Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Twenty-four

Author's note: Thank you for all the votes that helped this story get to Round Three of the Purple Hearts!!! Sorry for the delayed update, I've been writing articles like crazy. Without further delay...

"We're officially reopening this case," said Arlene. "And great work, guys, really. Smilley's got to access some money. We'll watch her ATM transactions. We'll get her." She looked at John. "Tell Lizzie her tip is deeply appreciated."

She was talking about the Samuels case, of course—John had been able to explain his involvement this afternoon because the new break in the case had initially come from Lizzie. They were pursuing Marian because she had information, and made a possible suspect, in Julie's murder. All the Pride and Clay stuff, John and Mike had to keep to themselves.

"Thanks, Sarge, I will," John said. He and Mike sat in chairs in Arlene's office. She'd called them in to hear their report and given them each a cold bottled water. Mike was all sweaty and his shirt and tie looked like he'd slept in them; John could only assume he himself looked worse.

Mike got up and stretched. "I'm going to try and get a good night's shut-eye," he said. "We get a hit off the ATM and we could be real busy trying to haul this chick in."

John dragged himself out of his chair, every muscle screeching in protest after the abuse from this afternoon. "I've got an errand to run," he said. "Then I'm getting my butt home, too."

Mike glanced over at him, brow furrowed, as they walked through the squad room. "You okay? You're looking kind of stiff."

"That's 'cause I am kind of stiff."

Neither of them said any more until they hit the stairwell.

"At least," said Mike, "if George Clay should happen to turn up in Marian's bank records, you can say, 'Hey, I remember that name from Pride's phone records.' It could put the whole Pride case back in play."

"I only hope we can find some good excuse for a warrant before Clay cleans up all the evidence. I mean, who would you have called speeding out of that parking lot?"

"There isn't anything more you could have done, Johnny," said Mike, "but damn, I wish we'd have caught her. We might have had both cases wrapped up by now."

"Yeah. See ya." They parted at the door.

Earlier, John had remembered something he'd been meaning to check out, and he'd given Richmond Behavioral Health a call. Lizzie was in San Diego, so he had no reason to rush home. He got in his car and drove over. It was so close to the river that he always used to stop after he had to come over here, walk across the footbridge, go out on the rocks, and enjoy the river and the kayakers rollicking by. Now he didn't think he'd ever want to go there again. All he could see when he thought about Belle Isle was Bill Pride, face down in a stinking slick of blood.

He was shown to an office with a lobby like a closet. There was barely room for the one love seat and a table with a few magazines. "Sherry Rogers, Ph.D." was emblazoned across the door. When an investigator needed some information on a mental disorder—or, perhaps, counseling for a mental disorder—this was the office they came to.

He loitered in the outer office until a bespectacled middle-aged blonde in glasses opened the door. "Detective Robin?" she said in a slow Southern drawl that John guessed was Georgian.

He crossed the room to shake her hand. "Yeah, how're you doing?"

"Fine, thanks. I'm Dr. Rogers. You need some help with a case?"