“I didn’t think that—”
“No, you know what? It’s fine. I shouldn’t have…” The bite had completely left her tone, but she couldn’t bring herself to continue. She felt ashamed for crossing the line. She had no right to expect anything from Trent, and she didn’t need a new friend. He was her partner—temporary partner, if she had her way. It would be best to remain detached. Do the job, call it a day, start over.
“I didn’t say anything about the accident because—”
“It’s fine. Really. I shouldn’t have brought it up. We have a job to do together, and that’s what we’ll do.”
Even if it kills me, she thought. Then again, she didn’t give a shit if it killed her because she was already dead inside.
Eleven
Trent hadn’t said anything else to Amanda the rest of the way to David Morgan’s apartment. It was located across town from the Nashes’ place. It might not have been a long drive, but it was tense. Maybe he didn’t know how to execute a conversation after her mini breakdown, and she still wasn’t doing so well. So much for keeping all drama out of the investigation. At least for the most part she’d bottled it up inside. She could even blame it on having been awake for hours on end. She’d kill for a coffee.
Trent pulled them into the driveway of the apartment building, parked in a visitor spot, and said, “From what I could find out about Morgan, he lives here alone. Apartment one-ten.”
She simply nodded, then got out of the car and led the way inside the building. She was the one to knock on David’s door and he answered in jogging pants and a T-shirt. He was in his late twenties and his hair was mussed and sticking up at the front. He rubbed his face, and said, “Yeah?”
“Detectives Steele and Stenson with PWCPD.” Amanda held up her badge. “Are you David Morgan?”
“That’s me, but—” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure what you want with me.”
“Let us in and we’ll tell you.”
David danced his gaze over her, Trent, then back to her. “Sure, why not?” He stepped back and opened the door wide.
The apartment was compact, likely a one-bedroom unit, and the furnishings were the bare minimum. Right across from the door was the living room, which was a plain couch, a TV stand with a flatscreen sitting on it, and a sole coffee table. The place was tidy, but the air was stale.
“We’re with the Homicide unit,” she said, and David’s eyes snapped to hers. Now she had his attention. “A man was found dead at Denver’s about an hour before midnight.”
“Really? Oh, wow.” David blinked a few times, part shock, part his not being awake yet.
“His name was Chad Palmer, room ten,” she put out and watched him for a reaction.
David’s forehead pressed in thought, then smoothed out. “I know the guy… Well, I don’t know him, but I brought towels to his room during my shift on Saturday.”
“You did? The front desk is basically housekeeping too?” Amanda asked.
David smiled. “You’ve seen the place, right? My job is to tend to our customers’ needs as best as I can.”
“Okay,” she said. “What time did Palmer call you?”
“I dunno, say five or so.”
“And what do you remember about him?”
“You said you’re with Homicide—” He paused there to glance over at Trent. “The guy was murdered… in the motel?”
“It’s an open investigation,” Trent interjected the diplomatic answer.
“Mr. Morgan, what do you remember about Mr. Palmer? How did he seem to you? Did you see him with anyone?”
“Nice guy, you could say. He thanked me for the towels, said ‘please’ when he called the front desk for them.”
“So he called for towels because he didn’t have any in his room, or needed more…?” Amanda asked.
“He was looking for a couple of extras.”
“How many are provided in the room?”
“Two bath towels, two hand towels, two facecloths.”
“And they’re changed out every day?”
“Yeah.”
Palmer had enough for himself, so what had prompted the request for more? It would seem there was only one logical explanation. “Did he have company?”
David’s mouth opened, shut. He winced.
“You’re not going to tell us.” Her voice was more snarl than genial. She was tiring of the Denver’s Motel employees’ code of silence and was curious if their employee handbook directed employees not to speak with cops.
“It’s not personal.”
“I never assumed it was.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head. “But it’s because we’re cops.”
David chewed his bottom lip and didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His body language confirmed she’d reached the right conclusion.
His failure to communicate was telling her more than he realized though. It would seem that David had seen someone in his room, but he just wasn’t going to talk about it. She’d push a little harder. “Was it a guy or a girl?”
David avoided eye contact, and eventually said, “I’m sorry, but I need to respect our customers’ privacy.”
“At a place like Denver’s?” she volleyed back.
“We have some standards.”
“Uh-huh.” She uncrossed her arms. “Did you happen to notice if there was a duffel bag or anything in the room when you delivered the towels?”
“A duffel bag?” His tone was incredulous, as if he was trying to understand what that could possibly have to do with a dead guy. And it might not have any bearing on the case, but then again, it could. “Follow the money” was an adage for a reason.
“Yes,” she said.
“I didn’t go in the room, but yeah, I saw one inside the door.”
If what David was telling them was the truth, then the duffel bag—and presumably the money—was stolen, went missing, or was given to someone between Saturday and Sunday. Possibly even to his mysterious Saturday visitor. “What did the bag look like?”
David’s gaze flicked to Trent. “Blue with a gray stripe through it like a wave.”
Trent scribbled in his notepad.
