At that point, the police had moved on, looking for drifters, or ex-cons living nearby. Someone her mother might have had the bad luck to run into that afternoon, sixteen years ago.
Besides, if these articles were right, Dowell was already in prison when the killing happened.
The ultimate alibi.
Still, her father’s entanglement with organized crime mattered. He must have known that. But he’d never once brought it up. Why would that be?
Grabbing a writing pad, she began taking notes. Clicking through article after article, she pieced together a story of murder.
A month after that photo was taken on the front steps of the courthouse in Atlanta, Martin Dowell was found guilty by a jury, whose identities were zealously protected for fear of reprisals, and sentenced to twenty years for murder and racketeering.
Dowell appealed but the conviction held.
Harper’s father didn’t represent him on appeal. By then, he was living in Connecticut with his new wife.
At some point as she worked, Baxter went home, complaining that Harper was crazy to still be there. In the quiet that followed, she went back through older articles, discovering that her father had been Dowell’s attorney for several years before the trial that sent him to prison, representing him on drug cases and assault allegations. He’d fought for Dowell like a pit bull—countersuing prosecutors, making allegations in the Atlanta press about personal vendettas and police failings.
“A victim of the system,” he called Dowell once in an interview. “A businessman under attack by a government gone mad.”
When she’d finally had enough, she closed the notepad and leaned back in her chair, her head throbbing.
She wasn’t sure what to think. Dowell was a killer, she had no doubt of that. But he’d been locked up when her mother died. How could it have been him? Besides, what would his motive have been? Her father had kept him out of jail for years.
It was one in the morning but still she didn’t go home. Snatching her phone up off the desk, she scrolled to the text that had tipped her off. No name. The number had an area code she didn’t recognize. She knew if she asked a cop to trace it, it would be a cheap burner phone.
But she thought she knew who’d sent it.
There was only one person who knew enough to connect the dots of her life like this. And his anonymous phone call had sent her into hiding six months ago when he’d warned her that her mother’s killer was coming for her.
She shivered. Was that killer Martin Dowell?
Typing fast, she sent a short message back:
Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?
This time, a reply came almost instantly. It was even briefer than her own:
I’m telling you now.
She stared at the phone for a long time before replying again:
Is Dowell still in prison?
The reply was succinct:
No.
Harper swallowed hard before typing the next question:
Did he kill my mother?
The long pause that followed was excruciating. Finally, her phone buzzed. A message filled the screen:
You already know the answer to that.
Harper drew in a sharp breath. Her hands had started to shake and she squeezed the phone to hold it steady as she typed the next question:
How? He was in jail.
There was no response. She waited five minutes before sending the message again.
Still, nothing.
Desperate, she dialed the number. As she’d known it would, it rang out without going to voice mail.
Swearing, she threw the phone down so hard it bounced.
It was always like this. The man appeared when she didn’t expect him. He always gave her just enough information to string her along. But not enough to do any good.
Why should she trust him? Every word he said could be a lie. He could be one of Dowell’s goons. For all she knew, he could be the one hunting her.
And yet, her instincts told her to believe him.
Something had happened between Martin Dowell and her father. Something about the case that sent Dowell to prison. It was all connected to her mother’s murder. She could sense it. Smell it in the air like blood.
Whatever happened—whatever the man on the phone told her or didn’t tell her—she was going to get to the truth. She was going to investigate this case right down to the bone.
12
When she finally left the paper it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Only a few hours had passed since she’d sat on the veranda at Xavier Rayne’s house—it felt like days.