“That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.”
Chapter Two
“Got a new case?”
Ginny Rafferty turned to the cemetery’s caretaker and nodded. The chocolate-brown eyes set deep in the wrinkles of the African-American man’s face looked as old as she felt. “It’s that obvious, John?”
With his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coveralls, he twisted his face into a sympathetic frown. “You make this pilgrimage out here every time you take on an unsolved murder.”
She turned back to the pink granite headstone, with the name Rafferty engraved upon it. “Maybe once I can solve all the rest of them, I’ll get a chance to finally solve hers.”
More than a casual acquaintance, John McBride shared a sad, unique bond with Ginny. He might be one of the few people who understood her need to come to this remote haven nestled between busy Truman Road and Twenty-four Highway time and time again. He shrugged his shoulders and offered a fatherly smile. “It’s gettin’ dark. I’ll have to close the gates soon.”
“Give me a couple of minutes. Then I’ll ride down with you.”
“Sure.”
She watched him walk down the hill to his truck, his dignity unbowed by age or sorrow. Everyone coped with loss in his or her own way. Maybe one day she’d move beyond hers and find the acceptance that John seemed to have found.
Until then, she’d maintain her solitary vigil. She’d hang on to the love and loyalty she’d once forsaken in the pursuit of her own misguided dreams. The chilly spring rain drizzled along her cheeks, side by side with the single tear that scorched her skin.
The trees that surrounded the hills of Mount Washington Cemetery muffled the sounds of Kansas City at twilight. The haunting silence wrapped her up in its lonely hug, a small comfort for all she had lost.
She understood that the rest of the world moved on, despite her grief. Despite her guilt. But part of her would never understand why.
Twelve years had passed. And she still didn’t understand.
John had become the closest thing she had to a friend over the years. They’d first met the day of her sister’s funeral. He’d been kind enough to let her stay, long after the funeral had ended, long after the guests had departed to a reception at her parents’ Mission Hills home.
She’d been gone a year and a half before that, painting in Europe, losing her heart, learning some harsh truths about life, while Amy learned a harsh truth of her own on a deserted pier in downtown Kansas City.
Like this evening, John had waited with her until after dark the night of Amy’s funeral. Then he called for a taxi and paid her fare, even though she had money of her own.
Six months later, she’d lost her mother to a bottleful of the sedatives that were meant to help her cope with the loss of a child. John had been a good friend that day, too. She had needed one. With her father steeped in grief, Ginny had withdrawn to the fringes of the ceremony. An easy enough task for a shy creature like herself. She took a vow that day, made a promise to her sister and her mother. Planned her own quiet rebellion.
John had found her then, much as she was today, standing in the rain, swearing all kinds of vengeance on the world. He’d told her of his son, an officer in the State Highway Patrol, who’d been slain in the line of duty. He shared his feelings of pride and mourning for his brave son. He truly understood her anger and her loss.
And he inspired her.
She’d met John again last year, finally losing her father to an overworked heart, though emotionally, she’d lost him years earlier. Her parents had never been the same after Amy’s senseless murder. Ginny was a grown woman now—no grief-stricken teen, no rebellious coed—a mature career woman of thirty.
She’d willingly given up her scholarship to study art in Europe and enrolled in the justice studies program at Central Missouri State University in nearby Warrensburg. She’d taken care of her father, and now she took care of Kansas City, Missouri, too.
She sought justice for the innocent victims like her sister. Like her mother and father. And like that poor man this afternoon, buried alive and left to die.
Like a family reunion of battle-scarred survivors, she and John now met at the start of every new case. Each time, he waited patiently to drive her to her car at the front gates. And each time, she made the same promise to her sister and parents.
She spread her palm flat over the cold granite that bore her family’s names and recited her vow. “I’ll find out who did this to us. There will be justice for the Raffertys.”
She curled her fingertips into the grooves cut deep into the stone.
“I promise.”
Ginny headed down the hill toward the road. Her charcoal-gray chinos, damp from a day’s worth of rain, stuck to her legs like a second skin and chilled her. The warmth of John’s truck sounded pretty inviting right about now. She really ought to make an effort to cultivate his friendship. He’d always been so kind. But she’d never been very good at that sort of thing. Making friends had always been Amy’s forte. Some day soon—tonight, maybe—she’d overlook her insecurities and take him out to dinner.
Well, maybe not tonight. A telltale chirping vibrated at her hip. Stopping beside the road, she pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open.
“Detective Rafferty.”
“Yeah, Gin. It’s Merle.” She turned her face away from the phone to mask her weary sigh. She and her partner had been on the clock since eight that morning. How could he still sound energetic nearly eleven hours later?
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I got a name on that murder at the Ludlow you asked about. Back in 1989. An eighteen-year-old kid named Mark Bishop.”
That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.
Ginny’s own energy kicked up a notch. “Was that case solved?”
Merle spoke as if he was reading the information straight off his computer screen. “History of family violence. Died from a blow to the head. The death was attributed to his father, Alvin Bishop. Neighborhood bully. He had a record of abuse and neglect with Social Services, and a string of minor convictions. Everything from drunk and disorderly to assault on the garbage collector.”
“But no charges were filed?” She sensed more unfinished business.
“A warrant was issued for the father’s arrest. But he disappeared before his arraignment. Listed as a missing person ever since.”
“So justice was never served.” Either pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, or she’d opened a box with more pieces than she could count. That body at the morgue could be Alvin Bishop. “Get Mac Taylor at forensics on the line. Tell him to run Bishop’s name through as a possible ID on our John Doe.”
“Will do.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah.” A twinge of frustration colored his voice. “The statements I took from those two homeless guys, Zeke Jones and Charlie Adkins, are useless.”
His frustration just became hers, too. “They didn’t see anything?”
“Who knows? Charlie said nothing, just sat there staring at me. Zeke kept spouting off his name, rank and serial number. I thought I was in the twilight zone.”
Sometimes, witnesses saw a male detective as a threatening presence, and were more apt