Special Agent Rhys Nolan, on the other hand, always looks the part in his standard black suit and tidy, light-brown hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with facial scruff; always clean-shaven.
He likes to say: “I am the job.”
I’m the job, too, but I guess writers get a little more flexibility with their wardrobe. At least I leave the pajamas at home when I’m on a case.
I bite my lip to keep from frowning. At one point in my life, on a very different course, I’d have been expected to dress the professional part. Psychologist Dr. Marks has a more professional ring to it than Lakin Hale, true crime writer. Although I suppose both avenues led me to a place where I explore the mind and behavior of criminals.
Semantics.
“All set.” Rhys hands me a room card, interrupting my thoughts.
“Thanks. See you in the morning.”
We go our separate ways at the end of the hallway. By the time I’m lying on the hotel bed, I’ve compulsively snapped my wrist twenty-six times throughout the day. Despite that, my thoughts still cling to the past.
Vista Shores apartment complex is situated across the street from the crime scene. The victim, Joanna Delany, lived in apartment 208. Her mother, Bethany Delany, lives in 213.
Rhys and I ride the elevator up to the second level.
“Jumping right into the deep end,” I mutter as the ding of the elevator sounds. My insides flutter with the feel of the car coming to a sudden halt.
He lets me step into the hallway first. “Mothers are the hardest part,” he agrees.
“You know that parents are usually the last to know what’s going on in a victim’s personal life.”
He sighs. “Ms. Delany lived a few doors down from her daughter. Maybe they were closer than normal.” He stops outside her door, cutting a glance at me. For a second, I wonder if he’s insinuating something about my lack of relationship with my own parents. “Her proximity to the vic could give us more insight to her last days.”
His logic makes sense. Still, I pull in a steadying breath and brace for the painful encounter. My detachment from people comes across as uncaring, heartless, or so I’ve been told. That doesn’t work well when dealing with grieving parents.
Over the past few years, with Rhys’s training on interviews, I’ve gotten better at concealing. Or rather, blending. I guess call it what it is: faking. Not the caring part—I’m not a sociopath—but conveying my sentiments.
A few seconds after Rhys knocks, Ms. Delany answers the door. Her dark complexion was probably striking once with a rich, healthy glow. Now there’s a pallid, sallow hue overlaying her skin. Sunken eyes and chapped lips complete the neglected look.
“Ms. Delany. I’m Special Agent Rhys Nolan with the FBI cold case division. We spoke on the phone yesterday afternoon.”
His mention of their conversation awakens the woman. “Oh, right. Of course. Come on in.” She widens the door, allowing us to enter her home. “Please ignore the mess. I’ve been meaning to box up a lot of stuff.”
She continues to make excuses for the apartment’s condition as she leads us to a sofa in the living room. Rhys waves off her apologies. “You have a beautiful home.”
Other than piles of folded clothes and knick-knacks lining the living room wall, the space is immaculate. Ms. Delany sits opposite us in a comforter chair, and I notice her dry, cracked hands. She cleans…all the time.
A pang twinges beneath my breastbone.
Rhys nods for me to begin. Most women find it easier to talk to another woman. At least right at first. I push Record on my phone and set it on the glass table. “Do you mind? It helps us when we can replay interviews.”
Her head shakes rapidly. “That’s fine. I don’t mind.”
With what I hope is a delicate approach, I delve into the hard questions. The things that the case detectives have already asked this mother over and over. Things she’s tired of repeating, I’m sure—but we need the answers one last time, in hope of discovering new information.
“Ms. Delany…”
“Please, call me Bethany.” Her smile wobbles.
I match her smile. “Bethany, who do you think did this to your daughter?”
One of the most painful questions, but also one of the most important. Rarely does a parent’s bias result in an arrest, but it can lead to another person of interest. Another witness. Someone that the investigating detectives overlooked.
Her face pales. She reaches a shaky hand toward a dust rag on the table only to place it in her lap. “Jo wasn’t seeing anyone at the time, other than Jamison. She wasn’t like that.”
She’s aware that the boyfriend/husband is always the initial suspect. I wonder how many cop shows she’s tortured herself watching, looking for clues on how to solve her daughter’s murder.
“It doesn’t have to be anyone she was intimate with,” I press. “Maybe it’s someone who first popped into your head but you shut it down, wondering where the thought even sprang from.”
Nothing beats a mother’s intuition.
Her brown eyes latch on to me and widen, as if I’ve revealed some secret. “Rixon,” she says. “Mike Rixon…I think that was his name. He was Jo’s boss at the restaurant where she worked. She’d only been there a few months, but I remember the way he looked at her one night while I was there. Just something about it didn’t sit right with me.” She frowns.
“Thank you, Bethany. That’s very helpful.” I glance at my notepad. “Can you tell us a little about Joanna’s modeling career?”
I get her talking about what Ms. Delany calls “the good days.” The victim’s early bio was quite impressive. At the age of nineteen, Joanna was on track to become a well-known model in the industry. A rising star. Four years into her career, and the bottom fell out. It’s a ruthlessly competitive, unforgiving industry, and models either make it or they don’t. The older one gets, the harder it becomes to soar to the top against younger, fresher faces.
Joanna toured Europe for a brief time, shot impressive photos for women’s magazines, and then suddenly, as quickly as the stardom came, the offers stopped.
It’s a rags to riches to rags…to shocking death story.
My publisher will only accept true crime novels based on people who they deem will pique and hold the public’s interest. Not surprisingly, a pretty face on the cover with a tragic story inking the pages is ideal. People want to be shocked and awed. But they also want to feel marginally better about their own lives by comparison to someone else’s unfortunate life.
Sad, but utterly true.
I chose Joanna Delany not because she was a good fit for the publisher—but because Joanna Delany chose me. She reached out from the grave, whispered of the parallels between us, and quickly became an obsessive enigma that demanded to be solved.
Rhys jumps in with his own questions, connecting the dots, learning the victim’s routine in the weeks preceding her murder.
Once the interview is complete, I stop the recording and check the log, making sure we got everything. Then we thank Bethany and make our way toward the door.
“You’re that crime writer,” Bethany says. I pause in the open doorway, and Rhys takes up my side. “I read your book. After Agent Nolan first reached out with the possibility of reopening the case, I looked you up. Your team has solved every cold case you two have worked on together.”