Page 76 of Dead Man's List

“Well, we’re looking for the records of a Viola Feinstein. She’s sixty-one now, so she would have aged out of the system forty-three years ago.”

It was just a hunch, but Kit had hope. Taking Sam’s theory to heart, she’d searched for—and found—the birth certificate associated with Veronica’s fake passport. Viola Feinstein, a.k.a. Veronica Fitzgerald, had been born sixty-one years ago in a suburb of Tulsa.

There had been no record of a legal name change, but Kit thought that Veronica was smart enough to figure out how to change her identity. It had been much easier to do forty-three years ago.

Of course, Veronica could have found Viola Feinstein’s name on a tombstone and gotten her birth certificate and social security number, but it made more sense that she’d have kept the ones originally issued to her.

At least Kit hoped she had.

“Give me just a moment. Those are old records, but we’ve done some digitization over the years.” There was the sound of clacking keyboard keys and then a satisfied hum. “Yes, here she is. Viola Feinstein entered the foster system at the age of five. She was never adopted. She aged out at eighteen. We don’t keep track of them after that. I wish we did.”

“I wish you did, too,” Kit said, “but this information is valuable. Would it be possible to get a copy of her full file?”

“Oh. Well, most of those records remain confidential. What exactly are you looking for?”

“She’s a suspect in a case we’re working, ma’am,” Connor said. “We’re trying to trace her background, including family and childhood friends.”

“You’re going to need to file for an exception or get a warrant,” Mary said. “I’m sorry. I’d like to help you, but there are some things I simply can’t share.”

She wasn’t rude or unpleasant, just bound by the rules of her office and Kit could respect that. “We understand. Thank you for your help.” Kit ended the call. “What now?”

“Well,” Connor said, “now we know where Veronica started out. Part of me wanted to ask if she’d ever applied to be a guardian herself. Like maybe she’d met Munro while they werein the system together, and she wanted to take care of him. But that they later became lovers is just too icky.”

Kit grimaced. “That is icky. But a possibility. If we can’t find anything else, we’ll circle back. But…yeah. Icky.”

“If we knew what Brooks Munro’s birth name was, we could dig a lot deeper. But I’m wondering when they met—in foster care or later? What if it was before they arrived in San Diego? The fifteen years she worked for him was only here.”

Kit had another hunch and brought up the background search site. “Marriage certificates. Viola Feinstein.” She waited and then grinned once she’d sorted the results. “Got it. Viola Feinstein married Monroe Brookman in…oh.”

Connor rolled his chair closer to see her screen, then winced. “Oh. That’s…”

“They married thirty-three years ago,” Kit said. “She would have been twenty-eight. He would have been eighteen.”

Connor’s wince became a grimace. “It could be worse. He could have been thirteen or fourteen.”

“They weren’t together for fifteen years. They were together for more thanthirtyyears. I’m shocked she kept her composure when we interviewed her yesterday morning.”

“Explains the tears, though,” Connor said. “I’m surprised she allowed Munro to marry Wilhelmina. I guess we can add bigamy to Munro’s sins.”

“Little late now. Plus, I think we’ll find that’s the least of his sins. He either killed William Weaver’s PI or had him killed.”

“I guess that would be the worst—so far. But blackmail’s pretty damn bad, too. What do we know about Monroe Brookman?”

Kit typed Munro’s real name into the search engine. “Also born in Tulsa.”

“How did they meet?”

“That’s going to take a little more digging.”

“Then when did they start their life of crime?” Connor asked. “I don’t think they suddenly became Bonnie and Clyde when they arrived in San Diego.”

“I agree. Let’s do a deeper dive for criminal records.”

Connor rose. “I’m getting some coffee. Want some?”

“Yes, please.” Kit hunched over her keyboard, intent on discovering all the details of Viola Feinstein’s and Monroe Brookman’s pasts.

By the time Connor came back with coffee—from the coffee shop next door and not the sludge in the bullpen—she had a decent start.

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