by Tessa Bailey
Then I’d feared he wouldn’t.
He’d probably swiped my notepad when I’d been staring at his mouth.
Damn him. I’d dropped my guard and he hadn’t hesitated to take advantage. Dash must be feeling the pressure if he’d resorted to petty theft.
We both knew I was winning. I held more aces than he had kings at the moment, but the game was about to take a turn.
Tomorrow was Draven’s arraignment, and unless the judge decided the sixty-year-old man was a flight risk, he’d be out on bond tomorrow. As soon as Draven was free, Dash would have an inside source.
So to keep my edge, I’d need to push harder and dig deeper. What I needed was another scoop, to find another person like Cody Pruitt who’d spill because he had a personal grudge against the Slater family.
But who?
The door from reception opened and Willy walked inside, heading straight for his desk across the aisle from Sue. He pushed his sunglasses into his thinning blond hair, revealing dark circles under his eyes. It was nearly noon but with his rumpled clothes, he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Hi, Willy.”
He lifted a hand as he sat, leaning deep into his chair. “Morning. Hey, Sue.”
“Hi, Willy. Rough night?”
“Might have had one too many beers.”
At that, the door opened again and George rushed through, his arms overloaded with loose papers and the briefcase trapped underneath an elbow about to slip free. He made it to his desk just in time to dump everything on top as his case crashed to the floor. “Hey, guys.”
“Hi, George.”
Everyone else exchanged greetings as I sat back and watched, me the newcomer to the team. For once, the room was full. Everyone was here except for Dad because, per Mom’s demand that his twenty-day work streak come to an end, he was taking the day off.
“I don’t think we’ve all been in the same room since last month’s staff meeting,” I joked.
Willy sat upright, his shoulders tense. “Lane said I didn’t have to keep regular hours.”
“That’s fine by me. I was just making an observation. Work when you want.”
“Oh. Okay.” He slumped again. “Thanks. I don’t like mornings much.”
“What are you working on?” I asked.
He rifled through the shoulder bag he’d brought, hauling out a notepad. “I haven’t typed it up yet but you can read it.”
“Yes, please. I’d love to.” I stood and went to his desk, taking the pad from his hand.
It didn’t take me long to read the article, even in Willy’s scratchy handwriting. The words sucked me in and by the end, I had a smile on my face.
“This series is going to be incredible,” I told him, handing back his pad. “Nice work.”
A blush crept up his cheeks. “Thanks, Bryce.”
Willy was doing a five-week piece on the life of railroad transients. He’d spent the better part of a month this past spring getting to know a handful of individuals who’d passed through Clifton Forge courtesy of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railway line that ran along the edge of town.
This week’s column was about a woman who’d been a railroad hitchhiker for seven years. Willy’s words had painted her nomadic life in vivid detail. Hard because there were no luxuries like daily showers. Brutal at times when food became difficult to come by. Wistful with its ultimate freedom. Happy because she lived the life of her choosing.
The story was intriguing, the writing flawless. Willy’s talent was the reason Dad gave him free rein when it came to pitching ideas. Whatever he wrote, our customers devoured.
Willy knew his audience well, maybe because he’d lived in Clifton Forge his entire life and there wasn’t a soul in town he didn’t know.
An idea slammed into my head. Maybe Willy could help me keep my lead against Dash.
“Can I ask you a question?” I perched on the edge of his desk.
“Shoot.”
“I was hoping to get an early look at an autopsy report, the report for the woman who was murdered at the Evergreen. But when I stopped by the county coroner’s office this morning, they had a note on the door that they were closed. If I wanted to get ahold of the medical examiner, who would that be?”
“Mike,” Willy said. “Just give him a call. He’ll help you out.”
“Even for an ongoing investigation?”
Autopsies were public record, but when an investigation was involved, they weren’t released until the prosecutor permitted it.
“He might not let you read the whole report, but he’s given me rundowns before just so I could include some details in a story. Besides, never hurts to ask.”
I grinned. “Exactly.”
One thing Dad had taught me early on was that asking for information was free. The worst-case scenario was you’d get shot down with a no. I already knew that would be Chief Wagner’s answer.
But maybe this Mike would be a bit more open to sharing.
“I’d love to ask Mike.” I stood from Willy’s desk. “Except I don’t know Mike.” Nor did I have his phone number.
Willy whipped out the phone in his pocket without a word, punched at it for a second, then held it to his ear. Five minutes later, the two of us were in my car, driving to the coroner’s office.
“Thanks for coming along,” I told Willy as he lazed in the passenger seat.
“It’s all good. Kinda curious to see you in action. The stuff you’ve been writing about the murder is good. Damn good. Best work I’ve seen since your dad’s.”
“Thanks.” I smiled over the steering wheel at maybe the best compliment I’d had in a decade. “Your work is impressive too.”
“Glad you think so. I, uh . . . I really love my job. I can come in more . . . to the office. If I have to.” His fingers fidgeted on his lap.
Willy had always been jumpy and skittish in the office. I’d just assumed he was like that all the time. Maybe he was to a degree. But he was also nervous about his job. That with me on staff, Dad wouldn’t need an additional reporter.
