“It’s his aunt.” Falco flipped open the book’s cover. “This is who gave our vic the book. Read the note.”
Asher,
You are too good for this profession you’ve chosen. But if you’re going to do it, do it with all your heart.
Love,
Aunt Naomi
Kerri looked from the note to Falco. “Maybe this is his mother’s sister? Based on the photos of the mother I found on the internet, there is definitely a resemblance.”
“Check this out.” Falco turned to the next page in the book and offered it to Kerri.
She exchanged the photo for the book, then scanned the copyright page. “First edition.”
“Signed by the author,” Falco pointed out.
Sure enough, there was the icon’s signature. Be the best you can be. The words were addressed to a Norman Taylor.
Before Kerri could ask, Falco explained, “I googled Norman Taylor. Like the author, he died a few years ago. He was in his nineties. A retired Birmingham attorney. A big deal attorney. Big supporter of the civil rights movement in the sixties.” He held up the photo of the woman, Naomi. “This Aunt Naomi is Norman Taylor’s daughter.”
“So, it’s possible Norman Taylor is Walsh’s maternal grandfather.” The memory of documentaries Kerri had watched about the civil rights movement era in Birmingham gave her chills.
“The mother’s maiden name wasn’t Taylor, but the photo and the note seem to suggest the two were related somehow,” Falco agreed. “The question is, Why does no one here—where our vic worked—realize he had a connection to Birmingham? Think about all the hype when he first arrived, Devlin. And those interviews we watched. No one—not even Walsh himself—mentioned a personal connection to Birmingham.”
Falco made an interesting point. Kerri pushed the chair she’d vacated into the desk. “Could be this Naomi is just a friend who calls herself his aunt.” Her sister Diana’s kids had always called her longtime best friend Jennifer Aunt Jen. “Either way, we should find out about this Naomi Taylor.”
“We could ask his assistant,” Falco suggested.
“Good idea. Ask her.” Kerri flashed him a smile. “Use that formidable Falco charm. She’ll never be able to resist.”
He chuckled and headed for the door. “Funny, it never works on you.”
“I’m immune.” Kerri shook her head, then studied the photo from the book. She’d learned not so long ago the one thing she could count on was that everyone had secrets.
Good or bad, rich or poor, there was always more to the story.
Asher Walsh and family would have plenty.
Taylor Residence
Eighteenth Avenue South
Birmingham, 4:00 p.m.
“This is it?” Kerri looked beyond her partner to the house on the right of the curb where she’d eased to a stop.
“It is,” Falco confirmed. “The residence of Naomi June Taylor. Sixty-two years old. Never married. No kids.”
Walsh’s assistant had no idea who Naomi Taylor was. They’d had to look her up through the DMV and old newspaper articles about her father. She was a retired law professor from Samford, her and her father’s alma mater. She drove a vintage Mercedes and had three tickets for speeding in the last two years. About a dozen outstanding parking tickets.
Kerri surveyed the place. “Looks a little run down.”
“Not exactly a premier neighborhood, but it had its heyday in the fifties and sixties.” Falco reached for the door.
Kerri climbed out and met him at the front of her Wagoneer. “Even now, there’s certainly something to be said for that view of the city.”
Beyond the houses lining this side of the street was an incredible view of the Magic City sprawled across the landscape. At night the lights were likely something to see.
“It ain’t shabby,” Falco agreed as he adjusted his jacket.
One of the things about him that had driven Kerri crazy when he was first assigned as her new partner was his manner of dress. The cocky attitude and laid-back, I’m-down-with-it lingo weren’t so in your face unless he opened his mouth—which he did quite frequently. But there was no way to ignore his wardrobe. The beat-up leather jacket and the worn-out jeans, wrinkled tee. He hadn’t looked at all like the typical detective representing MID. Still didn’t. She’d felt certain they would never make it as a team. She’d said as much to Lieutenant Brooks at the onset. Luke Falco just wasn’t what she had expected in a partner.
Kerri had been wrong. She’d learned very quickly not to judge this particular book by his cover. Falco was loyal, caring, and relentless. He was a damned good detective.
She would without condition or hesitation dive into any situation with him.
He was the one good thing that had happened last year.
He knocked on the door of the Taylor home.
The house appeared to be circa 1950s, possibly older. Redbrick. Some peeling white paint on the trim. A few torn screens on the windows but nicely landscaped. Colorful spring blooms filled the flower beds and window boxes. Kerri wasn’t that good with the names of flowers, but the ones with the blue blooms were very pretty and the most prevalent in the landscaping. Obviously, those were the homeowner’s favorite. Kerri thought Diana had those same flowers blooming in her yard.
The lawn was neatly manicured. The trees were peppered with spring’s fresh green leaves. The whole picture reminded her of all the things she needed to do around her own house.
Maybe one day.
The door opened a crack, revealing a single blue eye beneath the brass chain stretched tight across the narrow space. “If you’re selling something, I’m not interested. If you want to acquaint me with God, don’t waste your time. He and I don’t get along.”
Kerri showed her badge. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Devlin, and this is Detective Falco. We’d like to speak to you about Asher Walsh.”
The door closed once more, followed by the sound of the security chain rattling before opening again. Ms. Taylor might be in her sixties, but she had a lean figure and an alert, watchful gaze. An attractive woman with silver hair and blue eyes. The pink sweater lent a feminine softness to her faded, comfortable jeans and casual white tennis shoes. Fashionable pearl-rimmed glasses sat on her keen nose, making her eyes look even larger. Those large eyes were a little red. Maybe she was suffering from allergies, or maybe she’d already heard the news about Walsh. Unless she avoided the television and radio altogether, it was doubtful she’d missed the press conference.
The lady gestured toward the room on the left. “Please, join me in the parlor.”
“Your flowers are beautiful, Ms. Taylor.” Kerri settled on the small sofa that was more like a love seat. The many windows in the room filled the small space with light. Houseplants were scattered about. The lady had a green thumb or a housekeeper with one. Either way, she liked her plants.
“I learned long ago that gardening was the best sort of therapy for quieting the mind. Beats the hell out of Prozac and isn’t illegal. Would you like tea or water?”
Sharp witted as well, Kerri noted. Not that she’d expected anything less from a law professor.
“I’m good. Thank you,” Kerri said as Falco sat down next to her. He declined the offer of refreshments as well.