The Hangman (Forgotten Files Book 3)

Wendy shook her head as she looked at Julia. “You’re all off base on all of this.”


She’d not denied an affair. And in Julia’s experience, when someone was innocent, they made it immediately clear. “Wendy, is it true? Were you and Jim having an affair?”

“Amy was my friend.”

Julia leaned in, stripping the emotion from her voice as she struggled to maintain some emotional distance. She said, “It’s okay. It’s in the past.”

Wendy looked at her, and for a second she looked ready to speak before she shook her head. “All you need to know is that Ken is wrong,” she said. “Jim didn’t leave any note. And he didn’t kill himself.”

Still no denial. Whatever superhero fantasies she’d had for her father grew more and more tarnished. No one spoke as they waited for Wendy to continue.

“Jim created the image of the ladies’ man,” she said. “The image suited his undercover work. He wasn’t the man people thought he was.”

“He was having affairs,” Novak said.

“He was lost and lonely after Amy left,” Wendy countered.

“Rita’s the reason Amy left,” Novak said.

“You didn’t know him. He wasn’t perfect, but he cared so much about his family and his work.”

Her mother had endured so much to hold her marriage together. She could see now why Cindy hadn’t liked the man. “Who was Jim Vargas?” Julia asked.

A tear slid down the side of Wendy’s cheek. “A good, dedicated man. And that’s all I’m going to say. Now you all will have to excuse me.”

When she vanished into the house, Andrews stared after her for a long moment. “She’s expressing signs of guilt.”

“Agreed,” Novak said.

“For the affair?” Julia asked.

“Or something much worse,” Novak said.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Saturday, November 4, 2:00 p.m.

Novak didn’t like leaving Julia at the Thompson house, but she’d insisted she wanted to stay longer. She’d find her own way back.

Too restless to go home, he went by the office and found a note from Riggs. He’d located Charlotte Gibson, Rita Gallagher’s former roommate. The woman now used the last name Cramer and lived south of the city. She was married and the mother of two. Novak snatched up the note and drove across town.

Thirty minutes later, he parked in front of a two-story colonial house. The yard was cut and edged; the leaves were raked in a large pile at the curb.

He rang the bell, then stepped back and off to the side. He’d picked up the habit as a uniformed officer, learning early in his career that routine could turn deadly in a blink. He’d witnessed an officer being shot through a door while serving a warrant.

The door opened to a short, heavyset woman. She wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt and had pulled her hair into a ponytail. Impatience in her gaze suggested he’d caught her on her way out.

“Mrs. Cramer?”

“That’s right.”

He held up his badge. “Detective Novak with the Richmond Police.”

Her brows rose with worry. “Is everything okay? My husband? The kids?”

“They’re fine, ma’am, and I’m sorry if I alarmed you. I’m investigating a murder case.”

“Murder.”

“Rita Gallagher?”

“Rita.” She shook her head slowly. “I haven’t heard her name in years.”

“Do you mind if I ask you about her?”

She checked her watch. “I need to join my husband at my son’s soccer practice in twenty-five minutes, but I have a little time.”

She pushed the door open, allowing him into a meticulously clean and organized living room decorated in a colonial style. The walls were filled with pictures of kids ranging in age from infancy up to high school. She extended her hand to a wingback chair, and she settled on the edge of a couch.

“You and Rita were roommates?” he asked.

“Yes, how did you know?” She shook her head. “I was still single then and hadn’t met my husband yet.”

He sat and removed his notebook from his breast pocket. “We located Rita through the address on her driver’s license. That led to the apartment complex, and they gave us your name.”

“Maple Tree Apartments. That takes me back. I had a lot less responsibility in those days. Can’t remember what it’s like to kick back by a pool and drink wine on a Saturday. Why’re you asking about Rita?”

“Her remains were found Sunday night, but judging by the receipts we found on her, we think she’s been dead since November of ’92.”

“She’s dead?” Charlotte shook her head. “When she first vanished, I was so mad at her. She stiffed me on the rent for several months. I ate peanut butter sandwiches so I could make good on the entire rent. I kept expecting to hear from her. I knew she could be a free spirit, but she always turned up eventually.”

“Did you file a missing persons report?”

“No. I thought she and her boyfriend, Jack, took off for good. She always talked about living at the beach with him. Rita fully expected him to marry her.”

“But,” he said, sensing her hesitation.

“He was married, I think. I met him once or twice. Charming and attractive, but a little aloof. I assumed he was hiding a wife and kids.”

“When was the last time you saw Jack?”

“Well, I had a big party to celebrate a new job, and he came by. She had begged him to come and was thrilled when he walked in.”

“Do you have his last name?”

“No. That’s what always bothered me. He was just Jack.”

“Do you have any pictures of him?”

“I might from that party. I’m a scrapbooker, and I know I have stuff from then.”

“May I see it?”

She glanced at her watch. “Sure. Be right back.” She vanished through a set of double doors and was gone less than a couple of minutes when she returned with a bright-red leather-bound book. She laid it on the table and opened it, flipping through detailed pages until she reached the page decorated with balloons and marked “First Real Job.” She tapped on two images. “That’s Rita, and in the other picture is Rita with Jack.”

Novak studied the face of the woman who looked like the one in the driver’s license he’d found with her body. His attention shifted to the boyfriend. He was tall with thick blond hair that brushed his shoulders, but his face was turned partly away, ensuring the camera didn’t catch his face. “Mind if I snap a picture with my phone?”

“Go ahead. And I have the negatives.” After he took a picture she flipped to the back and tugged out a packet of negatives. She found the corresponding strip and handed it to him. “Keep it.”

“Thank you.” He thought about Andrews’s facial recognition scanner. If Jack was in the system, Andrews was the man to find him.

“How did she die?”

“She was struck in the head with a blunt object and perhaps suffocated.”

Unconsciously her fingers rose to her mouth. “That’s terrible.”