The route took him past the place where Bonnie’s car had been discovered by a long-haul trucker, with the door gaping open to the rain-soaked seat and floorboard. If Will hadn’t known the spot, he might’ve driven right past it. The crime scene tape had been removed; the car towed to the station. Only the vague remnants of Bonnie’s tire tracks remained. Along with a single white ribbon tied to a fence post. In the spring, when it stopped raining, Will guessed they’d make a proper memorial.
James answered the door on the first knock. A television played cartoons in the background as he stood there, blank-faced and barefoot. A half-dead man walking.
“Let’s talk in here.” He directed Will toward a closed door just off the entryway. “The kids are watching TV with their grandma.”
Will didn’t need to be told the room belonged to Bonnie. The walls were decorated with framed movie posters. The classics like Gone with the Wind, Casablanca, and Vertigo, the last film she’d ever seen. He selected the chair opposite Bonnie’s desk, so he could get a good look at the papers she’d left there.
“So, you said you thought of something that might be important?”
James slumped. “I owe you an apology. I wasn’t completely honest with you and Detective Benson.”
On the corner nearest him, Will scanned a piece of notebook paper. Judging by the neat block print, he figured it had been written by an inmate. Those guys had nothing better to do than perfect their penmanship. The page was marked with red ink.
“There is something you should know. Somebody you might want to take a look at.”
Will slipped a small notepad from his pocket, hoping it wouldn’t slow James down or shut him up entirely. But James didn’t notice. Will followed his eyes to the bookshelf. The first row. The second row. The third row too. The same book on every shelf. Will had a copy just like it at home. A signed copy.
“Drake Devere.” James spoke Will’s worst fear aloud. “He’s the who. And these goddamned books. They’re the why.”
“Look, I don’t want to offend you, but these guys can be extremely manipulative. Was Bonnie involved with—”
“No!” James pounded the desk with his fist, scattering a few papers onto the floor. “Nothing like that. She took her job very seriously. She never crossed the line. It was me. It was my fault.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Two years ago, Drake enrolled in Bonnie’s class. Apparently, he had real talent. That’s what she told me. He wrote this novel, a thriller he called Bird of Prey. Bonnie edited it and helped him self-publish online.” He cast a scathing side-eye at the bookshelf. “Those are the signed promotional copies.”
“All those? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was. It was Bonnie’s idea to donate the proceeds. I don’t think either of us expected it to take off, but the guy’s got a real cult following. Women love him, if you can imagine that. After a while, the whole thing started to piss me off. So, I rerouted the money into our retirement account.”
“Did Bonnie know?”
“I don’t think so. She always let me take care of the finances. But Drake figured it out somehow. He accused Bonnie of stealing the money.”
“When?”
“Monday.” James hung his head. “Are you going to arrest me?”
Will wanted to reassure him. Drake Devere could choke on his literary talent for all he cared. “Not right now. But I need you to cooperate. To tell me everything you know.”
James nodded, gathering Bonnie’s papers from the floor. By the time he’d finished, tears spilled over, and he buried his face in his hands. “I killed her, didn’t I?”
The words startled Will, but he’d learned not to show it. Hiding your emotions so well you can’t find them yourself. Classic cop job hazard. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe Drake paid somebody off.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?” Will thought of the garrote, as he scanned Bonnie’s desk one last time. It struck him then. The familiar handwriting. All the papers had the same name in the top right corner. The same words painstakingly etched across the top, as if the title itself was art. Hawk’s Revenge, The Second Book in the Bird of Prey Series. Copyright: Drake Devere.
“He’s certainly capable. You should ask Doctor Rockwell over at the prison. Aside from Bonnie, she’s the one who knows him best.”
Will deposited his gun at the base of the Crescent Bay State Prison guard tower, just like the sign instructed him. The last time he’d visited a prison he hadn’t brought his gun along. He’d come on a personal mission. Now, as he stared down the long concrete hallway, the old bones rattling in his head, he wished JB had come along to distract him. But he hadn’t even called his partner. He had to see for himself if James’ story had any merit, and he’d promised James he’d be discreet. Not to mention, if he had to deal with Dr. Smarty Pants again, he didn’t want any witnesses.
Will tried the door to the Mental Health Unit. Locked. He tapped on the window, and the officer at the desk hurried over.
“You must be Detective Decker.”
Will nodded and shook the sweaty hand of Sergeant Wickersham. The small black square on his uniform told him so.
“Control said you were on your way. Doctor Rockwell’s office is that one, right over there. She’s expecting you.”
So much for the element of surprise. Each of his footfalls clacked on the tile floor, a countdown to his arrival. Will found the door open. He knocked anyway.
“Doctor Rockwell?”
Her eyes were unexpected. Greener, softer. More tired than he remembered. He wondered if she’d lain awake like him, thinking of Bonnie.
“Please, call me Olivia. Unless you’re here to arrest me again, Detective.”
“Deck,” he said. “That’s what most people call me. And, I owe you an apology.”
She shook her head, waved him off. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have run down there. You were right.”
“I get the feeling you don’t say those three little words very often, so I’ll count myself among the lucky.” When Olivia smiled at him, revealing a single dimple in her freckled cheek, Will considered himself just that. He’d never seen her smile before.
“How can I help you, Deck?”
“It’s about the McMillan case.” Dimple, erased. Smile, faded. A hard line appeared in its place.
“I spoke with the officer yesterday like you asked. He took my statement.”
“Not that.” Will gestured to the chair opposite her. Probably the one where her patients sat, the Vulture included. “May I?”
She didn’t answer, but he sat anyway, immediately glancing at the wall to her left. From here, he could look without being obvious. Doctor of Philosophy in Psychology, Stanford University. Special Commendation, Federal Bureau of Investigation, San Francisco. Every bit the big deal Chet had warned him about.
“What, then?” she asked.
“An inmate here at Crescent Bay. Drake Devere. Someone told me you know him well.”
“Have you spoken with the warden? I’m not allowed to discuss my patients outside of the institution.” Olivia turned her attention to straightening a neat stack of files at the edge of her desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish.”