“So tell me where I’m taking us.”
“Us?”
“I’m your partner and I want to help.”
“Fine.” She went on to tell him about picking up Motel Guy at a bar.
“Okay, we’ll pop by the bar. Which one is it?”
“Tipsy Moose Ale House in Woodbridge. Thinking I’ll just go in and flash my badge.”
“Sure, because we’ve seen firsthand how it gets people to open up.”
“Mr. Sarcastic.” She found herself smiling. “Okay, then, how would you suggest I handle things?”
He put the car into gear and said, “I’ll tell you on the way.”
If the Tipsy Moose Ale House was a sad-looking sight at night with its dim lighting, beer-soaked tables, and peanut-shell-covered floors, then during the day it was downright pitiful. Diffused sunlight came through the slimy windows and sparkled off floating dust particles in the air.
Amanda glanced around. No sign of the waitress from last night. Amanda went straight to the bar where a male tender was wiping out the inside of a glass with a towel. She’d never seen this man before, but she didn’t make a habit of coming in during the daylight hours.
“Good day, darlin’,” he said.
“Hi.” She smiled at him and coyly tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. Act flirtatious but give the impression she was just out of reach. She’d become the mystery a man wanted to solve, but as Trent pointed out, men also wanted to help a damsel in distress. She’d be working to take advantage of that psychology—even though she despised playing the role.
He grinned, flashing a couple of dimples, put down the glass and braced both of his hands on the counter. “What can I get ya?”
“I was actually hoping you could help me with something.” She started to sit on a stool but bounced back up. “Actually, ah, you know what? I should go. It would be too much to ask of you.”
“No—” He reached out to stop her. “Why don’t you try me? You can talk to Bud.”
“And you’re Bud?” She flashed another smile.
“I’m Bud,” he affirmed.
“This is probably dumb…”
“Talk to me.”
“I was in here last night with my boyfriend.”
“Were ya now?” A flicker of disappointment crested over his face.
“Uh-huh. He’s the rugged type, calloused hands, strong, blond.” As she rattled off Motel Guy’s attributes, she became turned on again. No wonder she’d succumbed to the guy’s charms.
“That could describe a lot of us.” Bud stood taller and laid a hand on his chest. He was a good-looking man, but too cocky and arrogant for her liking.
“Yes, but now don’t take this wrong way, he is younger.”
Bud covered his heart with both hands. But he quickly recovered from any feigned insult and smirked. “Just more experienced in the ways of pleasuring a—”
“I’m sure, but I need to find this guy…”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Yeah, my boyfriend.” She’d messed up but hopefully recovered fast enough.
“I see.”
“I haven’t been able to reach him and it’s real important that I do.” Amanda put a hand on her stomach, and with the motion, the fabrication she was spinning made her physically ill. She recalled Lindsey moving inside of her and how it had felt like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. When Trent had suggested that she act as if Motel Guy had been a boyfriend she couldn’t reach and that she was knocked up, her mind had strictly been on securing her alibi. A means to an end.
“Oh… Ooooh.” Bud stood up and crossed his arms. “Well, I’m not sure how I can get a hold of him.”
“I think he— I mean, he likes to come here and have a beer or two.” That latter part was the truth; she’d seen Motel Guy here on a few occasions. Last night they’d just advanced from their winks and smiles from across the room.
“Huh. I’d like to help but…” He rubbed his chin and looked around the bar.
“You can.” She perked up. “Just if you see him, could you call me?”
“Sure. Give me your number and I can have him call you.” He bobbed his eyebrows.
“You’re a devil. You’re just eager to get my number.”
“Not gonna lie.”
“I have a bun in the oven.” She made a sulky face, but what was wrong with this guy hitting on a pregnant woman? “It would mean a lot to me if you could call me if you see him. Then I’ll come back here.”
“I might need a little more description.”
Amanda pried her memories and inhaled deeply. “He smells like a campfire.” He knows how to trace his hands over—
“A campfire? Do you expect me to sniff him?”
She giggled. “Yeah, I guess that’s nuts.”
“Just a little.”
“He often wears this black leather jacket that’s seen better days. It’s a little worn around the hem and cuffs.”
“Oh, yeah, I think I know who you’re talking about.”
She waited him out, hoping he’d say a name, but he didn’t. “Good,” she eventually said.
“He likes his draft beer.”
“Sounds like we’re talking about the same guy. That’s good that you know him.” She couldn’t exactly ask his name given her shtick, but if only his first name slipped out then she could cross-reference it with black Dodge Ram pickups in the area.
“Well, I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him. But go ahead, write your name and number down and I’ll call you next time I see him.” Bud plucked a square napkin from behind the counter and placed it in front of her with a pen.
“Great. You’re a lifesaver.” She scribbled down her first name and number, realizing she was breaking the primary rule of one-night stands, but she had no choice.
Seventeen
Amanda returned to the car where Trent was tapping on the wheel to some song on the radio. She could hear it filtering out into the parking lot. She couldn’t pin down the tune, but if she had to guess, she’d say it was country music. He turned it off as she got into the passenger seat.
