Dark Truth (5 page)

S
ix

“So, did you get a chance to talk to Regan? What’s she thinking about working on next?” Phoebe stood in the doorway of Nina’s office.

“She has several ideas she’s kicking around. Any one of them would be great. We agreed we’d talk about it again,” Nina told her.

“When?” Phoebe leaned a hip against the doorjamb.

“Soon.”

“She’s coming up for contract. Let’s see if we can nail her down. I don’t want to lose her.”

“I’d be very surprised if that happened.”

“Surprised and unemployed.” Phoebe smiled and continued her walk down the hall.

Well, that was subtle,
Nina thought as she went through the current profit-and-loss statements that she’d found in her
IN
bin that morning. Phoebe’s title may have been director of marketing, but everyone at Griffin knew she was just a few months away from being named publisher. The current president of the company had been hired by Phoebe’s grandfather, who’d groomed him for the job, but Phoebe, as majority stockholder, had made it known that she expected to take the reins come the first of the new year.

Nina wasn’t worried about Regan, who’d always proven herself to be a straight shooter. If Regan was restless, she’d have said something when Nina was in Maryland. Of course, there was always the possibility that another publisher could come along and dangle a huge contract in her face, but Nina would be surprised if Regan jumped ship. For one thing, she didn’t think Regan needed the money, nor did she think that her author’s head could be turned by big numbers. She’d already proven that she valued loyalty when she insisted on working only with Nina, rather than with Carlos, who was the big-name editor at Griffin.
No,
Nina told herself,
Regan is solid.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to keep in touch.

Nina smiled grimly. Who was she kidding? She was dying to talk to Regan, and it had nothing to do with her upcoming contract.

Since discovering the letter from her father to Olivia, Nina had been haunted. She’d barely thought of anything else.

What to do about the letter? How could she find out if in fact her father was right? Could Olivia really have been involved in those murders? What was the evidence her father spoke of, and where was it now? And even if it was true that Olivia, not her father, was guilty—then what?

And what of Kyle? How could she face him if she was actively trying to prove that his mother—not her father—was a murderer?

And how in the name of God could Olivia have been the Stone River Rapist?

Nina knew she was in way over her head. She didn’t even know where to begin to unravel the mess she’d found when she’d read that letter. She’d been tormented for the past week. It tortured her to think that, if her father had been innocent, she’d turned her back on him and had rejected his every attempt to contact her after his arrest. If she somehow found a way to prove or disprove his accusations, there’d be consequences that she—and others—would have to live with. Did she really want to reopen those old wounds?

Then there was the matter of the letter her father had left for her. She still wasn’t ready to read that.

Chiding herself for her cowardice, she swiveled around in her chair so that she was facing the one tall, narrow window that graced her office. Outside, clouds were gathering, making good on the weather forecast for more rain. All over the city, the lights in the buildings seemed to glow brighter in the growing dark of late afternoon. Nina moved the chair closer to the window, and watched the clouds roll closer as the storm approached.

If she tried to ignore what she’d found, it would always be in the back of her mind. It would never go away, and she’d always be wondering. She’d never know the truth.

Without giving herself the opportunity to change her mind, Nina reached for the phone and dialed the number in Maryland.

“Regan, hi. It’s Nina. Listen, I was wondering if you had a free day or two this week . . .”

“So, what’s this case you stumbled over that you think I might be interested in looking in to?” Regan tossed another small log onto the fire in her cozy sitting room. She’d welcomed Nina warmly, insisted on having her stay there in the house with her instead of at the B and B down the road, and had a wonderful lunch waiting for Nina when she arrived earlier that afternoon. The prior week’s warm streak—not quite Indian summer, but close—had come to its inevitable end, bringing with it the clear chill of November. The cord of wood Regan had ordered last week had arrived just that morning, and she’d brought enough into the house to last for a day or so. She’d started the fire right after lunch, and brought their coffee and dessert into the comfortable room off the kitchen. It was her favorite room in the house, with book-lined shelves and deep-cushioned chairs.

