chestnut hair of their mother, and the Lenx girl had had a rich, curly red mane fit for an Irish princess.
She compared the two girls. Isabella’s curls were more obvious and untamed, and the color was quite different from the flamingo tint flaunted by Martin Lenx’s daughter. They were teenagers of different eras, with as many differences as similarities. This was getting Amaia nowhere.
She positioned the photo of Brad Nelson on the screen next to the portrait of Martin Lenx. Would Lenx have deliberately disfigured himself in order to escape arrest? She thought he might have. Martin Lenx’s high opinion of himself wasn’t based on his looks but his conviction of his innate superiority and strong moral values. He would have considered physical appearance superficial, no hinderance to his striving for moral perfection.
In Galveston at ten o’clock in the evening, a cheerful feminine voice answered the phone. “Reed residence!” Music and chatter filled the background.
“Good evening, ma’am. Sorry to bother you so late. This is Agent Dupree of the FBI. I was hoping to speak with Captain Reed.”
“Oh. Just a second, I’ll let him know,” she replied, sounding slightly put out by the intrusion.
For a time, Dupree could hear only music and the lively chatter of a social gathering, but then a man came on the line. “This is Captain Reed.”
“Captain, this is Agent Dupree of the FBI. Your headquarters gave me your private number. I hope I’m not bothering you—sounds like I’m interrupting a party—but it’s extremely important.”
“We’re celebrating my wife’s birthday. But never mind that, I know it’s important.” The background noise ceased abruptly, probably because Reed had closed a door. The captain’s voice was tense when he came back. “Someone from your team called our admin office this evening and wanted to compare some dates with Nelson’s leave requests. I don’t see what that could have to do with anything.”
Dupree gave Johnson a surprised glance. His deputy mouthed, “Tucker!” and threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust.
Dupree closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled sharply. “Captain, I have you on the speaker now, and I’ve got Agent Johnson and Assistant Inspector Salazar with me. We need to hear your thoughts on Detective Brad Nelson and the Andrews case.”
The captain sounded troubled when he spoke after a lengthy pause. “Shoot. What do you need?”
Dupree didn’t beat around the bush. “How long have you known Brad Nelson?”
“Twelve years.”
“What’s your opinion of his professional ability?”
“He’s a good officer, but I have an even better opinion of him as a man. Nelson is good-hearted and generous. It’s rare to have a career officer who hasn’t been beaten down and dehumanized by his work. He’s empathetic; he suffers along with the victims.”
“Can you explain what happened to his face?”
“Sure. It was a long time ago, before I met him. Maybe that’s where his empathy is rooted . . . The landlord of the old apartment block in Boston where he was living set fire to the building to collect the insurance money. Ten people died in the fire. Nelson doesn’t like to talk about it. A fireman pulled him out. Once he was released from the hospital and was pretty much back on his feet, he applied to join the fire department. He couldn’t meet the physical requirements because of his injuries. But the Boston police accepted him. He met his wife Sarah, they married, they had children, they moved to Galveston. That’s about all I can tell you, since as I said, he doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Do you have any reason to believe the handling of the Andrews case was flawed?”
“No, none at all. I think we did everything possible. But policemen are human beings, and no one is a hundred percent all the time.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“There’s always talk about how the stress of police work affects the officer’s private life, but it works the opposite way as well. We’re talking about people, individuals, and when an officer has problems at home, that can reduce his effectiveness on the job. I’m not saying that was the case, but Nelson was having a pretty hard time at home during that investigation.”
“You mean Nelson and his wife were talking about separating?”
Captain Reed’s reply was drowned out by static on the line.
“Captain, we’re calling you from New Orleans, and it sounds like the hurricane might be interfering with the line. We didn’t hear what you just said. Could you please repeat it?”
“I said I don’t think ‘separating’ was