object minutely. He wasn’t a trained forensic specialist, and thus he
didn’t register that the black crustings on the handle and blade were
actually very old, dried blood. Nor was he aware of the fingerprints
that existed within the leather.
He lay the bag carefully down and leaned back in the chair. This had
something to do with the woman’s murder.
Of that he was certain. But what? He looked at it again. This was
obviously an important piece of physical evidence. It hadn’t been the
murder weapon; Christine Sullivan had been shot. But Luther had thought
it critically important.
Jack jerked straight up. Because it identified who had killed Christine
Sullivan! He grabbed the bag and held it up to the light, his eyes
searching every inch of space. Now he could dimly make them out, like a
swirl of black threads.
Prints. This had the person’s fingerprints on it. Jack looked at the
blade closely. Blood. On the handle too. It had to be.
What had Frank said? He struggled to recall. Sullivan had possibly
stabbed her attacker. In the arm or the leg with a letter opener, the
one in the bedroom photo. At least that was one of the detective’s
theories he had shared with Jack.
What Jack held in his hand seemed to bear that analysis out.
He carefully placed the bag back into the box and slid it under the bed.
He went over to the window and again looked out. The wind had picked up.
The cheap window rattled and shook.
If only Luther would have told him, confided in him. But he was scared
for Kate. How had they made Luther believe Kate was in danger?
He thought back. Luther had received nothing while in prison, Jack was
certain of that. So what then? Had whoever it was just walked up to
Luther and told him flat out: talk and your daughter dies? How would
they even know he had a daughter? The two hadn’t been in the same room
with each other for years.
Jack lay down on the bed, closed his eyes. No, he was wrong about that.
There was one time when that would have been possible. The day they had
arrested Luther. That would be the only time that father and daughter
would have been together. It was possible that, without saying anything,
someone could have made it crystal-clear to Luther, with just a look,
nothing more. Jack had handled cases that had been dismissed because
witnesses were afraid to testify. No one had ever said anything to them.
It was solely intimidation by the unspoken word. A silent terror, there
was nothing new about that.
So who would’ve been there to do that? To deliver the message that had
made Luther shut up like his mouth was stapled closed? But the only
people who were there, as far as Jack knew, were the cops. Unless it was
the person who had taken a shot at Luther. But why would he hang around?
How could that person just waltz into the place, walk up to Luther, make
eye contact, without anyone becoming suspicious?
Jack’s eyes shot open.
Unless that person were a cop. His immediate thought hit him hard in the
chest.
Seth Frank.
He dismissed it quickly. There was no motive there, not a scintilla of
motive. For the. life of him he couldn’t imagine the detective and
Christine Sullivan in any type of tryst and that’s what this boiled down
to, didn’t it? Sullivan’s lover had killed her and Luther had seen the
whole thing. It couldn’t be Seth Frank. He hoped to God it wasn’t Seth
Frank because he was counting on the man to get him out of this mess.
But what if tomorrow morning Jack would be delivering the very thing
Frank had been desperately searching for?
He could have dropped it, left the room, Luther comes out of his hiding
place, picks it up and flees. It was possible. And the place sanitized
so clean a pro had to be behind it. A pro.
An experienced homicide detective who knew exactly how to cleanse a
crime scene.
Jack shook his head. No! Dammit no! He had to believe in something,