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“What brought you here, Andrews?” she asked.
“I went to see Dr. Kincaid. She allowed me to see your father’s autopsy file.”
Her gut tightened. “And?”
“The findings were conclusive enough,” he said.
“What’s that mean?” she asked.
“Most of the indicators suggest suicide.” He also relayed Dr. Kincaid’s personal opinion and doubts.
“And now we have a note that no one saw and our only eyewitness is a guy suffering from Alzheimer’s. So basically, we have a few maybes, but no solid facts,” she said.
Andrews appeared unfazed. “I consider it progress.” His phone chirped, and he checked the message. He raised a brow as he read. “I’m running those pictures you gave me of Vicky Wayne through a facial recognition scanner.”
“And?”
Novak was listening.
“I have two faces that the program identified,” Andrews said. “Vicky Wayne and Rita Gallagher. So we know Rita knew Vicky or was at least at a party with her shortly before they were both killed in the fall of 1992.”
“Have you completed your handwriting analysis of the letters Julia gave you?” Novak asked.
“I did. I do not believe they were written by Jim Vargas.”
“So Vicky’s boyfriend wasn’t my father?” Julia asked.
“He didn’t write the notes,” Andrews said.
Wendy pushed through the front door.
“How’s Ken?” Julia asked.
“He’s upset and withdrawn into himself. He does that now when he’s stressed.”
“Do you have a minute to answer questions?” Julia asked.
“I’m not sure what I can add.”
“What was your opinion of Jim Vargas?” Novak asked.
“No matter what anyone said or what Ken thinks he remembers, Jim was one hell of a cop. A good man. He hated being away from you and your mother. But he said someone had to be willing to sacrifice and do the hard work.”
“Some men like Jim get addicted to the rush of the job,” Andrews said. “Sometimes a more normal life is too mundane without the constant adrenaline rush of undercover work.”
Julia watched Wendy closely. A tension seemed to ripple through Wendy’s body that made Julia think she was on guard. “Do you think Jim could have been the Hangman?”
“No.” A nervous laugh rumbled in her chest. “That is absurd. I don’t care what Ken thinks he remembers. Why would Jim kill those women?”
“He knew them all,” Julia said.
“He was your father, Julia. How can you say this?”
“I didn’t see him growing up. I never really knew the man.”
“I’m sorry for you, because he was a great man. People don’t realize what kind of sacrifices men like Jim make. He gave up so much. And I can’t stand to hear him run down,” Wendy said.
“You’re loyal to Jim,” Novak said.
She glared at him with watery eyes. “He was my husband’s partner.”
“You married Ken right after Jim died, right?” Julia asked.
“So? Ken and I were engaged when he and Jim worked together.”
“But when you talk about Jim Vargas, it’s as if it were yesterday,” Novak said. “You sound like his champion.”
Wendy raised her chin. “I cared about him.”
“Did you and Jim Vargas have an affair?” Novak asked softly.
Julia wasn’t surprised by the question and stood waiting for the answer.
Wendy flinched. “Why would you ask that?”
“I’m not passing judgment, Wendy,” Novak said, softly. “I’m trying to solve a case.”
Julia was silent.
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?”
