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CHAPTER 55

I TAPPED brENDA FREGOSI’S number into my phone and asked her to bring two cups of coffee to the war room.

“Brenda, the usual for me. Our visitor takes his coffee with milk and sugar.”

Jim Walsh and I went through the clippings in the Sadie Witt folder until Brenda came in with the coffee. Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Walsh cleared his throat and continued. “Okay, I have to back up a bit. The woman I knew was actually the second wife of the unnamed agent—let’s just call him ‘Mike.’ And Mike’s first wife died under unusual circumstances. She drowned in the bathtub in the house where they once lived together in Portland, Oregon. Mike was also in Portland at the time, but he had something of an alibi established. He was at his nephew’s high school basketball game with family and had the punched ticket stub to prove it.”

I shrugged. This was proof of nothing.

Walsh said, “No, you’re right. Checking it out, which I did, questioning him, which others did, his alibi was thin, but he’d covered his tracks well enough. He’d been with family and friends in a public setting.”

“I’m not really getting this, Jim. In your opinion, did Mike hire a hitter? Was he framed? Or is it a coincidence that he was in the same town when she killed herself? Or do you think he killed her?”

Walsh started to shrug and knocked over his coffee, which spilled and spread across the table. I snatched up the Witt file along with the Jacobi and Robinson murder books, and Walsh found a roll of paper towels and soaked up the mess.

“God, I’m so smooth,” Walsh said.

“Don’t worry about this. Just get to the point, please. I feel my hair turning gray.”

Walsh laughed. And then he said, “Okay, okay. Two things stick out, Lindsay. Mike paid his ex a six-figure divorce settlement. And he married again, only to end in another divorce. His second ex-wife was also killed, and I can’t see it as anything less than a murder. This is what eventually brought me to San Francisco and to you.”

“I’m ready now, Jim.”

“Mike’s second ex-wife was found hanged from a beam in the attic of the family home. There was no note, but a message was written on the soles of her shoes in ballpoint pen. In block letters, on the sole of one loafer, were the words ‘I said.’ And on the sole of the other shoe, the same kind of lettering—”

“‘You dead,’” Lindsay finished. “Damn. Why would he do that?”

“It all may have been a sick setup. As you said. A frame-up. I’d like to prove that. I’d like to exclude Mike. But not if he’s a killer. Two ex-wives dead under mysterious circumstances? Both received six-figure divorce settlements. Of course he was questioned. He had another alibi. This time the alibi was substantiated and he was cleared. Still, my suspicions keep mounting.”

“Okay. I understand. How do you see me helping you?”

“I’d like us to be silent partners, Lindsay. To share information as we can. To keep the lines open. Help each other and, best case, hunt down this maniac. And I hope to hell it’s not my friend.”

“Look, Jim. I can’t help if you don’t trust me enough to tell me his name.”

Walsh shook his head, then reluctantly said, “Brett. Brett Palmer. That’s his name. He’s moving to San Francisco. I’ll give you the where and when once I know. But I have to protect Palmer until we have evidence that exonerates him—or nails his ass.”

“Got it.”

We exchanged contact information and shook hands again. Then I walked FBI special agent James Walsh along the fourth-floor corridor to the bank of elevators. I watched the lights over the elevator go down to the ground floor.

I thought Walsh’s gut instincts were probably right. But he didn’t like what his gut was telling him.