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‘Yes. Frank was first on the scene, then he called for a second set of eyes. Unfortunately, that was me.’ Ramsey paused, hopefully unaware of his pun. ‘I’ll never forget that day.’

‘Neither did Frank. His notes suggest he’d been obsessed with the Marlowe case for decades. Do you remember what you discussed with him?’

Ramsey’s fingers performed an anxious ballet across the handle of his cane. He tapped, circled and squeezed like he was sending distress signals in Morse code.

‘Obsessed is right. Frank would always circle back to the Marlowe case when we met up. He’d throw theories at me, and they’d change every time.

Sometimes it was the boyfriend nobody knew about.

Sometimes it was a real estate deal gone bad.

Once it was the neighbor’s gardener who’d been watching Jennifer through the windows. ’

‘And you don’t believe any of them?’

‘No. All garbage.’

‘So you don’t share Frank’s obsession with this case?’

Ramsey produced a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so brittle. ‘I did my years worrying about homicide. Now I couldn’t care less. I just told Frank the truth in the end: sorry, but I don’t remember, and if he didn’t stop, he was bound for the funny farm.’

‘Frank didn’t like this, I assume?’

‘No. I could see him getting frustrated, but he would go on about entry angles, autopsy reports, the position of the God damn coffee table. Things that no one should remember after fifty years. Any cop with a lick of sense retires and takes the pension, but Frank couldn’t quite close the Marlowe box. ’

‘Yet you kept meeting with him and discussing the case,’ Ella said.

‘I kept meeting with Frank because he was my friend, and friends humor each other’s madness.’ Ramsey’s fingers stilled suddenly on the cane. ‘And maybe... maybe I felt a little responsible. For not seeing what he saw back then. For letting him carry it alone all these years.’

Ella quickly peered over at Ripley, who’d been silent this whole time. Ella had expected her to explode in a barrage of questions, but she seemed content to lean against the wall and simply observe.

‘Do you have any theories of your own?’ Ella asked Ramsey.

‘Theories? About Jennifer Marlowe’s killer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Theories are driven by evidence, and we had none. No fingerprints. DNA testing didn’t arrive for another ten years. The case was stone cold within a year. The only killers behind bars are the ones who screwed up, and whoever killed Jennifer Marlowe didn’t screw up.’

Ella didn’t necessarily agree with Ramsey’s assessment, but she had to remind herself that he’d been off the beat for nearly 25 years. Things had changed since his day.

‘You had no suspects?’

‘No. But why does it matter? How will any of this find out who killed Frank?’

‘Because the stones-in-eyes element of the crime isn’t widely known. Hell, this case is as obscure as it gets. Whoever did this knows this case inside out.’

‘Well, you can blame Frank for that. He talked.’

‘Who to?’

‘Anyone who’d listen.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

Ramsey didn’t exhibit the typical reactions someone did when they racked the depths of their brains. He just stared a hole in whatever was in front of him. ‘Webb,’ he said.

‘Who’s Webb?’

‘Can’t remember the first name, but Frank said she was a writer lady. Interested in the Marlowe investigation.’

Ella made a mental note of the name. Perhaps there was someone out there who did share Frank’s obsession. ‘Any other names?’

‘No, but there are still people around here remember the case, too. Just because it’s not out there, doesn’t mean people don’t know about it.’

If Frank had discussed the Marlowe case – including the signature stone detail – with others over the years, the circle of knowledge might be wider than she’d initially assumed. It wasn’t necessarily just Frank, Cole, and the killer anymore. Who else had Frank confided in?

To Ella’s surprise, Ripley suddenly pushed off from the wall. ‘Mr. Cole, did Frank have any enemies?’

Ramsey’s expression recalibrated, noting the change in interrogator. He measured Ripley with the cautious respect of one career detective assessing another.

‘Enemies? Frank? The man was a hermit. Lived on fish he caught himself and conversations with his cat.’

‘Are you sure? No jealous friends, crazy ex-wives, old grudges?’

‘I’m sorry, but we’re both pushing 80. We don’t have time for any of that nonsense.

The only people who’d want to hurt him are dead themselves.

Besides, if someone had a grudge against Frank, they wouldn’t have bothered with.

.. that.’ He nodded toward where the photos had been. ‘They’d have just shot him and left.’

Ella weighed Ramsey’s responses against what she knew.

The trembling hands when he saw the photos.

The precise recall of the Marlowe crime scene.

The candid admission of his frustration with Frank’s obsession.

None of it felt like deception. Just the weariness of an old cop who’d put his ghosts to bed only to have them show up on his doorstep decades later.

Whatever Frank had suspected Cole was hiding, it wasn’t murder. The man could barely manage his cane, let alone perform a precise post-mortem enucleation. And his alibi – Martha, who’d need to be complicit – seemed improbable at best.

Ella caught Ripley’s eye and received a nod in return. Time to go. They’d squeezed this stone dry.

‘We should let you rest, Mr. Cole,’ Ella said. ‘We appreciate your time.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Ramsey patted his cane. ‘Not quickly, anyway.’

Martha materialized from the kitchen, keeper of her husband’s energy reserves. ‘I’ll show you out.’

Just as they were leaving the living room, Ramsey’s voice cut through the air again.

‘Agents. It’s not possible that... after all this time...?’

The question hung incomplete, but Ella knew exactly what he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

‘Yes, Mr. Cole,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s entirely possible.’

Ramsey’s eyes locked with hers, ancient cop to modern agent, a half-century of police work compressed into a terrible understanding. The tremor in his hand had spread to his entire arm now.

They left Ramsey and Martha to their afternoons. Outside, heat shimmered off the asphalt as they walked to their car. Ella felt the weight of everything hit her at once.

Ramsey Cole had finally articulated what she’d been circling. Either someone was using the Marlowe case as elaborate misdirection – which required intimate knowledge few possessed – or the unthinkable alternative:

Jennifer Marlowe’s killer had returned after nearly fifty years.

Somewhere out there, a murderer who’d placed white stones in a young woman’s eye sockets in 1976 was still alive, still killing, and had specifically targeted the detective who couldn’t let the case go.