Justice Betrayed Page 2

She had no recollection of Foxx being murdered, but if it had happened around the time of her mother’s funeral, it was no wonder. Grief and anger had consumed Rachel then. While the grief had lessened over the years, the anger remained hot as ever.

  Vic’s intense gaze held hers. The cases already on her workload hung in the back of her mind. Maybe a quick look at the cold case file would provide information that would satisfy him that everything had been done to find Foxx’s killer. Either way, she had to fill out a report, so she took out a notepad and one of the mechanical pencils she liked to use to write her notes. Made erasing easier. “I don’t suppose Vic Vegas is your legal name?”

  He grinned and ducked his head, much like she’d seen Elvis do in film clips.

  “Actually, it is. I had it legally changed in ’95. It was less confusing.”

  O-kay. “Give me your original name for the records.” She wrote “Phillip Grant” on the pad as well as the stage name, then asked for his contact information. After he gave it to her, she tilted her head toward him. “I’ll talk with someone in the Cold Case Unit Monday.” And hope Sgt. Brad Hollister didn’t laugh her out of his office.

  “Would you like my files on the murder?” Vic asked.

  “Files?”

  He nodded, raising his eyebrows. “I typed up everything—the people I’ve talked to in person or on the phone, what I learned, everything—and put the notes into files.”

  “You have a list of people you’ve questioned?” That might save time if anything in the cold case files warranted a second look at the case.

  He nodded. “I even talked to your dad.”

  That was bound to have gone over like a ton of chicken feathers with the Judge. “Why would you talk with my father?”

  “He represented Harrison in a legal matter a year or two before Harrison died. And he was there the night of the contest.”

  She caught her breath. Vic was right. An image of her dad in the audience flashed in her mind. She’d been surprised that he had attended the charity event because he and her mother had been separated for about a month then. If Vic hadn’t mentioned it, she probably never would have remembered it. To her knowledge, it was the only time he attended anything Elvis. Her dad thought all the hoopla around Elvis Week was ridiculous. Which never sat well with her mom, since she’d been one of Elvis’s biggest fans.

  “Do you have the files with you?” Rachel doubted Vic had uncovered anything worthwhile, but the Cold Case Unit might be interested.

  “Afraid not,” he said. “Stopping here was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing. And I don’t have time to go get them before the competition starts.”

  Surely he wasn’t competing in the contest. Her question must have shown on her face because he held up his hand.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not competing. They’re honoring a bunch of us old geezers,” he said. “But I can bring the files to you tomorrow.”

  She handed him her business card. “Monday will be fine. I won’t be able to get access to the cold case files before then. And if I’m not here, just leave them with our office manager up front.”

  Vic’s shoulders dipped, and a small sigh escaped his lips. “Sure.”

  He hefted his body from the chair, offering her his hand. “I really appreciate you looking into this. I’d really like to see Harrison’s murder solved.”

  She slipped on her heels and stood, accepting his hand. “Don’t thank me just yet—I haven’t done anything.”

  “But you will—I checked up on you, and when you take a case, you don’t quit until it’s solved.”

  “I’ve been told I’m stubborn.” His praise pinched her conscience. She saw no way of spending more than a couple of hours on the case. “Why don’t I walk out with you?”

  At the door, Vic glanced around at the empty room. “It looks like I’ve kept you past quitting time. Sorry.”

  “No worries.”

  At the elevator she pushed the down button before turning to Vic. “So how long have you been an Elvis impersonator?”

  “I’ve been an Elvis tribute artist for thirty years,” he said. “Ever since I sang ‘Peace in the Valley’ at a church talent show. Dyed my hair and grew my sideburns.” The elevator door slid open, and they stepped inside. “I don’t compete anymore, just show up with a few others from back in the day to remind the younger ones we were some of the first to give tribute to the King.”

  They rode in silence to the first floor.

  “Thanks again for agreeing to help me,” he said as they stepped out of the elevator.

  She tried to think of something to say that would keep him from getting his hopes up. “Cold cases like this are really hard to solve, and I don’t have much time to devote to working on it . . .”

  She warmed under his intense gaze. He knew she wasn’t going to dig very deep.

  “What if I told you Harrison’s murder is connected to your mother’s death?”

  Her heart almost stopped. “That’s impossible.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that your mother dies in a burglary that’s never been solved, and Harrison is murdered three days later?”

  Every word of the crime report was imprinted on her mind. The short version was there had been a rash of burglaries in their neighborhood, and her mother had apparently surprised a burglar in their home and had either fallen or been pushed when she confronted the unknown subject or subjects.

  “Believe me,” she said, “I’ve looked at every angle, and even though no one has been caught, the evidence all points to my mother’s death being the result of a burglary gone bad. There were other break-ins around the neighborhood. Nothing suggests that her death was anything other than that.”

  “But what if the evidence was wrong?” he asked. “All the break-ins in your neighborhood were attributed to the cleaning service ring that was arrested not long after Gabby was killed. But they never admitted to the job at your house.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I reviewed the court case and talked to a couple of the people arrested. They denied your house was ever a target.”

