“Good. Now I have other conditions.” Malone hooked his thumbs on his waistband. “You need to call your father, tell him that Palmer’s dead. And who knows, maybe you’ll—”
“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t get to tell me to talk to him and leverage this case to make that happen.” She hadn’t spoken to any of her family since not long after the trial had ended. Not her mother, father, her four younger sisters, or her older brother. It had been her decision to pull away from them, and even though they still reached out to her at Christmas and on her birthday, it just felt far too difficult. Being around her parents, her siblings, and her nieces and nephews amplified all that she had lost.
“It would just be nice, is all, if you could reconnect,” Malone said. “I know your father would love nothing more.”
She wanted to tell him he’d crossed a professional line with this request, but if she pointed that out, he’d likely reciprocate with the fact that her working this case was technically crossing that same line. Then he’d assign it to Cud, and now she’d been given the go-ahead, she wanted to keep it. “You said you had conditions plural?”
His face darkened, and she feared her effort to redirect the conversation had him changing his mind.
“What else?” she asked, afraid to take her next breath as if it would alter his response.
“You realize my letting you work this case at all is a huge conflict of interest.”
“I do.”
“For that reason, I can’t have you working this one sol—”
“Oh no,” she griped, dreading what was coming. He was going to give her a partner. “Haven’t we talked this topic to death?”
“Yes, but apparently it hasn’t sunk into your thick skull that it’s happening.”
She groaned. He was going to give her a partner, but every one she’d had pried into her business, thought they knew her, tried to mind-shrink her. To date, all of them had been homegrown and acquainted with her tragic story. They treated her with kid gloves, like she was some sort of fragile china doll about to fall off a shelf. They missed the fact that she’d already smashed into a million, indiscernible pieces. “Who?” she shoved out. “Don’t tell me it’s Cud.”
“It’s not Cud. It’s a new guy.” He added that tidbit under his breath.
“A new guy?” she parroted. Surely he was joking.
“And I suggest you make it work. You might be the former police chief’s daughter—”
“And good at my job,” she cut in, now longing to be out from the shadow of Nathan Steele. She’d kept her maiden name after marriage because for the longest time she’d wanted to be her dad, and his name was powerful as she worked up the ranks. After Kevin’s death, there had been many times she’d wished she’d taken his surname, James.
“Sure, but you need to play by the rules like the rest of us,” Malone said, disregarding her interruption.
And he didn’t need to lay them out to her. At every homicide it was desired to have a primary detective and a number two. Maybe she should be grateful she’d gotten along solo as often as she did. “Okay, fine, have it your way. But what am I supposed to do now? Sit around and wait for the new guy to show up?”
“His name’s Trent Stenson, and you won’t need to wait for long. I was going to tell you in the morning, but it seems like Christmas has come again, or early, however you want to look at it.”
“Yippie,” she mumbled, picturing some backwoods type in a cowboy hat and chaps with grass hanging out of his mouth, but a face popped into her mind. “Wait. You said Trent Stenson?”
“Uh-huh. You know him?”
To say that she knew him would be stretching it, but she’d met him at a barbecue Becky had hosted one summer several years ago. He had boyish good looks—blond hair, blue eyes—but his starry-eyed approach to life made him seem younger. He had been a uniformed officer with Dumfries PD at the time and had rambled on about how he’d helped the FBI with a serial-rapist-and-murder case. He declared then that he wanted to be a homicide detective for Prince William County PD one day. Guess some people had stars to wish upon and grant their dreams.
“Amanda?” Malone prompted.
“I’ve met him.”
Malone smiled. “Yeah, small world, law enforcement is round here.”
Trent had been so cheery and just the thought of being around that… “I don’t know if this is a good idea. And you said he’s new to the department.”
“Sure, and as you just said, you’re good at your job, so you’ll be a good mentor for the kid.”
She hardly felt qualified to be anyone’s mentor, and “the kid” was probably only a couple of years younger than she was.
Malone went on. “For the record, Stenson is now officially your partner.”
“Let me guess. He’ll take over Turner’s old desk?” Russell Turner didn’t deserve the badge and had been a huge pain in the ass, though his true failing was his outright bigotry against people of color. There was no room for that in any capacity, on any force.
“Why not?”
Some days it felt like everyone was sitting on everyone else. “No reason,” she said.
“Good, it’s settled. And I also want to make it clear that I’m giving the lead on this case to Stenson.”
“The lead,” she blurted out. “To a rookie detective?”
He raised his eyebrows, the arches serving like upward-pointing arrows. “On paper,” he added, holding eye contact with her. “It’s the only way I can get this to fly. As it is, I’m not going to advertise it.”
“You want me to be his number two? Report to him?” She didn’t do well with being managed, let alone by an underling.
“You report to me. The rest is just on paper—for this case.”
She took a few deep breaths. “Fine.”
“So we have an understanding?”
“Yes, we have an understanding,” she mumbled.
Malone turned his head and put his left ear near her mouth. “Can you say that again? I didn’t quite hear you.”
“I’m on board,” she said, raising her voice.