“I’m going to give this one more go, and I’d like to remind you that a man is dead,” Amanda started. “Did you see anyone in his room? Notice any vehicles in the lot outside his room?”
David rubbed his jaw.
“A powder-blue sedan, perhaps?” she fed him.
His eyes met hers, and, again, he didn’t need to say a word.
She handed him her business card. “If you ever feel like talking, call me.”
She led the way back to the department car and once inside, Trent behind the wheel again, she said, “Morgan saw the powder-blue sedan, I’m positive. I can only assume it’s the same one Lorraine Nash saw. So who does it belong to and does that person have something to do with the missing money? Whatever the case, we need to find out where it went. It seemed to have left Palmer’s possession between Saturday and Sunday evening.”
“Unless Palmer just left the bag in the room while he went out on Sunday.” Trent looked over at her.
That possibility opened up theft, but why would anyone leave twenty-five thousand unattended—in a cheap motel no less?
“Yeah, I don’t think so. Either Lorraine Nash is lying about not seeing a bag or Palmer no longer had it by Sunday afternoon when he went out.”
Trent nodded.
“Regardless, we’ve got more questions than answers. Now, Lorraine said that the maintenance guy, Bill Hannigan, was sent to Palmer’s room Sunday afternoon. Maybe he’ll be able to clarify some things for us.”
Twelve
Lorraine Nash had told Amanda and Trent that Bill Hannigan started work at seven, and it was twenty minutes after that when Trent was parking once more in the lot of Denver’s Motel. There were two cars already there, and one was a PWCPD police cruiser. Amanda didn’t recognize the officer behind the wheel. Becky would have been sent home, as wel
l as Officer Deacon.
“I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” she told Trent and went to talk to the officer while Trent headed toward the motel office.
The officer got out of his car as she approached, his posture straight, his chin slightly jutted out, his eyes steely. He was assessing her and trying to gauge whether she was a threat. She’d save him any more trouble. She held up her badge.
“PWCPD. Detective Steele.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Officer Cooper.”
“What’s going on here? It’s looking rather quiet.”
“Everyone rushed to check out, apparently. I got an earful from the motel manager about it.” Cooper shook his head. “Guy gets under your skin.”
She wasn’t going to argue and looked toward the office, where she could see Flynn waving his arms like mad. Case in point. “Anyone go near the room?” She nodded toward number ten.
“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t have allowed it.”
Trent was walking toward them, his cheeks flushed, and his nostrils flared. “Hannigan’s not here. Flynn canceled everyone’s shifts today and is just about to head home. The guy’s fit to be tied. He’s bitching that he has a quota he’s to reach and it’s our fault he lost all his customers.”
She jacked a thumb toward Cooper. “Just heard a rendition of that. Curious though.”
“About?” Cooper asked.
She glanced at him but looked at Trent when she spoke. “He’s choosing to shut down the motel for the day—why? We’ve only cordoned off one room. He could rent the others.” She flicked a finger toward Cooper. “It just proves that Denver’s clientele aren’t fans of cops.”
“Pardon me,” Cooper interjected, “but most people aren’t.”
She could conjure hundreds of headlines to that effect, but what would be the point? As much as people griped about the police, the world needed them—the good ones anyway. The ones that abused and soiled the badge were worse than the criminals on the street.
“All right, well, let’s go to Hannigan’s house.” She dipped her head at Cooper to bid him goodbye, and she and Trent loaded back into the department car.
Trent logged into the onboard laptop, clicked in a search, and retrieved Hannigan’s address. “What do you know? He’s in town too. Just a couple of blocks over.”
There was no answer at Bill Hannigan’s front door, but Amanda heard clanking and banging coming from around the side of the house. She followed the sounds to a detached garage. Its door was open, and a person was bent under the hood of a classic car.
“Hello,” Amanda called out.
The person, a man in his fifties, straightened out with a grunt and a hand to his lower back. “Can I help you?”
“You can if you’re Mr. Bill Hannigan,” she replied.
“That’s me.” He squinted.
Amanda held up her badge. “Detective Steele, and this is Detective Stenson.”
“What can I do for ya?” He grabbed a soiled rag hanging over a side mirror.
Amanda walked around to see the top of the hood. “A ’69 Camaro, and the first year Chevy offered the super scoop that was designed to enhance the power of the high-performance V8 engine. I’m going to guess this is either the SS or the Z/28 model.”
“The SS. You know your cars.”
“My brother had a bit of an obsession. I picked up on some of the knowledge over the years.”
Bill smiled. “Good for you. A woman can do whatever she puts her mind to, just like a man.”
Amanda was certain his words were well intentioned, but they still made her bristle. Probably more because the man felt the need to say them. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that a man was found dead in room ten at Denver’s Motel.”
“I heard about it.” He twisted the rag and tucked it into a back pocket of his jean coveralls. “Manager’s none too happy about it. I assume you know that?”
“We do,” Amanda said. “We heard you got the day off. Hence the house call.”
