Unseen (Nell Brach Book 2), page 4
“I understand she wasn’t a reliable one.”
“True. She was in shock. But with the help of a child psychiatrist, we hoped that would turn around. Of course that never transpired.”
“Why were you convinced he was guilty?”
“No forced entry. Ry—”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Hell, half the time I don’t lock my front door.”
Captain Bacote holds up a hand. “Let me finish. No forced entry. Wearing gloves, Rylan walked right in the front door like he had done so many times before. He thought he was killing his wife when instead he stabbed the twin. After the murder, he fled through the kitchen window which overlooked an alley. He was panicked and covered in blood. He stashed the weapon in his truck. Hours went by. His conscience got the best of him. He’d killed the wrong woman. He returned and called nine-one-one. His prints may not have been on the murder weapon or the window he went out of but they were all over the apartment, Paige’s body, and the area around her.”
“It was his apartment, correct? My home has my fingerprints everywhere.”
The captain just looks at me.
“Where did he think his daughter was?” I ask.
“The neighbor’s place. She often watched the little girl. The neighbor told us that Paige had picked the girl up earlier in the day when she realized her sister was on a bender.”
“If Rylan’s conscience got the best of him, as you say, then he admitted to things?”
“Eventually, yes. At first, though, he maintained the same story. He was at work, came home, and found Paige on the floor. He tried to revive her, to no avail. That’s when he called for help.”
Sounds plausible. “If he was at work, then he had an alibi,” I state the obvious.
“No. His truck was parked right outside the apartment the whole time. Several people saw it there. Rylan claims it wouldn’t start. He caught a ride to the job site. He was an under-the-table day worker. Here one day, there the next. The construction site where he claimed to be that day failed to corroborate his alibi.”
“Because they didn’t want to get busted for under-the-table workers.”
Captain Bacote sighs. “You sound like your grandfather.”
“You said ‘eventually, yes.’ Did he change his story because he was afraid for his daughter’s life? He took the fall to get the attention off of her?”
“Again, so much like your grandfather. Why does anyone change their plea? He knew he was guilty.”
No, I don’t buy it. “Why was Grandpa so sure of Rylan’s innocence?”
“No prints on the weapon, though as I said it was found in Rylan’s truck and covered in Paige Bell’s blood. But your grandfather had a ‘gut’ feeling about Rylan. They spoke several times. ‘I know a killer’s eyes, and Rylan doesn’t have them.’ He spent a lot of energy looking into Rylan’s wife. He was convinced she had pissed someone off and they’d finally had enough. That’s why she took off and abandoned her daughter because she knew that stabbing was meant for her. Then there was the thing with the foster mom claiming the little girl was being followed.”
“You didn’t believe that?”
“I think your grandfather was an alarmist. He freaked the foster mother out. He called her every day to make sure all was okay. Paranoia grows fast when someone is there feeding into it.”
I agree, but my grandfather was not an alarmist. Many other things, sure, but not that.
We grow silent after that.
Captain Bacote gives me the space to work through things.
I think of the file I found in the shed and of my grandfather’s notes. The crayon X’s come to mind, as does the word “tattoo.” The captain didn’t mention either one. The girl’s new name was redacted, as was her new address. For now, I don’t bring any of that up. I’m not sure if Captain Bacote knows any more than what he told me. And if my grandfather felt that it was necessary to protect that little girl, the only witness, then there is a reason.
Captain Bacote leans forward, getting closer to the camera. “I’ll tell you this. If it would have gone to trial, that jury would have found Rylan Scott guilty. That’s how airtight the evidence was. And one more thing. Rylan Scott has a history of attacking prison guards, other inmates, and even the chaplain. Those aren’t actions of an innocent man.”
No, they’re the actions of a desperate one.
“Listen, I’ve got to go,” the captain says. “But you tell Sergeant Rogers I said hello.”
“Excuse me?”
“He used to be one of mine. Good man. I gave him a stellar reference when he said he was moving over to your area.”
