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She snapped herself back from her thoughts.
“You were in Jamaica when I called?”
Walt nodded. “I was.”
“What’s in Jamaica?”
“Some really good rum and a dog named Bureau.”
“Who’s taking care of the dog?”
“He can take care of himself, mostly. He used to be a stray, but I’ve turned him soft. A friend is watching him while I’m gone,” Walt said.
Avery pointed at the bar and cocked her head. “Now the rum makes sense. And the tan. I’m honored you came back to the States on my request.”
“I’m a big fan of American Events. When I heard Avery Mason was trying to track me down, my interest was piqued. So tell me, what’s on your mind?”
“Cameron Young.”
“That much I know. What about him?”
“I’ve been looking into his death and the murder investigation that surrounded it. I’m considering revisiting the case as a potential feature on American Events. Taking a hard look at the case and retelling the story for one of my true-crime specials. Since you were the lead detective, I thought you’d be a good place to start.”
Walt nodded. “The Cameron Young case checks all the boxes for a sensationalized exposé on a newsmagazine show, that’s for sure.”
“It does,” Avery admitted.
“Wealthy novelist.”
Avery nodded. “Gruesome crime scene.”
“Sex,” Walt said with raised eyebrows. “And kinky sex at that.”
“Yes, crazy S and M stuff from what I’ve read. Plus betrayal.”
“Lots of that.”
“And now, the identification of Victoria Ford’s remains twenty years after 9/11.”
Walt raised his glass of rum. “Shit, I’d tune in for that.”
Avery laughed. “Thanks, I’ll count you as a devoted fan if I ever get this project off the ground. But honestly, I’m looking to do more than just retell the case.”
“Yeah? What do you have in mind?”
She paused to take a sip of vodka, knowing her next comment would not be well received. “I’m looking to tell a different story. One that’s less focused on the wealthy writer who was killed and more dedicated to the woman accused of killing him.”
“In what way?”
Avery paused for another moment.
“Is there any way . . . the BCI could have gotten it wrong about Victoria Ford?”
She watched Walt Jenkins consider the question while he spun his glass in the thin puddle of condensation that had formed on the mahogany bar. He lifted the tumbler and took a sip, then looked at her with a straight face.
“No.”
Avery squinted her eyes. “Just like that? No way there could be another theory? The crime happened twenty years ago. Do you remember all the details from so long ago?”
