Page 87 of We Are All Guilty Here

“Do you know what kind of car she drives?”

He shook his head. “I never noticed.”

“Did she mention hobbies or anything to do with her family?”

“I don’t know anything about her.” He kept shaking his head. “I wasn’t paying to hear her whine about her kids or her problems. I was there for me. Only for me.”

“What’s the password for your WhatsApp?”

“I don’t know. I told you, I haven’t logged into it in months. I only downloaded it because she told me to.”

“Mr. Walker, do you have any idea where Paisley is right now?”

“No. I promise on my life.” He finally looked at her. “Please, I’m begging you to let this go. It has nothing to do with Paisley.”

“Wait here.” Jude walked into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Seth was already coming out of the old storage closet. She could see the glow of monitors on a desk, two chairs crammed in front of them.

Seth said, “That detail about fly fishing was very impressive.”

“Sheriff Clifton’s read was accurate. He’s hiding something.” Jude handed him the phone. “Tell Damien we need this cracked open pronto. I want you to send a team with Walker’s photo to the Dew Drop Inn to see if they remember him. You need to bring in Walker’s secretary. Knock on her door. Wake her up. She’s his alibi for yesterday morning. I want to know if she’s sleeping with him. If she’s not, I’m sure she has an inkling about who Walker has been stepping out with.”

“You mean Trixie?”

“That’s not the name she gave him,” Jude said. “It’ll be something like Ashley or Katie. Four hundred and fifty bucks for two hours is a girlfriend experience. He spends ten minutes screwing her, then the rest of the time talking about how his life is hard and his wife doesn’t understand him.”

Seth looked more surprised than he should have.

“The escort will have an agency that screens all of her clients. They’re the ones Walker is paying. We need to comb through his credit card receipts and all his payment apps. There has to be a trail. He didn’t find this woman on a dating website. Or the man, for that matter. That’s clearly not Elijah Walker’s penis.”

Seth’s eyebrows shot up. “Ma’am?”

“Walker’s hands, neck and face are pale. Unless he’s going to a tanning booth and only sunning his genitals and stomach, that’s not his penis.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Seth took the phone. “You think Walker’s being blackmailed?”

Jude had seen Paisley’s photo on the bulletin back in San Francisco. “His daughter is an attractive young blonde.”

“Yeah.” Seth no longer looked surprised. He’d heard of child sex-trafficking, at least. “What you said about a press conference at seven thirty. I’m sorry, but I didn’t realize you’d already set that up. Are you going to make an appeal?”

“I was bluffing, but I want you to set it up anyway. Seven thirty will give the national media four hours to make it down from Atlanta. This will be your show.” Jude didn’t want to be the face of the investigation. “Make sure you thank Sheriff Clifton and the local forces for their cooperation. Tell the media we’re following leads. Ask for any witnesses to come forward. Give out the number for the tip line.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m going to talk to the mother. Carol Walker might know what her husband’s been up to.” Jude started to leave, but then she thought of something. “I need you to print out two photos from Elijah’s collection. One of each, full size, in color.”

He looked shocked. “You’re going to show them to his wife?”

“Sweetheart, you need to understand that I’m not here to hold hands and tiptoe around feelings. I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring a fourteen-year-old girl home.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get an agent to drive you to the Walker house.”

“No, I’ll catch a ride from the sheriff.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Emmy sat in the dark inside the jail complex. Her leg had finally stopped shaking, but that was only because the muscles had burned themselves out. As the hands on the clock circled up to four in the morning, she’d felt every single tick draining the life out of her. There was nothing left to give. All she could do was stare at the bank of video monitors in front of her. Twelve different cameras on the men’s side. Eight on the women’s.

Paul Dalrymple was being held in isolation for his own protection. He’d been pacing his cell when Emmy had first relieved the jail monitor. Now, his fists were wrapped around the bars. He was gently tapping his forehead against the steel. Sweat had saturated his black and white striped uniform. Vomit stained the front. They’d had to call maintenance for his clogged toilet. He was going through alcohol withdrawal. They should probably call a doctor, too, but Emmy wasn’t in the mood to help the man responsible for the death of her father.

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