TEN
Tuesday, 10 a.m.
At the station, I find Lisbeth, our new IT tech, in her cubicle. Right out of college and beyond intelligent, we are lucky to have her. I expect she’ll move on once she gets some experience here.
“Hey, Lisbeth.” I step up beside her.
With an adorable pixie cut, giant brown eyes, and flawless dark skin, I think of a porcelain doll every time I look at her.
“Hey, Nell.” She grins. “What’s up?”
I hand her the photo of nine-year-old Mackenzie Scott, followed by the redacted page. “This has nothing to do with my current homeless woman murder case, but I’d still like you to move it to the top of your to-do list. It’s connected to the Rylan Scott execution this coming Friday. I want to keep this between you and me, okay?”
“Absolutely.” She looks at the picture of the devastated little girl taken a day after Paige Bell’s murder. Lisbeth’s smile fades. “She looks terrified.”
“Ten years ago she witnessed the murder of her aunt, Paige Bell. Her father is Rylan Scott. Her name then was Mackenzie Scott. It’s since been changed. She used to live in Knoxville. Any chance you can figure out her new name? That redacted page is all I have.”
“Possibly.” She taps the photo. “I can also age this if you want, so you can see what she looks like now.”
“Perfect.”
“But I can’t make any promises on the redacted stuff.”
“Do what you can.”
Leaving her to it, I find Vaughn in the break room. Today he wears a gray tie with black mustaches all over it. Busy making his daily green tea, I pour coffee, adding coconut milk.
“I stopped by Francis House this morning,” he says, “following up with Rebecca’s mention of Cathy seeing her daughter there. Preacher Mitch said that Cathy had already asked him the same thing. He doesn’t know. They have loads of volunteers coming and going, all ages. Could be anybody.” Vaughn blows on his tea before sipping. “Then as I was leaving, I saw a young woman get into a van with Larson Cleaning on the side. Get this, she was wearing khaki pants and a blue shirt but no white cap. I did a little digging. Larson Cleaning is a small family business based in Iris. The tag on the van is registered to Destiny Larson.”
On his phone, he pulls up a photo of her license. She’s got shoulder-length bleached hair, tan skin, a pierced nose, and wears bright blue eye shadow with fake lashes. If this is Cathy’s daughter, I’m not seeing it. I note her birthday. She just turned twenty.
Vaughn continues, “Might be her, might not. It’s something though.”
“Let’s pay her a visit. Also, let’s not forget the Twitch fellow they arrived with.”
My partner nods. “Destiny first.”
ELEVEN
Tuesday, 11:30 a.m.
Destiny Larson’s neighborhood reminds me of mine—small old homes with equally small yards. I pull in behind the van that Vaughn saw leaving Francis House.
Tiny green bushes with purple blooms line the brick walkway leading up to the porch. Three wooden steps take us up to the front door.
Vaughn follows, coming to stand beside me.
A pale yellow door is closed. I don’t see a bell, so I knock.
Inside, footsteps stir. The door opens. Holding a half-sandwich and chewing, Destiny Larson glances between us. She looks exactly like she did on her driver’s license—bleached hair, fake lashes, blue eye shadow, and nose piercing. She wears khaki pants with a blue polo that has Larson Cleaning embroidered over the left breast.
Now that I’m right here in front of her, I try again to see the similarity between her and Cathy. Unfortunately, it’s not there.
We show our badges.
“Destiny Larson?” Vaughn asks.
She stops chewing, glancing at my partner’s tie, before looking back up. “Yes?”
Before I left the station, I scanned the photo that I took from the corkboard at Francis House. I cropped out Rebecca, leaving us with a zoomed-in picture of Cathy only. I show it to Destiny. “Do you know this woman?”
She leans in, looking at it. She shakes her head.
“This woman is not your mother?” I ask.
“What?” She snatches the photo from me. She studies it, and studies it, and continues studying it for so long that I’m sure she’s going to positively identify the homeless woman. Instead, Destiny hands it back. “No. That’s not her.”
