Chapter 6Loretta Henderson lived in a large colonial. The front cracked sidewalk led to uneven porch steps. Chipped paint barely covered dilapidated clapboard. She flew an American flag from the right pillar, and it waved over a bed of w**d-ridden goldenrod and perennial mums. Vincent Falco picked up the forgotten bagged newspaper while Farrah Richards knocked on the witness' screen door.
A woman cracked open the front door, and stood frail behind a chain lock, and the small wedge created. “Yes?”
Falcone and Richards showed badges.
“Are you Mrs. Henderson? Loretta Henderson?” Richards said.
“I suppose technically it's Ms. Henderson. My husband, Rory, passed away almost fifteen years ago.”
“I'm sorry about your loss,” Richards said.
Ms. Henderson bobbed her head, as if teetering on wh
