“Did he tell you who fixed the lottery?”
“No, but LuAnn Tyler told him to watch out for somebody. A man. That this person would kill him, that he was on Thomas’s trail and would find him. That he was very dangerous. I’m sure this person had something to do with that woman’s death.”
Rollins sat back and stared sadly at her and took a big gulp of the hot coffee.
Alicia didn’t look up. “I told Thomas to go to the police with what he knew.”
Rollins sat forward. “Did he?”
She shook her head fiercely. “Dammit no!” A huge breath escaped her lungs. “I pleaded with him to. If someone had fixed the lottery, all that money. I mean people would kill for that. You’re a policeman, aren’t I right about that?”
“I know people who’d cut your heart out for a couple of singles,” was Rollins’s chilling reply. He looked down at his empty coffee cup. “Got any more?”
Alicia started. “What? Oh, yes, I just made a fresh pot.”
Rollins took out his notepad again. “Okay, when you get back, we’ll have to go over every detail and then I’m calling in some reinforcements. I’m not afraid to admit that this one is looking like it’s way over my head. You up for a trip to police headquarters?”
Alicia nodded without much enthusiasm and left the room. She came back a couple of minutes later balancing the wooden tray, her eyes focused on the filled coffee cups, trying not to spill them. When she looked up her eyes widened in utter disbelief and she dropped the entire tray on the floor.
“Peter?”
The remnants of Detective Rollins—wig, mustache, facial mask, and malleable rubber padding—were neatly positioned on the wingback chair. Jackson, or Peter Crane, Alicia Crane’s elder brother, was looking back at her, his features infinitely troubled as his right cheek rested on his right palm.
Donovan’s observation that Bobbie Jo Reynolds had looked a lot like Alicia Crane was right on the mark. However, it had been Peter Crane’s alias, Jackson, disguised as Bobbie Jo Reynolds, who looked a lot like Alicia Crane. The family resemblance was remarkable.
“Hello, Alicia.”
She stared at the discarded disguise. “What are you doing? What is all this?”
“I think you should sit down. Would you like me to clean up that mess?”
“Don’t touch it.” She put one hand against the doorjamb to steady herself.
“I didn’t mean to upset you so,” said Jackson with sudden sincere remorse. “I . . . I guess when faced with confrontation, I’m just more comfortable not being myself.” He smiled weakly.
“I don’t appreciate this at all. I almost had a heart attack.”
He rose quickly, encircled her waist with one of his arms, and guided her over to the sofa. He patted her hand kindly. “I’m sorry, Alicia, I really am.”
Alicia again stared over at the remains of the beefy homicide detective. “What is this all about, Peter? Why were you asking me all those questions?”
“Well, I needed to know how much you knew about everything. I needed to know what Donovan had told you.”
She jerked her hand from under his. “Thomas? How do you know about Thomas? I haven’t seen or spoken to you in three years.”
“Has it been that long?” he said evasively. “You don’t need anything, do you? You just had to ask.”
“Your checks come like clockwork,” she said, a bit bitterly. “I don’t need any more money. It would have been nice to have seen you once in a while. I know you’re very busy, but we are family.”
“I know.” He looked down for a moment. “I always said I would take care of you. And I always will. Family is family.”
“Speaking of, I spoke with Roger the other day.”
“And how is our decadent, undeserving younger brother?”
“He needed money, like always.”
“I hope you didn’t send him any. I gave him enough to last a lifetime, even invested it for him. All he had to do was stay within a reasonable budget.”
“There’s nothing reasonable about Roger, you know that.” She looked at him a little nervously. “I sent him some money.” Jackson started to say something, but she hurried on. “I know what you said all those years ago, but I just couldn’t let him be thrown out on the street.”