The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1)

by Lance McMillian

  Then I think of Sydney.

  I pick up the phone and call Chad Dallas. We go to the same church, except I don’t go anymore. As soon as he answers, regret at my impulsive action descends like a paratrooper. What am I doing?

  “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he says. Chad is one of the most rock-solid Christians I know, and this comment is his gentle way of chiding me for abandoning church.

  “I know. Been busy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was wondering if I could see Sydney.”

  “Right now?”

  “If that works for you.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  I look at the phone accusingly as if it tricked me into making the call. The mind’s leap from Otis Redding to Erin Riggs to Sydney to reaching out to Chad happened with astounding swiftness. I head to my car questioning my every action. Work has been my crutch for so long that in its absence I’ve become unreliable in how I fill the void. Maybe that’s how Lara ended up in my lap. Having reached the limits of my physical endurance by working non-stop, I longed for another distraction. Now I’ve had my fill of her. Tonight it’s Sydney’s turn to aid and abet my war against emptiness.

  ***

  The drive over changes the feeling of uncertainty into one of anticipation. I haven’t seen Sydney in over two years. Will she even recognize me? As I park on the street, the thought that she might not remember freezes me in place. Experiencing that rejection would hurt. I get out of the car, put on a mask of happiness, and head to the house with slow steps. Chad greets me at the door, offers a hug, and says, “How are you, brother? We miss you at church.”

  “Been busy. Murder never sleeps.”

  “They’ll still be dead Monday morning, you know.”

  Chad’s gift is an ability to say seemingly innocuous things that nevertheless convey hard truths. The dead will still be dead no matter what I do, and using my job to avoid every other part of my life is a poor excuse for living.

  Chad’s wife, Olivia, joins us in the entryway. More small talk follows, and I fake friendly patience. At last, Chad calls out for Sydney. On cue, the sound of footsteps coming from the basement answers in obedience. Sydney enters the room and stops for a second before bounding toward me with unleashed enthusiasm. She remembers. Her meaty paws jump up at me, and I bend down to let her lick my face. When I kneel to get more on her level, she knocks me down in her excitement.

  Amber and I adopted Sydney as a rescue border collie and boxer mix shortly after we got married. We had just returned from our two-week honeymoon in Australia and named her after our new favorite city in the world. The trip was incredible—experiencing New Year’s Eve at the Opera House with a million other people, climbing to the top of Sydney Harbour Bridge, the revealing bikini Amber wore on Bondi Beach. On the flight back to the States, I looked at my sleeping wife and knew that God had given me a woman I did not deserve. Then we got a puppy.

  Sydney’s excitement at seeing me has yet to abate. I can’t help smiling in effortless joy at the spastic display of her devotion. I’ve watched touching videos of soldiers returning from war to reunite with their ever-loyal canine friends. Now I’m living out my own heart-tugging moment. The pureness of Sydney’s love humbles me.

  I gave her away after the murders because the pain was too much. She invoked too many memories—memories that I was too mentally weak to handle. Every time I looked at Sydney, I saw Amber and Cale. So I turned the page and found Sydney a happy home, convinced that I was doing the right thing.

  Chad, Olivia, and I make some obligatory small talk as required by the customs of the South. Chad brings up the trial next week, and I respond, “I pray that justice is done.” Olivia asks if I’ve met Lara Landrum. Et tu, Brutus? I never took her for the starstruck type. Yes, Olivia, I’ve met Lara Landrum, and I could tell you some things that would burn your ears off.

  I leave that last part out.

  Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I say my good-byes and give my ex-dog a parting hug. Chad encourages me not to be a stranger and even means it. But I am a stranger to everyone, most of all myself. The joy I felt moments ago gives way to deep sadness, and the night air judges me as I walk to the car. Reaching my door, I turn back toward the house and see Sydney staring at me through the window. I wave farewell to her and slump down in the driver’s seat.

  Giving away that dog is the single worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. I worried coming over here that she wouldn’t remember me. But her unbridled happiness at seeing me again hurts much more. Sydney doesn’t care that I gave her away. She doesn’t care that I haven’t visited her in two years. She doesn’t care about any of my faults. She loves me just as I am. And during the one time I needed unconditional love more than at any other moment of my existence, I gave it away. The buoyant man who held Amber under the December summer sky of Australia would never have exiled Sydney from his life.

  I hate myself.

  I turn again to the house, hoping to see Sydney still manning her post. But she is gone, and I am alone. The tears burst forth like a pent-up tsunami, sending me into convulsive heaves. I never cried when Amber and Cale died. I got the shakes and the chills. I vomited. I suffered in silent anguish. But I never cried. I couldn’t. The tears just wouldn’t come. Now I sit in a car on a street bawling over a dog. The release doesn’t make me feel better, only worse. I still hate myself.

  The phone rings. Scott. I gather myself and hit the necessary button.

  “Where are you?”

  “Visiting Sydney.”

  “The dog?”

  “Yes—the dog.”

  “Big trial next week, you know, and you’re visiting a dog?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t think Sam killed himself.”

  “Why not?”

