Page 34 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 34

I T TOOK A COUPLE HOURS to get a judge to sign off on the search warrant and another to conduct it. The search revealed little evidence but enough to incriminate Marcus. A few matching handwritten notes lay on his desk. The most recent Poe novel, the margins of which were filled with personal annotations, sat next to his reading chair. A list of the names and addresses of each exonerated criminal with a line through the ones who’d been murdered served as a bookmark. It was a little too easy to find, and it unsettled Abraham.

Shouldn’t the man who brought Billy Poe to life be smarter than that? And shouldn’t there have been more than just those three items?

It was well past the end of his shift, but Abraham couldn’t go home and sleep. He considered visiting the address Lawson had left him, but he didn’t want to risk leading Monroe’s partner to Lydia. Abraham returned to the office and pored over their notes on the case. Monroe wasn’t a clear fit for most of the murders. The only connection he had to them was being the editor of the books. He didn’t have any tangible relationships with the exonerated criminals or their victims. That alone didn’t make him innocent, but everything felt a little too … staged? But surely not.

Still, that niggle of skepticism bothered Abraham.

Logically Monroe made sense as Billy Poe. His regard for Lydia. His knowledge and access to the stories. His insistence that Lydia’s purpose lived in those stories. That what they published was right and good. He had even suggested the men got what they deserved.

Abraham examined the burned manuscript box again. This was the first condemning piece of evidence brought in by Lawson. Proof that Monroe was Poe. Cinders covered the majority of the bottom half of the box, and the charred corners testified to the burning process having begun. Enough of it remained solid that the interior appeared mostly unharmed—except for the smattering of soot at the top and the white powder of pages turned to ash at the bottom. Wouldn’t the entire interior have become blackened if dozens of pages had burned?

He sifted through the ash and rubbed the contents between his fingers. There might be enough for a few pages, but not for an entire novel. Not even when combined with what he remembered from Plane Manor. They hadn’t found any of the manuscript pages in Monroe’s home, and his hearth and kitchen stove were as cold and empty as anyone would expect during summer temperatures. Abraham tossed the box back onto the desk, sending a puff of ash into the air.

Maybe he should go home to bed. He could revisit the case tomorrow with a clear head, and by morning Monroe would be able to answer their questions without the confusion of an opium haze. Tonight, Lydia would be protected by Lawson, and if Monroe’s partner did show up at Miss Davis’s, Lucian would be able to capture him.

“I don’t think Monroe is Poe.”

Abraham looked up from his desk to find Clemens, a grim line to his mouth, standing in the doorway.

Abraham leaned back in his chair, his muscles complaining about the hours of hunched searching. “I take it bail was finally set.”

“Uncle James decided to drop charges.” Clemens shifted uncomfortably. “Probably in large part due to my mother’s influence.”

So the reporter was a mama’s boy. That was a surprising revelation. What did the woman think of her son’s dealing in sensationalism?

Clemens cleared his throat and straightened. “Come listen to Monroe. I believe Lawson’s framed him.”

“Framed?” Abraham blinked, then outright laughed. He was too tired for that nonsense. “By Lawson, no less? That’s more implausible than a Lydia Pelton romance novel.”

“Not implausible. Do your job. Question the man.”

Abraham bristled at the command but rose from his seat. As much as it galled him, Clemens was right. Abraham had a confession—or at least an explanation—to wrangle out of Monroe. What evidence did Clemens think Monroe had to be able to accuse Lawson of framing him? The watch attached to the chain hanging from Abraham’s vest indicated the time was past midnight, meaning Monroe had been sleeping off the opium for hours. There might be enough lucidity to him by now to get a decently straight answer.

Though Clemens nearly begged to be allowed in the interrogation room, Abraham required he wait in the hall with an officer to ensure he didn’t try to barge in.

Abraham closed the door and stood until the jailer brought in a clear-eyed Monroe. Pain twisted his features, but by all appearances the man had returned to his right mind.

As soon as Monroe laid eyes on Abraham, he took long, urgent strides. “You have to go to Lydia now.”

The jailer restrained him, then shoved him down into a chair.

Monroe’s hand slammed against the table. The accompanying yelp left him curling around his injury in agony.

Was he still in the same crude bandaging as when he arrived? The thought that they would leave a man—even one deemed Billy Poe—in such obvious need sickened Abraham. He addressed the jailer. “Has a doctor tended to his burn yet?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ve got him. Go fetch whatever physician you can. We are not monsters. He obviously needs medical attention.”

The jailer left Abraham alone with Monroe, and he waited until the man no longer writhed in pain and gasped for breath.

Though sweat beaded across his forehead and his pallor indicated he should be lying down, Monroe leaned forward as if he meant to beg. “You have to go to Lydia now. Lawson’s going to take off with her and kill Ingram.”

“That’s a serious accusation to hurl at a long-revered detective, especially considering the proof we have that you are Billy Poe.”

“Any evidence you found was planted!” He hissed at the accidental movement of his hand but continued his rant. “Lawson burst into my home with Lydia’s scorched manuscript box under his arm and threatened to shoot me if I didn’t cooperate. He said someone needed to take the fall for Poe, and I was the easiest one to frame. He even forced me to burn my hand in order to prove I’d stolen the manuscript from her house.”

