Though neither would say it aloud, like baseball players sitting silent in a dugout for fear of jinxing a pitcher in the midst of throwing a no-hitter, each was optimistic this could be the break they needed, the break every investigation needed.Andrew Laub had called as Rowe maneuvered through afternoon traffic on their return to the Justice Center. A woman in Laurelhurst had called and asked to speak to the detectives in charge of the murder investigation—“the one in Laurelhurst,” was how she put it. She said she might have some information; she didn’t know, so she was calling. They had received dozens of tips, but this lady, Laub said, had been modest and quiet, like maybe she really did know something.Rowe and Crosswhite would find out soon enough.Mary Beth Blume answered a cathedral wood-and-lead-glass door. She appeared too small and demure to be living in such a grand expanse of overindulgence, but her demeanor fit Laub’s description of her voice on the phone—“tentative.”