  “Remember that second bullet we found in the tree? It matches the bullet that killed Sam. Two shots were fired that day. Does that suggest suicide to you? It’s murder. One is the kill shot. That’s first. The second shot you wrap around Sam’s hand and fire it yourself to give him gunpowder residue. Murder. I know it in my bones.”

  “But who?”

  30

  Scott’s update on Sam occupies my mind during the drive home. The breakdown from seeing Sydney over, I’m back on the case. But the disquiet from what just happened still sits as a thorn in my flesh. Trying to consider all the angles Sam’s death might have on the trial, the image of Sydney looking out at me from the window intermittently tortures me. Anger replaces sadness. I can’t believe I gave away the family dog. What was I thinking? I gave Sydney away to escape from the past, yet I wallow in the past every single day of my life.

  I park the car in the garage, no closer to solving the Sam puzzle. Fear seizes me that I might very well lose the trial. My mind’s all over the place; Ella and I barely coordinate trial plans; and Sam’s death just threw a giant monkey wrench into everything. That’s not even considering the Millwood factor and the probability that I hopelessly compromised the case by sleeping with the star witness. The weird thing is that I’m not sure I even care anymore. I just want it to be over. My ordered life ceased to exist the moment Scott brought me out in the middle of the night to the unhappy home of Bernard and Sara Barton.

  The house is silent, but I’m not alone. I think about the old ghosts that still live here and the haunting they exert over me. If I were a better man, Sydney would be running up to greet me right now. But Sydney, too, is a ghost. I enter the living room, unsure of how I will ever pass the hours until another dawn.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  The question takes a wrecking ball to the silence and causes me to jump out of my skin. I can tell from Lara’s mood that she has been here for a while and that she didn’t like waiting. I should’ve checked into that hotel.

  I ask, “How did you get here? Your car wasn’t on the street.”

  “I took Uber.”

  �
��Uber? To here? Are you insane?”

  The instinct of self-preservation runs strong. An unfolding dread numbs my body and sends a flash of heat to my flush face. Her recklessness astounds. She cannot be here.

  She answers, “Don’t be an idiot. I had him drop me off a couple of blocks away.”

  “He’s still going to know it’s you, though. You’re leaving a credit card trail.”

  “I have aliases. All stars do. Stop being a pussy.”

  The slur boils me inside. I once saw a knock-down, drag-out fight between two rednecks at a Panama City Beach McDonald’s over that very accusation. It may be primitive, but the insult is an affront to one’s manhood. “Fighting words” is what we call it in the law—the kind of thing they used to duel about in the old days. I can’t shoot Lara, and I won’t take my hand to her, but I can get her out of my house.

  “You need to leave.”

  “Do you think you can ignore me? I’ve been calling you all night. Where the hell have you been?”

  On the way to visit Sydney I put the burner phone in the car’s glove box and haven’t looked at it since. Resentment of her controlling attitude spawns within me, but her bargaining power over me is immense. She can ruin my career, my reputation, my relationship with my best friend. I feel like a puppet in her play.

  “I was visiting a dog.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  I explain myself—the whole backstory of Sydney and my reunion with her earlier tonight. I avoid looking at Lara during the retelling and instead burn a hole into the floor with my eyes. Her reaction when I finish doesn’t make me feel any better. She smiles with enthusiastic mocking.

  “That’s damn cute,” she says.

  I don’t take it as a compliment.

  Pouring salt into the wound, she adds, “And you just gave her away? That’s cold.”

  I can’t disagree and feel as if the night has turned into death by a thousand cuts. I miss Amber.

  Hearing about Sydney changes her mood. She looks around the room, finds a picture of Sydney, and inspects it with a close eye. Then she smiles.

  “She’s so cute. Maybe I can meet her one day.”

  Noticing my disbelief, she moves toward me with the silky smoothness of a sleek sex kitten on the prowl. I fortify myself against the incoming attack. Not tonight. She deploys the smile that has made men all over the world fall in love with her. But I’ve seen the empress with no clothes, and I’m not so easily moved anymore. It’s all an act. I pray that the entire relationship hasn’t been a giant put-on, but what’s happening now is pure performance.

  She purrs, “You’ve had a hard day, and you’re under a lot of stress. Let me make you feel better. I’ll do anything you want tonight. Anything.”

  I don’t even know what that means. My resolve holds.

  “Get out.”

  She smirks as if she has seen this movie before. Undeterred, she attempts another approach, rubbing me with her hand, pressing her breasts against my chest. “You know you want to,” she whispers. Not tonight. If I give in to this seduction, I’ll never respect myself again. The absolute clarity of the moment solidifies any breaches in my resistance. I remove her hand and back away.

  “Leave.”

  She folds her arms and laughs in disbelief. I think I prefer crazy Lara to mocking Lara. Yell at a man, he’ll get over it soon enough. Laugh at him, and he’ll hate you forever. The refusal to take me seriously continues to stir my blood. Oblivious to my growing ire, she removes her shirt with the speed and efficiency of a sneaky panther. Those perfect breasts again shine before me in all their welcoming glory. I consider looking away from the temptation, but my anger gives me a strength I didn’t know I had. She comes to me again, the panther on the hunt. When she takes my head in her hands to kiss me, I grab and twist her wrists with more force than necessary to make my point. She backs away, finally realizing her misread of the situation. Half-naked, rubbing her sore wrists, a mixture of surprise and fear on her face—Lara Landrum doesn’t look so menacing.

