Mary dove back in the box, started flipping through pages. “ ‘Sheep man,’ as in high talk for Shepherd? If he was the first detective on the case, shouldn’t there be something in here, an initial report or something?”

“Sure should.” Caitlin joined her, going through the box from the other side. She stopped, pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here it is, an initial investigation report.” She scanned through the typed document. “No way.”

“What?”

She handed the sheet to Mary. “It’s signed by Chief Renton, not Shepherd.”

Mary took the page, started reading. “Have you ever even talked to a Detective Shepherd?”

“That’d be kind of hard.” Caitlin swung her computer Mary’s direction, the results from her search at the top of the screen. “Detective Chris Shepherd died almost two years ago from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

Mary dropped the report to read the obituary in front of her. “There’s no mention of suicide here.”

“Maverick let it slip the first day I met her. Greenwood tried to play the whole thing off, something about an older cop facing down early-onset Alzheimer’s.”

“Did he really have Alzheimer’s?”

“As in, did the initial investigator on the biggest case in the history of the Bloomington Police Department have issues with his memory that may or may not have affected his job performance? If so, did a possible mental lapse allow crucial evidence to become corrupted, go missing, or be overlooked entirely?”

Mary’s juicy secret smile had to match Caitlin’s own. “And how did every news outlet, from the tiny student paper to the national broadcast networks, miss this little gem of a story?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Chapter 54

CHAPTER

54

BESIDES THE ADDRESS, two things told Caitlin she’d found the right place—the sign next to the driveway that read “Piano Lessons” and the beautiful sound of live music marching out the open window.

At one minute till the hour, the music stopped and the front door opened. A good-looking woman in her mid-sixties waved. Caitlin grabbed her sheet music and hurried up the driveway.

Isabelle Shepherd had the kind, patient eyes of a woman no doubt loved by everyone she met.

Caitlin handed her a stack of cash and four pages of music. “Thanks for squeezing this in.”

She looked at Caitlin’s beginner rock series. “You say you played when you were younger?”

“Up through middle school, then a little at college.”

“Well, ‘Imagine’ should be a piece of cake.”

Caitlin followed her into a stylish great room centered on a black grand piano. Various framed happy-family images covered the fireplace mantel. A large color print of Detective Chris Shepherd in his uniformed prime occupied the central spot of honor.

Isabelle placed Caitlin’s sheet music atop the piano and took a chair next to the bench. “Now, why are we desperate to imagine there’s no heaven?”