Page 136 of Paranoid

Still at his desk in the office, he put in another call to Dr. Richard Moretti’s office and was told that “Doctor” wasn’t returning. Yes, the receptionist had assured Cade she’d handed him the message, but mentioned that the doctor had been called to the hospital. She assured Cade that Moretti had his number.

“Tell him it’s important,” Cade said and heard a pat, if distracted, “Of course,” as she disconnected.

Frustrated, he called the medical supply store Moretti owned.

The phone was picked up by a bored woman who sounded as if she was chewing gum as she said bluntly, “He ain’t here. Ya wanna leave a message?”

“Already did.” And he explained.

“Okay. Got it,” she said and hung up.

“Strike two.” He glanced at his desk, noted the faded manila file folder on Luke Hollander’s death, and wondered why it still bothered him, why he thought it was important in the recent murders. Yeah, the two victims had been at the cannery the night Hollander was killed, along with a lot of others. Their connection was that they’d both testified for Rachel.

Did that mean anything?

He couldn’t see how.

He flipped open the file again, rifled through the statements until he came to those of the people he knew.

Lila Kostas, now his stepmother, had sworn she was at the other end of the cannery at the time of the shots, though she’d admitted she’d been searching for Luke, her then boyfriend.

Nate Moretti, Luke’s best friend, had been smoking near a broken window and had seen the cops approach. He swore he hadn’t heard the report of a gun, nor seen its flash, but he was too far from his friend.

Reva Augustus, now Santiago, had been “near the chute” where the unused fish guts and scraps had been tossed during the cannery’s operation. But she, too, had a link to Luke. She was the girl he’d tossed over for Lila and, according to all reports, had been bitter about it. But she’d done well for herself, become an attorney.

Mercedes Jennings Pope had been hiding out in an upper story, this confirmed by Billy Dee Johnson, who’d been with her when people started yelling, “Cops! Run!” Mercedes had never liked Luke and had made no bones about it. Billy Dee had been his friend until a football “accident” in practice had ruined Billy Dee’s chances at a scholarship. Luke Hollander had been the kid who had tackled him, the reason he’d had to settle for community college.

Annessa Bell Cooper had not been far from the spot where Luke had fallen. She’d sworn that she’d seen another flash, behind Rachel, that she thought someone else had killed Luke. Though Rachel had thought she’d shot her brother with the very weapon her brother had handed to her earlier in the day.

That was the hard part to swallow.

Why would he do that?

She could have killed or wounded anyone with that weapon. And it just happened to be unregistered, not linked to any previous crime. Where had Luke gotten it? No one knew; he hadn’t confided in anyone, or anyone who would admit to it.

Back then, there was a missing gun: the one that had killed Luke Hollander.

But Rachel’s own testimony, that she’d fired while trying to leave the building, dragging Violet with her, had been the reason she’d been arrested. Freaked out at what she’d done, that she’d actually shot and wounded her brother, she’d dropped the pistol after firing.

No other bullets had been found, no casings or shells.

One shot had hit Luke and he’d eventually bled out, being declared DOA at the local clinic that served as the emergency room for the area back then. And the doctor in charge who signed the death certificate? Richard Moretti.

The case had been far from open and shut. Rachel’s confession had nearly sealed her fate, but her friends’ conflicting testimony and her young age and a soft judge had changed things.

And she’d never gotten over it; never really let it go.

Now, there was another missing pistol: a gun registered to Leonard Sperry.

He glanced at the clock again and put the file away. Moretti wasn’t calling him back. “Screw it.” It was time to take matters into his own hands.

After shutting down his computer, he grabbed his wallet, badge, and sidearm.

“I’m heading out again,” he told Voss, who was sitting at her desk sipping iced tea while tracking down and reviewing footage from security cameras belonging to businesses not far from the crime scene. “Gonna track down Moretti’s dad.”

“Let me know how that goes. I’m here if you need me.”

“I’ve got this.”