“I don’t care when you come into the office, Willy. As long as you keep writing the great stories you’ve been writing and handing them in on time, you’ll always have a spot at the Tribune.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes out the window on the buildings that streaked past. In the reflection, I saw a faint smile.
It didn’t take us long to get to the medical examiner’s office, which was located across the street from the small hospital in town. Willy led the way to a locked door, knocking on the wire mesh that covered a square glass window in its face. We waited for a few minutes, longer than I would have stood there alone, until finally the door pushed open and a man waved us inside.
“Mike.” Willy shook his hand. “This is Bryce. Bryce, meet Mike.”
“Nice to meet you, Mike. Thanks for doing this.”
“You bet.” His voice was hoarse. The dark circles under Mike’s eyes matched Willy’s. Despite the pungent smell of chemicals within the sterile space, the stale scent of alcohol wafting off his body nearly made me gag. “I owe Willy one after he drove my ass home last night. Had one too many after our pool tournament.”
I nodded and breathed through my mouth. “That’s nice.”
“What can I help you with?” Mike asked.
“The coroner’s office is closed and—”
“Those guys.” Mike scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You know, I bust my ass getting reports done and sent over to them. They take their sweet time actually getting them processed. Whose did you want to see?”
I braced. “Amina Daylee.”
“Oh.” His shoulders sagged. “No can do. Active investigation. You’ll have to get that one from the cops.”
“Damn.” I sighed. “Well, it was worth asking. I’ve had some examiners in the past who let me read their report or told me a little about it. Sometimes even off the record so I couldn’t print anything until it was released by the police. But havi
ng an idea of the autopsy helps me ask the right questions. It might lead to other clues too.”
My speech was a stretch. I expected Mike to shove us out the door at any moment, as he probably should.
“I can’t show it to you,” he said as I held my breath, waiting and hoping for the magic word. “But”—bingo—“I can give you the high level. Off the record. You’ll have to wait for the details to be released to print them.”
“Perfect.” I glanced at Willy, who sent me a wink.
“Come on,” Mike muttered, motioning for Willy and me to follow him down the hallway.
The building was deserted, the only light coming from the windows since the overhead lights were all off.
“Quiet day?” I asked.
Mike shrugged. “It’s just me right now. I had an intern but she’s off for the summer.”
We crowded into Mike’s office at the end of the hallway. The desk and floor were scattered with stacks of file folders the same teal as his unbecoming scrubs. The hallway had smelled like antiseptic and bleach, but in here, the air was perfumed with coffee and an undercurrent of hangover.
“Okay.” Mike flipped open a folder as he sat behind his desk. I sat across from him in a folding chair while Willy remained standing against the doorframe. “Amina Daylee. Age fifty-nine. Cause of death, blood loss due to multiple stab wounds.”
Information I’d already gleaned from the police reports and my discussion with Cody Pruitt at the motel. Cody’s wife had cried as she’d told him about the scene in room 114. The entire bed had been soaked through with Amina’s blood. Some had dripped to the carpet, creating nearly black puddles. Cody’s wife had stepped in one when she’d rushed to Amina’s side to check for a pulse.
“How many stab wounds?” I asked.
“Seven. All upper body.”
I swallowed hard. “Did she suffer?”
“Yeah.” Mike met my gaze and gave me a sad smile. “Not for long. He hit a major artery, so she bled out fast.”
“Do you know time of death?”
“I’ve got a pretty tight timeline but as always, it’s an estimate. Between five a.m. and seven a.m.”
Which meant Draven had killed her first thing in the morning. “Anything else you can tell me?”
“She’d recently had intercourse.”
My spine straightened. “Any signs of force?”
“No. It was likely consensual.”
“That’s something, at least.” I was glad Amina hadn’t had to endure a rape before her death. “Did the sperm come back as Draven’s?”
“This is all off the record.” Mike looked between me and Willy, a sudden look of fear crossing his face like he’d already said too much. “Right?”
“Right,” I promised. “I won’t use any of this in the paper until the authorities release it to the press.”
Mike studied my face for a long moment, then gave me a nod. “The new preliminary quick test matched his sample. I’m still waiting on the full results. But the prelims are rarely wrong.”
An interesting twist. Draven and Amina had had sex before he’d killed her. Why? Were they new lovers? Old lovers? Why the motel instead of his home? Was her death an act of passion? All questions I would have written down in my notepad.
Fucking Dash.
“Thanks so much for your time.” I stood and held out my hand.
Mike stood too. “None of this gets printed until the report is released.”
“You have my word. Thanks again.”
Willy and I excused ourselves from the office, making our way back into the sunshine and fresh air. As we climbed into my car, Willy laughed. “You’re good. I was sure he’d kick us out when you told him what report you wanted.”
“I have my moments.” I smiled and turned on the car. “Thanks for the help.”
“Any time. What now?”
“Now?” I blew out a long breath. “Now I need to find more about our victim. Her daughter is in Colorado, but I wouldn’t approach her this soon anyway. Amina grew up here but doesn’t have any family left. I’m hoping to find a few people who knew her as a kid. I want to find out why she came back, and why she met up with Draven.”