Malone cringed and pulled back, cupping his ear. “No need for that. I’m doing you a favor here. And I’m not deaf—or at least I wasn’t.”
She mouthed, Sorry.
“All right, I’ll call Stenson and give him the good news.”
He pulled out his phone and headed for his vehicle but stopped after a few steps and turned. He looked at her for a long moment and said nothing. Whatever he was about to say was going to kill him if his sagging shoulders and hooded eyes gave any indication.
“In case this thing truly does turn out to be a murder, you need to get your alibi in order immediately. Without that… Well, I’m going to have to pull you from the case.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.” After all, she knew she hadn’t killed him.
“One more thing, and I mean it. Don’t touch a thing until your partner gets here.” Malone pulled out his cell phone and put it to an ear as he walked away.
Amanda looked heavenward again. After losing her husband and daughter, she’d blamed God, but if there was any chance that He or She could intervene and give her strength to see this investigation through, she just might try prayer again.
Three
The smaller the town, the harder it was to keep secrets. It had been the bane of Amanda’s existence since she was a little girl, but she’d always managed to dismiss the murmurings and gossip. After the accident though, it came to define her. She was the “poor thing” who had lost her husband and daughter. She was marked, unable to escape the repercussions. While other people moved on with their lives, she was locked in the past. Even the rare times she caught a glimpse of the horizon, she couldn’t seem to advance toward it.
She stood outside the motel room and blinked away snowflakes, gripping her coat to herself. They didn’t get much snow in Dumfries and it was sort of magical when it did happen. Lindsey used to squeal with delight and come
running to Amanda. “Mommy, Mommy, can I play outside?”
“Amanda? Hello.”
“What?”
“Where’s the sarge going?” Cud nodded toward Sergeant Malone, who was getting into his vehicle.
“Not his keeper,” she replied as Malone drove off. He probably wanted to remove himself as far as possible from this investigation. Normally he hung around crime scenes longer.
“You get the case?” Cud asked.
“I did.”
“Figures. And I’m your number two?”
“A shit? Yeah.” She didn’t really have a problem with Cud, not normally anyway. She just didn’t appreciate him accusing her of being unable to remain objective with this case.
He frowned. “Very funny.”
“And no, you’re not the number two. I am.” At least on paper, she thought.
“You—” Cud laughed. “I’ll be. Steele’s getting a partner. Still not me, I’m guessing?”
“Seeing as Malone never said a word to you? Wow, you should make detective.”
“Whatever. Guess I’m out of here then.” Cud trudged toward his vehicle, head into the wind.
Amanda walked over to Becky, who was stationed next to her cruiser. Sergeant Greer must have left while Amanda was talking to Malone.
“You okay?” Amanda asked Becky.
“Yeah, of course.”
“It looked like Greer was laying into you a bit.”
Becky rolled her eyes. “She can be a piece of work.”
“What was it all about?”
“I left my post for a millisecond, but Greer overheard Malone asking why you were here and she got the sense you shouldn’t be here, so she blamed me for letting you on scene. Anyway, enough about me. Malone give you the go-ahead?”
“If it’s a murder.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised. You have Malone wrapped around your finger.”
“Correction: my father has him wrapped around his. I just get to benefit.”
“Whatever way it goes,” Becky said. “I’m still worried about you.”
“No need. I’ve been through more than this.”
“I’m just afraid that ‘this’ is going to trigger the past.”
Amanda didn’t know how to respond. After all, what didn’t trigger the past? She was mired there. But maybe by investigating Palmer’s death, she could put all the guilt and the feelings of turmoil behind her and start to heal. What she knew for sure was there certainly wasn’t any way she could watch the case from the outside. She’d go crazy wondering where things stood.
“Why aren’t you in the room, doing your thing?” Becky asked.
“I need to wait for my partner to show—”
“Whoa, hold up. You are getting a partner?”
“Yep. Trent Stenson.”
Becky grinned, showing teeth, the expression touching her eyes. “What a great break for him. He must have just been transferred to Homicide.”
“He was.” She couldn’t conjure any enthusiasm at his dream coming true.
“He’ll be great. You’ll see.”
“Maybe.” She hitched her shoulders.
“Okay, what’s the problem? I know you don’t like working with a partner, but—”
“He’s the primary on the investigation.”
“Oh.” Becky’s mouth dropped open. “He’s—”
“Yeah, new, a rookie. Apparently, he’s the lead on paper. Only way Malone would let me work the case at all.”
“I see.”
“At least one of us does. So while I wait, I’m not to touch anything, but you can bring me up to speed. Who found him, for starters?”
“The hotel manager, guy by the name of Ronnie Flynn. He was headed down there”—Becky pointed to an ice chest against the motel—“for some cubes for his drink. He saw the curtains were open, said his eye was naturally drawn to look inside.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Blamed the flickering lights from the television. Anyway, that’s when he saw Palmer lying on the bed, eyes wide open and unblinking. Called it in.”
“He never went into the room?”
“Claims not.”
“And where is he now?”
