.
She said, “How can you have credit cards when you’re in prison?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it allowed?”
“I…” He hadn’t even considered the question, though it was a good one. “I suppose. You can’t have cash, but…” He tried to think it through. You could get a warning or even thrown into solitary for having cash in prison. Everything you bought at the canteen was debited through your account and you weren’t allowed to order anything through the mail.
“I don’t know.”
“You realize if Paul Finney finds out any of this, he’ll sue you in civil court for every dime you have.”
“There’s nothing to get,” John said. His mother’s will had left everything to Joyce for this very reason. Under the victim’s compensation act, if John ever had more than two pennies to rub together, Mary Alice’s family could get it. Mr. Finney was like a circling shark waiting for a drop of John’s blood in the water.
Joyce said, “You own a house in Tennessee.”
He could only stare.
She took a folded sheet of paper out of her coat pocket. “Twenty-nine Elton Road in Ducktown, Tennessee.”
He took the page, which was a Xerox of an original. Across the top were the words, “Official Certificate of Title.” His name was listed above the property address as the owner. “I don’t understand.”
“You own this house free and clear,” she told him. “You paid it off in five years.”
He had never owned anything in his life except a bicycle, and Richard had taken that away from him after his first arrest. “How much did it cost?”
“Thirty-two thousand dollars.”
John choked on the amount. “Where would I get that kind of money?”
“How the hell do I know?” She yelled this so loudly that he stepped back.
Joyce-
She jabbed her finger in his face, saying, “I’m only going to ask you this one more time, and I swear to God, John, I swear on Mama’s grave, if you lie to me I will cut you out of my life so quick you won’t know what hit you.”
“You sound just like Dad.”
“That’s it.” She started to walk away.
“Wait,” he said, and she stopped but didn’t turn around. “Joyce- someone’s stolen my identity.”
Her shoulders sagged. When she finally looked at him, he could read every horrible thing he was ever involved in etched into the lines of her face. She was quiet now, anger spent. “Why would someone steal your identity?”
“To cover himself. Cover his tracks.”
“For what reason? And why you?”
“Because he didn’t think I would get out. He thought I’d be in prison for the rest of my life, that he could use my identity to keep from getting caught.”
“Who thought this? Who’s doing this to you?”
John felt the name stick like a piece of glass in his throat. “The same guy who hurt Mary Alice.”
Joyce visibly flinched at the girl’s name. They were both quiet, nothing but the swish of water through the car wash and the buzz of the vacuums interrupting the silence.
John forced himself to close some of the space between them. “The person who framed me for killing Mary Alice is trying to do it again.”
She had tears in her eyes.
“I didn’t do it, Joyce. I didn’t hurt her.”
Her chin trembled as she struggled to contain her emotions.
“It wasn’t me.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She sniffled, taking a deep breath. “I need to get back to work.” Joyce-
“Take care of yourself, John.” “Joyce, please-” “Good-bye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
9:30 am
Will watched Pete Hanson’s hands as the medical examiner deftly sewed together Cynthia Barrett’s abdomen and chest. Her skin tugged up as the doctor pulled the baseball stitch through the Y-incision he’d made at the beginning of the autopsy. During the procedure, Will had concentrated on the parts of the body rather than the whole, but now there was no avoiding the fact that Cynthia Barrett was a human being, little more than a child. With her slim build and delicate features, she had an almost elfin quality about her. How a man could hurt this girl was beyond him.
“It’s a sad thing,” Pete said, as if he could read Will’s mind.
“Yes.” Will had been gritting his teeth from the moment he entered the morgue. In his law-enforcement career, Will had seen all kinds of damage done to people, but he still found himself shocked when he saw a child victimized. He always thought about Angie, the horrible things that had been done to her when she was just a little girl. It made his stomach hurt.
The doors opened and Michael Ormewood walked in. There were dark circles under his eyes and he still had a piece of tissue stuck to his chin where he had apparently cut himself shaving.
“Sorry I’m late,” Michael apologized.
Will looked at his watch; the movement was reflexive, but when he looked back up, he could see Michael’s irritation.
“That’s fine,” Will said, realizing too late that he had said the wrong thing. He tried, “Dr. Hanson was just finishing up. You didn’t miss anything.”
Michael kept silent, and Pete broke the tension, saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Detective.”
After a few seconds, Michael nodded his head. He wiped his mouth, rolling the tissue off his chin. He looked surprised at the bloody paper between his fingers and threw it in the trashcan. “It’s been a little hard at home.”
“I can imagine.” Pete patted him on the shoulder. “My condolences.”
“Yes,” Will agreed, not knowing what else to say.
“She was just a neighbor, but still…” The smile on Michael’s face seemed forced, as if he was having trouble keeping his emotions in. “It eats you up when something bad happens to an innocent kid like that.” Will saw his gaze settle onto the body, noticed the flash of despair in the other man’s eyes. Michael reached out as if to touch the blonde hair, then pulled his hand back. Will remembered how Michael had acted this same way the day before when they had first seen the body. It was as if Cynthia was the man’s own child instead of a neighbor’s.
“Poor baby,” Michael whispered.
“Yes,” Pete concurred.
“I’m sorry, guys,” Michael apologized. He cleared his throat a few times, seemed to try to get himself together. “What have you got, Pete?”