Page 11 of Justice Delayed

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Melender pulledthe tab on a can of chicken and gravy cat food, dumping half the contents into a bowl. Her Siamese-Maine Coon mix wound around her ankles, mewing his hunger. “Patience, my friend.”

She set the bowl on the floor. “Here you go, Goliath.” With one more yowl, the cat dove into his food.

She plopped another coffee pod into the Keurig, slid her mug beneath the funnel, and hit the start button. Her third cup of the day, and it was barely past noon. After the cops left, she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. Usually, she slept until three or four in the afternoon after arriving home around seven-thirty from her overnight cleaning shift. The encounter with Ruby had contributed to a restless sleep, and the early wakeup call from the cops meant she was operating on less than her best. At least this was her day off, so she could have an earlier bedtime.

Her cell phone trilled Donna Summer’s “I Will Survive.” The ringtone never failed to remind her that she would make it through. She had to. Donna belted out the chorus as Melender retrieved the phone from her back pocket. She glanced at the screen. Fairfax, Virginia, along with a 703 area code, which didn’t confirm anything, given spoofers had perfected the art of identity camouflage. So few people called her that her curiosity got the better of her, and she answered the call just before it rolled to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dr. Silloway.”

She nearly dropped the phone at the sound of the psychologist’s voice. How had she gotten her unlisted number?

“Melender?” The older woman repeated in her calm, measured tone.

“Dr. Silloway. What a surprise.” Melender had been forced to spend an hour each week with the prison psychologist, who had been more interested in probing the depths of her mind than actually helping Melender cope with her circumstances. The Keurig signaled her cup of coffee was ready. After hitting the phone’s speaker button, she set it on the counter before adding a dash of cream to her cup.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” As if she really cared.Melender suspected the doctor reported the content of her sessions to her aunt and uncle, a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality, but Dr. Silloway wasn’t one restricted by conventions, not when money was involved. Melender had no doubt Quentin paid a great deal of money to learn what she said in those sessions.

“Hmm.”

Melender took a sip of her coffee to stem any reaction to the doctor’s infuriating “hmms.” Dr. Silloway had usually uttered that sound while staring at her as if she were a bug under a microscope. Two of Goliath’s paws touched her calf. Melender reached down and scratched the feline under his chin.You’re right. I don’t have to talk to her anymore, now do I?“Dr. Silloway, what do you want?”

The woman chuckled, a sound that grated on her nerves. “You always were direct.”

Melender balanced on one foot to steady her thoughts, a technique she’d learned from the prison yoga instructor. As the silence stretched out, Melender had had enough. “You’re no longer my doctor, so I’m hanging up now.”

“Isn’t it time you gave the Thompsons closure about Jesse’s disappearance?”

Of course. The question confirmed what Melender suspected all along, that the psychologist didn’t believe she was innocent, despite her attempt to be sympathetic to Melender’s incarceration.

“Do not call me again.” Melender punched the end call button then blocked the other woman’s number before slipping the phone back into her pocket. She picked up her coffee, then moved toward the sliding glass door, Goliath at her heels. Once she’d opened the door and screen, she stepped out into the small enclosure, closing the door behind her to keep the A/C from escaping. The mid-morning sun hit the balcony full on, turning it into a sauna. But Melender didn’t care. She settled into the lounge chair, coffee on the end table and Goliath in her lap. With her eyes closed, she let the sun’s slanting rays soothe her body.

She had been biding her time over the past eight months, letting herself adjust to freedom in easy stages. The events of the last twelve hours meant she could no longer coast. The obstacles she faced loomed larger than her beloved Blue Ridge Mountains.

Quentin Thompson had been adept at manipulating public opinion for years and had many powerful friends as head of an international energy company, that much she’d understood at eighteen. His influence would only have grown larger during her years away, which probably fueled the rumors she’d read online about a possible political career in the next Virginia U.S. Senate race.

How to counter that influence occupied her thoughts. But now that the time had come to put her plans into motion, she vacillated. True, she wasn’t the same girl who had gone to prison. She was stronger, harder, more determined, and less trusting. But she had yet to test those qualities in the real world.

Unbidden, the reporter’s face with its strong jawline popped into her mind. Brogan Gilmore had already picked up the scent of a story. Maybe she could use that to her advantage. She needed an ally, and if her heart beat a little faster at the thought of spending time with him, she was entitled to a little flirtation, wasn’t she?

ChapterSix

Brogan unfolded theNorthern Virginia Herald’sSunday edition across the table, moving his coffee to one side. There, on the right-hand column below the fold, was his first front-page byline in more than a decade, a more than respectable accomplishment with the Sunday circulation of theHeraldcresting 150,000. Sipping his coffee, he read the headline.

Owner’s Son Arrested in Convenience Store Robberies

His call yesterday morning to the detective working the robbery case had been more fruitful than anticipated, as the detective already had Veer Patel on his radar. Brogan’s information had been enough to turn the case in a new direction, resulting in an early afternoon search of the son’s apartment and the recovery of the masks used in the two robberies and one attempted robbery. With the arrest of Veer Patel, his follow-up story had barely mentioned Melender Harman.

Now that the robbery story had been wrapped up, the editor assigned him an investigative story about the disappearance of Jesse Thompson. First thing tomorrow morning, Brogan planned to call Quentin Thompson’s office and schedule a meeting. His phone buzzed and interrupted his thoughts, probably another spammer call. He’d received two such calls already this morning, but in his line of work, a camouflaged number could lead to a good news tip.

“Gilmore.”

“Mr. Gilmore? It’s Melender Harman.”

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