7
“I always think it’s strange how we can remember certain incidents with almost perfect visual clarity in our minds—and forget what we had for lunch the day before,” Vickie said, working at her range top with a steam coffeemaker. She glanced over at Griffin. “I mean, I think most people work that way.”
Griffin had determined to walk Vickie back to her apartment. He’d nodded to the cop on guard duty, who had acknowledged and followed behind—he wouldn’t be able to stay long. Yes, she’d still need protection.
People had smiled at them as they’d walked. They probably appeared to be a young couple—out to see the city sights. Maybe people just smiled at her in general. She wasn’t a pushover, but—despite what had happened to her at an impressionable age—she seemed to like people in general. She had an easy way about her—she was quick to apologize if she brushed someone, to laugh if a child’s ball rolled across the street to her and to smile and demur just as quickly if someone accidentally offended her. It was odd, just walking down the street with her. They shared a natural bond—they both spoke to the dead. But he worked with a “krewe” of wonderful people who also spoke with the dead. Yes, they had a natural friendship and bond. This was different. Of course, they shared that certain incident.
But he’d been drawn to her years before. She’d been wide-eyed and innocent—learning the harsh reality of just how cruel and brutal the world could be. He’d made a point to step away.
More than eight years had passed. They’d gone different ways, lived in different worlds. She’d changed; he’d changed.
And when he was with her, he still felt as if he’d always been near her.
Maybe, in his mind, he had been.
Maybe she had just grown up to be someone any man would want to know; stunning, naturally seductive, charming...
Instinct. He was sure some of it was human biology; she seemed to awaken everything primal in him. He’d thought it was the need to protect. He realized it was a need for much more. She stirred everything in his senses. He should walk away; leave this to others. But no matter what faith he might have in his fellow agents, he knew he couldn’t trust that anyone else in the world would—or could—protect her as he could. Ego? No. In some pathetically caveman way, she was his; he would see this all to the end, see her to safety—or die trying.
He watched the way her hair fell over her face, the way she glanced up with a “coffee’s almost ready” smile. A sizzle of heat ran through him and he nodded and he knew: yes, he should walk away—no, he never would.
Because she was right; there were certain things you never forget, that you could recall just as clearly as if you were watching them unfold on a movie screen.
Like the day Bertram Aldridge had nearly killed her.
And he had come to know her.
The coffee had steamed; she got two mugs and poured it out, bringing one to him, and indicating they should sit in the little parlor area of her apartment.
She had great artwork on the walls. Paintings of historic moments mixed with modern-art posters. Two of the walls were lined with bookshelves; her book collection was extensive, histories and biographies mixed with popular fiction and graphic novels.
“You do know what I mean, right?” she asked him, seated in an old rocker across from the position he’d taken on the sofa.
He nodded. “Yeah. I see you running out of the Ballantine house, gripping the baby—Noah. I see Bertram Aldridge. I take aim and he’s taking aim and my heart is going a million miles an hour. He trips, his shot goes wild and my shot wings him in the shoulder. But they say, that’s trauma. You remember trauma. Do we always remember it right? Who knows?”
She nodded. “I remember him in court, too. I remember the way he smiled at me, as if we were friends—almost as if we had dated! The day at Ballantine house... I saw his face fleetingly. I saw he meant to kill me, shoot me down. He had a smile on his face. And then again, in court—that one day I came in—he looked at me as if...as if he knew me. He kept smiling and grinning, as though we shared something...” She broke off, shaking her head. “You know, I really had gotten over it. I went to NYC. Everything was different. I loved my professors, I loved the school and the city and the history there—St. Paul’s, Trinity, Wall Street—a lot like Boston, in a way. New York is a thriving and vibrant world of today—and yet there’s so much in the architecture and the culture and all that led to it.” She fell silent. “I’m sure there are bodies in the wall somewhere in NYC, too.” She gazed over at him. “I am going to find out who was murdered and walled up. How did they go forever—until new sick killers found them?”
“Things—and people—wind up buried in time,” Griffin told her. “Last night was...bad. For officers. You’re not an officer.”
She grinned at that. “Surreal,” she told him. “At least they weren’t...fresh victims. I mean, I’ve spent endless hours in museums where they often display bones and corpses from the past. Okay, okay, so I admit it! I had a dream about them. A nightmare. They came alive and came after me—maybe I’ve seen too many episodes of The Walking Dead.”
