“And you’ll—” Malone rolled his hand, prompting her to finish his sentence.
“Call my parents.”
Malone grabbed papers from a tray on his desk and set it in front of himself. “All a sergeant can ask. See ya.”
She let herself out of Malone’s office. She’d thought her life had turned to shit from the moment of the accident, but more clouds were moving in. She had reason to want the victim dead, an alibi she couldn’t pin down, her drug dealer was a murder suspect—and her boss was telling her to call her parents. Could this day get any worse? Getting hit by a bus might be a blessing.
Twenty
Albert Ferguson lived in an apartment complex in Woodbridge above a convenience store with bars on its windows. A discarded mattress leaned against the side of the building and kept company with a well-worn sofa chair and a picnic table. It wasn’t exactly a classy neighborhood. Amanda parked the department car along a side street. She should have called Trent back and gone with him to question Freddy, but if that angle never panned out at least she wouldn’t have wasted her time—or, more importantly, put her career in further jeopardy.
She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and wrapped it around the baggie of pills. If only she’d allow herself to swallow one and slip away. But that would require getting past her panging conscience and having the time to rest and possibly sleep. Even if she could overcome the first block, crawling into bed felt like a luxury she wasn’t sure she’d be graced with again. Or at least it felt that way. She’d been up for over thirty hours at this point, though it felt far longer with all the stops and interviews they’d made already. That was the problem with catching a case at midnight—the day felt like it would never end. She had crossed over the threshold from walking-zombie exhaustion to becoming a touch wired. After she spoke with Ferguson, she’d grab another Jabba and suck back on it until it infused her with some spark. Then again, asking a drink for motivation was probably a little unreasonable.
Jabba. Now she was thinking like Trent, Lord help her. But she was starting to find that her initial resistance to him was wearing down—just a little. He was so passive. Did that trait just come naturally to him or had he been told to be accommodating by Malone? The latter would be worse, as if she needed Malone handling the situation to the nth degree. It was possible Trent was one of those hold-it-in-and-explode types too. The kind who did well enrolled in anger-management classes. How had he survived to reach detective rank otherwise? The fellas would have eaten him alive, along with most of the women. Law enforcement might still mostly be a man’s world but the women who did the job weren’t ones you wanted to mess with. She’d met enough, besides herself, to know.
She found the doorway marked 144. There was a black mailbox mounted crooked next to it.
She rang the doorbell. She couldn’t hear the chime, but footsteps pounded down stairs and the door swung open.
A man in his fifties stood there, unshaven with gray stubble on his face and a thick mane of gray hair that came to his shoulders. He looked like a hippie. He was wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt with pit stains. He stank of stale cigarettes and had a mouth full of yellow teeth, when he pulled his lips back and said, “Yeah?”
Amanda held up her badge and introduced herself. “Are you Albert Ferguson?”
“Uh-huh.” He looked beyond her toward the sidewalk.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts Sunday night,” Amanda said, re-earning his gaze.
“Why?” he snarled.
“Chad Palmer was found murdered.”
Albert swayed and reached for the door for support, but his judgment of the distance was flawed, and Amanda helped him.
“Do you have somewhere we could sit down?” She eyed the coat on the hook just inside the door. “Maybe someplace outside? I noticed a picnic table around the side.”
He grabbed his coat and regained enough composure to walk unaided to the table. He sat down, and Amanda found herself breathing easier when the thing didn’t crumble to sawdust. She sat across from him.
“You knew Chad Palmer,” she started.
“He destroyed my son’s life.” Albert ground his teeth and tears filled his eyes.
“How?”
Albert met her eyes. “I think you must have some idea, as you’re at my door.” He shifted his jaw side to side.
“There was an accident years ago, when your son and Chad were teenagers,” she said. “The report said your son was behind the wheel.”
“Utter bullshit. Taylor, my son, and Chad were headed home from a party they never should have been at in the first damn place. Boys being what they are, they were drinkin’ but, instead of calling for a ride, they drove—more accurately, Chad drove,” he spat. “Paramedics and police say they pulled my son from behind the wheel, but I say that Chad had been driving. It was his car and there’s no way he would have let Taylor drive it. He dragged my son from the passenger seat and put him in the driver’s seat to save his own selfish self.”
The last bit was shoved out with disgust and bitter rage. It made the skin tighten on the back of Amanda’s neck. There was definite motive here for Albert Ferguson, and despite the passage of years, the wound still seemed fresh. She could relate, but she hadn’t killed Palmer so maybe she shouldn’t rush into thinking Ferguson had.
“What makes you think that Chad moved him?”
His eyes snapped to hers. “I don’t think it; I know it. Doctors told me that Taylor could have survived the accident unscathed had he stayed still and waited for the ambulance. I asked Taylor many times over the years if Chad had been driving. See I really think Chad moved him, but Taylor was insistent that he was driving. After all, he’d been the one found behind the wheel. But when paramedics arrived, Taylor was unconscious, and I think he’d blacked out on impact, and Chad took advantage of that and moved him. Though how do you prove that? I know he ruined my boy’s life, but no one was taking the case. Chad got away with it. And now my sweet Taylor is dead.”
