Cold Case Cover-Up. Virginia Vaughan
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She walked with him to the elevator, her arms curled over her chest and her head low, and stepped inside with hesitation.
“No one’s going to hurt you,” he assured her. “I’m here with you.” He touched her elbow, trying to reassure her, but instantly regretted it as a spark raced up his hand. He had no business noticing how dainty and soft her arm was or breathing in the sweet scent of her shampoo. This woman could ruin his life with one story. He had to remain on his guard around her at all times.
He cleared his throat as he tried to regain his composure and act professionally. “How long have you been in town?”
“I arrived last night,” she told him.
Welcome to West Bend, he thought, hating that this would forever be the image she’d take from his hometown.
The elevator doors slid open and she hesitated a moment before getting out, then let him take the lead as they walked down the hall.
He unlocked her door with the key Milo had given him and pushed it open. Clothes were scattered from a suitcase onto the bed. Drawers were open. Someone had been searching for something, and by the look of the room, he’d been here a while. If he hadn’t stolen anything, it was either because he hadn’t found anything of value, or else that wasn’t the reason he’d come.
He turned and saw a display on the wall of photos and notes, along with the threatening graffiti Dana had mentioned. It looked like she was making an evidence board. He glanced at the date on an Associated Press article about a murder in his hometown and realized it was referencing the Renfield murders, a thirty-year-old cold case.
“Is this all for an upcoming show?” he asked her.
“Sort of. It’s a case that’s recently caught my interest. What do you know about the murders?”
He let his gaze fall back to the wall of what seemed to him random information. Was it possible this was the reason she was in town and it had nothing to do with him? Please, God, please. “Just what I’ve heard throughout the years. Rumors, gossip, folklore, that’s all.”
“Do you think he killed her? Paul Renfield? The article says he killed his wife and child. Do you think he did it?”
He shrugged. “That’s what they say.”
“Did they ever find him? I have the AP article that got picked up, but the local newspaper’s files aren’t online so I don’t really know what happened after the initial report. I had planned on spending this evening digging into the files at the sheriff’s office, but after this, I think I’ll stay in tonight instead.”
He remembered hearing about this case when he was a kid. His grandfather had been the sheriff at the time of the murders and Quinn knew the murder of that mother and little girl had haunted him until his dying day. It was a case he’d never been able to solve. “It was a long time ago.”
He wasn’t really in to having this conversation with her. All he wanted was to take her statement and get out before her radar zeroed in on him. It was too coincidental that she was in his town when Rizzo’s story was splashed all over the news. “It was before my time. I didn’t know any of these people so I can’t really say.”
But as he scanned the wall again, his gaze landed on one of the handwritten notes and he realized he recognized that writing. He pulled it from the wall and read the short missive.
Please take care of this child. She just became an orphan.
“What is it?” she asked him, suddenly alert and beside him, her face anxious with curiosity.
“It looks like my grandfather’s handwriting. He was the sheriff back when the murders happened, so it’s not odd to see his handwriting. I guess it caught me off guard.” He pinned the paper back to the wall.
She stepped closer to him and glanced at the sheet of paper he’d held. “You recognize this handwriting as your grandfather’s? Are you certain? And your grandfather was the sheriff at the time of murders? Sheriff Bill Mackey?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“This note, the one with his handwriting, was left with a child at a church sixty miles from here just days after the murders took place. It was the only clue pointing to who left her, since the preacher didn’t tell the adoptive parents.”
He frowned. What was she talking about? “I’ve never heard that.”
“Few people have.” She locked eyes with him. They were now on fire with excitement. “I don’t think Alicia Renfield died that night at all. I think she was found alive and your grandfather not only knew it, he hid her away and faked her death.”
She was crazy. Or was she so hungry for a story that she would resort to making up nonsense? He shook his head and backed away from her, anger biting at him. His grandfather had been a hero in this town and to him. His death two years ago had rocked Quinn. Her accusations were unthinkable. He grimaced and locked eyes with her, his body now on alert. “Watch what you say about my grandfather. He was a good man. He would never be involved in what you’re accusing him of.”
“You said yourself the handwriting matched.”
He grimaced, then tried to backtrack. “Maybe I was wrong. It could belong to anyone.” He shouldered past her and started to walk out, but he stopped. She was back in town to investigate this murder and it seemed as if she intended to drag his grandfather’s good name through the mud to get her story. “He was a good sheriff, and he was a good man.”
“I’m trying to find out the truth about what happened that night.”
“And you don’t care who you hurt in the process, do you?”
Her eyes widened in surprise at his accusation. “I’m only trying to uncover the truth. My goal isn’t to harm anyone.”
“It doesn’t matter that he’s not here to defend himself anymore?”
She sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to say Sheriff Mackey committed the murders. I only want to find out what he covered up and why. I have a letter from the preacher of the church that says whoever left the child with him believed she was in danger. He died six years ago, so I can’t question him. Besides, your grandfather may be dead, but someone obviously doesn’t want me looking into this.” She pointed at the graffiti on the wall to confirm her words.
She was right. Someone had broken into her room. And this wasn’t a random burglary, either. Whoever it was hadn’t stolen anything, which meant they had either been interrupted before finding what they were looking for, or they just wanted to see what she was investigating and what evidence she had. And they’d come paint-in-hand to warn her off.
She jutted out her chin stubbornly, but he could see the fear reflected in her brown eyes. “I’ll admit I was a little rattled by this, but I won’t be scared off so easily.”
He shouldn’t be allowing her to get under his skin, but he found himself admiring the way she tried to show him a strong front when she was so obviously frightened of what had happened here tonight. It made him want to find who did this, but he knew that was unlikely. “I’ll make a report, but it’s doubtful we’ll catch them. It won’t do much good to run prints since this is a hotel room and we wouldn’t be able to exclude anyone.”
“I understand.” She pulled at the collar of her shirt, a nervous gesture that belied the calm she was trying to show him. “Thank you for coming, Deputy...”
“Dawson,” he said. “Quinn Dawson.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Any relation to Sheriff Dawson?”
He nodded. She’d done her homework. “My father.”
“I see. Law enforcement in this town must be a family matter.”
“My brother, Rich, is also on the force full-time. I’m only a reserve deputy. I fill in whenever I’m