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He shows Anna and Seamus the underside of the cushion. There, centered in the gray fabric, is a streak of pale pink.
“The killer likely snuck up on Mrs. Gerhardt, forced her to the floor, grabbed this cushion, and held it over her nose and mouth.”
“Then what’s the point of the cord?” Seamus says. “Why make it look like she was strangled?”
Anna knows why. “Because it makes me look guilty.”
“Bingo,” Reggie says.
She studies him as he stands there gripping the murder weapon, framed by the snow-studded window behind him. “You’re not an insurance salesman, are you?”
“No, I am not,” Reggie says, casting his eyes downward.
“And you didn’t board the wrong train.”
“I did not.”
“Then who are you?”
Reggie returns the pillow to the chair and reaches into an interior pocket of his jacket, producing a copper-colored badge.
“Special Agent Reginald Davis,” he says. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Twenty-Three
Reggie knows he’sonly on the train because he stayed late at the office. He stuck around after everyone else left because he had a date with Katie, a girl he’d only recently started dating. They had tickets to seeSouth Pacificat the Forrest Theatre. His idea. Katie, as far as he could tell, had no opinion on Rodgers and Hammerstein, whereas Reggie loved them.
It turned out that drinks and a show weren’t in the cards that night. Not after Reggie heard his name being called as he had one foot out the door. It was his boss, Ed Vesper, the only person in the dim and otherwise empty office.
“Yes, sir?” Reggie said.
“Get to the 30th Street Station,” Vesper barked. “It’s your unlucky day.”
“What’s going on?”
Vesper explained that he’d just gotten off the phone with the chief of the Chicago bureau. They’d received an interesting package from the daughter of Arthur Matheson. He didn’t need to explain who Matheson was. Reggie knew all about the man who’d become the shame of Philadelphia.
“What did she send them?”
“Six boxes of so-called evidence that Matheson’s daughter says proves he didn’t do it.”
Reggie’s heart started playing hopscotch in his chest. “Art Matheson is innocent?”
“According to his daughter, he is,” Vesper said. “Claims there was a conspiracy against him. And because that’s not crazy enough, she included a note saying that she’ll be bringing the six people who really blew that train to smithereens to Chicago aboard the Philadelphia Phoenix.”
“Who are they?”
“The very same people who testified against her father.”
Stunned, Reggie grabbed a pen and wrote down the names. Being a Philadelphia boy, he was familiar with all of them. Kenneth Wentworth was still a railroad bigwig in the city. The others he remembers from their testimony. Matheson’s secretary, his housekeeper, two employees, and a military man. Reggie was in high school when it all went down, and he’ll never forget skipping class so he could listen to the hearings on the radio.
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“From what little of the evidence they’ve seen so far, the folks at the Chicago bureau think she could be.”
Reggie got a tingle of anticipation that shimmied all the way down to his tailbone. It was soon followed by a far different feeling—dread.
“Once word gets out about this, half of America is going to want to kill these guys.”