He laughed softly because she had spoken so lightly.
“I’ve dreamed of the dead coming alive, too. Well, to be honest, when I was a kid, I thought I was dreaming—and the dead were coming to see me.”
She seemed to inch closer to him. “The first time I ever saw, spoke to or had my wits scared out of me by the dead was at the Ballantine house that day. It was like opening a door. I don’t always see them walking around. Just sometimes. Sometimes they want to be seen—sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they want to talk—and sometimes they don’t. The thing is, a ghost was a human being and whatever makes us human beings—the soul I imagine—remains the same.” She winced. “This sounds ridiculous, but I’ve met some really great ghosts. Often in cemeteries. They say they don’t hang around where they’re buried often, but...some have nice graves, I guess, and they like to check on them. Dylan, of course, seems to have decided to watch over me for life. I’m so accustomed to having him around.”
“That’s—actually nice,” he said softly. “He seems to be a real friend—and real friends, dead or alive, are often hard to come by.”
“And you?” she persisted.
“Ah, well, I was one of those kids who saw his first ‘ghost’ when I was really young. We lived in an old Revolutionary house just north of downtown. One of Washington’s officers was stationed there and used the house during the Battle of Bunker Hill. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. He would just come and play with me—damned good ghost. He could move a kid’s toy block! Anyway, when I was older and talked about him, I was whisked off to a psychiatrist. The doctor told my parents that a lot of kids had imaginary friends. So, I had an imaginary friend. But I had an aunt on my dad’s side who has whatever it is that we have. She told me not to share my imaginary friends with others. They were special. She was great. Aunt Mathilda. She died about five years ago. She told me not to expect to see her. She was ready to go and meet up with Uncle Henry. I never have seen her. I like to think she is happy with Uncle Henry.”
“What about your Revolutionary soldier? Is he still there? With your folks?”
“My parents are in Arizona—my dad had to go—bad asthma. But they still own the house, and come up sometimes. When they’re not in it, relatives and friends might use it—and, they rent it out with an association sometimes.”
“So...you were just always comfortable with the dead popping by?” she asked, a curious small smile curving her lips.
“Yeah, pretty much so. Like Noah,” he added softly.
Vickie sighed. “Well, nice. It all came as a bit of a surprise to me. I’m glad now, of course. I love Dylan. I can understand how losing him nearly destroyed Chrissy and George Ballantine.” She paused for a minute, forming her words. “You see the dead—and Jackson Crow? What about the cops you’ve worked with? Other agents?”
“Well, to try to make a long story short—none of the cops I worked with saw the dead. But that was okay—I’d learned never to let on that I did. Jackson Crow, yes, of course. The entire special unit we’re with are able to see and communicate with souls who have remained behind.” He hesitated, shrugging. “I was always looking for an explanation for the people I saw that others didn’t—and as a kid, I spent a lot of time searching newspapers, books and the internet. But actually, I didn’t have to look for others—they found me. A man came into my life. Adam Harrison. I was still young when I first met him. He knew my aunt and Uncle Henry when they were still living. He came to dinner one night. He didn’t say a word in front of my parents, but he came into my room with my aunt—under the pretense I could show them some of my new toys or books or something. And he sat down and seriously asked me questions and I told him all about my Revolutionary hero and a few of the other people—the dead ones—I’d met over time. Aunt Mattie was there, so I figured it had to be okay. Though, of course, I admit, I was afraid my parents had called in another shrink, at first. He was great. He told me he envied me—and other people like me. He said some of them helped him out at times—that they were able to help when bad things happened. Because sometimes, the dead know what we don’t. Medical examiners are great—they do so often speak for the dead. But speaking with the dead themselves...well, that could really make a difference. Anyway, he told me to look him up when I was ready. He said to go to school and college and do well and maybe even join the police force and then aim for the FBI. And when I did, to call him.”
“And this man is...?”
“Adam Harrison is the overall supervisor for the Krewe of Hunters, our division. It’s his creation. Adam’s son, Josh, had a rare kind of sixth sense. Josh was killed in a car accident, but when he died, one of his best friends—who was with him at the time—apparently inherited the gift. Adam started working with her and other people around the country. He’s from Northern Virginia and a wealthy man, a philanthropist—and very friendly with a number of people in power. The Krewe of Hunters is really just a special unit—it isn’t an official title. The first people he chose for the units came together in New Orleans and so the ‘krewe’ part of it all began. I became a cop—as you know. Applied to the FBI, went through the academy, spent some time working with the criminal investigation unit in DC, and when I thought it was time to look up Adam, he sent for me.”
