“Too bad.”
She nodded. “Here to give me those DNA test results?” She might be dressed differently but she remained a hard-edged smartass.
“How’s the arm?”
She didn’t bother to glance at the bruise. “Hurt’s like hell. But aspirin is keeping it in check.”
“You working today?”
“Hard to get away from the job when you live feet from it. I’m guessing by the look on your face that you don’t have DNA on your mind.”
“Do you know a Lexis Hanover?”
Her face stilled and a wall shuttered over her gaze. “Who?”
She hid it fairly well, but she knew Hanover. Slick. But not slick enough. “How do you know her?”
She moved to fold her arms, winced, and dropped them back at her sides. “I didn’t say I did.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” The words all but growled in his chest.
Her brow arched. “Why the tough words and harsh tone, Detective?”
He glanced around her office, noting that since last night she’d dusted and straightened up. He’d imagined she’d been either too rattled to work or too restless to sit still. In the corner, the partition was gone and the sculptures had been moved and outfitted with some of the many pieces of junk she collected. Made sense Rachel would collect the broken to rehabilitate into art.
He studied the piece gently wedged in a vise and noted carving tools covered with porcelain dust as if she’d been working when he arrived. He picked up the sculpting knife and studied the pointed edge. “I just came from a crime scene. A murder scene. The woman was beaten to death.”
Grimacing, she slid her good hand up over her bruised arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. What was her name?”
He touched the sharp edge of a jutting slice of metal. “Lexis Hanover. Private Detective.”
A heavy silence settled in the room.
He glanced back at Rachel. The color had melted from her face and for a moment she swayed. If she’d not lied to him seconds ago he’d have summoned pity or even reached out. Instead he relished a twist of the knife. “Name familiar now?”
“You said she was beaten to death?”
“That’s right. Hit with a blunt object seven or eight times.”
Rachel moved to an old metal chair and dropped into it. She leaned back and closed her eyes. “You aren’t playing a game with me, are you, Detective?”
“That would be sick and twisted, don’t you think?” Wordless, she shook her head as she clung to composure. Despite the lies between them, his voice was softer than he’d intended. “How did you know her?”
A ragged breath wobbled pale lips. Watery eyes looked up at him. “We met on a case years ago. She stepped in and helped.”
“Would the case have involved your brother?”
The educated guess had her widening her eyes, but the consummate attorney weighed and measured each word before speaking. “Why do you ask?”
He rested his hands on his hips, his knuckles brushing the butt of his gun. “I don’t have time for games, Rachel. No time. For. Games. Tell me about Lexis.” When she didn’t speak he reached for his cell phone. “I’d be glad to show you pictures from the crime scene. It was a hell of a mess.”
She held up her hand as she rose. “That’s not necessary.” She sighed. “My brother was convicted of murder.”
“I’ve read up on his case.”
She wasn’t surprised. “He swore over and over he didn’t do it but that didn’t stop the cops from arresting him. He had a crap attorney and he landed in jail. I was in college when it happened.”
He waited, sensing she’d struggled with this family truth for years.
“Fast forward five years and I’m fresh out of law school, hell bent on proving he didn’t kill anyone. I met Lexis in court. We hit it off and she agreed to do some digging for me. I told her right off I couldn’t pay, but she didn’t seem worried. Said the day would come when I’d be in a spot to help someone else.”
A sigh shuddered from her. “It’s a long and complicated story. Luke died in prison before we could get him a retrial.”
“Luke being your brother?”
“Yes.”
No happy endings for the Wainwrights. But then they were few and far between. “Lexis did a good deed for you. What were you two working on now?”
“That’s confidential.” She tugged at a loose thread at the corner of her pocket.
Rachel shook her head. “I left a note on my front door.” Lexis, I’m running. Back in a half-hour. If you’ve got the letters, I’d love to talk. “The note was gone when I got home.”
“I’m betting the someone who attacked you used it to find Lexis.”
A tear trickled down her cheek but he couldn’t summon pity. “Someone killed her. Brutally. And this nut also beat another woman to death. Tell me what the hell was going on between you two.” His voice rose to a shout that reverberated off the walls.
She twisted the thread around her finger until it cut into the skin. “After my media sensation the other night, someone must have been paying attention to what I was saying about Jeb Jones and the DNA.”
He folded arms over his chest, waiting to see how much of the truth she’d spit out this time.
“I also mentioned Annie Rivers Dawson, as you remember. It was the mention of her name that caught her sister’s attention.”
He wondered if the woman could answer a question outright without weighing each word. Natural suspicion combined with a law degree equaled passive sentences conveying little. He waited.
“I received a hand-delivered package the day after the vigil. Courier sent it. I later checked and found out the sender had paid in cash and the company had no record of who paid for the delivery.”
“What was in the package?”
“Letters.”
He leaned toward her a fraction, frustration reverberating from every muscle. “Jesus, would you stop being an attorney for a second and tell me. It’s like pulling teeth, Rachel.”
“I don’t trust cops.”
“Figured that much out. Talk.”
The words hitched in her throat. “The letters appeared to have been written by Annie Rivers Dawson.”
“What?”
“I know. It sounds crazy that thirty-year-old letters would be delivered to my doorstep. I read them and wasn’t sure what to make of them. They were compelling.”
“Why didn’t you bring them to me?”
A half smile tugged the edge of her mouth. “Right, give the potentially winning hand to you, the guy who stonewalls at every turn.”
“I don’t stonewall. I have no answers to give.”
“So you say.”
He held up his hand, annoyance shooting through his body. “You are the definition of trust issues.” When she arched an unapologetic brow, he asked, “What did you do with the letters?”
“I gave them to Lexis to authenticate. One of her talents is handwriting analysis. I hoped she could tell me if they were real or not.”