The Little Grave

by Carolyn Arnold

  Click.

  It was probably just Trent trying to call her back or a wrong number, but goose bumps stood on her arms, telling her otherwise. Trent could be in trouble. She flattened her foot on the gas pedal, intent on going direct to Freddy’s house, and then her phone rang again.

  “It’s Trent,” her caller said.

  She took a few deep breaths. There had been a part of her that for a few moments had feared she might not hear his voice again. She really needed some sleep before paranoia crept in and took full hold.

  “Detective Steele?” he prompted.

  “Yeah. How are you making out?”

  “Still having a chat here with Freddy and Rat.”

  “It’s going all right?” She measured her tone, trying not to make it too obvious that she had been concerned with his safety.

  “It’s going. You all right?”

  “Good.” Now she knew he was fine, she said, “I’m going to follow another lead that came in, but I’ll catch up with you in a bit at the station.”

  “Sure.”

  “You didn’t just happen to try calling me a minute ago, did you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason.” She ended the call, dread pricking her flesh. It must have been a wrong number. No sense getting all worked up over nothing.

  She rolled the sedan into the parking lot for Happy Time in record time, mainly because she drove a good stretch at fifteen to twenty over the speed limit.

  This bar would certainly attract the same clientele as Denver’s Motel. It was a much sadder sight than the Tipsy Moose in Woodbridge, day or night. In fact, Happy Time was in an old, rundown building and gave the impression its happy times were all in the past. It was nearing six thirty, and there were a few cars in the lot.

  Inside, country music was playing over the speakers and three drunken patrons were seated on stools at the bar. One of the men ogled her with red-rimmed eyes and lifted his glass with a couple fingers’ full of amber liquid to her in a toast gesture.

  She ignored him, approached the bar, and pulled her badge when the tender came toward her.

  He was broad and tall, easily over six feet, but at the sight of her badge, his shoulders dipped, and he swept a hand through his hair. “We’re legal here. Have our license.”

  “Do you think I’m here to cite you for health-code violations? Although, putting your hands in your hair isn’t exactly hygienic. I’m Detective Steele with Homicide, Prince William County PD, and you are?”

  “Not interested.”

  “Yeah, see, it doesn’t work that way. Your bar served a man last night and that man’s now dead.”

  The drunks within earshot lowered their drinks. One stopped with his glass to his lips. The oldest of the three had soft-blue eyes but the weathered face of a man who’d had a hard life.

  The bartender waved a hand, dismissing the hinted-at correlation between a man’s death and the bar. His customers didn’t seem to need much encouragement and returned to draining their drinks.

  Amanda brought up a picture of Palmer, from the crime scene, on her phone.

  “Ah, Jes—” He stopped midway through the blasphemy under her glare.

  “Do you recognize him?” She showed him Palmer’s DMV photo.

  “Sure.”

  “Anything else you’d like to add? For example, was he alone or with someone? Was he in a good mood? A bad mood? Celebrating or wallowing?”

  “I didn’t chat him up, but he was alone.”

  “When did he show up here?”

  “Not his keeper.”

  “Just give me a rough time.”

  “Six.”

  “In the evening?”

  “It certainly wasn’t in the morning.”

  So if Palmer had been with someone just before Lorraine’s shift ended at six, as Lorraine had told them, what had happened to Freddy—if it had indeed been him? “You keep giving me attitude, I just might turn you over to the health board.” She didn’t need much encouragement when it came to this place.

  He put up his hands.

  “And I still haven’t gotten your name.”

  “Because I haven’t given it to you.”

  She stared him down.

  “Charlie Brown,” he eventually pushed out.

  “You’re shit— You’re serious?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Like the cartoon? The kid with a beagle who sleeps on the roof of his doghouse.” She smirked, enjoying the irony that such a formidable man had such a comedic name. “Someone’s parents had a bad sense of humor.”

  His jaw tensed. “You think?”

  “Listen, Mr. Brown, I’m just trying to fill in this man’s last few hours alive.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Ah, no, not at liberty to say,” she told him, “but you have a chance to possibly be a hero.”

  “Never been an aspiration of mine.”

  “Hey, Charlie, another!” one of the drinkers called out and held up his empty glass.

  “You’ll have to excuse me.” Charlie fulfilled the order and returned.

  “What was he drinking?”

  “Him?” Charlie jacked a thumb at the drunk.

  “The guy who died.”

  “Vodka on the rocks.”

  Vodka. Not only had Palmer returned to the same bar he’d frequented the night of the accident, he had drunk the same thing. The world really was a better place without him in it. An opinion she’d keep to herself. And she couldn’t forget the promise she’d made at Lindsey’s grave. She took a deep breath and asked, “When did he leave?”

  “See ya, Charlie.” Blue Eyes got off his barstool and headed out.

  “See ya, George,” the tender said back.

  What was this place—Cheers?

  “Time. He left,” Amanda prompted, trying to wrangle Charlie’s attention back to her.

  “Say, ten.”

  “Early night. Was he drunk when he left?”

