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He sighed, then twisted his mouth. “That’s a shame. Otherwise, I would entertain the idea of him taking the fall and the real murderer going loose. Then, once you made the limelight with the shooting, it triggered something in him.”
“It’s a solid theory,” I said. “Except for the fact that I know John Michael Stevens took my sister. I agree that seeing my name in the news might have triggered the new kidnapper, but I think it has to be someone who was obsessed with my sister’s murder.”
Hale shook his head. “This has grudge written all over it.” He lifted his brow to Malcolm. “Thoughts?”
He turned to face me. “Are you one hundred percent sure you identified the right guy?”
Irritation burrowed under my collar. “He pled guilty.”
He snorted. “And we both know people never make false confessions.”
“I saw him in a lineup.”
“Again, we both know that memories are tricky things,” Malcolm said, not an ounce of softness on his face.
“False identifications make up seventy percent of false convictions overturned by DNA evidence,” Hale added, at least trying to sound sympathetic. “Did they do DNA testing on your sister?”
I stared at him in shock. “No.”
Jesus. Was it possible that I’d helped put an innocent man in prison? “But he confessed,” I pled with Hale. “Why would he confess with no chance of parole if he didn’t do it?” But even as I asked the question, I knew there could be a wide host of reasons.
“It’s not unheard of,” Hale said, then made a face. “Payoffs to family. Promises not to harm someone they love. All sorts of things.”
How much of that did he know from firsthand experience?
“No,” I said, pissed that they were making me question everything I’d held true for the past twenty-one years. “He did it.”
“We need to see him,” Malcolm said. “Ask some questions.”
“Are you insane?” I demanded.
“Have you ever seen him since you picked him out of the lineup?” Hale asked softly.
“No.”
“Okay,” Hale said, forcing a bit of cheerfulness into his voice. “Let’s presume the man sitting in prison actually killed your sister. Then we need to figure out who is acting out now.” His eyes were trained on me. “We’ve established this is personal to him, but I think he’s taunting you. It’s a game. He’s the cat and you’re the mouse.”
I wanted to argue with him, but he had a point.
“And he’s mad that you’re not making connections sooner.” He gestured to the bag at the corner of his desk. “Hence taking Eddie and sending you the thumb. He’s trying to get you back on track. Any clue where to turn now?”
Shame made the pounding in my head more intense. “No.” I took another generous sip of the whiskey.
Hale clasped his hands on his desk. “We’ll table that for now and discuss another pressing issue.” He gave Malcolm a pointed look. “We have a problem with Larson.”
“No shit we have a problem with Larson,” Malcolm grunted. “Tell me something useful.”
“He has a history of harassing people,” Hale said to me. “Malcolm was his most recent target, but I suspect you’re his current flavor of the week. He brings people in for questioning so many times they eventually wear down and confess to something.”
“Well good-fucking-luck,” Malcolm said, stretching out his legs, “because I’m clean as a baby’s ass.”
Hale gave him a dry look.
I snorted. “As clean as a baby’s ass in a shitty diaper.”
Malcolm’s glare turned to me.
What the hell was I doing here? I needed an attorney to deal with Larson, but there were other attorneys out there, and Carter Hale was practically married to James Malcolm.
