Page 69 of Remember Her Name

Gretchen said, “You can’t look up name changes. The records are sealed by the courts.”

Josie tossed two ibuprofen into her mouth and swallowed them dry. “Sealed records,” she echoed. Is that what Stella Townsend had been after? Her grandfather’s involvement in the Cook case? She would have been able to glean most of the details from public sources since the murders and the trial were covered widely in the local press. Was she trying to track down the Cook children for some reason? They’d searched Stella’s laptop and found lots of notes pertaining to Frisk Lampson and her wide-ranging ideas for an exposé, but Josie didn’t recall seeing any mention of the Cook case. Then again, up until the day she was murdered, she was still meeting with Remy Tate in hopes of getting the information she was after.

“We’re back to the polaroid,” Gretchen said. “Unless we can figure out a way to find Simon or Felicity Cook.”

“There’s no one left for this guy to kill,” Turner said. “We’re missing someone on the list.”

Josie turned toward the dry-erase board and silently read off the names again. Her, Lampson, Weaver, Peluso, Branson, Ernst, and Neal. They’d been looking strictly at law enforcement and the prosecution, but the names on the list weren’t the only people who’d contributed to Roger Bell going free.

The overwhelming fatigue Josie had been fighting all evening receded, replaced by a buzz of anxiety. “We overlooked someone. Someone major,” she said. “Bell’s defense attorney. He wrote and filed the motion that kept the knife out of evidence. He was just doing his job but he was good at it.”

“He still live around here?” Turner asked. “Does he have kids?”

Quickly, Josie pulled up the dockets and found the name. The contents of her stomach curdled. “Yes and yes,” she said.

“Who is it?” Turner’s eyebrows knit with what looked like concern. “Quinn, you okay? You look sick or something.”

“Bell’s defense attorney was Andrew Bowen, and hehatesme. I put his mother in prison for murder.”

FIFTY-TWO

The ibuprofen Josie had taken at the stationhouse burned a hole in her gut. Just sitting outside Andrew Bowen’s house in her parked car, in the dark, sent a coil of anxiety slithering up her spine. She tried to recall how many children there’d been in the framed family photo she’d seen the last time she was in his office. That was years ago, which meant the children would be teenagers by now. Two? Three? At least one girl.

“I should do this,” Gretchen said from the passenger’s seat. “He’s fairly neutral when it comes to me.”

Turner rapped against Josie’s window. “Are we going to do this or what?”

“We should let Douchebag do it,” Josie suggested.

“That’s not a bad idea. I’m pretty sure he and Bowen speak the same language.”

Under any other circumstances, Josie would have laughed but she couldn’t stop thinking that the next victim could be a kid. They got out of the car, joining Turner in the driveway that meandered up to Bowen’s palatial estate. This is what defending people had bought him. Josie had no doubt many of his clients were innocent, but he had also represented a man who’dslaughtered a family, a man whose DNA was on the murder weapon, and celebrated his acquittal.

Josie wondered if Andrew Bowen ever lost sleep over Roger Bell walking free.

Probably not.

They let Turner take the lead, ringing the doorbell in rapid fashion until Gretchen hissed at him to stop. It was after one in the morning. Lights blinked on inside. A surveillance camera affixed to the doorframe sent out a burst of static. Then Bowen’s voice squawked through. “Can I help you?”

“Andrew Bowen?” Turner said.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Turner took out his ID and shoved it against the eye of the camera. “Denton PD. We need to talk. We think one of your kids might be in danger.”

The door swung open. Andrew Bowen stood before them in a faded Duquesne T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Pushing a hand through his blond hair, he blinked. “Did you say one of my children is in danger?”

Gretchen stepped forward. “Yes. You have three children, correct?”

Bowen shook his head. “Wait, wait. Is this some kind of prank?”

“I’m afraid not,” Turner said. “How old are your kids?”

“My kids are asleep in their beds,” Bowen snapped. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information but it’s incorrect. Now, I’d appreciate it if you left us alone.”

A soft female voice called out from behind Bowen. “Andy? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, Evelyn. Just a case of mistaken identity.”

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