She draped a cashmere throw over the arm of her guest’s chair before she snuggled into her favorite seat.

“This is a wonderful room.” Nina looked around admiringly. “No wonder it’s your favorite place. It would be mine, too, if I lived here.”

“I spend more time in here than I do anywhere else in the house. I read here; sometimes I work here on a laptop. I love the view of the bay through the big window there, and I love the little fireplace.” Regan smiled. “I’m always comfortable here.”

“A warm fire, a cushy place to sit and put your feet up. Good coffee—fabulous coconut cake. I’m not going to want to go back to New York.”

“Hey, fine with me. I love the company. And we can justify your stay by talking about work. I have any number of future projects. We can pick one each day and discuss it. By the time we’ve exhausted my proposals, spring will be sprung.”

“I like the way you think.” Nina tucked her feet under her and sipped her coffee.

“But right now let’s talk about this case you said you heard about. Something about someone being convicted of a crime they’ve accused someone else of having committed?”

“Here are the bare bones.” Nina switched into editorial mode, presenting the scenario as she might propose a book to the staff at Griffin Publishing. “A college professor is arrested and charged with raping and murdering four coeds. He’s tried and convicted, gets the death penalty. He appeals his conviction, and while on the way to court, the prison van he’s riding in flips over, and he’s killed.”

“Saves the state a few bucks,” Regan murmured.

“I imagine a lot of people were thinking that exact thing at the time. Now, jump forward . . .”

“How many years?”

“Oh, fifteen, sixteen or so.” Nina shrugged as if vague on the time frame. “Someone finds a letter the professor had written to his wife accusing
her
of having killed the girls.”

“How could that be?” Regan frowned. “I thought you said the victims were raped and murdered. Why would he have accused her?”

“He says something in the letter about having found the evidence she’d hidden, about how he knew what the brown stains on the handle were . . .”

“The girls were all stabbed, then?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“So he writes this letter, says he’s going to spill what he knows, or what he thinks he knows?”

“No.” Nina shook her head. “Just the opposite. He says he knows that his infidelities—he’d apparently slept with each of these girls, probably many others—caused her to do what she did, so he’ll take the blame for her crimes.”

“That’s noble of him. But why write the letter?”

“I’m guessing to let her know that he knew, and to let her know that he felt responsible for what she did, and that he loved her enough to take the punishment for her. And he also asked her to talk to this priest they knew. To ask for absolution for her sins so that she could be forgiven.”

“Wow. That’s some guy.” Regan set her cup down on the table that stood between her chair and Nina’s. “I’ve never heard a story like this one. It has everything. Murder, sex, romance, intrigue. The possibility of a wrongful conviction, a jealous wife. A wandering husband . . .”

She stared into the fire for a long minute, then said, “I like it. This one has real possibilities. Where can I find out more?”

“Ah, I’m not sure.” Nina was suddenly uncomfortable.

“Well, where did you get your information from? Where’d you hear the story?”

“I read it someplace, some time ago, and it just stayed with me, I guess.”

“I guess I could track it on the Internet,” Regan murmured.

“How would you go about getting information on the case? I mean, once you had the name of the person who was convicted, you could enter the name and pull up all the news articles, I guess.” Nina felt a flush begin to creep up from her collar. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought to do that.

“That’s the easy part. Yes, you’d read it, but you make notes as you go along. You know, who the defense attorney was, who prosecuted the case. Who testified at trial. Who the arresting officers were, the witnesses.” Regan reached for her coffee. “You interview everyone you can find—hopefully the key players are still alive and well and can be found—and you get your hands on the old police reports. What evidence did they have that led to a conviction? What evidence did they have that they concluded the victims were all raped? What was the cause of death?”

Nina turned to the window, afraid of what would show on her face.

“I’m assuming the police already know about this letter, right?” Regan was asking.

“I, ah, I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“Who has the letter?”

“I think a relative.”

“Of the professor?”