Vickie was smiling. He wished he could just reach out and stroke her cheek. She seemed to love his story.
“Amazing!” she said softly.
It seemed they had moved closer. The intimacy between them was palpable. She was nearly touching him. He could touch her.
His phone began to buzz in his jacket pocket.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Of course!” She rose, moving away to allow him to speak privately.
It was Jackson Crow.
Griffin braced himself, thinking they might have received another taunt, clue or riddle from the killers.
“Is Vickie okay with coming along with us to see Aldridge?”
“Yeah,” he said to Jackson. “I believe Victoria Preston will be fine visiting Aldridge with us.”
“I’m setting it up. But we’ve got another problem.”
“There is another clue?”
“It’s Barbara Marshall—the woman we dug out of the cemetery. We’ve tried to interview her before, but she had no memory of anything other than a conk on the head. We’ve received a call from the friend, Annie Harte, who has been staying with her—and Barbara fights something or someone in her sleep. Annie is hoping we can help. Barbara is still going through therapy, but apparently, she hasn’t remembered anything during sessions—just in dreams. At any rate, Annie and Barbara want to see us. They’re going to meet us and Detective Barnes down at the station.”
“All right. I’m on the way.”
Vickie had moved away, but she walked back toward him then. “Another woman? Already?” she asked, slightly pale.
“Not that we know about. I have to meet with Jackson and Detective Barnes.”
“Oh.”
She stood about five feet from him. Five feet. He wished he could just cross that small bit of space and take her into his arms. Hold her. He wondered if she was thinking anything of the same.
“You’d best go. And you will...”
“Keep you apprised. Yes.”
“And I will go with you to see Bertram Aldridge, of course.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s above and beyond—and thank you.”
“No,” she murmured.
“Thank you for the coffee.”
“Thank you for the conversation.”
He was going to move by her. He imagined a strange and kinetic energy suddenly leaping through the air, drawing them together.
She stepped back.
“I’ll see you soon,” he managed huskily.
And then he was out the door. But even when he reached the car he had parked a few blocks back, he could swear the scent of her perfume still drifted on the air.
Talk about being haunted...
* * *
The Boston Police Department was the oldest in the nation. The first night watch was established in 1635—not that one could consider that a police department. By 1703, officers were hired who were paid thirty-five shillings a month for their service. A reorganization took place at the end of the 1700s. Those serving carried a rattle-like creation that could summon help, a badge that proved a man to be on duty, a pole that was painted blue-and-white and had a hook—to catch and pull those evil-doers who were escaping, and a “bill” on the other end to be used as a weapon.
The day police didn’t come into being until 1838, and they were not connected to the night watch, but answered to the city marshal. It was the year the General Court created the formal police department and disbanded both the night watch and the day police.
Vickie had a pile of books set out in front of her, opened to different pages. She was determined to find somewhere in her materials something about the murders that had been committed in the late 1800s. She’d found a number of books that proudly announced the history of the Boston Police Department.
What she needed was records of their work. And such records surely existed in readily available material—she even had the complete transcripts of the Salem witch trials, and those had taken place years before the victims of a long-dead killer had been sealed into a false wall in the Boston Neck.
She left her books and headed to the computer and began to key in the names of the police in the late nineteenth-century she found referenced in the books. She was alone, but she cried out with pleasure when she found a research site—constructed by a history major at Harvard—that had gathered together the notes of one Officer Joseph MacDonald, a man who had served from 1871 to 1901—a thirty-year service that hit her time period exactly.
Night fell while she read and read—feeling triumphant. MacDonald first noted that a woman named Mary, a thirty-five-year-old prostitute had disappeared. Her friends had asked him to look for the woman; most of the officers in the department then had given her disappearance little thought. She was, after all, a “tippler” and a prostitute. Disappearance unsolved. A year later, a day laborer known around only as Flannigan suddenly failed to show up for a job.
It was assumed that he had moved on.
Four years later, MacDonald noted that a “goodly number” of people had vanished from the streets. When a man of some influence arrived in Boston, looking for his brother, a doctor who had been set on moving to Boston, and demanded police attention, MacDonald brought his suspicions of a murderer to his superiors.