“With Officer Deacon.” Becky pointed to the motel office. “He’s giving his statement.”
Two figures were inside, but the colored lights blinked in the window, taking her back to the Dreamcatcher Inn where she’d had her one-night stand. She really needed a shower. She’d speak with Flynn herself, but not yet. She turned back to Becky. “Anyone else staying in the motel tonight?”
“Yep. Five rooms were rented out in addition to Palmer’s. Everyone’s been asked to stay put and told to expect an officer to come by and question them, but that’s about as far as that’s gotten. I called you the minute I saw who it was.”
“I understand. All good anyway, as I like to talk to potential witnesses firsthand.”
Becky licked her lips, her gaze intent on Amanda.
“What?” Amanda asked.
Becky toed the accumulating snow on the ground with her boot. “It’s just that a lot of people aren’t going to be too thrilled you’re on the case. It could cause some problems for you.”
“I’m aware, but I can assure you no one wants this case wrapped up like I do.” As much as she struggled with her personal feelings toward Palmer, investigating his death had to bring her some closure. If not, she was at a loss for what would.
Becky squinted, the snowflakes larger and more plentiful than before. Why it bothered to snow when it would be melted by morning was beyond Amanda.
“You want this case wrapped up?” Her friend put it out there gingerly, but the enclosed implication still stung. “Are you sure there’s not a small part of you that might be happy he’s dead?”
Amanda glanced toward the road. There was no way she could look Becky in the eye and claim that wasn’t true. After the accident, she’d thought about his death a million times over, even contemplated taking his life herself.
“There is,” Becky concluded. “How can you investigate—”
Amanda bristled. “I never said that I was happy about this. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Am I though?” Becky punched out and with that turned toward her cruiser.
Tears beaded in Amanda’s eyes as she stared at the back of her friend’s head.
“Here, you’ll need these.” Becky lifted a pair of gloves and plastic booties out of the trunk of the car. “Looks like you could use them,” she said and pointed at Amanda’s now-wet boots.
Amanda took them and offered, “Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” Becky got in the driver’s seat of the cruiser and shut the door.
Amanda felt her friend’s judgment coming through, despite the nice gesture. But there wasn’t time to dig into that conversation. She had a job to do and she was about finished waiting on Trent Stenson.
Four
Amanda stopped outside the door to the motel room. Malone had said not to touch anything; he hadn’t said she couldn’t look around. She slipped the plastic coverings over her boots and stepped inside.
She made a mental note of the upturned running shoe. The left one. She looked at Palmer to see the right shoe was still on his foot.
Had Palmer been so drunk that he’d tripped and hadn’t noticed or cared that he’d lost a shoe? Had he just taken one off and stumbled to the bed where he’d proceeded to drink two huge bottles of whiskey? Or had there been someone else who had pushed him and caused him to lose his shoe?
But there were no visual signs of an altercation or that Palmer had any visitors. No obvious shoeprints on the carpet, although it had been dry until a bit ago. Two spindle-back chairs were tucked under a small round table under the window—unused or put back? Two drinking glasses with their covers still in place were on the table—untouched.
She reached into her back-right pocket for her notepad, but it wasn’t there. She hadn’t exactly needed it at the Dreamcatcher In
n or the bar where she’d picked up Motel Guy. But surely there was something on her person she could use to make a note. She tapped her pockets and felt her phone in her jacket. She pulled it out and opened the notepad app, pecking in Ask the motel manager and other guests if they saw anyone come to Palmer’s room. One day she’d learn how to text like a teenager, but that day was likely a long way off; she had more important things to do.
Her gaze returned to the unused glasses. Palmer must have just drunk directly from the whiskey bottles. Not unheard of with hardened alcoholics, but Palmer had been sober for years. Albeit a forced sobriety. Had he been making up for lost time or had something specific made him start drinking again? Had it been guilt or had he felt anything at all?
The judge looks over his bench at Chad Palmer. “How do you plead to the charges of drinking and driving?”
“Guilty,” Palmer responds like he’s comatose.
“How do you plead to charges of DUI vehicular involuntary manslaughter times two?”
“Guilty.”
A collective gasp comes from the gallery.
I am cold and barely feel Kristen’s or Mother’s hands squeezing mine.
Mother leans in and whispers in my ear, “God, let there be justice.”
Amanda clenched her jaw, returning to the present, her gaze on Palmer’s dead body. Maybe things had a way of working out and justice had finally been served. It certainly hadn’t been with the measly sentence he’d received.
She walked over to the table and looked out the window that gave a view of the parking lot. The curtains were open, as the manager claimed to have found them. And further inside the room and across from the double bed, the television was flickering on the dresser. Its volume was so low it was hard to hear sober. Intoxicated, there would be no way Palmer could have discerned a word.
She made a note of that in her phone’s app, then proceeded to inch closer to the bed. With each step, her heart pounded harder. As if he could somehow reach out from beyond the grave and hurt her more than he already had. Utterly impossible. In fact, his death, in a way, had lessened her pain.
The Little Grave: A completely heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Amanda Steele Book 1) Page 3