She bristled at the past tense. “He died?”
“From that day if you ask me. His life was never the same. He was a quadriplegic for the rest of his life.” Albert rubbed his hands and blew into them. There was a little nip to the air, but at least they were somewhat sheltered by the side of the building. Albert continued. “He died a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Had Taylor’s death been the final trigger for Albert?
He reached into his coat pocket and she tensed, preparing herself instinctually for him to pull a gun or weapon. He held up his other hand. “Just want to show you something.”
She relaxed but watched the man closely.
He withdrew a leather wallet and pulled out a photograph and handed it to her across the table. The photo’s edges were frayed and whitened; it had been in and out of his wallet many times over the years.
Albert pointed to the picture. “That was taken a few years ago. Not long after Trixie left.”
“Trixie?”
“My wife.”
Amanda nodded. She studied the photograph, which showed Taylor in a specialized wheelchair—it would have cost a fortune. Albert had lost more than his son. He’d lost his wife and his money, judging by his current living arrangements. Taylor’s care wouldn’t have come cheap. But Amanda noted that Taylor’s face was familiar. She’d check when she left here, but she was quite sure Taylor had been one of the two boys with Palmer in that photo he’d carried around. But why had Palmer held on to it? To remind himself of what he’d done, to remember the good times, to punish himself? And who was the other boy?
“He was a handsome kid,” she said, handing the photo back to Albert.
“He took after his mom.”
Amanda saw quite a bit of Albert in Taylor, but it would be awkward to say as much and flatter a potential murderer. After all, motive was stacking against him. “It must have been tough, caring for him by yourself,” she said.
“It c
ould have been worse. Thankfully, I’ve got myself a good family to fall back on, but yeah, it drained my finances.” He jacked a thumb toward the building. “Why I live here now. All I can afford. And I’m laid off from work right now, which isn’t helping either.”
Her heart pinched at his mention of having a good family. She’d had one of those, but instead of letting their efforts to console her do just that, she viewed them as suffocating and as a brutal reminder of what had happened to Kevin and Lindsey. At least money had never been an issue for her; Kevin’s insurance policy had seen to that, but she kept most of it squirreled away in case she ever did act on the urge to run far away and start fresh. She’d only pulled from it for their funerals and for the family plot. Otherwise, every time she thought about touching the money, she was inundated with flashbacks to that horrid night and guilt that she should somehow profit by what had happened.
“I have to ask this…” She wished she could backpedal her words, make herself sound more authoritative, but the truth was a part of her wouldn’t blame the man for killing Palmer. But she had her word to see through. “Where were you Sunday night from six until midnight?”
“I was out with my girlfriend. I stayed at her house. I could get you her number.” Albert’s reaction to the question was calm and collected.
If he was guilty, he was a cold, hardened psychopath. Just the kind who would hang around for hours to see the job through. “I’ll need to call her.”
“Name’s Karen Smith.” He pulled out his phone from a pocket in his jeans. “Can never remember her number.”
“That’s why we have contact lists.” She smiled at him and he returned it.
“Here it is.” He rattled it off and she keyed it into her phone. She’d call Karen after she left there.
“Actually, while I have my phone out, I’d like to show you something. You might be able to help me with it.” She brought up the picture taken from Palmer’s wallet of the three boys with their bikes. “I’m pretty sure that’s Taylor—” She pointed to the boy in a striped shirt and camo shorts.
“That’s him, all right. The kid insisted on dressing himself, but he had horrible taste. Couldn’t coordinate his wardrobe.”
She recalled the day Lindsey had announced she was a big girl and could dress herself. She had one outfit she kept returning to—a pink princess gown, which had originally been a Halloween costume. She and Kevin had taken her out to restaurants and to the park in it on many occasions—though not nearly enough. She took a deep breath, composed herself again and pointed to the third boy. “Do you happen to know who that kid is?”
“Yeah. Ricky… Can’t remember his last name. He was Chad’s cousin.”
Chad’s cousin, Ricky… Could this be the Rick Jensen who Trent had told her was Palmer’s only living relative?
Albert continued. “Those cousins were thick as thieves. I know because Taylor would go on about how lucky he was they paid him any attention. Think he really felt like he’d been admitted to a club.” The tail end of Albert’s sentence was riddled with sadness.
It was certainly a club Albert had wished his son had never joined.
She got up from the table and said, “Thank you for your time and cooperation.”
“Sure.”
His short response had Amanda looking at him.
Albert went on. “I can understand why I’d look guilty. I’d have motive, and Lord knows I thought about taking my own revenge over the years. The only thing holding me back—besides my family—is knowing that Taylor never would have approved. He didn’t want me carrying hate in my heart, and I’d be lying to say it’s all gone, but I’m taking things one day at a time.”
Amanda dipped her head and briefly shut her eyes. “I appreciate your honesty.”
With that, she headed back to the department car, her heart heavy with feeling for a man who’d lost his son, but she was also fired up. She would honor her daughter’s memory by sticking to her word, doing the right thing, and see Palmer’s case through.
