Evelyn had also pulled Koss’s cell record. He hadn’t made any calls or texted anyone from the time his lecture started until after he left the restaurant with his wife. Which gave some serious weight to the theory that someone else hired last night’s hitman.
Evelyn had even gone one step further, running the number that called Koss. It had placed a call around five, then received two from the same number later in the evening—one at nine, one just before midnight.
I took out my phone.
“Whoa,” Quinn said. “Hold on. You don’t want to call that number just yet.”
“Not the one that called Koss,” I said. “The one that caller phoned and received two calls from.”
Quinn looked confused. “Okay, but still, you don’t want to use your phone for that. Even a burner.”
“It can scramble the outgoing calls. The number won’t match anything I’ve used before.”
“Shit. I’ve heard of that but where—? Ah. Felix.”
I nodded.
“I partnered with the guy for a week last year and you get the toys.”
“Not me.” I hooked a finger at Jack.
“You want one?” Jack said. “Just ask. It’ll cost, though. Not cheap.”
I dialed the number while they talked. It took a moment to connect. Then it started to ring . . . from the end table beside Quinn. He picked up the locked phone.
“Shit,” he said. “You saw that coming, didn’t you?”
“Playing a hunch,” I said. “So whoever phoned Koss also called our hitman. Presumably, he’s the client.”
“We really need to learn who’s at the other end of that phone,” Quinn said.
“Yep.”
There was no pressing need now to crack the hitman’s phone. We still would, but having his number meant we could track his calls. Evelyn would do that. She’d also tried phoning the number that called Koss. It had gone straight to “customer not available.” We tried and got the same, suggesting it was either off or he’d replaced the SIM card.
“The question is,” Quinn said as we settled in again, “who would put out a hit on both you and Koss? I could guess Contrapasso covering a bad hit, but the Aldrich hit wasn’t bad. I’ve been monitoring the case through law-enforcement contacts. Nobody suspects this was anything except a remorseful killer who offed himself. To them, it’s a good-news story. They have no interest in looking closer.”
“Agreed,” I said. “So there’s no reason for Contrapasso to panic and take out one of their own, especially someone as valuable as Koss. Which means we’re back to our original theory that Aldrich had friends. Nasty friends.”
“Right,” Quinn said. “We know a fellow scumbag didn’t kill him, but that could be who’s after you.”
I nodded. “Koss might not have been the only person Aldrich called after he saw me.” I looked at Quinn. “Can we get Aldrich’s phone records?”
He nodded. “So the theory would be that this guy is worried either Koss or you know something—or will find something—that will bring him down. Which suggests not just some scumbag friend but . . .”
I glanced at Jack.
“Partner,” he said. “Aldrich had a partner.”
CHAPTER 40
Aldrich did not have a partner when he raped me and then raped and murdered Amy. My memories of that night might have shattered, but I’d retained enough pieces to be sure I hadn’t seen or heard anyone else at that cabin. What I suspected, instead, was that we were reverting back to an older theory, one supported by what Shannon Broadhurst had said about Aldrich having met “like-minded friends” later in life. Except, it seemed, more than just friends. A true partner-in-crime, who was worried that Koss or I had found something.
Found what? The journal, of course.
“Is it in the car?” I asked. “Shit. Our stuff. We left our bags at the other hotel.”
“Called,” Jack said. “Paid an extra night. Get it later. Journal’s in the car. With my tools.”
“I could go and grab your things,” Quinn said. “That might be better, so no one sees you guys showing up again.”
I remembered the fancy hotel . . . with the single bed. We could explain it away, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy.
“Nah,” Jack was already saying. “You show up? Ties you to us. Better not. I’ll grab it later.”
“Thanks for offering, though,” I said.
Jack was gracious enough to second that, if only with a grunt. Then he headed out for the journal. Quinn called Evelyn to get her working on the hitman’s cell phone records. There was something I could do, too. Something I should do, as much as I’d been avoiding it. I was still thinking of that when Jack slipped back in, journal in hand.
Quinn was on the phone. I was sitting in the corner of the sofa, deep in thought, and barely noticed Jack until he said he’d be reading in the bedroom. I led him to the other end of the room to not interrupt Quinn’s call.
“I was thinking that I should really get that case file from Neil. I should read it.”
“I can.”
Another smile, a little more genuine. “You finish the journal. I’ll handle the file. Since Neil said there’s nothing on my rape in it, Quinn can read it, too, and help me look at it objectively.”
Neil was at work, which proved that on a case I lose all sense of time. I said I’d call back but he was doing paperwork and happy for the interruption.
“I can e-mail it to you,” Neil said. “I scanned it all a couple of days ago. And, yes, I expect you to be very proud of me for knowing how to use a scanner. I actually have one on my new printer but hadn’t gotten around to figuring it out. This gave me the perfect excuse. I’ve now officially entered the twenty-first century.”
“Congratulations. You’re a couple of steps ahead of me. I think the lodge printer still uses a ribbon.”
He laughed. “Then you’ll be even more impressed to hear that I have the file on a thumb drive, so I can e-mail it to you right now.” I could hear him pecking on the keyboard. “And there it goes. One case file, sent electronically.”
“I owe you.”
“You do. And I’ll take a weekend at the lodge with the kids this winter. They want to learn cross-country skiing.”
“You’ve got the weekend and private lessons.”
“Great. I’ll expect a call later, to talk about the file.”
Reading Amy’s case file was as hard as I thought it would be. Maybe harder. When we first found the journal, I’d expected to read details on Amy’s murder that I’d never wash from my mind. Yet I’d been ready to do it. The case file, with its cold, documented facts, should have been easier to digest. It wasn’t. Because those facts weren’t written by anonymous professionals.
I’d read a summary of the case years ago, but it had been just that—a typed summary. This was very different. I recognized the handwriting of Dr. Foster on the autopsy—the same Dr. Foster who’d been our family physician most of my young life. I read the report and I heard his voice and I imagined him there, working on Amy, his former patient. The notations about the crime-scene photos were all in Neil’s writing. I read a badly spelled typewritten report and didn’t even need to check the signature to know it was Myron Young, who’d gone on to replace my father as chief. Other reports had curt notes in the margins, the pen pushed so deep I could still feel rage emanating off the page. Uncle Eddie—Amy’s father.