The Little Grave

by Carolyn Arnold

  “We meet again,” Amanda said.

  “Detective Steele,” Blair said coolly. She smiled at Trent. “Detective Stenson.”

  “Evening,” he said.

  “We’ve already started processing the vehicle.” She headed down a hallway and motioned for them to follow. “There’s a lot of potential evidence in prints alone. We still haven’t discovered any stolen goods—the ones you alerted us to.” Blair looked over a shoulder at Trent. “But we’re getting close to ripping out the seats. Criminals will often hollow them out for storage.”

  Blair opened a door and entered. Amanda stepped in behind her and laid her eyes on Palmer’s Caprice in person for the first time. The video had shown her a jalopy, but the video had been taken at night. Here, under the lights, the power-blue sedan was certainly a relic. Rust ate around the wheel wells and the grill.

  Her gaze went to the driver’s-side back door. Legs were sticking out. Probably belonging to CSI Donnelly.

  “Any of those prints lead us anywhere?” Amanda intentionally used us to present herself, Trent, and the investigators as being on the same team. A stab at diplomacy.

  “No. It’s all about collection tonight. Processing in the morning. This is the vehicle number. It was scratched but legible enough.” Blair snatched a piece of paper from a table and handed it to Trent.

  “Any hits in the system?”

  Blair met her gaze. “That I did run quickly, and it was last registered ten years ago.”

  Amanda turned to Trent. “Sounds like it could be Wheable. He could take cars destined for the compacter and turn them over for cash. No record that way and a quick buck.”

  “And what’s a Wheable?” Blair raised her brows.

  “It’s a who,” Amanda clarified. “Some ex-con we believe sold the car to Palmer or an associate of his for the purpose of carting stolen goods somewhere to fence them. His print could very well pop from some you’ve collected.”

  She witnessed the CSI’s facial expression tighten at the enclosed request.

  “I’ll keep you posted. As I said, not tonight or I’ll never get home to Derek… That’s my husband.”

  Amanda’s heart cinched as she recalled a time when going home had been something she looked forward to, despite loving her job. But at least she’d had Kevin’s smiling face and loving arms to help wash away the day, and Lindsey to tuck in or to kiss on the forehead if she was already off in dreamland.

  “I understand,” Amanda said. The two words scratched from her throat.

  She’d probably pushed her luck with the investigator already but there was something else she needed to inquire about. “Did you, by chance, receive a silver chain bracelet connected to the Palmer case? It would have come over to you from Detective Jacob Briggs in Digital Forensics.”

  “I did.”

  She’d almost expected that Blair hadn’t seen it yet, but, then again, Jacob had got what he needed from the chip. “And?”

  “There was epithelial, and before you ask, no hits yet.”

  “Ooh!” Donnelly reversed out of the back seat and was holding something between two gloved fingers. She was already grinning at her find but beamed brighter when she laid eyes on Amanda and Trent.

  Amanda closed the distance to Donnelly. “What is it?”

  “A sobriety coin from Alcoholics Anonymous.” She flipped it in her palm. “Twenty years. Might lead you to Palmer’s killer.” Donnelly was still grinning like she’d eaten the last cookie from the jar and enjoyed every last crumb.

  Trent stepped up close to Amanda, his elbow brushing against hers.

  “I’m cautiously optimistic,” Amanda said. “It really could tie back to anyone. Anyone other than Palmer,” she added. “Don’t think it would be Freddy’s or Courtney’s. They don’t strike me as the type to refrain from drinking, and to reach twenty years sober, they would have entered the program as teens. Wheable as a young adult. You said he was in his forties?” She looked at Trent, who nodded.

  She continued. “Maybe someone associated with them. See if you get any usable prints from it,” she said to Donnelly.

  “Of course.”

  “Where did you find it in the car?” Trent asked.

  “Under the driver’s seat toward the back floor mat.”

