The Missing Hour Read online

  In fact, the man had both a fair bit of class and a reassuring manner. He’d almost convinced her he was approaching this case with an open mind—even though she knew darn well he wanted to come along to dinner because he was afraid of what might happen if her father was guilty.

  She tried to ignore the chill that began creeping up her spine. Her father wasn’t guilty.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and wished, yet again, she didn’t have this tiny nagging fear he might be.

  Finally, Cole closed the folder, put it on his desk and sat down in the chair beside hers.

  The scent of his aftershave was slightly woodsy and decidedly masculine, and she liked it so much she was tempted to ask what it was. Brian had a birthday coming up.

  But it was the sort of question some men would read more into than they should, and since she had no idea whether Cole was that type of man, she kept quiet.

  “Okay,” he said, ‘‘those articles gave me a better picture. And, luckily, I know Frank Abbot, the detective who was in charge of the investigation. He’s retired now, but he’s still living in Toronto, so I’ll call and see if we can get together with him tomorrow.”

  “You think he’ll see us that fast?”

  “Probably. Unless he’s tied up. Ex-cops love to tell war stories about their old cases.”

  She nodded, glad that Cole was filling her in. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her working with him, but since he’d agreed to it he apparently intended to make the best of things.

  “But Abbot will definitely be one of the people who’ll ask why we’re looking into this after all these years. So what have you come up with?”

  “Well, I think for the most part I could tell people the truth. I could explain that I started having nightmares, and that I asked Mark to help me try to remember if I’d actually seen the murder or not. And maybe…What if I said I did finally remember seeing it? But that the killer’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see his face.”

  “No, that won’t work. You did see his face, so—”

  “No, I saw my father’s face. And that couldn’t have been right.”

  “Hold on. Your uncle said your memory might not be accurate. So, for the moment, let’s not worry about whose face you saw.”

  Eyeing Cole uncertainly, she tried to decide if he honestly believed her memory could be confused. She knew that Mark didn’t. For all he was saying he simply wanted to get at the truth, he was sure he already had it. The only thing he wanted now was enough evidence to put her father behind bars.

  “The point I was making,” Cole continued, “was that you did see a face. So the killer was facing the attic door, right?”

  The scene flashed into her mind once more, making her shiver.

  “Yes,” she said. “Larisa was the one whose back was to the stairs.”

  “And that would have been obvious to the crime scene investigators.”

  “Then…how about I say his face wasn’t clear in my memory? That it was a blur. But that since I’ve finally remembered I did see the murder, Mark thinks talking to people about it might help me recall the details more clearly—and I might eventually be able to describe the killer.”

  A smile slowly spread across Cole’s face. “Hey, not bad. Not bad at all. That gives us a believable reason for Mark’s having hired me. You needed an experienced investigator to figure out who you should be talking to, and to kind of pave the way for you.”

  Beth could feel her face growing warm. A compliment was the last thing she’d expected.

  “You might turn out to be Nancy Drew, after all,” he added. Then his smile faded and his expression grew serious. “But look, there’s something we’ve got to talk about before we take this any further. If the killer was somebody Larisa knew…”

  “The police didn’t think he was. Mark told you that—they concluded he was an unknown intruder.”

  “Well, what they say for public consumption isn’t always true. Sometimes, they’re certain who committed a crime and just don’t have proof.

  “At any rate, if the killer did know Larisa, and if he finds out we’re asking questions…Beth, you have realized that by getting actively involved, you could be putting yourself in danger?”

  “Well…yes,” she said, although she hadn’t really given the possibility much thought. She’d assumed the police had believed the killer was a stranger. And a stranger would have no idea what she was up to after all these years.

  “I guess it’s just a risk I’ll have to take, isn’t it?” she said, trying not to let Cole see how nervous he’d made her feel.

  He shook his head. “I could talk to people on my own, without even mentioning your name—just say that some new evidence has come to light.”

  For a moment, she was tempted. But she’d loved Larisa. And, as Mark had said, she did want to see the killer brought to justice. And maybe, if she talked to these people in person—whoever they all turned out to be—she’d recall something important. Where-as, if she only heard things secondhand, from Cole, she might not.

  So she had to be involved. She owed it to Larisa. And to Mark. And to her father. Especially to him. After all, recalling him as the killer had been nothing less than accusing him of the crime. And the only way she could make up for that was to remember the face she’d really seen.

  “Beth?”

  “I still want to play an active role,’’ she said quietly. “I feel as if I’ve opened a huge can of worms, and I can’t just walk away from it”

  Clearly, Cole didn’t like her decision. He stood up, walked over to the window, then turned and looked back at her from there.

  But instead of arguing, he said, “All right, then that’s the way we’ll handle it. And the first thing I need is for you to tell me—in precise detail—about this image you saw last night. Tell me exactly what you recalled.”

  “Mark already told you,” she said, the prospect of having to go over it, yet again, making her throat dry.

  “Yes, but I need to hear it in your own words.”

  Actively inviting that scene to replay once more was the last thing she wanted to do. But she took a couple of slow, deep breaths, then began.

