only joined the force last year, but he’d been FBI before that and a marine even before that.
He was, besides Daniel, the only officer willing to tell Tom he “might” be wrong who still, in his naïveté, had a wide-eyed optimism about people.
Tom had been that young once.
“How can you say that with such certainty?” he asked. Turning to Daniel, he added, “And, judging by the way you’ve been banging on the keys of your computer, it’s looking like Heather’s fingerprints are new to the system.”
“No history,” Daniel agreed.
“Has anyone contacted the convenience store clerk for identification? I don’t care if it starts a media storm. I want it done.” Tom hated the way his words sounded—desperate, human, uncertain.
“It’s not the media that’s kept us from doing more,” Daniel said. “It’s the evidence, or should I say lack thereof. Nevertheless, I emailed him her photo. Now we’re waiting for a response.”
“Call him.”
“I did.” Daniel sounded a bit exasperated. “He didn’t answer. Even if he says it’s not—”
“You haven’t proven Heather is not Rachel.” Tom’s words weren’t an accusation, but were simply a statement of fact.
“And you haven’t proven she is.” Daniel looked a little guilty, as if he personally was at fault. But it wasn’t Daniel’s fault that Rachel had avoided being fingerprinted. She’d gotten lucky, more than once, possibly had gotten lucky again today...except now they did have the woman’s, Heather’s, fingerprints.
Tom glanced out the window and watched Father Joe shut the passenger side door and walk to the driver’s side of his truck. Before opening his door, he looked up and his eyes locked with Tom’s.
Father Joe was getting old, soft. And right now, he looked a little distressed. Not a look Tom had seen on Father Joe.
“I wonder why Father Joe is getting involved?” Daniel said.
“I’m going to find out,” Tom promised. What Tom wanted to know, more than anything, was why Bianca had called Joe instead of coming herself. She’d never been one to shy away from a sticky situation, and apparently she liked Heather.
One thing Tom couldn’t argue, Joe was the kind of preacher who greeted everyone as if they were already friends and wouldn’t know a foe if the person outright threatened him. That didn’t mean Joe wasn’t smart, though. The friend-rather-than-foe attitude had alleviated more dangerous situations than Tom’s badge and gun ever had.
Joe’s presence had diffused this one. The other cops went back to work as Joe drove Heather away from the station, and Tom turned to head back to his office.
“Think of it this way,” Daniel said. “In my quest to prove she’s not Rachel, I just might prove she is. Except for that height thing.”
Tom wished he didn’t have to listen to logic. He wanted time alone, time to think, time to look into just when Heather Graves arrived in town, where she was working and what friends she’d already made.
“I don’t think you’re listening to me,” Daniel complained.
“I’m listening,” Tom murmured, watching as Joe and Heather disappeared into traffic.
Tom started to get irritated but then noticed how intently Daniel studied his computer. “You got something?” Tom finally asked.
“I do,” Daniel said. “There’s quite a few things to think about when it comes to this case. Let’s face it. The resemblance between Rachel and Heather, it’s uncanny.”
“They have to be related.” Tom walked over and stood behind the captain.
Daniel nodded. “That’s what we need to investigate.” He hit a few more buttons and Heather’s photo shrunk to half the page. Then, Daniel arranged the grainy shots of Rachel—the most recent they had, taken at the convenience store the day Max died—next to Heather. After a moment, he shrunk the two photos so they took up a third of the screen. Then, photo after photo appeared in the center box, hundreds, before finally, one froze in place. The woman was blonde, but it looked poorly dyed. Her hair was short and jaggedly cut, but there was something about the turn of the head, the way the older woman’s chin jutted out, the somewhat pointy eyebrows.
“This, my friend,” Daniel said, as if Tom needed a reminder, “is Rachel Ramsey’s mother.”
“Was,” Tom reminded him.
Diane Ramsey had a fairly extensive rap sheet and Tom had followed her through Sarasota Falls’s underbelly, sometimes to arrest her, but most often to keep an eye out for her daughter. Diane had changed her hair color weekly, wore wild clothes, although nothing cosmetic could hide her battle with drugs and alcohol.
Rachel Ramsey had been a pretty girl. It was anyone’s guess if she took after her mother.
Daniel worked his magic with the computer, going through dozens of photos of Heather Graves, who had a web presence. The officer enlarged, shrunk, stretched, sharpened. Then, he said, “This one.”
“Got it.”
“Yes!” And the image of an older woman appeared onscreen, again blonde, but not poorly dyed, this lady had a tired but happy smile on her face.
Finally, satisfied with his findings, Daniel said, “Heather’s mother, taken from her driver’s license. Now we have Heather’s photos and fingerprints, and I’m sure Diane’s DNA is still in the system. We should run a comparison.”
Tom agreed. “Anything to get us closer to catching a killer.”
A CATHOLIC PRIEST. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a big white truck being driven by a priest. She felt the need to confess but didn’t know for what or even how.
“Thank you so much for getting me out of there. Why did you do that? How did you know?” she finally asked.
“Miss Bianca asked me to.”
Heather nodded. She’d figured out the owner of the bed-and-breakfast liked to help her guests, but this went a bit beyond common courtesy.
“I want to know everything,” Father Joe McCoy said. “What happened?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Heather admitted. “One minute I was driving, taking a scenic tour, sort of looking for Turner’s farm.”
“It would be closed. The Turners had a honey booth in the festival.”
“That’s where I picked up their brochure with directions to their farm. I was a bit lost. Then, suddenly, I notice a cop behind me—the chief of police, no less—and soon he has his siren on and is motioning me to the side of the road.
“Were you speeding?”
“Maybe a little, which is unusual for me. I slow down for yellow lights.”
“As you should,” he agreed.
“He thought I was someone named Rachel Ramsey. Do I look a lot like her?”
Father Joe didn’t answer but clutched the steering wheel, white-knuckled, reminding her of the way Chief Riley had acted while driving her to the police station.
“Do you know her?”
For a moment, she didn’t think he would answer.
“Rachel,” he said, turning into Bart’s Auto Repair and Towing, “is a young woman born and bred in Sarasota Falls who is a few years younger than you, and who has made a few poor choices.” After a moment, he amended, “More than a few.”
“I