“Lucky me, I tell ya. I was already up so I figured I’ve just got more time to restore this beauty.” Bill paused and looked upon his car with pride.
For good reason, Amanda thought. Kyle would have killed for this car when he was younger. “We understand that you were sent to room ten on Sunday afternoon. Is that right?”
“I might need a little more information…?”
“Apparently his television was having issues,” she said.
“Ah, yes.” Bill rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “It was just a couple of cables that came loose. Nothing he probably couldn’t have figured out for himself if the world wasn’t so damn lazy and amped up. Especially considering he said he was just wanting to pass some time.”
Amped up and passing time. It would seem Palmer’d had immediate plans. “Did anyone come to his room while you were there?”
“Nope.”
“Was he drinking?” Amanda asked.
“Not that I figure, and probably a good thing. He got in his car and went somewhere not long after I got into the room.”
“His car?” She squeezed the question out.
“An old Caprice.”
The skin tightened on the back of her neck. “The color?”
“Light blue.”
“And he was driving?” All sorts of emotions were whirling through her and she couldn’t pin any down except for anger.
“Yeah.”
She’d somewhat come to grips with the fact that Palmer had returned to the bottle so quickly after prison—that’s if he hadn’t been force-fed the stuff—but it took some brass balls and demonstrated a careless and unrepentant attitude for him to drive. After all, Palmer’s license had been revoked. But she tamped down her anger and focused on the case. Hannigan’s insight also raised the questions of where had Palmer gotten the car and where was it now? And did the car’s existence explain where the money might have gone? But then an old Caprice wouldn’t have cost twenty-five grand.
Trent cleared his throat, and she glanced at him. He held his pen poised over his notepad and asked Bill, “Did you catch the license plate on the car?”
“I wish I had.” Bill met Amanda’s eyes, and his were soft. “What did you say the man’s name was again?”
She hadn’t said, but she did now. “Chad Palmer.”
“I see.”
She didn’t care for the way he said that or for the way he was watching her like she was fragile. “Did you happen to notice if he had much in the way of luggage?”
“Kind of a strange question, isn’t it? I mean considering the guy just got out of prison recently.” Bill peered into her eyes.
“How did you know that?” She could barely find her voice.
“Something he said.”
Amanda’s heart pounded. She had a sinking feeling there was a lot more to Bill’s knowledge than his intuition stitching together verbal clues. “You know who I am.”
“I might, yeah.”
She forced a smile. “Come on, Mr. Hannigan, be honest with me.”
“I know you’re the former police chief’s daughter. I recognized your name when you introduced yourself. And Palmer… I know what he did to your family. Real sorry about that.” He frowned. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, and had I realized then who that scumbag was, I never would have let him drive.”
“You’ve actually given us a lot to go on.” She held his gaze for a few seconds, then said, “Good day, Mr. Hannigan,” and headed back down his driveway, Trent at her side.
“Good day,” he called out behind her.
She should have known better than to think she could investigate Palmer’s death without someone recognizing her at some point, but it certainly hadn’t taken long.
Thirteen
With the interviews completed with Denver’s Motel employees, Trent and Amanda’s next stop would be Jerrod Rhodes, who lived in Woodbridge. She’d sit back and enjoy the ride—she could get used to being chauffeured around—but she was feeling si
ck after her encounter with Bill Hannigan. Sweet man, but he could destroy her career by going to the press if he were inclined. Hopefully, the bond she’d made over classic Camaros would be enough that he’d keep his realizations to himself.
Her phone pinged with a text message. It was from Rideout. She read it to herself and then shared the update with Trent. “Palmer’s autopsy is happening this morning at eleven.” That wasn’t much notice but still gave them a couple of hours and plenty of time to speak to Rhodes.
“Are you wanting to attend?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Her darkest thoughts were focused on seeing the man dissected as a catalogue of parts—he deserved no less—but she also judged herself for thinking that way.
“Yeah, of course.”
She stared at Trent’s profile, just wishing for him to question her decision. Fight with me, she thought. If he did, maybe she could convince Malone to let her work this case solo, but that was probably foolish thinking.
Trent parked in front of a rundown duplex that was split down the middle.
“Palmer’s old place is the unit on the right,” he told her. “Rhodes is actually living where Palmer used to.”
“Good to know. All right, let’s do this.” She was the first out of the car and down the walk. The advantage to tracking leads in Woodbridge was that fewer people would know her.
A sixty-something man answered the door in a cotton robe and slippers, holding a steaming cup of aromatic coffee. If her brother would have killed for a classic Camaro, she’d have done pretty much anything for a coffee at this point.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“You Jerrod Rhodes?” she asked, holding up her badge.
“Yeah,” he dragged out.
“I’m Detective Steele”—she gestured to Trent—“and this is Detective Stenson.”
“Steele, you say?” The older man peered into her eyes. “The former police chief’s daughter?”
Maybe she was wrong to assume he wouldn’t know her. Just as long as he didn’t know her past connection with Palmer. “I am.”
The Little Grave: A completely heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Amanda Steele Book 1) Page 9
