“Lieutenant, I know you said you weren’t reopening Victor’s case. It does sort of sound like you’ve found something new.” She bit her lip, pulling her jacket even tighter around her.
“Why don’t you show me the copy of the report you have? That’s the first step.”
The sky broke open in a severe thunderstorm that had been threatening all day. Slate stuck his hat on tight, tucked the file into his shirt and gestured for Vivian to stay at the door. “No sense in the both of us getting soaked. I’ll be right back.”
Slate ran the two blocks to his truck, dumped his hat in the back seat, locked the file in the middle compartment and drove back to the coffee shop. A little over ten minutes. But when he pulled up outside, Vivian wasn’t standing near the door. He waited a couple more minutes. Then he pushed on the flashers and ran inside to see.
“Hey.” He got the attention of the barista. “Where’s the woman I was with a few minutes ago?”
“You left. She left. I don’t know where.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all.”
Cranking the heat once inside the truck, he dialed Wade.
“So?” his friend asked first thing.
“I met with her. How ’bout you look at the list of things in the evidence file?” Slate paused, slapping the file against his thigh waiting while Wade pulled up the rest of the information.
Information he’d deliberately left out to entice Slate to look further into the case.
“Got it.”
“Is there a follow-up report from a sleep study that the victim was conducting?”
“Nothing.”
“So if I thought the list was necessary to answer the questions that we had...”
“I knew it!” Wade said with force, then repeated himself in a lower voice. “You’d need to sweet-talk a copy, not request it through a warrant. Seriously, Slate, if you have those kinds of doubts, take it to the district attorney’s office.”
“I need a couple more things clarified and then I’ll head there.”
Yeah. A couple more questions like...why didn’t Vivian wait at the coffee shop? He opened the incomplete file Wade had given to him to pique his interest, then added Vivian’s address to his GPS. Traffic was pretty bad in the downpour. He wasn’t surprised that someone who didn’t own a vehicle lived right on the bus route, but he was surprised that Vivian wasn’t home.
He was already soaked but standing on an apartment doorstep would only draw attention to himself. And it was getting colder by the minute. So he waited in the truck. He had a perfect view of the door, but several minutes later, there was a knock on his window, followed with a gesture to roll it down.
“Get in!” he shouted.
Vivian ran around to the opposite side and jumped in the front seat. Soaked to the skin, still dressed in the short shorts and T-shirt.
“I thought we agreed I’d give you a ride.”
“I appreciate it, Lieutenant, but I didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.” She dripped on the papers she had in a folder. “The top copy is the original. You can see that the cover letter is a diagnosis and the results of the study.”
“They mailed this to you?”
It didn’t look identical to the other report even though it began the same.
“To my brother. This is where he lived prior to his arrest.” She opened the door. “I’ll be heading inside now. Thanks for looking at Victor’s case...even unofficially.”
“But I’m not.”
Too late. The door was shut and she ran up the sidewalk. So he took the time to compare the two papers.
This report was in the same tone as the journal page. Formal, doctorly, professional. And dated recently. It was also signed by an assistant who had been interviewed just after the doctor’s murder. The statement, along with numerous others from hospital staff, was in the file. The recent report...was not.
Nothing new.
Except there were names. Summaries of group sessions. No one was referred to as a subject and there sure as hell wasn’t a Subject Nineteen.
“Damn. They have the wrong guy.”
“Your brother’s innocent.”
“I know.”
Vivian opened the door wider, no longer embarrassed that the one-room furnished apartment had a pullout couch and a kitchenette with half a refrigerator. She’d passed that stigma three months ago when she calculated she’d be out of money by the beginning of the month.
One more week before the trial and two more days with a roof over her head.
She gestured for the Texas Ranger to enter and wait on the cracked linoleum by the door. “Let me get you a towel.”
On the way to the bathroom, she shoved the bed into its couch position and tossed the cushions back on it. But another glance at the ranger confirmed that he was soaked to the skin...just like she’d been a couple of minutes earlier.
“There’s a fold-up chair behind you.”
“That’s okay, I don’t mind standing. And dripping.” He laughed.
Lieutenant Slate had a good laugh. Deep and sincere that crinkled the skin near the corner of his eyes. She pulled a clean towel from the shelf and caught herself checking what she looked like in the mirror. And then picking up the hand towel and wiping the nonwaterproof mascara from under her eyes.
She tossed the towel across the small area into the ranger’s hands. He took off his hat, looking for a place to set it, then carefully flipped it upside down into her—thankfully—empty sink.
Briskly, he brushed the worn cotton across his short hair, then used his hand to slick it back down again. “Sorry about the puddle.”
“No problem.” She sat on the couch, tucking her cold feet under her, seriously glad that she’d put on lounge pants instead of jumping into the shower.
“You’re very patient,” he said, shifting his boots into a wider stance. “If someone told me my brother was innocent after he’d confessed to a murder, I’d be chomping at the bit for an explanation.”
“I’m tired, Lieutenant Slate. That’s all. And you’ll have to forgive me for not being excited about your announcement that you are not reopening his case. I’ve known my brother was innocent from day one.”
“It’s just Slate, ma’am. Slate Thompson. And I get it.”
“And I’m Vivian. Definitely not a ma’am.” She gestured to the end of the couch. “Please sit. A little water isn’t the worst thing that’s been on that cushion.”
“If you’re sure?” he asked, but he was already shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it over hers on the back of the door.
When he turned around, she saw the file folder with the sleep-study report stuffed into the back of his jeans.
“That was one way to keep it dry.”
“Yeah.” He pulled it around front and tapped his palm with it several times. “So, this report sheds a new light on your brother.”
“I’m not a silly, inexperienced sister, Lieutenant Thompson.” By using his formal name, she wanted to keep things a little more professional than they looked in her shabby studio apartment.