  “Guy couldn’t walk straight, so yeah.”

  “So you called him a cab?”

  “Not my job.”

  It took recollection of Malone’s stern reminder to keep drama out of the investigation for her not to climb over the bar and throttle Charlie where he stood. She could introduce her fist to his nose. She could have lectured him about the responsibilities that go with his job. She could have reported him to the liquor board. But none of those things would keep him talking. “So he was driving,” she accused.

  “No idea. Not like I’m outside watching everyone as they come and go.”

  “One more question. Any of the customers in here now that were around last night when he was here?”

  Charlie picked up a cloth and wiped the bar. “Ah, yeah, George, but you just missed him.”

  She shot to her feet and seethed, “You do realize that you have a legal responsibility for the people you serve.” She rushed out the door.

  In the fresh air, she inhaled deeply a few times, trying to rein in her racing heart. It was so disgusting how everyone had moved on with their lives—everyone but her and her sweet family. She balled her fists and searched for George, but there was no one in sight. She headed back to her car swearing to herself that she’d missed a potential good lead. George could have seen if Palmer had arrived with someone, left with someone, confirmed the car, maybe even a license plate. She had her hand on the driver’s-side handle when she spotted George against a fence at the back of the lot, one leg bent and cocked against it. She headed his way but kept her movements slow to avoid startling him. George didn’t seem affected by her approach at all. He casually lowered his leg, lost his balance a bit, but kept himself upright.

  “George?” she said.

  “That’s me.”

  She hadn’t caught his odor in the bar, but whoa, this guy reeked of whiskey. She’d take short, shallow breaths for this conversation. “Detective Steele with Homicide. I understand you were here last night.”

  “I’m
here a lot. I heard you asking Charlie about some guy who died.”

  “He was murdered, but yes, that’s right.”

  George didn’t flinch. “I heard Charlie say the guy was drinking back vodka last night.” He burped and spittle bubbled in one corner of his mouth; he wiped the drool away with a flick of his wrist. “I’m pretty sure I know who you’re here asking about. I don’t know his name, but I did see him.”

  “Did you see if he came alone or left alone?”

  “Like Charlie said, he was alone… until someone came up on him when he was working to get in his car.”

  George had seen the car, but she was stuck on the other part of his sentence and felt a sense of excitement. She could be on the verge of hearing their first solid lead. “Someone came up on him? Attacked him you mean?”

  “Yep, exactly what I’m saying.” George scratched at his scraggly chin whiskers and hiccupped. “Think he struck the guy with a gun. He stumbled back like he’d been hit real hard.”

  A gun. She squirreled away this fact to consider later. “Did you try to intervene?”

  “Wasn’t in any shape for that. And I haven’t stayed alive all these years by playing hero.”

  That caused her to smirk. George smiled back, a twinkle in his otherwise dull blues.

  “It was smart of you to stay out of it,” she assured him. “No sense getting yourself shot.”

  “That’s what I thought.” His mind seemed to drift, carried on booze to somewhere far away.

  “So this guy with the gun,” she prompted, “what did he look like?”

  “I didn’t get a real good look at ’im, but he was wearing a black hoodie.”

  She nodded. “You’re certain it was a man?”

  “From what I could tell.”

  Not exactly solid assurance, but she’d run with it. Especially considering this hooded assailant could be connected to the past cold cases. Factor in, too, that Freddy was a suspect and male.

  George went on. “When the guy with the gun first approached Vodka Drinker—sorry I don’t know his name—he turned and tried to talk himself out of the situation.”

  “Drunks always think they’re invincible.” The words birthed of their own accord and she wondered if that’s what Palmer had thought of himself the night he’d got behind the wheel and killed her family.

  “We are, darlin’.” George smiled again, this time showing a hint of charm still lived in the older man.

  “I’m sure. So do you think they knew each other?”

  “Not sure, but whatever was said didn’t work, because the next thing I know the guy butted him in the head with the gun.”

  “Did you see where?”

  “Right here.” The drinker put a fingertip to his right temple.

  The unexplained gash in Palmer’s forehead… “Then what happened?”

  “The gunman forced the guy to get into the front passenger seat.” George’s eyelids started sagging like he was going to drop into a pile and fall asleep right there in the parking lot.

  “Then,” she prompted. She just needed this guy to stay awake a little longer.

  “The gunman took the guy’s keys, got in the driver’s seat, and drove away.”

  “And did you report this to the police?”

  “No. Should have, I know, but I typically like to mind my own business. Figure it’s worked so far.”

  She wasn’t about to reprimand an older man, and it wouldn’t get them anywhere. She was no one’s caretaker and no one life’s coach.

  “Besides, I don’t see any cop believing me, ya know. I was drinking. Drunk.” The last word came out tethered to a lot of shame.

  “Well, I believe you.”

  “That I was drunk?” George winked, picking up on what she really meant. He added, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And thank you. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  George grinned. “Happy to be of service.” He saluted, making Amanda wonder if he was former military.

  She winked at him. “Ah, just a couple more things…”

  “Whatever you want, darlin’.”