  Amanda shrugged. “Who knows how long it could have been there. My guess is it hasn’t exactly been detailed in years.”

  Donnelly chuckled. “Ah, no. The thing smells like a gym locker.”

  “Any sign of stolen goods or a compartment under the back seat?” Amanda asked.

  “Yes to the compartment, but it’s empty.”

  Amanda turned to Trent. “Someone who Palmer turned the goods over to not happy with the deal? Could have come after him?” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand, recalling her earlier thought on the matter. “Never mind. Someone like that would likely just shoot him in the head, not force-feed him alcohol and hang around for hours.” As she said this, it sank in how dismissive she was being about the AA sobriety coin. After all, it would seem Palmer’s killer had cared about the drinking angle to choose the MO they had.

  Donnelly returned to the car and Blair joined her. Amanda and Trent stuck around for a while longer but headed out about ten.

  About fifteen minutes down the road, she said, “Why leave the Caprice at the park?”

  Trent looked over at her. “Why not?”

  She was trying to pin down her thoughts so she could put them into words. She shifted to face him and winced, then held up a hand to Trent. “I’m fine. Okay, Blair said there were a lot of prints. So assuming we believe that Freddy and his crew were involved with Palmer in the transporting of the stolen goods, they wouldn’t just leave it for someone to find.”

  “Okay, I follow. Because they’d be in the system. They’d wipe it clean.”

  “Right… So that leads me to believe whoever left the car there is someone other than Wheable, Freddy, or his crew.”

  Trent’s mouth started to form who and she said, “Don’t ask. That’s what we still need to figure out.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Maybe it’s someone involved in the sex-trafficking ring that killed Palmer and dumped the car,” she put out somberly. “And/or Webb and Ritter’s killer could very well be back. We should at least consider that as a possibility, but whoever drove the Caprice there had to have had transportation to leave,” she said. “They could have walked from the park but unlikely.”

  “Okay, so the killer drove their own car to the park, left it there, then—what?—took a cab to the Happy Time bar?”

  “Why not?” she volleyed back.

  “Whoever ended up taking the Caprice to the park could have left their vehicle anywhere and shuttled around town in a taxi.”

  “Sure. Also possible.”

  “All this would be assuming that the attacker in the lot was also Palmer’s killer…”

  She nodded. “One working theory. Only why didn’t they shoot Palmer? They had a gun. I keep coming back to that.”

  “Good question.”

  A pocket of silence, then she said, “You’ll need to follow up with local cab companies and see if they picked up anyone out at the park. It will either lead us to the killer or the attacker, or one and the same.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And you should pop by Wheable’s, ask about the Caprice, find out if it came from him and inquire about the sobriety coin. And, heck, bring up the bracelet to him too—get his reaction but don’t say what was on it. You never know what might come up. Be very cognizant of visual tells. Courtney and Freddy need to be questioned about the bracelet and the sobriety coin too.”

  “Want us to cover all that tonight?”

  She smiled at the “us.”

  “You’re forgetting as it stands right now, I’m not a part of the equation.”

  “Right…”

  “I’m going to talk to Malone though. But calling him right now or showing up at his door isn�
�t going to do either of us any favors.”

  “Are you going to ask to be put back on the Palmer case?”

  “Not exactly. I’m going to tell him about the sex-trafficking ring and pitch it as I’ll focus on that and its possible connection to the cold cases of Ritter and Webb while you’ll follow leads directly related to Palmer, such as the Caprice, the taxi service, possibly the sobriety coin, etcetera.”

  “Okay, makes sense. So we’ll tackle all that tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. It’s been a long day.”

  She leaned against the headrest and ran through what tomorrow morning was going to look like. “Ah, shit.”

  Trent glanced over but didn’t say anything as she pulled out her phone and brought up the notepad app where she’d keyed Motel Guy’s plate.

  “There’s actually one thing I should probably get a start on tonight. My alibi.” She turned the keyboard of the onboard computer so she could reach it in the passenger seat and keyed in the tag.

