Charlotte Coleman sat in the small interview room, David's phone on the table between us. Her eyes were red-rimmed but determined.
"I didn't check his phone before," she said. "It felt like... like violating his privacy, even after death. But then I couldn't stop thinking about what you said, about him being with someone."
I nodded sympathetically. "It's natural to want answers."
"There were texts," she continued, unlocking the phone and sliding it toward me. "To someone saved only as 'V.' Making plans to meet at the hotel that night."
I examined the messages with clinical detachment, though my heart rate had increased slightly. I hadn't anticipated this complication. The burner phone I'd used as "Vivian" had been destroyed immediately after Coleman's death, but I hadn't considered he might have saved our text exchange.
The messages were vague enough—meeting times, hotel confirmation, nothing explicitly sexual or identifying. Still, they represented a loose end I hadn't properly tied.
"These are certainly suggestive," I acknowledged. "But they don't tell us much about who this 'V' person is."
"There's more," Charlotte said, taking the phone back and opening the photo gallery. "I found this."
She turned the screen toward me. There, partially obscured but recognizable, was a photo taken in the hotel bar. It showed a woman's profile—my profile, disguised as Vivian, the blonde wig and makeup creating enough difference that Charlotte didn't recognize Detective Blackwood sitting across from her.
"He must have taken it without her knowing," Charlotte said bitterly. "Probably to show his golf buddies his conquest."
"May I?" I took the phone, studying the image. It wasn't clear enough for facial recognition, but it was evidence I'd failed to secure. A rookie mistake. "We can try to identify her from this, but it's not much to go on."
"I want to know who she is," Charlotte insisted. "Not to confront her—that wouldn't bring David back. But I need to understand why. Why her, why that night, why our marriage wasn't enough."
The pain in her voice was familiar—the same questions my mother had asked about my father's betrayal. Questions with no satisfying answers.
"Mrs. Coleman," I said gently, "identifying this woman may not give you the closure you're seeking. Men who cheat rarely do so because of deficiencies in their wives or their marriages. The problem lies within them—their own insecurities, their inability to honor commitments."
She looked at me, surprised by the personal insight. I'd said too much, let Detective Blackwood's professional distance slip. I quickly recovered.
"That's what our department psychologist tells victims' families," I added. "Finding someone to blame rarely helps with grief."
Charlotte wiped away a tear. "Maybe. But I still want to know."
"I'll see what we can do with the photo," I promised, making a copy of the image and text exchange for our files. "But I want to set realistic expectations. This may not lead anywhere."
After she left, I sat alone in the interview room, contemplating this unexpected development. The Coleman case was supposed to be closed. A loose end like this could complicate everything.
I needed to handle this carefully. The photo wasn't clear enough for facial recognition, but it was evidence that shouldn't exist. If someone more experienced examined it, enhanced it, compared it to police personnel files... the risk was small but real.
I copied the files to our evidence system as procedure required, but made a mental note to monitor the case closely. If anyone showed too much interest in identifying "V," I would need to redirect their attention.
More importantly, I needed to adjust my methods. No more leaving targets with their phones. No more allowing photos in public spaces. The next target—Walsh—would require even more careful planning.
I was halfway back to my desk when Alvarez intercepted me, excitement in her eyes.
"We've got a hit on one of the maintenance workers," she said. "Victor Ramirez. Worked at Eastbrook during the time periods all three victims were there. Has a record—assault charge from five years ago, dropped when the victim refused to testify."
"Let's go talk to him," I replied, grateful for the distraction from the Coleman complication.
Justice on two fronts continued, each with its own challenges. Each requiring perfect execution.