  “The door at the bottom of the stairs was closed. And I could hear Larisa talking to someone. The other voice was muffled, but she was talking loudly, almost shrilly. I guess because she was terrified.”

  “Go on,” Cole said when she paused.

  Her heart began to hammer as the scene unfolded further. “I opened the door. Only enough to see a little. And just as I did…Oh, Cole, it was so awful! He started stabbing Larisa, over and over again. And…”

  Her entire body froze. The colors were back, flashing crimson and white and blackish green.

  “Oh, Lord,” she whispered.

  “What?” Cole demanded.

  “Oh, Lord. I just remembered more.”

  As BETH’S WORDS sank in, Cole strode rapidly across his office and sat down beside her once more—hesitating for half a second, then taking her hands in his.

  It might not be professional protocol, but she was ghostly white and trembling. Whatever more she’d remembered had obviously shaken the hell out of her.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re safe.”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured, still looking scared to death.

  He simply sat there for a minute, the scent of her perfume making him think of a spring meadow, then said, “Can you talk about it?”

  “I—Just give me another few seconds. It really rattled me, but I guess it’s a good thing. That more’s coming back, I mean.”

  “I guess.” He gave her hands a reassuring squeeze, then released them - and sat back—very aware, once again, of how appealing he found her. She was obviously going to be the acid test of his rule about not mixing business with pleasure.

  Eventually, she managed a weak smile. “I’m okay. And something else makes sense now.”

  He nodded for her to continue.

  “Mark did
n’t mention this, but after I’d been having the nightmares for a while, I started having flashes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d see sudden flashes of color—not part of the nightmares, but while I was awake. At first, they were always red and white. Then, sometimes, there’d be dark green ones.

  “I was sure they had something to do with the murder, and after last night, after the memory surfaced, I knew the red ones were blood. There was blood everywhere in that hall.”

  Cole nodded once more. Niebuhr hadn’t gone into detail, but the articles had talked about multiple stab wounds.

  “There was blood everywhere,” Beth repeated, as if to herself.

  It made his chest feel tight. She’d been only eight years old, and a violent murder wasn’t something even an adult should have to witness.

  “It happened a long time ago,” he said gently.

  “I know. But…it must be because I never remembered before, but it seems as if it only happened yesterday. And it was…oh, Cole, it was like a horror movie. The killer would stab her, then all I’d see for an instant was a flash of red on white. But the green ones…Now I know what they were. And what the white was, too.”

  He waited, wishing again that he knew more about this recovered memory stuff. Maybe there were things he should be saying that would help, but he didn’t have a clue.

  “A garbage bag,” she whispered at last. “A dark green plastic garbage bag. Larisa was lying on the floor, covered in blood. And the killer pulled a green garbage bag from the pocket of his bathrobe.”

  He’d been wearing a bathrobe? Or was this something else that might not be accurate? “Beth? Did you tell your uncle how the murderer was dressed?”

  She gazed at him for a minute, then shook her head. “I only remembered that now. It was a white terry-cloth bathrobe. And it got covered in blood. Last night, all I really saw was him stabbing her. And the blood on Larisa.”

  And your father’s face, Cole almost said. He stopped himself, though. She was having a bad enough time already.

  “He took off the bathrobe,’’ she murmured.

  Cole’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

  “That’s what the garbage bag was for. He took off the robe and put it in the bag. The knife, as well.”

  “You mean you saw him standing there stark naked?”

  “No, not quite. He was wearing briefs. And sneakers and socks.”

  “Sneakers,” Cole repeated.

  “I…” She shook her head. “I remember white sneakers, covered in blood. And long black socks. And then…”

  “And then?” he prompted when she didn’t go on.

  “And then I don’t know. The last thing I remember is him standing there in his underwear and sneakers, holding the garbage bag and staring down at La-risa’s body.”

  As much as he didn’t want to ask, he had to. “And in this new part you’ve remembered—is the killer’s face clear in it?”

  Beth eyed him uneasily. “Remember what you said earlier? That, for the moment, we weren’t going to worry about whose face I saw?”

  “You’re right. And we won’t.”

  She looked at him for another few seconds, then slowly shrugged. “Okay, yes. It was my father’s again. But that only gets us back to the fact that my memory’s confused.”

  Cole nodded. But what if it wasn’t?

  Chapter Four

  Cole waited, not wanting to press, until Beth finally went on.

  “You know, Mark told me I might gradually remember more—and that if I did, the fresh details should help correct any inaccuracies.

  “And he said I should tell him, right away, if I recall anything else. But if I do, he’ll ask exactly what you did. Whether it was still my father’s face I saw.”

  “So you’re thinking about not saying anything?’’

  She nodded. “He’s already convinced my father’s guilty. That must have been obvious to you. And if I add any fuel to the fire…Well, I think that, sooner or later, he would go to the police on his own. And if he did…”

  Pausing, she gazed at Cole, her eyes filled with worry. “What if the police asked you about this case? Are you like a lawyer? Is there client privilege involved here?”

  “Not exactly,” he admitted.

  That, he could see, made her even more worried.