“How do you know?”
She disappears and comes back carrying a framed black-and-white photo of a beautiful woman wearing a scarf tied around her head and holding a baby. “Sorry about that. You took me off guard. This was my mother. She died not long after this picture was taken. I was raised by my grammy.”
“And your father?”
Destiny shrugs. “Never knew him.”
Vaughn glances past her into an empty home. “Is your grammy home?”
“No.” Sadness creeps into her expression. “She passed away last year.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.
“Thank you.”
Vaughn hands her a card. “Hold onto that in case you ever need anything.”
She takes the card, says goodbye, and closes the door.
Back in my SUV, Vaughn says, “She looked at that picture a little too long.”
“Agreed. But, I get it. We took her off guard. She’s not our girl, though.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Play things out. Cathy gets pregnant, has little Destiny, and decides she doesn’t want to be a mommy. She hits the road, leaving Grammy to raise the baby. Grammy decides it’s easier to tell Destiny her deadbeat mother is dead. Then she gives her that photo to remember her by.”
“And if the mother returned?”
“Good point. I guess Grammy was gambling that wouldn’t happen.”
“Nah, Destiny’s not our girl. Did you see the woman with the scarf tied around her head? That was definitely not a young Cathy.”
Vaughn studies the photo I took from the corkboard. “I don’t know, twenty years ago, she was probably a looker. Put a scarf around her head and makeup on her… Or maybe Grammy bought a picture at Target and told Destiny it was her mother.”
I laugh. “Drop it.”
His stomach growls. “You hungry?”
“I can eat.”
We’re a few miles down the road looking for a place to grab a bite when I get a text over Bluetooth.
Lisbeth: Check your inbox.
“What’s in your inbox?” Vaughn asks.
“Information about Rylan Scott’s daughter, Mackenzie.” I fill Vaughn in on the file I found in the shed, the call I had with the foster mother, followed by the video chat with Captain Bacote.
“You do realize it’s not an active case,” my partner says. “Rylan Scott is being executed at the end of this week for a crime he admitted to doing.”
“There are too many holes for me to ignore. Don’t worry, I won’t let it infringe on our investigation into Cathy’s murder. Plus, Rylan Scott did request to see me.”
“You going?”
“I am. Sooner rather than later, for obvious reasons.” I hang a right into a convenience store. We each grab something to go.
As we sit in my SUV eating, I bring up the email from Lisbeth. Attached is the aged photo of Mackenzie Scott. I nearly choke on my granola bar. “Holy shit.” I show it to Vaughn as I dial Lisbeth back.
“What’s up?” she says.
“Can you put bleached hair on the aged Mackenzie, fake lashes, a nose ring, and blue eye shadow?”
“That’s specific.”
“Now.”
“Hang tight.” Her mouse clicking echoes over Bluetooth. “Okay, just sent it.”
The new photo loads. I thank Lisbeth and I hang up.
Dumbfounded, my partner and I stare.
“Mackenzie Scott and Destiny Larson are the same person,” he says.
“Which means if Cathy is her mother, that makes our homeless woman Natalie Scott.” Wife of Rylan and twin sister to Paige Bell.
TWELVE
Tuesday, 3:15 p.m.
Leaving my partner to handle things, I drive into Knoxville to visit Rylan Scott.
I sit in a private room with no cameras. Dressed in a white jumpsuit, Rylan Scott is escorted in by two guards. He’s chained to eyebolts on both the floor and the anchored table between us. The two guards leave.
He breathes out, staring at me through light blue eyes. Destiny has his eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” he says.
I nod.
On the table next to my left hand is the folder from the shed. I’ve yet to determine if I’m going to open it. “I heard just yesterday that you requested to see me. Otherwise, I would’ve been here sooner.”
“I figured.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Scott?”
“If I wrote a letter to my daughter would you give it to her?”
“What makes you think I know where your daughter is?”
“I’m not sure you do, but your grandfather knew. With him being gone, you’re my only shot.”
