Page 97 of The Homewreckers
The cat had shown up on his porch the week after Jenny’s funeral, and had displayed a remarkable talent for sneaking into his house every time he opened the door. Mak had never been a cat lover, but he did the responsible thing and had the damn thing fixed. The vet insisted the cat had to have a name, so now she was Agent Orange Makarowicz.
Technically, today was his day off. But what else did he have to do?
He leafed through the thick Lanier Ragan file he’d “borrowed” from the Savannah Police Department, until he found what he’d been looking for: Frank Ragan’s account of the clothing he thought his wife might have been wearing the night she vanished.
Victim last seen wearing navy blue or black track suit, Nike running shoes, or possibly blue jeans and a red hoodie,the report said.
He checked it against the inventory of the items that had been recovered along with Lanier Ragan’s remains. Purple vinyl ski jacket, women’s pink Nike tennis shoes, size four. Wedding ring found in pocket of jacket. The GBI had forwarded photographs of everything.
Mak gathered up the printouts of the photos. “Okay, Orangey,” he said, addressing the cat. “You’re in charge. Don’t talk to strangers.”
Emma Ragan said she understood when Mak told her he needed to question her father again.
“I need to show him some clothing items we found,” Mak said. “The sooner that happens, the sooner we can positively identify the body.”
“Okay,” she said finally. “I get it.”
Frank Ragan scowled when he saw the detective enter the sporting goods store. “I told you, I’m not talking to you again. Not unless you have a warrant or something.”
Mak shrugged. “I thought you’d want to know that we found some skeletal remains yesterday, and we have reason to believe the body is your wife.”
Ragan looked stunned. “You found Lanier?” His ruddy face paled and he swayed a little, grabbing onto a rack of running tights to regain his balance.
“Why don’t we go someplace quieter to talk about this?” Makarowicz said. “Is there an office, or a back room?”
He followed Ragan through a stockroom and into a shoebox-sized office with barely enough room for a small desk and two chairs.
“Where… where was she?” Ragan asked.
“We’ll talk about that later.” Makarowicz opened his briefcase and extracted the file folder he’d brought along, and tapped the record button on his phone. “Very little of the clothing we found was intact, except for a jacket and a pair of running shoes.” He placed two photographs on the desk in front of Ragan. “Do you recognize this jacket?”
Ragan’s hands trembled as he picked up the photograph. He stared at it for a long moment. “Yeah. This was Lanier’s.” He pointed at a small metal charm that dangled from the jacket’s zipper. “I think that’s a lift doohickey from when we went skiing in Beaver Creek, the year after we got married.” He sighed. “Typical southern girl. She hated skiing, but loved drinking hot buttered rum in the ski lodge.”
Makarowicz handed him the other photo. The running shoes were discolored, but the Nike swoosh on the side was still recognizable. “These look like hers,” Ragan said, his voice breaking. “Size four. She had the tiniest little feet. Emma did too. Does too,” he corrected himself.
He looked up at Makarowicz. “You’re sure it’s her? I mean, there’s no chance it could be someone else?”
“The coroner’s office will make the official identification, using dental records and DNA,” Makarowicz said. “But there’s one more thing I’d like to show you.”
He handed Ragan another photo, of a platinum wedding band with braided bands of tiny diamonds. He’d looked up the style. It was called eternity.
“Oh my God.” Ragan choked back tears. “This was Lanier’s. It really is her.”
His put his head down on the desk and his shoulders shook as he sobbed. “God, Lanie.”
Makarowicz had never gotten used to this part of the job. Dealing with the next of kin was never easy, and it was even more difficult when the next of kin was still considered a viable murder suspect.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Ragan.”
Ragan lifted his head and let out a long, ragged sigh. “I should call Emma.”
“She knows,” Makarowicz said.
The coach wiped his face with his forearm. “How did she take the news?”
“She was upset, of course. I promised to call her when the coroner makes it official.”
“Okay.” Ragan squared his shoulders. “Okay. Do you know, I mean, can you tell what happened?”