“He’s going to call,” she said, lacking all enthusiasm and hope that her little ruse would actually pay off.
“So the damsel-in-distress routine worked?” Trent smiled at her. He either didn’t pick up on her pessimism or didn’t want to poke it and get into an argument.
“Like a charm.” This time she tried to infuse her voice with optimism, but she’d love nothing better than to pop one of the Xanax in her pocket. She hadn’t been feeling good ever since she’d first laid her hand on her stomach and the memories of being pregnant had come hurtling back—and dragged the memories of her sweet little Lindsey’s face along with them.
“Men usually can’t resist coming to the rescue.”
“Yeah, base creatures,” she plugged, hardly believing the bartender had continued to hit on her once he’d thought she was pregnant. What a creep.
“We consider ourselves wise creatures.”
Kevin had certainly loved giving advice, even when she didn’t want to hear it. Sometimes a person just needed to vent. “Uh-huh. Well, wise creature, we should try Courtney Barrett again.”
“Oh, yes, we should, but you’d like to know, while you were in the bar, I got Palmer’s visitor list from the prison and the list of items he was booked with. I forwarded the emails to you, so you have a copy of each.”
She pulled out her phone and brought up her email app and watched as they filtered into her inbox. She first opened the attachment with the item list.
Duffel bag—Blue, gray stripe
Cash—25K
Wallet—leather with ID and misc. papers cards and such, $30 in bills and change
Jacket—Jean, Men’s Large
Belt—Leather
Keyring—two keys for house and one for vehicle (Honda HR-V)
Bracelet—Silver chain
She looked over at Trent. “Did the investigators recover a bracelet?”
“I don’t think so.”
She pulled out her phone and called the forensics lab and was patched through.
“Emma Blair here.”
Amanda cringed at the sound of the investigator’s voice. Apparently, it had been too much to hope CSI Donnelly would have answered. “This is Detective Steele.” She paused expecting that the CSI would interject with some expression of recognition, but nada. Amanda continued. “I was at the Palmer crime scene this morning.”
“I know who you are. What can I do for you, Detective?”
Chilly. Amanda pushed on. “Did you or CSI Donnelly happen to recover a silver bracelet from the victim’s possessions?”
“No.”
“You’re certain? You don’t want to go check—”
“I assure you that I am well aware of all the personal effects that were collected from the motel room, and there wasn’t a bracelet among them.”
“Okay then.”
The line went dead.
Amanda was left holding her phone, a little in shock. “She’s such a sweetheart.”
Trent laughed. “Let me guess: you spoke to the senior CSI from the scene.”
“What gave it away?”
Trent pointed to her phone. “She hung up on you?”
“She’s a charmer,” Amanda lamented. “But she did confirm—or at least seemed confident—that there was no silver bracelet recovered from the scene.”
“That’s interesting,” Trent said. “There’s no sign of the bag or the cash, and now the bracelet is missing. Was it of value too?”
“A regular silver bracelet, probably not too much, maybe a couple of hundred dollars.” She had to admit, though, it was “interesting” just as Trent had said.
She returned to her email app to glance over the visitor list. It was organized in reverse chronological order and the oldest visits on record had her full attention. “Courtney Barrett and Jackson Webb.”
“Yep. I noticed. Barrett about a week after sentencing and Webb a couple of days afterward, one day before his murder.”
“And when were you going to tell me?”
“I thought that you’d— I figured you’d see it yourself, and you did,” he added at a softer volume. He cleared his throat and added, “Courtney Barrett also returned to visit Palmer a couple of weeks ago.”
“And that’s all? Just the two visits?”
“All I could see running down.”
“Huh. Doesn’t sound like a warm relationship to me. Makes me wonder though if she showed up at the start of Palmer’s sentence looking for the money. Webb, too, possibly if his and Palmer’s murders are connected.”
“Thought the same. To Courtney?”
“Yep.” It was certainly too late to talk to Webb…
Eighteen
Courtney Barrett’s house still looked dark and asleep and it was going on mid-afternoon. Amanda knocked for the third time, stubbornly refusing to accept no one was home. Perseverance paid off and footsteps padded toward the door, and shortly thereafter it was swung open.
“What is it?” a woman barked. All wild eyes, wild hair, wild energy.
Amanda held up her badge. “Prince William County Police Department.” She added, “We’re looking to speak with Courtney Barrett,” though she was quite sure she was looking right at her, and she was the woman with Palmer in that photo from his wallet.
Courtney sighed. “That’s me, but I don’t have time for this right now. I—”
“Mom!” A young boy of about five came running toward the door—the image of Palmer. Same nose, lips, shape of face.
Amanda’s legs buckled. Trent reached out to her, but she waved him off.
“Get your shoes on. Now!” Courtney barked at her kid.
“I don’t wanna go.” The boy dropped to the entry floor and crossed his arms and sulked.