  I bark, “Get out or I swear that I will call the press myself right now and confess everything.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Like hell.”

  Threats are worthless if one is not willing to follow through. The spontaneous declaration that I would go to the media was not planned out, but I latch onto its wisdom with great speed. I’m at the end of my rope, and the absolution of confession would feel like welcomed relief. The present is faltering. I could quit the case and live the rest of my life in the woods. I’ve always liked Maine.

  Lara’s sexual aggression takes a timeout. There are no more laughs or smirks. Her shirt goes back on, and she studies me with a reappraising eye. Tonight’s skirmish is over, and I won. The only vibe I get from her now is wariness. That’s fine by me. I’m tired of being taken for granted. There’s no profit in it. Lara picks up her purse and moves to the door. I have no idea how she’s going to get home, and frankly I don’t give a damn.

  Her hand ready on the handle, she gives me a last hard look with eyes filled with the hostility of a disturbed hornet’s nest. My resolute exterior beats back a rebellion from my weakening nerves on the inside. I show nothing. She opens the door—her stare still firmly affixed on me like a meat clever. The chill of the fresh air washes over me.

  She says, “You watch yourself. I don’t care how upset you are about your little dog—no one treats me like that. You get your act together or I’ll ruin you in a way you’ll never see coming. And you better not blow Bernard’s case next week or I’ll damn sure end you!”

  I allow her the parting shot. A big sigh of relief escapes from me with the slamming of the door. After a discreet time passes, I sneak to the side of the front window to take a furtive inventory of Lara’s movements. She’s walking down the street with her phone out, a baseball cap on her head. Crisis averted. I patrol the house, checking all the locks and latches twice. Another look out the window reveals nothing. The boring night I expected a few hours ago turned into something quite different. Life comes at you fast.

  Tomorrow’s Thursday. Four days before the start of the trial.

  31

  The next day my brother is in town and we meet for lunch. I have little appetite. Last night’s disaster with Lara sits undigested in my belly, and the lingering nausea is all too real. Ella will meet with Lara tomorrow to rehearse their direct examination, but I’m barred from that meeting per Ella’s earlier ultimatum. I’m glad to be spared the hassle.

  Ben and I embrace. He’s five years older than me and looks five years younger. I idolized him growing up. I envy him now. He represents everything I lost—the wife, the kids, even the moral goodness. I hate the growing distance between us but feel powerless to do anything about it. I look at his life and see little apart from my own pain.

  We talk about Mom, his family, college football, the usual. He makes the typical routine inquiries about the trial. I give the typical routine answers. He doesn’t ask about Lara. I admire his restraint. Last time he saw me Lara Landrum sat in our mother’s living room. Surely that merits a follow-up. Yet Ben has never circled back to me about Lara in the weeks since. We order our food and look at each other, seemingly both thinking the same thing—what now?

  He asks, “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He studies me with great thoughtfulness, and I recognize the signs of what’s in his heart. Ben wants to minister to me. I’m not in the mood.

  He goes on, “Come on. I know better. I want to know what’s really going on with you. We don’t talk anymore. I miss you.”

  “What do you want to know? Amber’s still dead. Cale’s still dead. I still get up in the morning every day and go to work in the D.A.’s office. That’s about it.”

  “Cut the bull. I want to know how you feel on the inside. That kind of thing. How’s your walk with God?”

  My response is immediate: “There is no God, and I hate him.” />
  The words come out of left field. Their vehemence surprises me. Such a sentiment is not the kind of thing one says to a preacher in the South, even if he is your brother. But Ben’s reaction is full of sweet syrup. No dismay, no shock, no disappointment. Instead, he smiles.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because that may be the first honest thing you’ve said to me since Amber and Cale were murdered. That’s progress.”

  Fair enough. He thinks we just made a big spiritual breakthrough. I don’t. Honesty. Dishonesty. God. No God. None of it matters. Everything important to me was taken away by two small pieces of lead. Nothing will change that.

  Ben continues, “You say you hate God. That’s good. Hostility I can work with, denial not so much. It would be the rare person in your shoes who wouldn’t be angry with God after what happened. Trust me, though, God is big enough—”

  I interrupt, “Listen, Ben, I’m glad you’re here. It is good to see you. I mean that. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t want to have this conversation now. Or ever. Let’s just enjoy lunch.”

  Ben takes the rebuke in stride. He is a preacher. He has heard worse. I’m sure he took classes in seminary about how to reach recalcitrant people. His empathy and gift for public speaking would’ve made him a great trial lawyer. I could see him representing accident victims before country juries and generating headline after headline with million-dollar verdicts. But he wanted to be a preacher since he was a little boy and chose Jesus instead. I didn’t understand the decision, thought he was crazy. Why choose that life? Amber changed my perspective for a time, gave me a new appreciation for things eternal. Now I’m not sure that any of it matters. Meaningless, meaningless—everything is meaningless.