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“She wanted to come, but one of the kids got sick. Ear infection. And she knew Brent should be here since he’s the one who sent out all the emails to The Bookworms.”
“Did Brogan mention that we still don’t know why Deming showed up that afternoon and put himself at the scene?” Lucien brought up.
“I’m sick of talking about Pollock,” Brogan divulged. “Could we go five minutes without mentioning him?”
“Sure, but it was weird and an incredibly dumb thing to do if you were part of the plot. It bugs me still,” Lucien voiced.
“But it wasn’t enough to throw suspicion on Deming, enough for Rivkin to follow up,” Brogan pointed out. “Rivkin has to live with that and how wrong he got it. Ethan should put that in his book.”
“Great angle,” Ethan concluded. “I take it that Pollock insists Deming knew all along what was about to happen.”
“And Vince,” Lucien tossed out. “The prosecution needs to focus on the conspiracy part and who masterminded this entire thing. None of it would have happened without Chad Pollock. The DA needs to remind people that Chad could talk Matthew into anything.Anything,” he emphasized. “And if Deming wasn’t involved, why did he go on the run? Why can’t anyone find him? That part of Pollock’s explanation, I tend to believe. I think Deming went along with the plot to get rid of Anna, who he thought was obsessed with him. How the doctor figures into Frank Pollock’s heart attack is another matter entirely.”
“See? It’s a potentially high-profile soap opera involving murder and a serial killer record producer that went uncaught for twenty-plus years,” Ethan determined. “Toss in getting Vince Jarreau back on American soil, and we’ll see what happens. Everyone will be watching and waiting for an outcome. It’ll take time to put this manuscript together. I’ll need to wait until the trial for an ending. That means getting a seat inside the courtroom every day to document everything. It’ll be a lot of work, an extraordinary experience, but one people should know.”
“But do people really care about justice anymore with their busy lives?” Kelly asked. “Regular people have their own problems.”
Brogan rolled her eyes. “Good point. Especially since everybody will be waiting years, there’s no way Pollock’s trial will begin any time soon.”
“Brent said the same thing,” Ethan revealed.
“Where is Brent?” Lucien asked, glancing up and down the patio.
“Last I saw, he was standing at the doorway talking to Murphy.”
“Does the mayor belong to the book club?”
Ethan nodded. “He and Carla are both voracious readers. But I don’t think he’s here for a book discussion. Look at Brent’s reaction.”
Lucien followed the track of Ethan’s eyes to the doorway where Patrick Murphy, the mayor, handed Brent a file folder. “Maybe Murphy wrote down his thoughts on the trilogy.”
“I don’t think so,” Brogan surmised as she watched Brent head straight to their table. “What’s up?”
Brent tossed Murphy’s file folder onto the tabletop. “Your next case. Pelican Pointe’s oldest unsolved murder. Murphy wants you guys to take a look at it and see what you think. But you should know upfront that there’s no money involved in this one, strictly pro bono for the town.”
“No problem,” Lucien muttered as he opened the file. “What’s so special about it, though?”
Brent took a seat at the table. “After forty-five years, the victim is still unidentified.”
Brogan sat up straighter. “Forty-five years is a long time. You can’t find her killer unless you know who she is.”
“Nothing slow about you,” Brent said with a wink. “I want a miracle. I was hoping you could find out who she was and do the grunt work. Then we’ll focus on finding her killer. And since you guys scammed Pollock about having genetic genealogy—and it worked—Murphy and I figure you could do it for real with this case.”
“There’s not much in the file,” Lucien stated, disappointment written on his face. “Scant details, a few photos. Genetic genealogy needs DNA.”
“That’s why I want to apply for a court order to exhume the body first thing Monday morning. Will you look into it if I start the paperwork? I don’t have the time to do the legwork, nor do Colt and Eastlyn. That leaves you two. I’m reaching out to ask a favor for the town.”
“Absolutely,” Brogan answered. “No one should go to their grave robbed of their identity. What else can you tell us? Who found her? What were the circumstances?”
“One of the local business owners—Garland Webber—opened up the bait shop at six sharp that morning and found her lying on the boardwalk. It was Sunday, August 13th, 1978. Pelican Pointe had no police department then, so the county took over the case. Six weeks went by without a single person reporting a missing teenager. And when no one claimed her body at the morgue, our local funeral director asked for it. The town called her Gidget Jane Doe. That’s what they wrote on her headstone.”
“Why did they call her that?”
“Because she was dressed in a beach outfit and couldn’t have been more than sixteen when she died. The town chipped in, paid for a funeral, and laid her to rest at Eternal Gardens.”
Lucien pushed a photo across the table toward Brogan. “I see why people thought she looked like Sally Field’s version of Gidget.”
“Gidget Jane Doe,” Brogan muttered, studying the photograph. “Poor thing. Wonder where she called home? What was she doing here in Pelican Pointe? Maybe she knew someone.”