“Yes.” Nina cleared her throat. “At least, that was what I understood.”

“And no one else has seen it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then who wrote the article?”

“What?”

“The article you read about this case. If only one person has seen the letter, I’d have to assume the person who wrote the article was the relative who had the letter.”

“I suppose.” Nina nodded. “That makes sense.”

“So why hasn’t this person gone to the police with the letter? Wouldn’t you think that that would be the first thing they’d do?” Regan turned to her. “If it was someone in your family, wouldn’t you want his name cleared as soon as possible?”

“Yes, I do.” She caught herself. “I mean, I would. Of course I would.”

“What was his name?”

“His name?”

“The professor. I want to pull up everything I can find about him, but I need his name.”

“I . . . I don’t remember his name.”

Nina could feel Regan’s eyes studying her. She should have anticipated this, should have realized that Regan would not be content with supposition. She’d want to go straight to the source and find every scrap of information possible about the case. Suddenly, Nina felt uncomfortable, trapped.

“It’s really going to be tough to work on this without knowing the names of any of the players, Nina.” Regan spoke nonchalantly, but Nina knew there was nothing casual about Regan’s curiosity.

She was debating whether to tell her the truth when the phone rang.

Yay,
Nina thought. Saved by the bell, literally. She immediately began to think of ways to distract Regan when she completed her call. Maybe she could suggest that they watch a movie. Or go for a walk . . . or shopping . . .

Regan glanced at the caller ID.

“Oh, good. It’s Mitch.” Her face brightened.

Whoever Mitch was, Nina was thinking, he certainly put a smile on Regan’s face. She tried to recall what Regan had said about this new man in her life.

“Hey. Hi,” Regan said as she answered the phone. “How are you?”

Regan toyed with her spoon as she listened to the caller.

“I didn’t forget. Why not pick me up on Friday, and we’ll drive up together? That would be fine. Hey, Mitch? While I have you on the phone . . . I could use those expert computer skills of yours. Not to mention that super-fab FBI equipment . . .”

Nina froze in her seat, recalling the conversation she’d had with Regan a few weeks ago. Her heart sank as it all came back to her. Mitch was a special agent with the FBI.

She gnawed at her fingernails as she listened to Regan repeating the facts she’d shared earlier, and chastised herself for being so stupid. How could she have thought for one moment that Regan wouldn’t be able to trace the case? What would she think of her once she found out the truth? Would she ask for another editor? How could someone like Regan, who’d had such a wonderful and open relationship with her own father, possibly understand Nina’s situation?

Still chatting, Regan rose and took her coffee cup into the kitchen. She turned in the doorway and mouthed the words,
Would you like a refill?
to Nina, who shook her head to decline.

From the next room, Nina could hear scraps of Regan’s conversation. She and Mitch were obviously discussing various ways to prove or disprove the allegations made in the professor’s letter. Nina’s stomach was in knots. She stood up and went into the hall and grabbed her jacket from the newel post where Regan had laid it earlier. She slid her arms into the sleeves, and went out through the front door. Kicking through the leaves that had fallen from the lone oak tree behind the garage, she walked around the house and followed the walk down to the dock. She stood and watched the fog roll in from the bay, and tried to sort out her feelings.

On the one hand, what would it matter if Regan knew the truth? They were friends, weren’t they? Hadn’t they been friends long enough that something like this should make no difference in their relationship?

Nina tried to put herself in Regan’s place. Would she feel any differently about Regan if Josh Landry had been a killer instead of a talented writer?

Of course she would not. Why couldn’t she trust Regan to be as steadfast in her friendship?

She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Regan coming toward her. Maybe she should just tell her, right now, and get it over with. All she had to do was open her mouth, and say . . .

“Hey, Mitch is going to run some of the info you gave me through his computers and see what he comes up with.” Regan was all smiles. “Oh, damn, look there. The moorings on the boat are coming loose. Could you give me a hand with the ropes, Nina? Good thing you came down here. I’d have hated to jump in to go chasing it across the bay.”