Mrs. Wayne opened a drawer at the bottom of one of her display cases and pulled out a small box wrapped in a faded red ribbon. She rubbed her hand over the top, releasing dust and whatever spell it had on her daughter’s secrets. “If this helps you catch the man who killed her, then share it with anyone who wants to read ’em. It would be nice going to my Maker knowing my Vicky can finally rest in peace. There are also pictures in there. I never knew who anyone was, but like the letters, couldn’t throw them out.”
“I’ll guard this carefully. I’ll get these back to you.”
“No, keep ’em. I’ve been hanging on to Vicky’s belongings for a long time, and now it makes no sense to keep any of it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wayne.”
“I should thank you, dear.”
“I’ll call you if we have a break in the case.”
“Please do. That would be nice.”
Julia left Mrs. Wayne’s house with the letters and drove back to her aunt’s bar. The afternoon crowd had filtered in, and there was a low buzz of conversation. She found Aunt Cindy slicing lemons and limes for the drinks that night.
Julia visited with her briefly, then headed upstairs to her apartment. She set her purse down long enough to tug off her boots and shrug off her jacket. She always kept basic forensic supplies on hand to restock her pockets before heading to a crime scene. She spread out a thin sheet of plastic on her kitchen table and tugged on latex gloves before setting the box in front of her. Carefully she untied the ribbon and laid it aside in a neat line on the plastic. She removed the top.
Inside the box were four envelopes. The first three held letters. Each was written on white stationery from a local hotel. None of the letters were postmarked, but each was dated in blue ink. The first was January 18. The second was August 2, and the last October 15. In the last envelope were five faded snapshots. Each of the photos featured Vicky. Bright eyes, wide smile, and hair that curled away from the edges of her face. She was at a party filled with people.
The letters were addressed to Vicky Wayne in a thick handwriting that reminded her of her own style. There was no return address on the front or back.
She removed a letter and opened it. It read:
Dear V. Always thinking of you, babe. Always. J.
She sat back and stared at the boldly scripted letter J. “Please tell me this isn’t Jim Vargas.” She read the next letter.
V. You’re in my heart. We will be together forever. I will take care of you. J.
And the third letter.
V. Can’t stop thinking of you. You’re the only woman I trust. Meet me at our place. J.
Our place. Julia remembered the medical examiner’s autopsy notes. Vicky Wayne’s body had been found in the Shockoe Bottom warehouse on October 25, 1992, and the pathologist had estimated at autopsy that she’d died near October 21, 1992. Had J lured Vicky to her death?
She sat back, staring at the letters. The author of the letters could have expressed sincere loving feelings, but he could also have been feeding the insecure young woman exactly what she needed to hear. Vicky was loved. J would care for her. Trust. Julia paused. She’d done the same with Lana. She’d told the woman what she needed to hear to win her trust. It’s what an undercover officer did.
What troubled her were the dates on the letters. Her father had joined homicide in the summer of 1990, so if J was Jim Vargas, could he still have been using her as a confidential informant? Or was J for Jack? Or maybe even the Hangman, who was trapping another victim?
She sat back, staring at the bold script that could have been written by her father. It would take an expert to tell for sure. Her gaze shifted to the photographs, and she searched for any sign of her father’s face. Several men and women had their faces turned from the camera. In the background, there was a large window with a view of the city skyline. That view would have been taken from the Manchester district on the other side of the James River, looking toward Shockoe Bottom. Lots of puzzle pieces, but no clear picture.
She dug her cell from her pocket and dialed Andrews.
He picked up on the second ring. “Vargas.”
“I’ve come across letters that belonged to the third Hangman victim. Her mother never showed them to the cops. The content of the letters is not revealing, but I’d like them dusted for fingerprints and tested for DNA, and a handwriting analysis.”
“I can do all that. Why the handwriting analysis?”
She could well be throwing her father’s memory under the bus. “The letters are signed by J, but I can’t be sure my father wrote them.”
“Why would your father be writing letters to her?”
“They read like love letters.”
“Can you bring them to me today? I also have items I’d like to discuss with you in person.”
She checked her watch. “I’ll leave now and be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
She repacked the letters and pictures in the box, secured the lid, and tied the ribbon.
Northbound traffic ended up being lighter than she’d expected, and he was waiting for her in the lobby when she arrived. They shook hands and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. Dozens of computer monitors in his office displayed everything from stock reports to current local and international news.
He moved to a light table and handed her latex gloves before he tugged on his own set. Gloved up, she set the letters and photos on the table.
Nerves tightened her gut. “Do you have samples of my father’s handwriting?”
“Yes. Your father’s police files will supply ample samples. Any idea why he was writing this woman?”
“I don’t know for sure if it was Jim. The letters suggest an affair or maybe manipulation, but beyond that I don’t have a theory,” she said. “He’s not in any of the photos.”
“There’s no mention in your father’s notes about him knowing Vicky Wayne before her death,” Andrews said.
“That doesn’t mean much. I’m learning he kept a lot of information off the books because he worried about information leaks.” She didn’t like the path the facts were creating, but she would keep her word and play them all out until the end. “Tamara Brown’s sister recognized Jim’s name. She said Tamara was working with him. Rene Tanner was one of his informants. And now maybe Vicky had a connection.”
“I did find out that the department authorized several payments for Rene Tanner, a CI who was assisting him on the Popov drug case.”
“The Popov case was a huge bust for my father and the department. He put Popov away along with some of his lieutenants.”
“I read about it.”
“So a serial killer targets Vicky, Rene, and Tamara after Jim left undercover and moved to homicide?” Julia asked.
“The odds are against such a coincidence.”
She handed him the photos. “Vicky’s mom gave me these as well. I don’t recognize anyone in the pictures but Vicky.”
Andrews studied an image. “I have facial-recognition software. The view out the window is interesting. My guess is that it was taken from the south side of the river.”
“I would agree,” she said.
“Let me examine the letters and pictures. When I have an update, I’ll let you know.” He moved to a desk cluttered with digital devices, including a printer. He removed a sheet of paper from the tray. “And Mr. Vic Carson has returned to Richmond. He’s at his memorabilia store now.”