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“I don’t think she’s the real deal,” Delacroix told Reed when he reached the office. She was seated in what was now her chair and desk, in what he assumed was her usual attire: black on black, jacket, T-shirt and slacks. No jewelry. No frills.
“Why?”
“Too old, too . . . I don’t know. There’s a resemblance, of course, but I just have a feeling that she’s a fame whore.”
“Wow. At least you’re not biased,” he said, surprised at her reaction. “She’s in the interview room?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve already met her.”
“Briefly. A deputy took them into the room, but I caught a glimpse of her. She’s with an older dude, her husband.”
“But based on that meet and greet, you think she’s a ‘fame whore’?”
She slid him a glance. “You’ll see. Okay, I know it sounds a little harsh, but there’s a reason for it. It’s frustrating, you know, and I’m not getting my hopes up on this one. There are too many charlatans in the world and I’m just tired of us spinning our wheels.” She was scooping up her phone and iPad from her newly claimed desk.
“We’re making progress.”
“Are we?” she countered, heading for the door and the outer hallway, where there was a buzz of conversation. Already the news had spread in the department that the long-lost Duval sister might have been located. As soon as the information leaked to members of the press, including his wife, the phones would be ringing like mad, reporters wanting interviews, questions hurled at anyone associated with the case.
They were in the hallway outside the door, “Don’t you think it’s a little too convenient that after all these years, a woman comes forward? I mean, why wait? Why now?”
“Maybe she didn’t know what had happened to her sisters. She wasn’t quite five at the time and it’s been two decades. Maybe she was afraid to talk. Could be a lot of reasons.”
Delacroix shot him a disbelieving stance. “Sure,” she said, nodding her head, her voice filled with sarcasm. “That’s it.”
Fleetingly he wondered why she was so cynical at such a young age, but he didn’t have time to dwell on her attitude as they stepped into the interview room where a petite blond woman was waiting. Her hair was flaxen and long, one side clipped away from her face with a sparkly barrette. Her eyes a clear sky blue, her skin pale, her smile fragile. She looked to be around thirty, he’d guess, but could buy twenty-five. As Delacroix had mentioned, next to her was a man whose expression was stern, his skin swarthy, his short military-cut hair nearly silver. Fit and dressed in a trim navy-blue suit and tie, a Rolex watch or pretty good knockoff glinting beneath his left cuff, he stood and held out his hand.
“You’re Detective Reed,” he said. “I’ve seen you on TV. Herman Kemp.”
Reed took his hand and felt the guy’s firm grip. Strong to the point of punishing, a shake meant to state his authority, the alpha male in action. “Good to meet you,” Reed said by rote, all the while wondering what was going on. “My partner, Detective Jade Delacroix.”
Delacroix nodded, her expression thankfully noncommittal.
“We’ve met,” the woman said quietly. Dressed in a frothy pastel dress, she stood hesitantly and with a nod from the man next to her extended her hand. “Rose Duval.” Her tone was breathless, her handshake weak. But there was a resemblance to the computer-generated photo of what the missing twenty-five-year-old girl might look like. And there was something else about her. It was almost as if she were scared, or maybe just nervous.
“You’re Rose Duval?” Delacroix clarified.
“That’s right.” Her tone was pleasant and they all sat down with the Kemps on the far side of the table, where a recorder, as well as a box of tissues and several water bottles, rested. Delacroix reminded them that the interview was being recorded, then got right to it. “What’s your legal name?”
“Mrs. Herman Kemp,” the man answered for her. “Rose, here, is my wife.”
“Rose Kemp,” Delacroix clarified.
Kemp’s thin smile was a little patronizing, Reed thought.
Herman pinned her with his icy glare. “Rose Duval Kemp.”
“I was actually asking her,” Delacroix said, indicating the blonde.
“It’s all right.” Rose laid a hand on her husband’s arm, but her expression remained wary.
Reed suggested, “I think it would be best if we talked to Rose alone.” He stared at Herman.
“Oh. No!” Rose seemed flustered.
“The deputy who brought you in,” Delacroix cut in, “took your IDs. Both of them. Herman Ray Kemp and Greta May Smith Kemp. Nothing here about Rose Duval.” She was scanning information on her iPad.
