Page 43 of Justice Delayed

The statement didn’t surprise Brogan. He chewed, then swallowed his mouthful slowly to give himself time to consider how to answer. Simplicity seemed the best course. “Yes.”

“Why? It’s a closed case.” Collier had made short work of her lunch. “The ransom money turning up now is simply a loose end. Melender Harman’s out of jail and was trying to launder the ransom. She can’t be tried twice for the same crime, so she figured it was worth a shot. A million dollars is a lot, especially for an ex-convict.”

“You were looking into this before the ransom money came to light.” Livingston tossed his napkin onto his clean plate. He appeared to study Brogan for a moment, then nodded. “She’s a beautiful woman. Prison life doesn’t seem to have taken a toll on her.”

Brogan schooled his face with an effort. Melender’s outward beauty had nothing to do with his interest in her case. Maybe if he kept telling himself that, he’d actually believe it. “It’s an intriguing case that has a lot of anomalies.”

“Such as?” Collier said.

“The missing ransom money and the lack of a body top the list.” Brogan finished his own meal just as Benita stopped by their table.

“All finished?” She didn’t wait for a response as she picked up empty plates. “Be right back with your checks.”

Livingston drained his Diet Coke. “I admit that not finding anything to place Melender with the ransom is a loose end I would like to tie up. The missing body is another.”

Brogan leaned forward. “I’ve got the FBI files from the kidnapping. Any chance I could have copies of the police files related to the case?”

Benita dropped off the checks, reminding them to pay at the cash register on their way out. Brogan grabbed all three, but Livingston responded that department policy forbade comped meals.

Check in hand, Collier moved to exit the booth. “You’ll have to file a FOIA request with our media relations department.”

“I already did, but they said it could take weeks to process.” Brogan switched his attention to Livingston. “Look, I’m not on a crusade to prove the police or FBI dropped the ball with this case, but I do think there are some things that don’t add up.”

Livingston stood beside his partner. “Do you have a business card?”

Brogan dug out his wallet and extracted one. “Here you go.”

The detective shoved it into his pocket. “We’ll be in touch if there’s anything we can do to expedite the request.”

“Thanks.” Brogan joined them beside the table, then shook hands with each detective. “I appreciate your talking with me.”

“As long as what we discussed stays off the record.” Livingston and Collier walked to the cash register. Brogan retook his seat, pulling out his phone to check for messages. The impromptu meeting had gone better than expected, and he had learned one very important thing.

Detective Mark Livingston still had unresolved questions about the closed case.

ChapterEighteen

Melender paused at the top of the stairs, unsure whether to approach Mrs. Trent as she stirred of pot on the kitchen stove.

The older woman turned, a smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Melender.”

“Hello.” Melender had yet to master the art of small talk. In prison, you kept your mouth shut and avoided eye contact with the other inmates. She still defaulted to what had kept her safe for so many years.

“Brogan called a little while ago to see if you were still sleeping,” Mrs. Trent said. “When I told him you were, he asked me to say he would be by around six.”

“Thank you.” She moved a little closer to the stove. “Something smells good.”

“Beef stew. I told Brogan to stay for supper, and you’re welcome to join us as well.” Mrs. Trent gestured toward the pot. “As you can see, I’ve made more than enough.”

Mrs. Trent replaced the lid on the tall pot. Sudie had had a battered version of that same cook pot. If Melender closed her eyes, she could almost swear she was in Sudie’s tiny kitchen, standing on a stool to stir the contents of a stew made with chunks of squirrel meat, chestnuts, wild onions, parsnips, and carrots.

“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to impose.” If there was one thing ingrained in her from prison, it was that no one offered you anything without a very long, very barbed attachment.

Mrs. Trent wiped the spotless counter with a sponge. “Do you believe in God?”

“Yes, I do.” Her faith had grown stronger throughout her incarceration, given that most of the time, it was just her and God against the world. But living that faith on the outside had proved to be harder than she anticipated. Not everyone proclaiming to be a Christian welcomed ex-cons with open arms.

“Nolan and I do as well. We believe our faith compels us to live our life everyday as if Christ could return at any second.”

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