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“Could be true,” Reed said, motioning toward the files. “The detective in charge at the time zeroed in on Owen Duval from the get-go.”
“He shouldn’t have?” Delacroix was surprised.
“Don’t know. He was the likely suspect, but even with his solid alibi, the detective, Charles Easterling, was set on Owen.”
“You talk to him? Easterling.”
“Can’t. He was near retirement at the time and died a couple of years ago. The cop who inherited the case retired, too. Moved to Chicago. I did talk to him, but he couldn’t tell me any more than what was in the files. So, here we are.”
“With Owen Duval as our number one suspect. Some things don’t change over the years,” she said. “Be interesting to see what he has to say. It’s all set up to meet him at his lawyer’s office.”
“He’s already hired an attorney?”
“I guess, but the place is out of town. Attorney’s name is Austin Wells.” Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “You know him?”
“Of him. Thought he was retired.”
“Apparently not. We’re scheduled to meet him at five thirty. Gives Owen time to get off work. He works at the Chevy dealership. Mechanic. Gets off at five. Oh, and we’re not meeting at the law office; it’s located in the Winslow Building, damaged in the hurricane. We have to go to Wells’s home.”
“They could have come down here.”
“Apparently Owen Duval refused to step inside the building. Something about hating police stations and interrogation rooms. He spent a lot of time here twenty years ago.”
“He might not have a choice.”
“I know, but for now, I figured we could be somewhat accommodating.” She slid him a sly smile. “If we don’t like what he has to say or think he’s holding out, we can always change our minds and haul his ass down here.” Arching a brow, she said, “My grandma always said, ‘you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’ ”
“Did she?”
“Yeah, but then she’d always add, ‘but if the honey don’t work, haul out the fly swatter and smack that son of a bitch dead.’ ”
Reed had to laugh as he reached for his jacket. “A woman I’d like to meet.”
“Too late. She’s long gone. I barely remember her. Come on, let’s roll.”
CHAPTER 13
“If you ask me, the whole family was a little off, if you know what I mean,” Chandra Johnson said to Nikki. They were standing on one side of a rail fence at the equestrian center while a girl of about eight in riding clothes and a helmet was astride a prancing bay horse with a wide white blaze, trying and failing to gain some control of the gelding.
The place was much as Nikki remembered it, with a huge covered arena, wide barn doors opening to this outdoor paddock, the acres around it grassy aside from an occasional pine tree and an orchard nearer to the house. Across a gravel lot, a two-story brick house that had seen better days stood in a grove of pecan trees, a weedy garden to one side.
Nikki had parked on the wide gravel strip between the house and arena. Inside the enclosure, the horse shook his head, dark mane shivering in the late-afternoon sunlight. To the rider, Chandra instructed, “Ease off on the reins, Willa, quit fighting him.” Under her breath, she muttered, “That girl has the touch of a blacksmith. Oh, for the love of God!” To Nikki, she said, “Give me a second, will ya?” And then she was through the gate of the fenced enclosure and striding toward the horse. “Whoa,” she said softly as she approached horse and rider. She took hold of the reins and laid a hand gently on the gelding’s shoulder, then spoke softly. Nikki couldn’t hear any of the one-sided conversation, but it seemed to calm both horse and rider.
She remembered being the girl on the horse and Chandra’s annoyance and advice and way with horses. Chandra, a woman who might be more comfortable with animals than people, was older now, thicker around the middle, her brown hair still plaited in a single braid that snaked down her back, though now the plait was dull and dyed, gray roots visible surrounding a rounded, tanned face. She was wearing a dingy orange T-shirt with a Grateful Dead logo and faded, dusty jeans that seemed identical to the battered pair she’d worn twenty years earlier.
“Now give it another try, and remember, hold the reins lightly,” she said more loudly as she backed up. “Remember, Oliver can feel what you want. Communicate with the horse. Trust him.” With those parting words she slipped through the gate again, her eyes rolling toward the sky. “Lost cause,” she said to Nikki, then watched as the rider urged the horse forward and he started at a quick trot around the perimeter of the oval arena.
A chain saw started to roar in an orchard nearby as a wiry jean-clad man bent over a downed peach tree, but the horse didn’t flinch, just kept his pace, the little rider teetering slightly. “Oh, for . . . would you look at that? I told Chuck not to clear the damned trees until after Willa’s lesson.” She sighed, then waved frantically, finally getting the grizzled man’s attention. She made a slashing motion across her throat and the chain saw died as Chuck frowned, lifted a baseball cap from his balding head, but nodded, getting the message.
“One more idiot to deal with,” Chandra confided. “Now, what was I saying? Oh, right, you were asking about that Duval family who lived up the street from us. I got a weird vibe from them, but it was probably because of the older boy, what was his name? Owen. Yeah, that’s right. Sullen little bastard. Always staring at you from behind a mop of dark hair, like he was hiding; y’know, a predator in a cave.” She gave a little involuntary shudder.
“You think he was behind the girls disappearing?”
Chandra let out a snort. “Course he was. Who else? And he was supposed to be in charge, now, wasn’t he?” She glanced at the rider as the horse trotted past. “That’s better, Willa, now, slow him down. We’re about done here.”
Bouncing atop Oliver, the waif of a girl nodded, her face ashen, her eyes round, the helmet slipping a bit. If she was enjoying her lesson, she was hiding it well. She yanked back on the reins and the horse stopped suddenly.
Chandra bolted through the gate. “That’s good, that’s good,” she said, snagging the reins just as a gray minivan rolled down the lane to park behind Nikki’s Honda. A frazzled-looking red-haired woman climbed quickly out from behind the wheel. With a runner’s body, she was lean and taut, her age landing somewhere in her forties. “Come on, Willa,” she called, waving at her daughter as Willa, with Chandra’s help, dismounted. Yanking off what appeared to be a hated riding helmet, the girl bounded through the open gate. Chandra tied the reins loosely over one of the rails beneath a shade tree, then followed.
