Page 90 of Remember Her Name

“Mrs. Bonitz,” Josie said. “Why don’t we find your purse so we can get down to the station. Anything you need to tell us can wait until we get there.”

She seemed not to hear Josie. “Back then, Roger was a lovely young man. Sweet and kind. A gentleman. I knew he didn’t hurt the Cooks. I never believed it. He stayed with me, you know? After the trial. He had no one. The whole city hated him. Except me. That was the last time I saw him. Then a couple of months ago this other man shows up. Wanted to work for me. Fix up all the—” She gestured around them. “Wood, like Roger did before on the second floor. I offered to pay him but all he wanted was a favor. Give a man some money so he could have access to some cars. Pick him up from places. The middle of damn nowhere.”

Josie touched Mrs. Bonitz’s shoulder. “We can talk about that at the station. Where’s your purse?”

Mrs. Bonitz pulled away from Josie, planting both hands against the table. “I just told you I didn’t do anything wrong, and I have company?—”

Turner’s fingers drummed against his leg. “Listen, lady?—”

A female voice cut him off. “Are you really going to drag a woman in her nineties down to the police station like some kind of criminal?”

Vicky Platt stood in the doorway of the kitchen. In heels, a fitted black skirt, and a sleeveless silk blouse, she looked every bit the powerful television producer. One hand rested on her hip while the other hung at her side, clutching her cell phone.

“We’re doing our jobs.” Turner appraised her. “I suggest you gather your things and get out of here.”

Vicky returned his slow perusal, unimpressed. “I liked you better the last time we spoke.”

“Yeah, well, most women don’t like me at all.” Turner muscled past Josie and gently placed a hand on Mrs. Bonitz’s back, ushering her across the foyer toward a closet. His carefulmovements were at odds with his bad attitude. Fishing around inside the closet, he came up with a purse and a cane.

Josie was frozen in place, watching as Vicky bent her head to her phone, thumbs tapping wildly. Mrs. Bonitz had called her an old neighbor. Not a producer from WYEP. Not the press. They’d both known Roger Bell. Finished with her text, Vicky looked up and locked eyes with Josie. The eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed before? Then again, why would she have noticed? She’d spoken to Vicky before they knew about the Cook case.

“Quinn,” Turner said as he and Mrs. Bonitz shuffled toward the front door.

“Just a minute,” Josie said. “I want to talk to Tory.”

He huffed. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll wait in the car. Give me your keys.”

Without breaking eye contact with Vicky, Josie got them out of her pocket and dropped them into his waiting palm.

Once the door closed behind Turner and Mrs. Bonitz, Vicky smiled. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“I didn’t,” Josie said. “Your name isn’t in the police file. Roger was the one who told me. Right before he died.”

Pain rippled across Vicky’s face. For a moment, Josie thought she was going to cry.

“He called you Tory. I didn’t make the connection until just now. Victoria. You went by Tory then.”

Vicky’s eyes watered. “I started going by Vicky when I got married. Vicky Platt sounded better than Tory Platt. At least, my husband thought so. We got divorced after two years but I just stayed Vicky Platt. You were…you were with Roger when he died?”

Josie nodded.

A tear rolled down Vicky’s cheek. She used the heel of her palm to wipe it away. “He talked about me?”

A tingle began at the base of Josie’s spine. Things started to shift in the shadowy place in the back of her mind. The place where her brain dumped little facts and loose pieces of information that didn’t seem important. Random floating particles connected to nothing. Meaningless without context.

“You were in love with Roger Bell.”

Vicky didn’t answer, instead palming away more tears. She was a producer for WYEP. According to Dallas Jones, she was aggressive in pursuing stories, almost to the point of harassment. Yet, in the aftermath of Roger Bell’s dramatic death and the resurfacing of the Cook family murders, she hadn’t used her connection to him at all to further her career.

From outside, Josie heard Mrs. Bonitz admonishing her dog. Turner complaining loudly. “You were having an affair with him.”

Sniffling, Vicky said, “It’s not illegal. We only…started recently. Only found one another again in the last year. Roger was separated from his wife. If you’re thinking that I knew he was planning to go on a murder spree, I didn’t. If you want me to come to your station to tell you that, on the record, I will.”

She did want to take Vicky down to the station because she didn’t believe her. But her gut told her that the ride to the station would only give her time to compose herself and rehearse her denials. “If you’re prepared to come down to the station,” Josie said, “you won’t mind if I Mirandize you.”

Vicky gave her a wobbly smile and wiped at her nose. “Can you do it in the kitchen?”

Josie nodded and followed her into Mrs. Bonitz’s kitchen. Apparently, Roger Bell’s work hadn’t extended to this room. The floorboards were dull and warped in some places. The wooden cabinets were a faded sea-moss green, some of their knobs gone. The heavy oak table in the center of the room canted to the side. Two unfinished coffee cups sat atop it. A massive box airconditioner sat in a window next to the back door, the frame sagging under its weight. An uneven glugging noise sputtered from its vents as it labored to push cold air into the room. While Josie recited her Miranda rights, Vicky tore a paper towel from the roll suspended over the sink and dabbed at her face. Once she acknowledged that she understood her rights, Josie resumed her questions.

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