“Sheila Murphy.” Darren Nolte was still sharp.
“Yes.”
“This isn’t Brandon Murphy, is it?” the retired sergeant asked suspiciously.
“No, I’m his younger brother, Zach.”
“I thought you said your name was Carter?”
“I ended up adopted by a stepfather.”
“Why in hell are you asking questions about this now?” He didn’t sound real thrilled with the opportunity to reminisce. “It’s too late, son. And what makes you think you’d like anything you learn?”
“I want the truth, whether I like it or not,” Zach said flatly. “It’s my understanding you think our father killed her.”
“That’s my best guess.” The gruff voice softened, just a little. “Couldn’t prove it.”
“So I understand. Will you tell me why you focused on him? And who else you looked at?”
After a long pause Nolte said grudgingly, “Suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” He started talking, picking up steam as he went.
Zach jotted in the notepad he held on his lap. Not very many notes, though. It became clear to him right away that then-detective Nolte had zeroed in on a preferred subject right away.
When Zach asked why, Nolte said, “Best opportunity, and, I got to tell you, I had the feeling he was lying to me then.”
He was right. Michael Murphy had lied to him. He hadn’t slept through the night, the way he’d insisted to investigators he had. Maybe he’d lied because he’d committed a terrible crime. But it was always possible he’d been afraid if the detectives knew he’d been up at any point, they’d be more likely to suspect him. People were stupid that way, Zach had long since discovered.
“I’m assuming you knew that my mother had had affairs,” Zach said bluntly.
“You kids knew?” Nolte sounded appalled.
“I didn’t at the time. Bran did. He tried to tell me and I accused him of being a liar. But I lived with her for another nine years, you know. She’s remarried several times, but she never stays for long.”
The sergeant harrumphed. “We knew. She never admitted to it, but we came up with a couple of names. Neighbors and coworkers notice things like that, you know.”
“I do. I’ve been a detective for a couple of years now.”
“Have you? Where?”
“Portland. I’ve taken a job recently with the Harris County Sheriff’s Department because I wanted to look into Sheila’s death.” He looked down to see that he was drilling a hole through several pages with the nib of the pen. Cool as a cucumber, that was him. “Do you remember the names of either of those men?”
“Good God, it’s been twenty-five years!”
“Big case and one you never closed. You can’t tell me you don’t still think about it sometimes.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Hell, yeah, I’ve thought about it. Truth is I knew one of the men. Kind of shocked me. I’d met his wife, too. Nice lady.”
“Did he stay married?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have to make any claims, and I didn’t have any other reason to see him. At the time, we interviewed him real quietly. She never knew anything about it.” He sighed. “Duane Womack. Insurance agent. I guess he handled your parents’ auto and homeowner insurance. Mine, too.”
“What did he say when you interviewed him?”
“That it was none of our damn business but that he was with his wife. What else? He says he and your mother always met during the day. He’d take a long lunch hour. Being married, neither of them ever tried for an evening date or an overnight.”
“Had he met Sheila?”
“A couple of times,” he said. Now the sergeant sounded uncomfortable. “Commented she was a pretty little girl.”
The hair on the back of Zach’s neck prickled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZACH MENTALLY REPLAYED what the retired detective had just told him.
One of the men his mother had been seeing on the side had gone out of his way to comment on how pretty a six-year-old girl had been, only days after some sicko had raped and strangled her?
If the investigators had been any kind of cops at all, that should have sent off burning hot flares for them.