Sliding the file over, I place my hands on top. He glances down, then back up.
“I’ve thoroughly reviewed your information. I spoke with your daughter’s foster mom from ten years ago. I also chatted with the investigative officer. I’d like to hear everything from your mouth.”
“Why? I’m guilty. I stabbed my sister-in-law, Paige Bell.”
“You pled guilty only after you heard about your daughter, the only witness, being followed. It’s just you and me here. Tell me the truth, please.”
“I don’t know why it matters,” he mumbles.
“It matters to me.”
Rylan looks down at his chained hands. He picks a hangnail. “I knew Cathy was up to no good.”
“Cathy?”
“Natalie Catherine Scott, my wife. Paige had grown up calling her Cathy, so I did as well. Pretty much everyone else knew her as Natalie.” He lifts his gaze back to mine. “She was suddenly flush with money. I didn’t know how she was getting it and she wouldn’t tell me. I figured she was mixed up with the wrong crowd. That kind of stuff only lasts for so long. When I found Paige on that kitchen floor, for one brief second I thought it was Cathy, and I wasn’t surprised. You pissed off the wrong person, I thought. But then I realized it was Paige. Immediately, I dialed emergency. I tried stopping the blood. There was so much of it. I tried CPR, though I didn’t know what I was doing. Hell, I didn’t even know she was already dead. I sure as hell didn’t know Mackenzie was in the bathroom watching the whole thing.
“The cops showed up, then EMT. Before I knew it, I was being handcuffed. My daughter was taken into custody. And my wife was nowhere to be found. A few weeks later Sheriff Brach came to me, told me about Mackenzie being followed, and suggested I plead guilty. I didn’t hesitate. It was clear whoever killed Paige thought he was killing Cathy. With my daughter the only witness, she was in the crosshairs. I asked the sheriff if he could protect Mackenzie. He said he would make sure she remained unseen. Weeks after that he visited me. Told me he’d given my daughter a new identity and a new home. Told me she was safe.
“The first few years he would visit me and show me pictures of Mackenzie. I looked so forward to that. But then he passed and the pictures stopped.” Rylan brightens. “Do you have one?”
“Let me see what I can do about that.” My fingers tap the folder. “Anything else about your wife that you can think of? What did she do for a living? I don’t have a clear picture of that.”
“She was a stripper. Wild and free. We met at the club where she worked. She gave me a lap dance. I was there for a bachelor party. There was something different about her. I fell hard. We married on a whim. Eloped to Vegas. It was only after we got back that I discovered the real her. She tended toward violence, drugs, and alcohol. More than once she punched me. I never punched back. I took it, though. So many times I found her passed out in the bushes leading up to our apartment. I also frequently found her in bed with other men, and women. She stopped partying when she found out she was pregnant. I’ll give her that much. Truth is, I stayed for my daughter. I knew if I left, I’d probably never get to see her again.” He gives a dejected chuckle. “What does it matter? Look where I am?”
His gaze moves past my shoulder. “Cold Steel six-inch tactical folding knife,” he mutters. “I didn’t know what that was. I do now. They found it in my truck, parked right there at the curb. It was covered in Paige’s blood.”
“Can you fill in a gap for me?”
“I don’t want you to prove my innocence, if that’s what you’re hoping. I’m giving my life for my daughter.”
“No ulterior motive. Just a gap.” Opening the folder, I slide out the bold crayon X’s. “Any idea what this is?”
“Mackenzie kept drawing that over and over again. I don’t know what it is. Sorry.”
I put the drawing back.
“Detective Brach, do you have any idea what happened to my wife? She signed over rights to our daughter and disappeared. That was ten years ago. Any idea at all?”
“Let me double-check a couple of things before I answer that question.” For one long moment, I look directly into his eyes, trying to connect with my gut instinct. I don’t necessarily see innocence, but I do see resignation. And fear. “Mr. Scott, I want you to know that I have listened and I have heard you. If you write that letter, I will do everything in my power to get it to your daughter.”