That was some story. “You’re too large a man to be forced to do anything. As severe as that burn is, your hand would have had to been held inside the flame. I can’t see you willingly subjecting yourself to that torture.”

“If you had a gun to your head, you’d hold it until your hand burned off. Lawson drugged me so that I couldn’t reveal what he’d done until he was gone. Tell me, how many hours have passed since you last saw him?”

“Your words don’t count as evidence.”

“What about the fact he has burned hands?” Monroe sat back and leveled a challenging glare.

“I saw him receive those burns myself when we were fighting the fire at the Planes’.”

“Are you sure that’s when he got them? Or was he only using that display as a way to cover up the fact he’d burned them when retrieving the manuscript himself?”

Abraham’s stomach soured. It would be a brilliant and very Poe-like ploy. But this was Lawson they were talking about. He had twenty years of experience serving as an officer in various places and positions and was admired for his ability to solve even the murkiest cases.

Monroe must have sensed the uncertainty he’d evoked. “Go to Lawson’s apartment. Search it. He might have planted things at my home, but I guarantee you’ll find more evidence in his.”

The door opened behind Abraham, but he wouldn’t allow the doctor to take Monroe away until he had his questions answered.

“What possible reason would Lawson have to kill those men?”

At this, Monroe deflated. “I don’t know. Maybe he was as angry as the rest of us that any criminal with the right connections or enough money could get away with their crimes.”

“I know why.” Clemens’s voice came from behind. “At least the first murder.”

Abraham was going to throttle that officer for failing his duties to keep Clemens out.

Clemens closed the door and strode to the table’s end. “The first murdered criminal was Otis Wakefield, the man who violated my Maggie and got away with it.”

Abraham stood, refusing to allow Clemens to tower over him. “Why would that matter to Lawson? It seems to me that would give you more of a reason to be Poe than it would him.”

“He never told you? Lawson was Maggie’s godfather.”

The photo on Lawson’s wall and his words that she was the reason he kept going slammed into Abraham. No picture of Maggie had been included in the Wakefield file, and Lawson had always talked about the case in such a detached manner that Abraham never entertained the potential for a personal connection. But was that really enough to make Lawson a suspect?

Abraham studied Clemens. He was wily enough to use that information to cast doubt over the character of a good man, but Abraham’s gut warned that everything he thought he knew about Lawson was about to be turned on its head in the worst possible way.

After allowing the full impact of the information to clobber Abraham, Clemens continued. “Lawson doted on her as one would a daughter. When I failed to walk Maggie home from work the day she was attacked, Lawson blamed me and swore that he would take care of Wakefield. Lawson went after him with such a focus and force that Wakefield’s connections were able to make allegations of falsified evidence and coerced witnesses to successfully get the case dismissed. Wakefield walked away a free man while my Maggie became a prisoner to the horrors his actions wrought.”

Abraham remembered reading the headlines that blamed Lawson for Wakefield’s release, but he’d dismissed them as another sensationalist story meant to cast a pall over the integrity of the police. Lawson was too highly respected and good at his job to consider anything else. Now Abraham wished he’d read the articles. Had he allowed his own prejudices to interfere with his being a good officer? Was Lawson a credible suspect? It might explain the man’s incessant prattle. The constant redirecting of Abraham’s thoughts had prevented Abraham from remembering Lawson’s connection to the Wakefield case. That detail alone was troubling.

Clemens’s nostrils flared, and a vein popped out along his temple. He took several deep, slow breaths before he spoke again. “I’d been reading Dupin’s novels for a few months when Shadow in the Night released. Within pages, I knew that story was Maggie’s. I showed it to Lawson. Instead of being disgusted by the exploitation of her pain for profit, Lawson was elated. Claimed it was exactly the justice Wakefield deserved. Lawson disappeared for a week about a month later. I’m pretty sure it was the same week Wakefield was murdered. Use your brain and then try to tell me that Lawson’s not involved.”

It was circumstantial. Conjectures of a hurting man.

But the possibility could not be ignored. Abraham would have to verify Clemens’s story. Perhaps this was an elaborate ruse to deflect suspicion or get revenge on Lawson for allowing Wakefield to walk away. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”

“Because I didn’t connect the details until Monroe accused him in the cell. I started thinking, and once I started …” Clemens shrugged. “I despise Miss Pelton for profiting from Maggie’s torment, but I wouldn’t wish her dead. I’m too vindictive for that. I’d rather she live with a ruined reputation from her Dupin stories. She wasn’t a hero for writing them. She was and is a villain.”

The hatred spewing from Clemens exposed a new and festering depth to the man. Justice was meant to bring restoration, but this? This was judgment without mercy. Condemnation that darkened the soul and made one incapable of seeing the light, hope, and forgiveness of Christ. Abraham pitied him.

“Careful there, Clemens. The words you’re speaking reveal your heart to be as vengeful and judgmental as Poe’s. You might not like it, but you and Lydia both make a living off the misfortune of others.”

“I report truth. I don’t take it and twist it into a story for entertainment.”

Abraham could debate that rebuttal, but it wasn’t worth it. God would have to do the work of changing Clemens’s heart. Right now, the only thing Abraham wanted to do was determine if Lawson indeed was the threat Monroe and Clemens painted him to be.