But there was no proof that the young doctor had ever arrived in Boston. And as for the day laborers and others who had disappeared, well, they had probably just moved away.
If they had met with foul play, where were the bodies?
MacDonald had written in his final journal—he was quite a note-taker and had lived to the ripe old age of ninety-one—that he had served the Boston Police Department proudly—his one regret had been he was certain he had failed to find justice for those who had not been “in the fine graces of normal society, other than the man of medicine, who was not proved to be in or of the area.”
She quickly keyed back to the title page of the paper and found the name of the grad student who had written the content on the research site. Alex Maple. She didn’t know if Alex was a he or a she, or how to contact Alex. She couldn’t find a web page; she reverted to Facebook and found several Alex Maples. But once she was certain she found the right one—Harvard and the current Beacon Hill address seemed to point in that direction—she wrote Alex a message. If the photos were any clue, Alex Maple was a young man in his late twenties.
She was startled to realize it had grown late and she was really tired. Glancing at her phone, she saw Griffin hadn’t called her or sent any messages.
She was tempted to pick up the phone and call him.
Wincing, she determined she would not allow herself to do so.
She still jumped, her heart racing again, when her phone rang. “Yes?” she answered quickly, without glancing at the caller ID.
“Sweetheart?”
“Mom!”
“You haven’t called—I’ve gotten so worried.”
Vickie smiled, shaking her head. “All is well. A cop is outside my door. I had lunch with Roxanne. I’m good. And, of course, I love you and Dad. I’m sorry—I should have checked in.”
“The news is full of information about that woman being found. With corpses! Oh, God, the poor thing... I don’t want you involved in this. Oh, Vickie! Italy. You need to come to Italy.”
“That won’t solve anything. I’m protected. Cop at the door. Cops here, there and everywhere. I’m good, I promise.”
“You really should be staying here.”
Maybe she should be staying with them. Making them feel secure in her safety. She just couldn’t do it. What if...?
She was glad she was speaking with her mother over the phone. Because, of course, it was at that moment she realized and admitted to herself that she wasn’t leaving her own place because of Griffin. What if...
What if he did want what she wanted? A chance to forget the rest, and explore one another? Just let go and give in and let the years wash away and have everything?
“Mom, all is well, I promise.”
“I don’t understand why you’re all mixed up in this.”
“I help with history, Mom, that’s all.”
“This is very scary.”
“I know, and I promise I’ll be a better kid, check in twice a day—okay?”
“Dad says he loves you. He says you’re more stubborn than a mule, and he loves you anyway.”
She laughed softly. “Tell Dad I love him, too.”
She hung up. It wasn’t the call from Griffin she’d been hoping for, but she was blessed with great parents. Maybe she’d read a bit more, head back into the late nineteenth century.
And maybe he would still call.
She turned back to the internet.
* * *
They were at the station, and it was the first time Griffin has seen Barbara Marshall since she’d come out of the hospital; she’d been so lost and confused then, unable to remember anything at all. She’d been sweet and grateful, but had remembered nothing but the massive explosion of pain in her head.
He had been able to speak with Jackson and Barnes briefly before meeting with Barbara and her friend, Annie. Barbara had gone to a therapist; she hadn’t yet been to a hypnotherapist.
They decided to call in a specialist who had often worked with the BPD, assuming that Barbara didn’t mind.
“Barbara, I’m guessing you’ve heard of hypnotherapy,” Jackson said, when all their greetings were finished and it was ascertained she thought she was doing very well—“Miraculously, alive!” she’d told them.
“Hypnotherapy. I’m not sure I can be hypnotized,” she said.
“But you could try,” Annie said. She was a heavy-set woman with great big brown eyes, dimples, a soft voice, and an ever-encouraging smile.
“Sure,” Barbara said. “I’d do anything. I know some women haven’t been so lucky,” she added, a catch in her voice.
“We’ve got some leads,” Griffin said, hunkering down by her. “But the thing is, there may be another time when we’re not fast enough. Anything you can do to help us will be immensely appreciated.”
“What about the other women? You found a lady named Fiona West last night, right? Does she know anything?”
“Fiona West is still in the hospital, but she was able to answer a few questions. She was heading to her car; she’d parked off Washington. She reached her car, put her key in the lock...and that was it. Searing pain at the back of her head,” Jackson said.
“Yes, well, whoever this is, they really hit hard.” She fell silent, perhaps caught up in the memory of her trauma.
