Gone Too Far (Devlin & Falco #2) - Debra Webb Page 0,18

you to push onward until you’re told differently. Do not allow what you hear in the news to slow you down. Every member of the media wants to be the first to find the answer. Ratings, you know.”

“Understood, sir,” Kerri said. If Walsh had been going after one or more drug cartels, the mayor would no doubt insist on being involved with the investigation. After all, one of her campaign platforms had been her determination to stamp out illegal drugs. Like Walsh, the mayor took a strong and very public stance on human trafficking. And why wouldn’t she? The number of female victims was nearly triple that of male vics.

When the door had closed behind Lockett, Falco opened the book in his hand, To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, and removed a photograph. “Take a look at this.”

Kerri stood as her partner moved closer and passed the photo to her. She studied the image, which showed Walsh with an older woman of sixty or so. The woman wore jeans and a sweater. Her long gray hair was a wild mane of loose curls, and the expression on her face warned she didn’t care. On the back, the photo was dated four years ago.

“There are some similarities between the woman and Walsh,” Kerri pointed out, “but this isn’t his mother.” She’d done some research on the vic’s parents. The mother was very attractive and dressed with expert style. Elegant would be the best way to describe her. The father, too, was very polished, sophisticated looking.

“It’s his aunt.” Falco flipped open the book’s cover. “This is who gave our vic the book. Read the note.”

Asher,

You are too good for this profession you’ve chosen. But if you’re going to do it, do it with all your heart.

Love,

Aunt Naomi

Kerri looked from the note to Falco. “Maybe this is his mother’s sister? Based on the photos of the mother I found on the internet, there is definitely a resemblance.”

“Check this out.” Falco turned to the next page in the book and offered it to Kerri.

She exchanged the photo for the book, then scanned the copyright page. “First edition.”

“Signed by the author,” Falco pointed out.

Sure enough, there was the icon’s signature. Be the best you can be. The words were addressed to a Norman Taylor.

Before Kerri could ask, Falco explained, “I googled Norman Taylor. Like the author, he died a few years ago. He was in his nineties. A retired Birmingham attorney. A big deal attorney. Big supporter of the civil rights movement in the sixties.” He held up the photo of the woman, Naomi. “This Aunt Naomi is Norman Taylor’s daughter.”

“So, it’s possible Norman Taylor is Walsh’s maternal grandfather.” The memory of documentaries Kerri had watched about the civil rights movement era in Birmingham gave her chills.

“The mother’s maiden name wasn’t Taylor, but the photo and the note seem to suggest the two were related somehow,” Falco agreed. “The question is, Why does no one here—where our vic worked—realize he had a connection to Birmingham? Think about all the hype when he first arrived, Devlin. And those interviews we watched. No one—not even Walsh himself—mentioned a personal connection to Birmingham.”

Falco made an interesting point. Kerri pushed the chair she’d vacated into the desk. “Could be this Naomi is just a friend who calls herself his aunt.” Her sister Diana’s kids had always called her longtime best friend Jennifer Aunt Jen. “Either way, we should find out about this Naomi Taylor.”

“We could ask his assistant,” Falco suggested.

“Good idea. Ask her.” Kerri flashed him a smile. “Use that formidable Falco charm. She’ll never be able to resist.”

He chuckled and headed for the door. “Funny, it never works on you.”

“I’m immune.” Kerri shook her head, then studied the photo from the book. She’d learned not so long ago the one thing she could count on was that everyone had secrets.

Good or bad, rich or poor, there was always more to the story.

Asher Walsh and family would have plenty.

Taylor Residence

Eighteenth Avenue South

Birmingham, 4:00 p.m.

“This is it?” Kerri looked beyond her partner to the house on the right of the curb where she’d eased to a stop.

“It is,” Falco confirmed. “The residence of Naomi June Taylor. Sixty-two years old. Never married. No kids.”

Walsh’s assistant had no idea who Naomi Taylor was. They’d had to look her up through the DMV and old newspaper articles about her father. She was a retired law professor from Samford, her and her father’s alma mater. She drove a vintage Mercedes and had three