Page 27 of Girl, Fractured

‘So.’Ramsey spoke first.‘Let’s make this official.You want to know who I am?’

‘For the record,’ Ella confirmed.

‘Ramsey James Cole.Born 1946 in Tallahassee.I worked for Palm Harbor PD from ‘67 to ‘99.Retired as Detective Captain that year.’He recited this history like he was reading his own obituary.‘Martha’s my third wife.Still got most of my real teeth.Anything else?’

‘Your relationship with Frank Sullivan.Tell us about that.’

‘Relationship?Not really like that, missy.I worked with Frank in the seventies before he left for the Bureau.We’d meet up occasionally.You probably know him better than I do.’

Ella glanced at Ripley but she just gestured for her to continue.Ella guessed she didn’t want to go down that road yet.

‘Were you and Frank partners on the force?’

‘Partners?No.We worked together a few times, but who you were paired with was a roll of the dice.’

‘You kept in touch over the years, correct?’

‘Yes and no.Me and Frank are part of a dying breed.That was enough to keep us in contact.At our age, you need to take all the pals you can get.’

‘Seen him recently?’Ella asked.

‘Yeah.Sometimes I’d go over to his house, or he’d come here.Last time I saw him was October 28, midday.’

Ramsey’s expression was stone as he recited the date and time of his last meeting with Frank.Maybe there was still a few ounces of cop in him.

‘That tracks with what we read in Frank’s notes.’

‘Martha was there too.She has to drive me, you see.These knees can’t work the gas anymore.You going to tell me how Frank died or what?’

Ella studied the old man, looking for those microscopic facial twitches that betrayed liars.She found nothing but impatience and the genuine confusion of someone dragged into a story they didn’t write.

‘May I show you?’Ella asked.She wasn’t sure how much this man was willing to view the corpse of his friend, but she wanted Ramsey to be the first to bring up Jennifer Marlowe, not her.

‘Yes.’

‘I warn you, it’s quite graphic.’

Ramey had the decency to look offended.‘I spent 40 yearsscraping bodies off sidewalks and pulling them out of swamps.Show me the pictures.’

Ella hesitated only a fraction of a second longer.She drew the glossy crime scene photos from the manila folder.Frank Sullivan, slumped in his recliner.The bloodstain dark on his shirt.And those eyes.She slid the top photo across the coffee table towards Ramsey.

Ramsey’s hand wasn’t steady as he reached for the photos.His arthritic fingers pinched the corners like they might bite.For twenty long seconds, he stared at the image of his friend’s dead body - those white stones where eyes should be – without blinking.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.Once, twice.His neck convulsed as he swallowed hard against something trying to climb up his throat.He pushed the photos back across the coffee table like they were radioactive.A tremor had developed in his left hand, which he tried to hide by gripping his knee.

‘Those are… stones, yes?In his eye sockets?’

‘Yes.’

Ramsey’s complexion had gone gray beneath his Florida tan.For a moment, Ella worried they might need to call an ambulance.

‘And he was shot in the stomach?’

Ella scooped the photos up.‘You recognize this signature, don’t you, Mr.Cole?’

Ramsey’s eyes darted to Martha, who had reappeared in the doorway, then back to Ella.His mouth set in a hard line; the kind of expression men his age used to wall off emotions they didn’t want to process.

‘Yes I do,’ he said finally.‘Jennifer Marlowe.1976.Right before Christmas.Found her sitting upright on her sofa, single gunshot to the abdomen, eyes gone.White stones put in their place.’

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