“I came over to stay with Barbara,” Annie explained.
“I’m not married or engaged, and I’m afraid the last guy I really cared about is in the military, deployed,” Barbara said. “He corresponds when he can, but...anyway, I’m basically alone. Except for very good friends.”
“The thing is, in her sleep, she fights with someone. And she whimpers and moans and says ‘no, no, no...oh, God, buried alive.’”
Griffin stared at the two of them with surprise.
“Then, somehow, somewhere, at some point, you more or less regained consciousness,” he said.
“The mind is awesome and terrible, huh, Special Agent Pryce?” Barbara asked softly. “But we know I was found in a cemetery, so how does that help?”
“It can help. Do you remember—were you carried in a box? Over someone’s shoulder—lugged between two people?” Detective Barnes asked.
Griffin glanced at Jackson. They both liked Barnes, but he rose to impatience quickly.
“Easy, Miss Marshall,” Griffin said.
“Please. I’m alive because of you and Special Agent Crow—and the Boston PD, of course, Detective Barnes,” Barbara said. “Just call me Barbara.”
“Barbara. You’re not ever going to recall a step-by-step situation—you were knocked unconscious. But it sounds as if you did come around a bit here and there. If we try hypnotherapy, you just might remember something that would tell us more about the way you were taken—and delivered to the cemetery.”
She nodded. “Sure. Anything that might help.”
“Excellent,” Jackson said.
“I’ll call Lenora in,” Barnes told them.
He quickly understood why Lenora Connor was so appreciated by the BPD; she was in her late fifties or early sixties, a small woman in a casual suit with salt-and-pepper hair and a calm and friendly manner that quickly put everyone at ease. She expressed her concern for Barbara, thanked Annie for being such a great friend and even discussed the weather—beautifully balmy, as it was. Then she explained to Barbara, “This isn’t about silly things like you barking like a dog or anything like that. It’s just setting your mind at ease and rest, and your body at ease and rest. Our brains are the original computers, really. And you know how cluttered up computers can become, far too many windows open, too many pictures, space taken...we just try to clear up the clutter, okay?”
“Do I need to lie down?” Barbara asked.
“You need to be comfortable. Are you comfortable sitting?”
“Perfectly,” Barbara said.
“Then we’ll begin!”
The therapist talked, describing an idyllic scene so well Griffin was convinced he could almost hear the trickling water of a stream. Barbara closed her eyes.
So did Annie.
Slowly, Lenora brought Barbara Marshall back to the night she’d been kidnapped. Sitting in her chair, the young woman began to twitch in distress. He was about to leap forward and stop what was going on, but the therapist lifted a hand and talked her through it.
“I smell the earth. And I hear something...something being dragged. And someone swearing. I know that a box is being dragged and I can’t move, can’t fight, can’t see... But I hear them. I smell the earth. And she’s whispering, she’s whispering...”
Griffin, Jackson and Barnes exchanged glances.
Lenora looked over at them.
“She?” Griffin mouthed silently.
“You hear a woman’s voice?” Lenora asked.
“She’s the one swearing,” Lenora said.
“And then?” Lenora asked gently.
“Then... I smell the earth. And I can’t breathe, and I know I’m going to die.”
She began to whimper again and before Griffin could move, Jackson gave Lenora the sign to bring Barbara around.
And Lenora did so gently.
Barbara opened her eyes and stared at them all. “I remember!” she said. “Yes, I remember. There were two of them, and yes, damn it all! One of them was a woman!”
“Did you—see her?” Barnes asked hopefully.
Barbara Marshall shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“But you’re certain?” Griffin asked quietly.
Barbara Marshall looked up at him and nodded. “They were kind of whispering. I heard things chirping...like crickets, whatever. They knew where they were going, but they were watching out for other people. I think it was really late. I kept smelling the earth, but that makes so much sense—I mean, they were taking me to a cemetery. I was over a guy’s shoulder. Big enough, strong enough. I know the other was a woman because of the sound of the whisper. I’d swear in court that it was a female who was whispering that way. I mean, sometimes, you can’t tell. I hear songs that might be sung by a man or a woman, but...that whisper. I know that it was a woman.”
Griffin looked up at Jackson.
He knew they were silently agreeing it was time for more of what they knew to be out there in the public, time for a press conference. They were so often in sync. He didn’t always partner with Jackson; Jackson was often in the home office, juggling a couple dozen agents and cases across the country.
