All that would have transpired in a matter of seconds. No time to think.
Just to act. To prevent him from going to prison for good. It was all
possible. If her father had killed the woman, he would be scared, he
would be terrified, he would be sick.
Through an the pain, the most vivid memories she held of her father was
his gentleness. His big hands encircling hers.
He was quiet to the point of rudeness with most people. But with her he
talked. To her, not above her, or below her as most adults managed to
do. He would speak to her about things a little girl was interested in.
Flowers and birds and the way the sky changed color all of a sudden. And
about dresses and hair ribbons and wobbly teeth that she constantly
fiddled with. They were brief but sincere moments, between a father and
daughter, smashed between the sudden violence of convictions, of prison.
But as she had grown up those talks somehow became gibberish, as the
occupation of the man behind the funny faces and the big but gentle
fingers came to dominate her life, her perspective of Luther Whitney.
How could she say that this man could not kill?
Frank watched the eyes as they blinked rapidly. There was a crack there.
He could feel it.
Frank fingered his spoon as he scooped more sugar into his coffee. “So
you’re saying it’s inconceivable that your father killed this woman? I
thought you said the two of you hadn’t really kept in touch?”
Kate jolted back from her musings. “I’m not saying it’s inconceivable.
I’m just saying…” She was really blowing this. She had interviewed
hundreds of witnesses and she couldn’t remember one who had performed as
badly as she was right now.
She hurriedly rununaged . through her purse for her pack of Benson &
Hedges. The sight of the cigarette made Frank reach for his pack of
Juicy Fruit.
She blew the smoke away from him, eyed the gum. “Trying to quit too?” A
flicker of amusement crossed her face.
“Trying and failing. You were saying?”
She slowly exhaled the smoke, willed her nerves to cease their
cartwheels. “Like I told you, I haven’t seen my father in years. We
aren’t close. It’s possible that he could have killed the woman.
Anything’s possible. But that doesn’t work in court. Evidence works in
court. Period.”
“And we’re attempting to build a case against him.”
“You have no tangible physical evidence tying him to the actual crime
scene? No prints? No witnesses? Nothing like that?”
Frank hesitated, then decided to answer. “No.”
“Have you been able to trace any of the stuff from the burglary to him?”
“Nothing’s turned up.”
“Ballistics?”
“Negative. One unusable slug and no gun.”
Kate sat back in her chair, more comfortable as the conversation
centered on a legal analysis of the case.
“That’s all you’ve got?” Her eyes squinted at him.
He hesitated again, then shrugged. “nat’s it.”
“Then you got nothing, Detective. Nothing!”
“I’ve got my instincts and my instincts tell me Luther Whitney was in
the house that night and he was in that bedroom. Where he is now is what
I want to know.”
“I can’t help you there. That’s the same thing I told your buddy the
other night.”
“But you did go to his house that night. Why?”
Kate shrugged. She was determined not to mention her conversation with
Jack. Was she withholding evidence?
Maybe, “I don’t know.” That, in part, was true.
“You strike me, Kate, as someone who always knows why she does
something.”
Jack’s face flashed across her mind. She angrily pushed it out. “You’d
be surprised, Lieutenant.”
Frank ceremoniously closed his notebook and hunched forward.
“I really need your help.”
“For what?”
… Mis is off the record, unofficial, whatever you want to call it. I’m
more interested in results than in legal niceties.”
“Funny thing to tell a state prosecutor.”
“I’m not saying I don’t play by the rules.” Frank finally caved in and
pulled out his cigarettes. “All I’m saying is I go for the point of
least resistance when I can get it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“My information is that while you may not be wild about your father he