  Amanda stared at the DMV results. Motel Guy was legally known as Logan Hunter. She dug a little deeper and pulled up a simple background. Unbelievable. He was married! That made Amanda a homewrecker. But she hadn’t known he had a wife. No criminal record—a small plus at least.

  Logan had lived and worked in Dumfries for the last two years. Before that, a Podunk in Nebraska. His current place of employment was listed as Precise Construction in Dumfries.

  She swung the keyboard back in place swiftly enough that Trent looked at her again, but he didn’t say anything.

  She was going to throttle Mr. Hunter the second she got the chance. She had half a thought to show up on his doorstep tonight and tell his wife all about their night at the Dreamcatcher Inn, but that wouldn’t be to Amanda’s advantage. She needed Logan to verify her alibi. No, she’d surprise him at work first thing tomorrow morning.

  Thirty-Three

  Amanda’s head pounded like a tiny man with no sense of rhythm was playing steel drums in her skull. But she didn’t have time to lounge around wallowing in agony. She was a little slower moving than yesterday morning, but she was still out of bed by seven thirty.

  She stuck a pod in her coffee machine and, while it got to work, so did she. She called Trent to let him know to carry on with what they’d talked about last night and she’d be in a bit later. She fired off a quick text to Malone letting him know the same and added that she would be getting her alibi sealed up. He came back with an immediate, Wonderful.

  Next, she grabbed her personal laptop and cracked it open on the kitchen counter. The thing was a few years old, but it still worked for whatever tasks she’d needed it for.

  It was still working on signing her in when the coffee machine spewed and sputtered and let out a loud whoosh as it finished topping up her cup. The aroma was intoxicating, and if she homed in on it enough, she might be able to forget that her career was hanging by a thread; that a crazy man could have shot her yesterday; that she’d gone and seen her parents; and that shortly she’d be face to face with Logan Hunter. The thought of those poor girls suffering out there never left her mind.

  If she was a drinker, she’d add a splash of bourbon this morning, but she left the coffee unadulterated, blew on it, and took a tentative sip. Perfection. One deep inhale, eyes closed to savor, then she brought up Google and searched Precise Construction.

  In seconds she knew their basic business model: construction of residential subdivisions. That information only got her so far though. She had no idea what Logan Hunter did for them. She called the number on the header of the company’s website.

  “Precise Construction, Barb speaking.”

  “Barb, I’m Detec—” She stopped there. With her name plastered in the paper, it might be best to use a little deception, and really, she didn’t need to give a name. “I’d like to speak with Logan Hunter.”

  “I can leave a message for him, but Mr. Hunter is on a jobsite today until six.”

  Did Logan work in the office and was simply out to inspect a jobsite or was he blue collar? She saw the tab for “Meet our Team,” that would probably show faces and names for administrative positions—something she might have benefited from visiting before calling, but there was no going back in time. “Oh, I thought I might reach him in the office,” she said, hoping to recover.

  “I don’t see why. He works on jobsites…” There was a leeriness to Barb’s voice. “Who did you say this was?”

  “I didn’t.” Amanda quickly hung up. She could have asked the woman where Logan was working, but she highly doubted she’d be getting anything else out of Barb.

  She returned her attention to the website. Maybe there was a blog or something to indicate their current projects…

  “Aha!”

  There was a link to a trade article on the company’s media page. According to it, Precise Construction had been awarded the contract for the development of a government-funded, affordable-housing community going up near Interstate 95. It was described as “one of the largest construction developments underway in the area,” and Amanda knew right where to find it. Logan might be working somewhere else, but she’d rule out this jobsite first.

  Amanda would say the construction project was well underway but far from finished. She recalled from the article that it had been slated for completion at the end of last year. She spotted Logan’s Dodge Ram—so he was here somewhere—but she had to hunt for a parking spot.