  “Of course they’d say that. They don’t want to serve time for murder.” But he’d done his homework. There might actually be something in those files he talked about.

  His gaze was unwavering. Vic Vegas was much smarter than she’d given him credit for. He’d known he would hook her by tying her mother’s case to Foxx’s. But what if he did have something?

  She was off tomorrow and had two morning events inked on her calendar. Maybe she could meet him here between them. “Can you bring your files by here tomorrow morning? Say ten thirty?”

  Shirley stared at the front of the Criminal Justice Center building as Vegas stepped through the glass doors of the CJC. It’d been nothing but dumb luck when she saw him enter the building.

  “Okay, Vic. I’ve about reached my limit with you.” She spoke the words aloud even though there was no one to hear them inside the car.

  Click. The zoom lens of the camera captured the Elvis wannabe and Det. Rachel Sloan standing beside him.

  Not good. Not good at all. Should’ve done something about Vegas when he called, snooping around again.

  Another click captured a close-up of the detective, and further examination brought an unexpected visceral punch in her gut. In the photo, Rachel bore a strong resemblance to her dead mother.

  Same color honey-blonde hair framing an oval face, same hazel eyes, and while Rachel’s lithe frame and long legs were more athletic, her stance was like her mother’s. And like Gabby, she was too beautiful for her own good.

  No telling what Vic had been filling the detective’s head with.

  “Just don’t take the bait, Detective Sloan. Unless you want to end up like your mother.”

  2

  AS RACHEL WALKED across Washington Street to the parking garage, Vic Vegas’s question triggered emotions she thought she’d buried. She’d made two decisions that haunted her in life. The firs
t was the night her mother was killed.

  Rachel had fuzzy memories of leaving her mom and spending the night at a friend’s house. While her mother had gone home and surprised a burglar, Rachel spent the night having fun. Her jaw clenched. It didn’t matter that she’d been only fifteen, and it was improbable that she could have done anything to stop what happened. Rachel should have been there.

  She knew it and her father knew it. Sometimes she believed he blamed her. Why else would he have been so distant after it happened?

  Her father. Judge Lucien Winslow. He could have stopped what happened if he’d been there.

  Pain shot from her jaw to her temple. Ancient history. But if she could solve the crime she’d switched careers for, her mother would have justice.

  She slid across the front seat of her ancient Honda Civic and turned the key. Two clicks and then nothing except a punch of adrenaline in her veins. She did not need a dead battery today. She tried it again and smiled as the motor came to life. After supper with the Judge, she’d stop in at the parts place she frequented and buy a new battery—something else to add to her schedule.

  Fifteen minutes later, Rachel pulled into the gym parking lot, where Donna stood beside her red Mustang. Like Rachel, she hadn’t taken the time to change out of her office clothes. At least the Homicide division had the best-dressed office manager in the building. The black cropped jacket looked great over a white silk shell, and the pencil-thin skirt that stopped just below her knees completed her outfit. No, the four-inch red heels and cinnamon-red Dolly Parton–style hair completed it. Rachel felt underdressed even in her court clothes and would love to get inside the office manager’s closet.

  “Okay, spill the beans,” Donna said. “What did Elvis want?”

  “How did you know about him? You’d already left.”

  “No, I was in the storage room and got a glimpse of you talking to him. If I’d been at my desk, I would have told him you had already left.”

  “Don’t let Boone catch you doing that,” Rachel said. Donna watched over her detectives like a mother hen. While she always meant well, sometimes she went a little too far.

  Donna brushed her off with a laugh. “Now what did Elvis want?”

  “Didn’t you know that curiosity killed the cat?” Rachel opened her trunk and took out her gym bag. In spite of the difference in their ages, she and the office manager had become friends very quickly when Rachel moved from Burglary to Homicide. Partly because Donna was privy to all the homicide reports and she was a closet sleuth. She’d indicated early on that if she were in her thirties, she would apply to the academy.

  Donna fell in beside her as they walked to the door, her high heels clicking on the pavement. “You know you’re dying to tell me, so spill it. I’ll know Monday, anyway, when I enter your notes into the computer.”

  “He wants me to investigate an old friend’s murder,” she said. “He’s been investigating on his own and has some files he’s going to drop off in the morning.”

  “Aren’t you off tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll be near the CJC for the physical fitness competition.”

  “Surely you don’t expect to learn anything from an armchair detective dressed in an Elvis suit, do you?”

  Rachel shook her head. “I doubt he has anything useful. I’m mostly interested to see who he’s talked with about this case he wants me to look at and why. Not even sure the case will go past this initial phase. It really belongs to the Cold Case Unit.”

  Donna pushed open the door and checked out the treadmills to their right. “Four machines are open—ought to still be two by the time we change. Want to run with me?” she asked.

  Rachel glanced at her watch. Her personal trainer had probably arrived. “Don’t have time. Terri is probably waiting for me now to start the ballet class. Why don’t you join us?”

  Donna tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. “My joints are too old for ballet.”

  “Really? Too old for ballet, but not those heels. I don’t know how you walk in them all day.”