  “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

  “It means that if the police came asking questions, I’d do my darnedest to keep things confidential, that I wouldn’t volunteer anything I figured was against my client’s best interests.”

  “But what if they asked you point-blank questions? Yes-or-no questions? Like whether or not I’d said it was my father’s face I’d remembered seeing?”

  He was tempted to lie, knowing that if he did she’d stop looking so damned anxious. But he made a point of being straight with his clients.

  “I’d have to tell the truth,” he finally said. “I’m required to cooperate with the police. I know how far I can work around that without endangering my license, but I’d never downright lie to them.

  “So, look, maybe you’re right. If you don’t want them involved, you’d probably be smarter not to tell Mark you’ve recalled anything more. But there’s something I want you to consider.”

  “What?”

  “That maybe this latest bit you’ve remembered means you should get the police involved.”

  “No, I—”

  “Listen to me a minute, okay? Because if that memory was accurate, I think it blows the unknown-intruder theory right out of the water.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth, a nervous gesture that made him wish to hell he’d never agreed to her being involved in this.

  At the moment, he had no way of knowing how many of the details she was recalling were accurate. But if even a fair number of them were, she could be getting in way beyond her depth by working with him. So his best move had to be convincing her of that—which meant explaining how he had things figured. Without pulling any punches.

  “You remember the killer wearing a bathrobe,” he said. “Do you think your garden-variety break-and-enter artist wanders around town in a bathrobe? With a garbage bag to stash the robe in if it gets bloodstained? Because he might just happen to encounter someone in a house and kill him…or her?

  “Beth, if you’re remembering things the way they really were, we aren’t talking about a random break-in and a spur-of-the-moment murder. Someone went into your aunt’s house with the intention of killing her, and took off the clothes he was wearing before he did it, so he wouldn’t have to leave covered in blood.

  “And if it was a planned murder, that raises the odds on this being a dangerous investigation to a whole different level.”

  COLE DIALED FRANK ABBOT’S number, hoping to hell the man was home. Abbot was the type who’d remember every detail about every murder case he’d investigated—which meant that the sooner they could meet with him, the better.

  As the phone began to ring, he glanced over at Beth, thinking she might be the most obstinate woman he’d ever known. Any sensible person would have changed her mind about working with him the first time he’d mentioned the word danger, let alone when he’d told her he figured Larisa had been specifically targeted for murder.

  But Beth was hanging in with bulldog tenacity, so all he could do was hope she’d soon realize she shouldn’t be trying to play out of her league.

  When Frank finally answered his phone, they spent a couple of minutes on social pleasantries. Then Cole got down to the purpose of the call and explained that Beth had remembered seeing the murder.

  “After all this time,” Frank said, a tinge of excitement in his voice.

  “Yeah, amazing, eh? And since she has, Dr. Nie-buhr’s hired me to poke around a bit with her—see if anything we might turn up prods her memory even more. So, if you wouldn’t mind talking to us, it would be a big help.”

  “Hell, I wouldn’t mind in the least. You kn
ow how it is. The cases you don’t solve keep nagging at you. And homicides are the worst for it. So sure, if you figure there’s a chance of learning something new after all these years, I’ll be glad to talk to you.

  “The only thing is, it’ll have to be either this evening or tomorrow morning. The wife and I are booked on a flight to Calgary tomorrow afternoon. One of our daughters is out there, and she’s just had a baby.”

  “Well, hey, congratulations. And I’m sure glad I got hold of you before you left. But we’re tied up tonight, so if you’re not going to be pressed for time in the morning, that would be great.”

  “Sure, it’s probably better all around. It’ll give me a chance to look at my notes on the case tonight—refresh my memory.”

  “And you’ll feel okay about sharing some of the details with us?”

  “Why not? Even if the big brass found out and didn’t like it, what could they do? Fire me?”

  Cole laughed. “Well, I really appreciate this, because I’ve read some of the newspaper articles from around the time of the murder, and they’re awfully light on facts.”

  “Yeah…well…there were some pretty bizarre things about the case—made it one of the ones you don’t want to release much information about.”

  Before Cole could ask Abbot to elaborate on that, he said, “So how about you come to the house around nine-thirty? I’m on Roselawn, just west of Duplex.”

  Cole jotted down the house number Abbot gave him, then thanked him and hung up.

  “We’re on for nine-thirty in the morning,” he told Beth.

  She smiled—a wan smile that said she had a whole lot more mixed feelings about working with him than she’d had earlier.

  He waited, giving her a chance to say she’d reconsidered.

  She didn’t

  THE TRAFFIC ON KING Street West was moving at a snail’s pace, and as Cole inched his Mustang along, Beth was feeling more and more uneasy.

  On warm summer evenings like this, the restaurant patios sprawling out onto the sidewalk were crowded with people enjoying the late rays of sun. But at the moment, she doubted she could enjoy anything on earth.

  All she seemed able to do was think about the fact that, first thing tomorrow, they’d be meeting with Frank Abbot. She was glad, of course, that he was going to help them. But actually having an appointment to see him made this situation far more real to her—and more than a little scarier.