  A sign at the entrance boasted of affordable housing with luxury perks, such as walking trails and a dog-grooming station, and directed interested parties to a trailer clearly marked Sales Office. Next to it was another trailer, likely the one belonging to the site foreperson. She found a place to park and went in the foreperson’s trailer. Nothing luxurious in there. Purely functional and a no-nonsense work environment with only the staples necessary to get the job done: three cheap, melamine desks, each of which had trays piled high with paper. Blueprints pinned to the wall seemed to qualify as artwork, but no one was home.

  She grabbed the door to leave and a man in a hard hat ran right into her. “Whoa!” She lost her footing and faltered backward. He caught her arm, and she brushed free of him. “You should watch where you’re going.”

  “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expect—” He stopped talking and his brow furrowed. His gaze fixed on her badge. “You’re a cop.”

  “Detective, to be more precise.”

  “Well, we’re busy here, so…” He brushed past her to the end of the trailer and tossed a clipboard he was holding onto the desk next to a nameplate that read, Ross Ford, Foreman.

  “Aren’t we all?” She followed, squared her shoulders to appear taller, and solidified her stance. “I need to speak to one of your workers, a Logan Hunter.”

  “Mr. Hunter is working right now.” Ford grabbed papers from a bin on his left and hastily snapped them onto another clipboard.

  “I need to discuss an important police matter with him.” Not entirely a lie, and she added, “It won’t take long.”

  “Can I ask what this is regarding?” He looked up at her, impatience written all over his face.

  “You can, but I can’t answer that.”

  “Then I can’t help you.” He put his head down, returning to his paperwork, his body language signifying the end of discussion.

  How infuriating. She would love to get her alibi sealed up today and over with, but she couldn’t push Ford too hard. She wasn’t there on actual police business and with that article out there… “Can you tell me when his workday ends?” She just wanted to verify that what Barb at the office had told her was correct.

  “Six bells,” he said, not bothering to look up again. “But he gets lunch at noon, on the mark.”

  Okay, that she could work with much easier. “I’ll be back.”

  “Goodie,” Ford mumbled.

  She shook her head and left. What a dick. She returned to her car, looking around, hoping for some small miracle that Logan Hunter would emerge from
the site into view. She wasn’t so lucky.

  The clock on the dash read just after nine when she got behind the wheel and started her car. She still had the better part of three hours to fill, but it was better than waiting another nine. She really didn’t want to see Malone without her alibi, though she might not have a choice.

  Her phone rang, and caller ID on the car’s heads-up display told her it was Becky. She answered, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call—”

  “No, don’t apologize.”

  “You saw the article.” Not a question in Amanda’s mind.

  “I did.”

  Amanda sat up at the sight of a man in a hard hat walking from the site to the lot but slumped when she determined it wasn’t Logan Hunter.

  “How are you doing?” Becky prompted.

  “Well, I’m off the case…”

  “Probably for the best.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Except for that tiny little thing—Rick Jensen’s threat hanging overhead—that made it necessary to go a bit rogue.

  “Don’t tell me you’re working the case anyway?”

  Amanda bit her bottom lip. Her friend knew her too well. “Not exactly.” Though it was possible the bracelet and the chip might lead to Palmer’s killer.

  “No, I can’t let you,” Becky said.

  “I’m a big girl, responsible for my own actions.”

  “I just don’t want to see you get into trouble.”

  “Too late for that.” She chuckled, a case of laugh or cry. “And you don’t know what’s at stake.”

  “Your career?”

  “No.” Amanda shook her head as if her friend could see her. “Something’s come up in the investigation that’s far bigger than Palmer.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I want to talk to Malone about it before I tell you. Make sense?”

  “Makes complete sense.”

  Amanda looked over at the chain-link gate that barred off the parking lot from the construction site. She might be able to get onto the premises, but even if she did, she’d have no clue where to find Hunter.

  She wrung her hands on the steering wheel. She couldn’t just sit around doing nothing. “I should really get going, Beck.”