  “Did you happen to see where the gunman came from?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help you there. I just came out of the bar.”

  “Okay.” She gave him a tight smile. “And what’s your full name, you know for the record?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I want to become entangled that way. Just think of me as George, the curious monkey.”

  One of her daughter’s favorite stories had included the escapades of the adventure-loving monkey. She held eye contact with him for a few moments. There was something secreted in this man’s past he didn’t want to come out and she of all people could respect his desire to keep his history to himself. “Okay, well, if I have more questions—”

  “You can usually find me here.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  George dipped his head and retreated down a back alley. She watched him disappear and put her gaze to the bar’s roofline. At the back corner there was a small black globe secured beneath the eave. A security camera.

  She tromped back into the bar and didn’t let Charlie’s grimace dissuade her. “Does the camera in the lot work?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “I need the footage for last night.”

  “Then I’ll need to see a warrant.” Charlie poured a drink and slid it down to one of the drunks who was still perched on his stool.

  “Be assured I’ll get one.”

  “Until then, princess…” Charlie fake-smiled at her and the guy who’d just got a refill laughed.

  She walked out of the bar again, not preoccupied with securing a warrant. She was quite sure that would be easy, but she was thinking about Palmer drinking vodka. If someone had taken out Palmer because of his drinking, surely they would have poisoned him with his drink of choice so it would look more like an accident—or would that appear too obvious a connection? But Palmer had been found with empty bottles of whiskey. Was that intentional or an oversight on the killer’s behalf?

  She was well aware that alcoholics had a favorite drink. Her own father had battled with alcohol addiction when she was younger. It had almost broken up her parents, but when she was young her dad had started working through the twelve steps with Alcoholics Anonymous. She couldn’t remember what his preference had been, probably because of her age at the time or the passing years.

  But she had to seriously consider why the killer would have chosen the murder method they had. Was it to throw off the investigation? To make it look like an accident instead of homicide. Was it really that simple? Or were there more layers to its purpose?

  And returning to what Charlie had said: Palmer had been drinking alone. So if he had left Denver’s Motel with Freddy in the afternoon, what had happened to Freddy? Had Palmer dropped him off somewhere? And if so, where and why? Was it a simple matter of business being concluded between the two of them?

  Her phone rang. Blocked caller ID again. “Detective Steele,” she said firmly.

  “I’m back at the station.” It was Trent. “And there’s something you need to know.”

  “Just spit it out. I’m not one for surprises.”

  “I brought Freddy in for questioning.”

  Her stomach turned into acid. “I’ll be right there.”

  Twenty-Two

  “I stopped by to see Lorraine Nash again before going to Freddy’s,” Trent told her. “She wouldn’t say as much, but her eyes lit up when I showed her Freddy’s picture. She recognized him, no doubt, and I’d say it was Freddy who Palmer left the motel with on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Did you ask Freddy about this?”

  Trent’s eyes narrowed, the tiniest tell that her lack of confidence in him had pissed him off. About time, she thought.

  “And,” she prompted. She’d finally detected a pulse and felt like ratcheting it.

  “Freddy’s real name is Hank Cohen,” he said, speaking slow
ly, likely trying to piss her off. She was finally getting a reaction.

  She rolled her hand as if bored and impatient with his detour. “I know all that. Catch me up on why he’s next door in an interview room.”

  “He confirmed that he got together with Palmer yesterday afternoon and that they left Denver’s in Palmer’s Caprice.”

  “Okay, and where did they go? What did they do?”

  “He said that if I wanted that information, he’d demand a lawyer.”

  Trent must have been deliberately trying to piss her off by dragging things out. “Sure, and…?”

  “I told him that if he wants his little operation to be left alone,” Trent said, “then he best consider being more cooperative. He still didn’t want to talk, so I threatened to drag him down here.”

  “And then you did. So we still don’t know what they were doing together Sunday afternoon?”

  Trent deflated. “All he gave me was that they took care of some business.”

  “Did you get what sort of business out of him?”

  “Not exactly, but I have a feeling it was something illegal.”

  “No shit.”

  “I was thinking maybe if you had a go at him…” Trent met her gaze briefly.

  Her heart picked up speed. She’d had a bad feeling it would come down to this when Trent had told her that he’d dragged Freddy in, but she wanted more intel before she saw Freddy again. Anything that would give her the upper hand in the interaction. “How did he react to Palmer’s murder?”

  “No real reaction, but he wasn’t surprised.”

  “Because he killed him or had him killed perhaps?” she tossed out.

  “Maybe? Not sure. That’s why I thought it best you have a go at him. But he did say something to the effect of Palmer wasn’t exactly an angel.”

  “Go on.” She didn’t want to dwell on that because it would just lead her into the darkness.

  “He confessed that he and Palmer had a business disagreement before Palmer went to jail, but things were all good now.”

  “So should we assume Palmer owed him the twenty-five grand and paid him back? Though Palmer would have had to dip into it to pay for his stay at Denver’s Motel. Freddy was okay with being short-changed?”