“There is one thing I can’t do from here, though.”
“The property records, right?” She perked up. “I was getting to that. It’s taken me a few days because I can’t search online. The database only goes back to 1980. But so far, lunch today is looking quiet, so I was going to drive down to Fulton County courthouse. Apparently they keep books—I mean, actual books—in the Deeds and Rec-ords room.”
“And the books would show . . . what? Who bought my parents’ house? The purchase price?”
“The deed itself. Who sold the house on your parents’ behalf, I’m hoping. I’ve got the lot number on Eulalia Road. So, that should be easy.” She clapped her hands. “While I’m there, guess where else I was going to go?”
“Umm . . . no idea.”
“Probate court!” she crowed with improbable delight. “It’s right there in the same government complex. If your parents had a will—and let’s assume they were organized, responsible citizens, and that they did—it should be filed there. And wills are public record, isn’t that cool? We can just walk in and ask to see them. I learned that yesterday, from one of the political editors.”
I set down my mug of tea on the counter and considered this. “I would have thought that wills were . . . private. I mean, mine certainly is. A stranger couldn’t stroll into some government office and browse through it.”
“Right, but you’re not dead, are you? Your will hasn’t been probated.”
“Okay, but surely even dead people have some right to—”
“Nope. ‘The dead have no rights and can suffer no wrongs,’ ” recited Jessica. “I’m quoting—oh, what was his name? Some English judge. They taught us all this in journalism school. How you can’t libel a dead man.”
“Huh. But you can read his will.”
“Exactly!”
“Well, if you’re right—if we really can read Boone and Sadie Rawson’s wills, we might be able to figure out what happened to the house. And why nothing ever passed to me.”
“If we can get our hands on your parents’ wills, then we might be in business.”
? ? ?
THE NEXT TIME my phone rang, the conversation was more tense.
“You need to stop talking to the press,” ordered Beamer Beasley. “Next time that Leland Brett calls, you tell him bye-bye and send him straight to me.”
“With pleasure. But why? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, ma’am. It’s a nice story in the paper this morning. But from a police point of view, it’s time to shut down the conversation. The press has served its purpose.”
“If it weren’t for the press, you wouldn’t have known about my coming back to Atlanta.”
“That’s true. I don’t deny a little media coverage can work wonders. Helps jog people’s memories, for one. But you also got to remember, whatever gets printed, it’s out there for anyone to read. So information about evidence might be best kept to yourself.”
“You mean I should shut up about the bullet and my plans to get it removed?”
“I mean exactly what I said. Information about evidence might be best kept to yourself.”
“Speaking of which, there’s something I should mention.” Beasley listened while I described the disappearance of my chart from Dr. Gellert’s office.
“I don’t know what to make of that,” he said when I was done. “Could be something, could be nothing. But I’m sure it’s occurred to you, as it has to me, that that bullet in your neck might be of interest to any number of people. So be smart. Keep your doors locked, don’t open up to anyone you don’t know, don’t go out on your own if you can help it.” He hesitated. “I suppose this would be an opportune moment to tell you that your case here is being officially reopened.”
“No! Really?”
“That’s another thing the press is good for, putting pressure on us. Between those news stories and the possibility of new physical evidence, it was inevitable. The decision’s already made. They want to go back over all the old files.”
“My God.” I tightened my grip on the phone.
“We’d also like to do a formal interview with you. Just to set down for the record some of the things you and I’ve already gone over. If you like, I’ll sit in on that.”
“It won’t be you asking the questions, though?”
“Likely it’ll be the current head of the Cold Case Squad. He’s good. You want a young guy; it’s been a while since I led an investigation. I’ve been part-time for years now. But given my history with the case, and the fact that I already made contact with you, I’ve agreed to work this full-time. See if I can spot anything the young guys miss.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’m glad, too. But let me say it again: don’t get your hopes up. Please. All this means is me and a couple junior detectives will reread the old folders. The answer wasn’t in them thirty-four years ago, and personally I doubt it is now.”
“But you said yourself there’s new evidence. If the bullet in my neck—”
“If the bullet in your neck comes out intact, and if the techs can do anything with it, then we might have ourselves a lead. But let’s cross that bridge when we get there. All right?”
“All right.” Deep breath. “All right.”
“Ms. Cashion,” he said in a gentler tone, “chances are whoever killed your parents is dead himself by now.”
“I know. You must . . . you must think there’s a chance of solving it, though, or you wouldn’t be taking this on.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Beasley said, “Let me answer that indirectly. This past spring we charged a guy named Daniel Wade with rape. Actually, five rapes. Possible ties to two dozen more. He was known as the Maintenance Man because he attacked women in their apartments, pretended to be there to do repair work. One lady, he poured water under her front door. Then he knocked and told her he was checking on a leak.”