Full Tilt

“Of course, if it helps.”

“It would,” he said. “We’ll get someone from the state forensic unit to do a cheek swab once we’re done.”

As the time passed, Brennan consulted his notes and asked Kate more about her family history, if she recalled any connection to Rampart, or Carl Nelson.

“No, there’s none. I’ve never been here until today.”

“Does this man register with you in any way, Kate?”

Brennan showed her an enlarged color photocopy taken from a New York State driver’s license. Icy eyes glared from the face of a fully bearded man, in his late forties, who evoked a cross between the Unabomber and Charles Manson. A chill climbed up Kate’s spine as she sensed something seething just beneath the surface.

Is this the last face Vanessa saw?

Kate memorized his address, 57 Knox Lane, Rampart.

“No, I’ve never seen him before. He’s not familiar to me in any way,” she said. “Is this the man who died in the fire?”

“We’re confident it is, but we’re awaiting positive confirmation from the pathologist.”

“What do you think the relationship was between Carl Nelson and my sis—the woman who died in the fire?”

“That’s under investigation.”

After the detectives ended the interview, they watched as a technician from the forensic unit used a cotton-tipped swab to scrape Kate’s inner cheek. Then Kate signed papers concerning her DNA sample and the necklace. Before leaving, she asked the detectives to direct her to the scene.

“It’s still being processed,” Brennan said.

“So?”

“We’d prefer you didn’t go there—you can’t see anything from the highway.”

“Can you take me out there?”

Kate looked both detectives in the eyes.

“We’re sorry, we can’t do that,” Brennan said.

“Why not? Haven’t I helped you?”

“We need to protect the integrity of the investigation and we ask that you keep our discussion confidential. We trust you understand.”

“Sure, I get it. You wanted me up here just to help you.”

“No, it’s not like that. We know how difficult this must be for you, but as a reporter you understand that we have to be careful with how things proceed.”

“I get it.” Kate gathered her bag and exchanged cards with Brennan and Dickson. “How long before you can confirm the identity of the woman?”

“There’s no telling,” Dickson said. “The challenge is the condition and the fact the pathologist’s office is backlogged with other cases.”

“Kate,” Brennan said. “Go home. We appreciate your help, and what you’re going through.”

“I don’t think you do, Ed. Either my sister died twenty years ago, or lived two decades without me knowing before she died two days ago. That’s what I’m going through.”

8 (#ulink_71714dc5-467a-5009-9c92-1ce06f1134cb)

Rampart, New York

Kate used the aerial news photo and the Chevy’s GPS to get her bearings for the burial grounds at the edge of town.

She needed to see the crime scene.

She’d deserved that much from Brennan and Dickson.

But she should never have expected it.

From her years of reporting Kate knew that detectives were fiercely protective of their investigations. They had to be so that cases didn’t fall apart when they got to court.

But this is my life.

Brennan could’ve taken her to the scene. She’d helped him and he could’ve done the same for her. She’d paid for the right to know what had happened to her sister—she’d paid for it the moment her hand had slipped from hers in that cold mountain river.

Screw Brennan.

Kate had endured too much and come too far not to find the truth, especially now when she was this close to it. She’d keep digging on her own, just like she’d done most of her life. She owed it to Vanessa and she owed it to herself. All Brennan and Dickson had wanted was for Kate to give them the necklace and her DNA, then go home.

She glanced at aerial crime scene photos on her tablet on the passenger seat.

We’d prefer you didn’t go there.

Just try and stop me. She guided her rental along an empty stretch of highway that curved through dark, wooded countryside. After a few miles she came upon a New York State patrol car blocking the overgrown entrance to the burial grounds. A strip of yellow crime scene tape was extended across the gate.

Kate had an idea.

She parked nearby, got out and approached the lone trooper sitting at the wheel. He gave her a cool appraisal, watching her hands as she reached into her bag.

“Hi,” she said. “Kate Page, I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She showed him her plastic ID. “How’re you doing?”

“Just fine. Can I help you?”

“Can you show me where the press can access the crime scene?”

“This is as far as you go,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, the others were here this morning. You can get updates from Rampart PD. I can give you a number.”

“I need to take pictures of the scene—can I get closer?”