Twenty-One
A quick call to Karen Smith was all it took to firm up Albert Ferguson’s alibi. Amanda was jealous that hers wasn’t so easy. She drove back to Central District where she figured that she and Trent would catch each other up, but Trent hadn’t returned yet.
It was sort of like the good ole days before she’d been saddled with a partner. So quiet, no one to loop in or bring up to speed. Trent was okay as a person, but she didn’t need a partner, and the second this investigation was over she would be tossing Trent back at Malone so fast his head would spin.
She took the necessary steps to get a be-on-lookout bulletin issued for the powder-blue Caprice. They didn’t have a plate, but they had a description and that would have to be enough. Two people had now confirmed Palmer’s connection to the car so finding it might lead them somewhere worthwhile in the investigation.
She was just finishing up when Cud walked past her to his cubicle. She followed and rapped her knuckles on the partition. He slowly looked at her, as if she’d interrupted something he was working on.
“Yeah?” He was chomping on gum in his usual fashion and arched an eyebrow.
She perched on the edge of his desk. “Why didn’t you mention that Palmer’s business partner was murdered?”
“What are you talking about?”
The fact he hadn’t said anything at the crime scene had niggled at her enough, but now he was playing stupid. “Jackson Webb. You were the lead detective on the case five and a half years ago. Apparently, a messy murder scene.”
“What about it?” Cud tapped his pen against his other palm and swiveled so he was more face-on.
“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning?”
“Why would I?” He enlarged his eyes and regarded her as if she were crazy.
“I dunno. Two business partners murdered…”
“Didn’t know Palmer was murdered,” he said, flippant. “I’m guessing that was confirmed.”
“It was.”
“A gunshot?”
“Ah, so you do remember the Jackson Webb case.”
“Sure. Never denied remembering. I just don’t see the connection.”
She studied him.
“Listen, I would have said something if I figured it mattered.”
“Would you?” she shoved out.
His eyes narrowed and he scowled. “I need to get back to work, so if you’d kindly get out of here.”
She held his gaze.
“Bye-bye.” He finger-waved and she rolled her eyes and left. Cud was acting strange, even for him.
She settled herself at her desk after grabbing a coffee from the cafeteria. She was curious about Webb’s murder case but found herself more caught up in the enigma of Casey-Anne Ritter’s.
She brought up Casey-Anne’s case file on the computer. The lead investigating detective in Atlanta, Georgia, was a Detective Montgomery Banks. She could spend time reading or she could reach out to the detective for his take. Sure, a lot of years had passed, but he might still have something to offer that wasn’t on record, or something he felt was worth more attention than it had received. She called his number and got voicemail. She left a rather vague message but hinted that a recent murder in Dumfries, Virginia, might be connected with his cold case. Hopefully, that would be enough to prompt a callback.
Next, she opened her email. She was going to look at Palmer’s visitor list, but a new message with an attachment filtered in above it from CSI Emma Blair. It was probably the evidence list that Malone had mentioned. All the subject said was Palmer Investigation.
She opened the email, expecting some pleasantries in the body, but it simply read See attached.
She clicked on the spreadsheet, which was a list of the potential evidence from room ten and its surroundings at Denver’s Motel. She scanned the document and stopped on line sixty-six. A receipt from a Dumfries bar by the name of Happy Time. According to what was noted, the receipt had been found in garbage ou
tside the motel office. It could have belonged to anyone, but she wasn’t that big of a believer in coincidence.
Her insides went cold. That had been Palmer’s watering hole the night of the accident.
“Mommy, Mommy,” Lindsey chortles in the back seat as I snap her seat belt into place.
“You have fun?”
“Loved it.” Lindsey grins and the moonlight picks up something on my daughter’s chin. I wipe it and find sugary syrup that I must have missed before getting her ready to leave. “Love ice cream cake!”
Amanda blinked away the tears that had sprung into her eyes. That had happened just minutes before the accident, as she was getting Lindsey situated in the back seat. They were leaving from Amanda’s sister Kristen’s house. It had been an afternoon and evening of birthday fun as her niece Ava had just turned seven.
Lindsey had been so excited to be a part of the celebration. She’d been to other parties for her friends and cousins, but she hadn’t been old enough to truly appreciate them. Lindsey had just been coming alive when—
No, she couldn’t go down that path. Nothing good would come from that right now.
But Happy Time. She knew that bar—and not for the good. Technically, bartenders and the establishments they work in are legally liable if they overserve a patron who proceeds to get behind the wheel and wind up in an accident. But Happy Time—the business and its employees—had escaped any charges. For being a dive bar, it turned out they had deep-enough pockets to afford a small team of defense lawyers. The fact no one affiliated with Happy Time had paid any fines or served any time was just another miscarriage of justice on top of Palmer’s ridiculous sentence.
She called Trent’s cell to get an ETA on his return to the station. His line rang several times and went to voicemail.
She returned the handset to the cradle. Maybe she should be worried about him, but she was sure he could handle his own. He was probably in the middle of questioning Freddy or Rat. It would be nice to hear something from him though. But she also had to give him some space to be his own detective.
The Little Grave: A completely heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Amanda Steele Book 1) Page 13