“I might be able to help with that,” Willy said. “How about I buy my new boss a beer?”
“You’re on.”
* * *
As it turned out, The Betsy wasn’t just a seedy bar, but a place where the town’s history was as abundant as the dust mites floating from the rafters.
Thanks to three of the bar’s regulars—a trio of men well past seventy who were all somehow related to each other through cousins and marriages, I’d lost track—I had more information about Amina Daylee than I’d been able to find on my trusty sources Facebook and Google.
Amina’s name hadn’t shown up much in the newspaper archives. The only reference was a graduation announcement decades ago. It was how I’d pieced together that she’d gone to Clifton Forge High, one year junior to Draven. But besides the same alma mater, I hadn’t found much information about her family.
According to the guys at the bar, Amina’s family hadn’t lived in Clifton Forge long. Her stepfather had worked for the railroad and had been transferred here from New Mexico. One of the regulars recalled that the family had moved here not long before Amina had learned how to drive, because he’d sold them a car. I was a little too old for her at the time but that girl was a head turner.
The family was well-liked, from what the guys at The Betsy remembered, but their interactions had been limited because the winter after their daughter graduated and moved away, Amina’s parents were both killed in a tragic car accident. Somehow, I’d missed that in the news archives because her mother had taken her stepfather’s last name while Amina had kept Daylee.
Her parents were buried in the town cemetery. Maybe she’d come back to visit their graves.
“Another one, Bryce?” the bartender asked.
I swallowed the last gulp of my beer. “I’m good, Paul. Thanks.”
About twenty minutes ago, I’d lost Willy and the three regulars to the pool table while I’d stayed in my stool, finishing up my second beer. The door behind me opened, the bright afternoon light streaking inside. The thud of heavy boots vibrated the floorboards as the new customer came toward the bar.
Glancing over my shoulder, I expected a stranger’s face. Instead, I found vibrant hazel eyes and a face I’d all but memorized.
“You stole my notepad.”
Dash slid into the empty stool beside me and jerked his chin at Paul, a silent order that must have meant fetch me a beer because Paul did just that. Dash rocked on his stool, getting comfortable. The seat was so close to mine that one of his broad shoulders came a fraction of an inch from touching the bare skin of mine.
My heart skipped—stupid organ—and I gritted my teeth. I refused to acknowledge how close his forearm was to mine. I refused to look at the black tattoo that decorated his skin in wide, black strokes. I refused to budge as he crowded me because, damn it, I was here first.
“Do you mind?” I eyed him up and down. “Move over.”
He didn’t budge.
“I don’t like you.”
The corner of Dash’s mouth turned up. With his other arm, he reached behind himself and dug something out of his back pocket, slapping it onto the bar. My yellow notepad. “Here.”
“Thief.” I snatched it up and put it in my purse. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking through it now. But the second I was alone, I was checking every single page.
“Not much of a notetaker, are you? There wasn’t shit in there I didn’t already know.”
I scoffed. “Because I’ve already printed it in the newspaper.”
“Here you go.” Paul came over to deliver Dash’s beer. “What’s the word on your dad?”
“Bond hearing is tomorrow.”
“You think he’ll get out on bond?”
Dash shot me a wary glance, like he didn’t want to answer whil
e I was sitting here. Tough luck, King. I was here first. “Yeah. He’ll get out.”
“Good.” Paul sighed. “That’s real good.”
Good? “Aren’t you worried that a potential murderer will be out of police custody and roaming the streets?”
Paul only laughed, killing any chance at a decent tip. “Holler if you need anything, Dash. I need to head back and change a keg.”
“Will do.” The bastard thief had a smug grin on his face as he lifted the pint glass for a drink.
Unable to tear my eyes away—more stupid organs—I followed the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Watched with rapt attention as his tongue darted out to dry the foam on his top lip.
“I’m going to steal something else if you keep staring at my mouth like that.”
I didn’t look away. It was a challenge, but I didn’t look away. “Has anyone ever told you that your eyebrows are rather bushy?”
Dash laughed, the low and rich sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Once or twice. How was your meeting with Mike today?”
“Informative.” He was following me now? God, this man was irritating, but I kept my expression neutral. “I’ve learned a lot today. Sunday’s paper is going to be a good one.”
“Look forward to reading it.” Dash set down his beer and twisted in his seat, his knee bumping into mine. “It’ll be the last time the Tribune prints something I don’t already know.”
“And why’s that?”
“Dad’s getting out tomorrow.”
“And what, exactly? He gets out of jail and kills me too?”
His stubbled jaw ticked. “He gets out of jail and tells me what the fuck really happened. Then we end this little game.”
“It’s not a game.” I stood from my seat, slinging my purse over a shoulder. “This is my job. The town deserves to know there’s a killer in their midst. A woman was murdered and she deserves justice.”
“She’ll get justice when the cops find the person who killed her, not hold an innocent man.”
“Innocent? I’ve read enough about this club of yours to know your father is far from innocent.”