But it was damned good synergy when they could work together.
“Press conference,” he said to Barnes.
“Now? Tonight? It’s getting late.”
“They’ll air it all again in the morning. We might as well get started on this tonight,” Jackson said. “If you don’t mind, we’ll have Griffin run with it from our perspective and you take over with the police.”
“All right, then,” Barnes said.
“Um, um, wait! We’ll still have a cop watching over us, right?” Annie asked, jumping up from her chair.
Barnes nodded. “You bet. I’ll get an officer to see you home now.”
“And you won’t...you won’t use my name, right?” Barbara asked.
She and Annie were assured Barbara’s name would not be mentioned.
Barbara Marshall and Annie were both effusive, hugging them before they left. They didn’t seem at all intimidated by their FBI titles, nor did they notice Barnes seemed more shell-shocked by a hug than by a dozen decaying corpses.
Thirty minutes later, despite the late hour, they were downstairs on the steps of the station, surrounded by dozens of members of the press, including reporters with cameras and notebooks. People were raising their hands and asking questions before Griffin walked to the makeshift podium to speak. He didn’t clear his throat or wave a hand in the air; he waited until the din died down and then he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re all aware that two women have tragically died, the victims of a criminal dubbed the Undertaker. All law enforcements agents in the area and all agencies of law enforcement are on this case. Tonight, however, we do have information for the public. We have had several victims survive the kidnapping and murder attempts on them, and from these survivors we know two things and believe it’s incredibly important for everyone out there to be aware of what we’ve learned. There is not just one Undertaker. Two people are perpetrating these vicious crimes. Secondly, we believe that one is a man—and that his accomplice is a woman.”
Immediately, there was another uproar.
A woman! No one had expected such a turn of events.
“What is the possible motive for the murders? There’s still no sexual assault?” one reporter shouted.
“No, sir.”
“But the victims are all women!”
“Yes, thus far, and that we know about,” Griffin said. “However, everyone needs to stay vigilant. The attacks have been blitz attacks—the victims have been knocked unconscious with a severe blow to the back of the head. This is something that could happen to anyone, man or woman.”
“How do you know that a woman is involved? Do you have a description? Was she seen?”
“Heard,” Griffin said.
“Must be a manly woman!” someone shouted, and there was a titter of uncomfortable laughter that followed.
“Our concern tonight has been in warning the public. Please, be careful that your doors are locked at all times. Don’t park in alleys; try to travel in groups of at least two. Detective David Barnes will be speaking to you about police presence and tip lines, and more on personal safety. Thank you.”
Griffin turned the microphone over to Barnes and stepped aside.
He slipped away from the area with Jackson Crow.
When they turned back, Barnes was still being besieged with questions; he was fielding them well.
“Let’s get some sleep—it could grow more intense,” Jackson said.
“Sure.”
Their hotel wasn’t far from Vickie’s apartment. He found himself pausing before the hotel’s entry, staring out at the night.
He was tempted to head to her place.
It was late. She’d probably be in bed.
Right where he’d like to find her, he thought ruefully.
Yep, true. But...
There was so much at stake.
He turned and followed Jackson into the hotel. He thought Crow would go straight to the elevators; he did not.
The man wasn’t much of a drinker, but he turned into the bar. He ordered two shots of Scotch and thrust one toward Griffin.
“Here’s my question. And my thoughts,” Jackson said. “We know—or we’re pretty damned sure—that this couple knows the area really well, or at least one of them does. We’re looking for a man and a woman. But how the hell did they find the bodies in the wall? They’d been in there for a hundred years. No one would have been guilty of a crime in finding them—the killer or killers would be long dead.”
Griffin didn’t have a chance to answer him. He looked up to see David Barnes striding toward them.
“Thought I might find you here,” he said.
Jackson nodded to the bartender who returned with a shot for Barnes. Barnes swallowed it in a gulp. “That was sure hell,” he said, referring to the press conference. “You guys have it down pat—speak first, and then give it to the cops!”
Jackson laughed softly. “The cops know the local score best.”
“Griffin’s from here. He knows the score.”
“I’ve been gone awhile. But we were just talking about the old bodies in the wall. And I was thinking one of these killers might have grown up right around there, as in, maybe, right on Washington Street.”
“I know someone who grew up right there,” Barnes said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, me,” Barnes said quietly.