“Apparently Erin first revealed under hypnosis-”
“That’s a crock.”
Mike inhaled deeply. He was tired of being interrupted. Maybe it was just him, but Sheila’s protestations seemed almost too vehement. “Is it possible Erin told her psychiatrist something she would never tell anyone else?”
“It is not possible,” Sheila said firmly. “Erin told me everything. If I didn’t know about it, it didn’t happen. So I can state absolutely and positively-this did not happen!”
Mike decided to change the subject. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a tech writer. Freelance. I write all those boring little manuals you don’t read whenever you buy something.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I’ve done almost everything. Instruction manuals for kitchen appliances. Construction manuals for children’s toys. Did an employee training book for a fast-food chain. That sort of thing.”
“Stay busy?”
“More than I want, actually. The first few years were slow, but once I got my name out there-wow. I have all the work I want now. I even farm some out to friends, subcontracts.”
“That’s wonderful.”
Mike continued looking at her. He didn’t want to be the one who reintroduced the subject, and he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. She knew what he wanted to talk about.
“Look,” Sheila said, finally, “I know the police have to follow all their leads. But I’m telling you-this is nonsense. I knew Erin, all through school. I was over at her house constantly. I knew her father-for that matter, I knew every member of the family. If there had been something going on, something… horrible, I would’ve known about it. There’s no way I could have not known about it.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, if you’re certain.” Mike paused. “Did you know the gun that killed Erin was coated with hyperthermal luminous paraffin?”
Baxter gave him a long look, but remained quiet.
“No,” Sheila said. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s like invisible paint. Rubs off on anyone who fires the gun.”
“So?”
“So all we have to do is find the perp and put his hand under the luminal scanner. Unmistakable ID.”
“Wouldn’t it wear off after a few days?”
Mike shook his head. “Absent a special chemical bath, it wouldn’t wear off for a year.”
“So,” Sheila said, knotting her fingers together, “that stuff must’ve gotten all over Erin’s hand.”
“It was,” Mike said. “But my partner here thinks maybe… it got on someone else’s hand as well.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah. I think so, too.” He slapped his knees. “But if there is someone else, we’ll catch him. No one can stay clear of the police for long. Did you know we can listen in on phone calls now?”
Baxter’s eyebrows moved closer together, but she maintained her silence.
“We can get lists from the phone company. Tells us who called who and when.”
Sheila’s lips twitched. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Times are changing.” He pushed himself out of his chair. Baxter followed. “Thank you for talking to us.”
“Sure.” She hesitated a moment. Mike got the distinct impression there was something else she wanted to say. “I know you’re just doing your jobs. But I do hope that eventually… soon… you’ll put this to rest. Put Erin to rest. She endured so much more than I could ever have handled. I don’t know how she did it. And I understand that, finally, she just couldn’t take it any longer. Thought she couldn’t go on.” Her eyes began to water. “I have to let her go now. I told you that before. I have to move on. But I can’t do that when you people keep coming around, asking questions, stirring it all up again.” She looked at Mike, tears beading in her eyes. “Please let it go. Please. Let her go.”
Miss Jackson’s was one of the oldest and most elite shopping emporiums in Tulsa. Technically a department store, it preferred to be thought of as a boutique (a three-story one), presumably to prevent comparisons to Sears and such. Nestled in the upscale Utica Square Mall, Miss Jackson’s was a bastion of well-heeled Tulsa society, the one place you could find Bruce Webber jewelry, Herendon china, Rolex watches, and a myriad of other lovely nonessential products linked by only one factor: they were all ungodly expensive.
Which explained why Ben never shopped at Miss Jackson’s. In fact, most of Utica Square was so far out of his reach he didn’t even like to visit. Well, maybe for dinner at the award-winning Polo Grill, ever since Christina got his name put on a plaque behind one of the booths as a birthday present. But shopping? Not hardly. Nonetheless, here he was on the first floor of Miss Jackson’s, watching the resident cosmetologist make over a matronly woman who clearly had nothing better to do with her day than, well, be made over.
“Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful!” the woman said, when the work was at last complete. “I can’t wait to show George. He’s waiting in the car.”
The cosmetologist blinked. “Your husband is waiting in the car?”
“My husband?” the woman said as she gathered her purchases. “George is my poodle.”
As soon as she was gone, Ben sidled up to the cosmetics counter. “Got anything in my color?”
It only took her a moment to place his face. “Ben.” The initial smile faded. “What brings you here?”
Ben extended his hands. “I was thinking maybe you could do my nails.”
“Oh, no.” She picked up a mascara pencil. “Let me do your eyes. That’s my specialty. And you have such long luscious eyelashes. Most women would kill for those.”
Ben grinned. “How have you been, Carrie?”
“I’ve been well, actually.” She paused. “And you know why?”
“Because you haven’t had to talk to me?”
“Very close.” She glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone was watching them. “I suppose this is about Ray.”
“Of course.”
She pushed away from the counter. “I can’t talk to you, then.”
“Carrie, please.”
“Not about Ray, no.”
“Carrie, it’s important.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m sure it is. It always is.”
“Do you know where Ray is right now?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, yeah.”
“He’s on death row.”
“He’s been on death row for seven years.”
“Well, he won’t be in less than two weeks.”
“Because-” The light dawned. She looked downward. “Oh.”