  “Vanity. As long as I wear these, no one thinks of me as old.”

  “Believe me, no one thinks of you as old!”

  Donna cocked her head. “Besides, I got on the scale this morning, and I’ve gained two pounds! Running will burn more calories than ballet.”

  The office manager had obsessed over gaining weight since the day Rachel first met her, and she wasn’t sure why, since she couldn’t imagine Donna ever being overweight. “I promise, ballet will burn calories.”

  “Really? For real, you think it helps?”

  “It’s kept my weight down. And not only that, since I’ve been doing it, I’ve shaved several seconds off my time in the department’s physical fitness competition. Five seconds at the last one.” Her first-place wins in the monthly competitions were one of the reasons every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday found her at the gym doing pliés and tendus. “You really need to try it. And you don’t look a day over forty.”

  Donna blushed. “See, the shoes are working. One day maybe I’ll join you in the class, but not enough time tonight. I have to be at Blues & Such by seven to help with the Elvis competition,” she said, fanning herself.

  Rachel nodded and then turned to go to the locker room. “Have fun if I miss you after the class. Monday will come soon enough.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night at your grandmother’s party. And I’m working Sunday.”

  Rachel paused. “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

  “Your father invited me. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not.” It just surprised her. Donna had accompanied Rachel to one of her father’s dinner parties, but she hadn’t known the two of them had hit it off so well. She hoped things wouldn’t get sticky around the office if the Judge—as she’d called her father for years—stayed true to course and dropped Donna after a couple of dates. But Donna was old enough to know what she was doing, and Rachel wasn’t about to tell her how to run her love life. Goodness knows she was no expert. Her relationship with Boone was evidence of that.

  “You just make sure you win tomorrow. We women have to stick together.”

  Rachel gave her a thumbs-up. Boone was her top competitor. If she could beat his time, she didn’t have to worry about the others. Not only that, but winning over Boone gave her more satisfaction than beating anyone else. Payback for the way he micromanaged her.

  A few minutes later in the dressing room, she slipped on her ballet shoes, then glanced up as her coach, Terri Morrow, came through the door. “I figured you were already here.”

  “Got held up in traffic.” Terri set her bag down and pulled off the oversized top she wore over her leotard and tights. She was only slightly taller than Rachel’s five eight, but much thinner—another person who really worked to keep her weight down. “You ready for tomorrow’s competition?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Rachel bent to adjust her shoes. There’d never been a time Terri hadn’t been around. First as her mom’s best friend, then Rachel’s dance teacher, and now her fitness coach.

  “Will you be finished in time to take your grandmothers shopping?”

  “I should, barring an emergency. But just in case something happens, can you cover for me?”

  “Sure. I was going anyway,” Terri said. “But how about tonight? Still meeting your dad later?”

  “It’s Friday night and I don’t have a date.” As usual. It was her choice, though. Rachel wrapped her hair in a scrunchie and eyed her coach’s pixie cut that set off her high cheekbones. More than once she’d considered going for the shorter style, but in the end the convenience of shampooing her longer hair and putting it up in a ponytail won out. “Want to join us? I’d like to see you and Dad . . .” Rachel raised her eyebrows.

  “Not tonight,” she said with a laugh and pulled on her ballet slippers. “And your father and I will probably always only be good friends. Besides, I’m having dinner with Erin—we�
�re going to Blues & Such for the Elvis tribute contest.”

  “Rats. You make a good buffer, but enjoy your dinner with Erin.” Rachel had always admired how Terri made her younger sister such a big part of her life. But then, everyone adored Erin, who was just two years older than Rachel. Erin had been a late-in-life baby for Terri’s parents, and the pregnancy had been high risk. When delivery time came, labor had been long, causing a delay of oxygen to Erin’s brain.

  Terri laughed. “It won’t go as bad as you think.”

  Dinner with her father was always a strain. But at least he was trying now. Not like after her mom died.

  “Erin is really excited about you picking her up in the morning and taking her to Elmwood with you,” Terri said.

  “She always brightens my day,” Rachel said. Erin lived in a group home with other mentally challenged adults, and she loved going to the eighty-acre parklike cemetery filled with angel statues. “Oh, could you pick her up at the McDonald’s near Elmwood a little earlier than we planned? I have to meet someone at the CJC before the competition.”

  Terri grew quiet. “It is almost that date, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Every year on the anniversary of her mother’s death, Rachel took flowers to her grave. An atonement for not going home with her that night. For the past few years, she’d taken Erin because . . . Rachel didn’t really know why, except Terri’s sister had a special place in her heart and Erin’s joy over almost anything was contagious. She looked up. “What are you doing for her birthday next month?”

  “We’re going back to Hershey, Pennsylvania, to the candy factory.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “Not the one she remembers. Her memory is like a computer except it never crashes and she never deletes anything. I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed, but she’s been asking to visit there again.” Terri tilted her head. “Any chance you can drop her off at the group home Sunday? I have a recital for my ballet students Sunday evening and your grandmother has offered to take her, but after Erin spends the night with her following the party and then all day Sunday, I hate to ask her to drive across town that late in the evening.”