Amanda had a hard time taking her eyes off the kid. Hurt was swelling in her chest. The unfairness of it all that Palmer had a living, breathing child while hers were—
“This really isn’t a good time.” Courtney started to run a hand through her hair but stopped at the crown and dropped her hand. Just a guess but it was probably too full of knots to get her fingers through.
“Ah,” Trent started, and Amanda saw him glancing at her in her peripheral. “We won’t take much of your time,” Trent eventually pushed out.
Courtney scowled. “What’s this about?”
“We have something important to tell you,” Trent said. “Could we come in?”
Courtney eyeballed him, appearing somber for the first time since she’d answered the door. “I don’t have long, but if you keep it quick.” She shooed the boy, and he inched across the floor.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Courtney said. “He’s not good with company.”
Amanda could say the same thing about Courtney, but her issue was probably more with cops on her doorstep than people in general.
“Justin, go play in your room. For now. But then we’ve got to go.”
The boy glared at his mother but relinquished his spot on the floor and ran off down a hallway, yelling, “Yay!”
“Is there somewhere we can sit?” Trent asked.
Courtney showed them to a living area that was part war zone; children’s toys were scattered everywhere.
Amanda moved a plastic solider off a couch cushion and sat down. She felt like she was observing from a distance and not really there. Her mind was preoccupied with that little boy—Palmer’s little boy.
Trent sat next to Amanda and looked at her as if asking whether she wanted him to handle the notification.
She jumped in. “I’m here to tell you that Chad Palmer was found dead this morning in a room at Denver’s Motel here in Dumfries.”
Courtney dropped into a chair. “He was— You’re kidding right?” She glanced at Trent, back to Amanda.
“I’m sorry, but no.” Amanda pressed her lips together and crossed her legs. Normally she’d deliver such news with more finesse and feeling, but in this situation, she had none to offer.
“Well… uh… what happened to him?” Courtney’s voice cracked, but no tears sprang to her eyes.
“He was murdered,” Amanda deadpanned.
“Someone killed him,” Courtney mumbled; she seemed about as devoid of emotion as Amanda was. Could be shock, could be something else. She also didn’t give Amanda the impression the news came as a real surprise.
“Was he shot?” Courtney asked stiffly.
Amanda shook her head and studied the other woman. “Why would you think he was shot?” she asked, though she had an inkling as to the reason she’d leaped there.
Courtney’s eyes flicked to hers. “You really don’t know? His former business partner was shot, murdered, around the time Chad went to prison. I don’t think police ever figured out who killed him. You could look up his file, I’m sure.”
“Yes, we know Mr. Webb.” Amanda watched Courtney as she worried her lip and bounced her legs. “Do you have an idea who killed him?”
“Doubt any of my suspicions matter, Detective.”
“Try us, and we’ll determine whether they do.”
Courtney shook her head.
“Mr. Webb’s murder was connected to a woman killed in Georgia.” Amanda watched Courtney for any tells. Nada. “We believe she originated from Dumfries or Prince William County. Her name was Casey-Anne Ritter. Did you know her?”
“Never heard of her.” Courtney’s answer was quick, but she met Amanda’s eyes. It would seem she was telling the truth, but Amanda still had to push.
“We’re trying to figure out what happened to Chad, and anything you can tell us would be of help.” A guilt trip often worked to get people tapping into their humanity and opening up, and maybe if Amanda put emphasis on someone more personal to Courtney, she’d be more compelled to talk.
“I don’t owe him anything,” Courtney hissed.
“Not even as the father of your child?” Amanda slapped
back, and it had Courtney narrowing her eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t have any names that come to mind?” Trent interjected, pulling out his notepad and pen. “People who might have wanted to harm Mr. Webb and/or Mr. Palmer?”
Courtney bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “I’m not snitching to cops.”
Amanda glanced at Trent; she was going to try another tack. “Chad had twenty-five grand on his person when he was arrested.”
Courtney’s eyes flicked to hers.
Amanda went on. “Do you know why he had all that money?”
Courtney sat up straighter, but her body language was rigid. She had knowledge of the cash.
“Why did he have all that money?” Amanda prompted. “I’m quite sure you know.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“It may be quite pertinent to the case, and it’s missing,” Amanda punched out.
Courtney visibly swallowed. “It’s—it’s…”
“Yep. Any idea where it might have gone?”
Courtney tugged on the hem of her shirt. “He owed it to someone, but that’s all I’m gonna say.”
“Was it this someone who came looking for it and ended up murdering Jackson Webb when he didn’t have it?” Amanda asked.
“Your guess would be as good as mine.” Courtney jutted out her chin, but her voice wavered.
“You’re afraid of whoever he owed the money to,” Amanda concluded, not a question in her mind.
“I just need to move on with my life.”
“We know that you visited Chad a week after he was sentenced,” Amanda began. “Did you visit him to follow up on the money?”
Courtney remained silent.
Her non-answer was enough of an answer for Amanda. “When did you see him last?” She was aware of the visit from a couple of weeks ago but was curious what would surface.
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