What We Bury

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Hit play again, please,” Madison requested.

  Cynthia did so, and Carson entered the pub.

  “Now forward ahead to when she leaves,” Madison said.

  “You got it.” Cynthia took them past ten, eleven, midnight… Still no sign of Carson exiting the front door. But at twelve forty-five Saturday morning, Carson emerged onto the sidewalk from the alley that led to the pub’s parking lot, limping and hugging her arms around herself.

  “No purse.” Madison stiffened. “She must have been attacked in the back lot. We need the area searched for the murder weapon. She was stabbed somewhere behind the pub and restaurant.”

  “Right about where we were,” Terry said.

  “I didn’t miss that,” Madison replied.

  “But you also know it’s a week later. The knife used in the attack could be long gone,” Terry started. “It and Carson’s belongings could all be in the city dump.”

  “Or in the killer’s possession,” Madison countered, though Terry’s theory was more likely.

  Cynthia paused the video. “I’ll get Mark on scene, and I’ll go too.”

  “Well, someone needs to watch this video from earlier than eight until, say, two or later to see if there’s any sign of Elliott or anyone else suspicious who comes up behind her.” Madison hopped off the stool. “Shit.”

  “You okay?” Cynthia rushed over, and Madison held up a hand.

  “I’m fine. I just keep forgetting that my body’s against me at the moment.”

  “Hey, you’re still alive,” Cynthia shot back, driving home how lucky Madison had been—even if the entire event could have been avoided.

  “I am.” Her throat constricted from nerves as she spoke. She resisted the urge to put a hand over her stomach. She headed for the door with Terry.

  “Madison, can we talk for a minute?” Cynthia asked.

  “Ah, sure.” Her heartbeat picked up speed and her palms went a little clammy. “I’ll meet you in the lot,” she told Terry, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment and was gone. She turned back to Cynthia and met a hardened expression. It was a look Madison was familiar with and normally came when her friend was concerned. “You don’t have to worry about me, you know. The doctor told me I’ll be fine.” She reached out to touch Cynthia’s shoulder, but she stepped back. “Something wrong?”

  Cynthia crossed her arms, loosened them, let them drop. “I was terrified, Maddy. I thought that you might never wake up, that I lost you.” Tears filled her eyes, and she sniffled.

  “You didn’t though.”

  “What is it with you?” Cynthia spun, sighed, turned around. “You think you’re—what?—invincible, untouchable?”

  “No—”

  Cynthia held up a hand. “You must. Before I went on my honeymoon, before the wedding even, you were prying into the Mafia’s affairs again. You had it in your head that the Stiles PD has corrupt cops.”

  “It’s not in my head. It’s a fact.” Her heart was hammering, and it was suddenly feeling like her best friend was turning on her.

  “Tell me you stopped pursuing this obsession of yours, that you’ve let it go.”

  Madison held her friend’s gaze but said nothing.

  Cynthia threw her arms in the air. “Yep, just as I thought. They did this to you. And let me guess—that woman whose picture you gave me has nothing to do with the Carson investigation.”

  Madison opened her mouth, unsure what to say, so snapped it shut.

  “Uh-huh, as I suspected. You think she’s tied up with the mob.”

  Know, thanks to Leland. “As far as the Stiles PD is concerned the mob’s not even in town anymore.”

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes to slits. “Please. This is me you’re talking to, not Stiles PD. They’re in town still. I’m not blind, Maddy. And that’s why I know here—” she laid a hand over her heart “—that your hit-and-run accident wasn’t an accident. Do you really think it was?”

  Madison hesitated but eventually shook her head.

  “Good, at least you’re not going to lie to my face about that.”

  She bristled. “What do you mean?”

  “You used me,” she spat. “Had me run her picture through facial rec databases.”

  “I never told you she was possibly connected to the Carson case. You assumed—”

  “No.” Cynthia shook her head. “You don’t get to do that. And you have Troy, a man you supposedly love, running all over asking questions, interrogating people to find who did this to you. Have you bothered to tell him you think it’s someone associated with the mob or even possibly a mob hit?” Cynthia crossed her arms again, this time tight, and she held the stance. Her gaze pierced through Madison’s skull.

  “I—”

  “You don’t need to answer my question. It was more rhetorical anyway. But tell me this: why was he asking Garrett Murphy where he was at the time of the…” Cynthia rolled her hand, as if not wanting to say accident one more time.

  Cynthia was her best friend, her confidante, the person she went to when the world went sideways. She was the last person she’d ever want to hurt or have conflict with, but it seemed too late to avoid that. Her friend was far too smart for her own good. There was nothing Madison could say at this point, and even if she remained silent, Cynthia would probably connect the pieces: Madison’s desire to bring down corrupt cops and Murphy being questioned for the hit-and-run…

  Madison counted off the seconds in her head.

  “Oh my God.” Cynthia clamped a hand over her mouth, dropped it. “You think that… I can’t believe this.”

  “I saw him.”

  “You saw him?” Cynthia spat.

  Madison bristled and jutted out her jaw. “I did.”

  “Where?”

  “As he drove past, just after… Before I passed out.”

  “How do you know you didn’t just imagine it? See something you wanted to see?”

  “Trust me, I never wanted to see his face!” She raised her voice, and Cynthia drew back.

  “You know what? I’m glad you’re okay. I really, truly am, Madison, but…” She swallowed roughly, and a few tears spilled down her cheeks. “Garrett is one of Lou’s best friends.”

  “I know.”

  “But you still…” Her chest heaved. “You know what? We have work to do.”

  “Cyn.”

  “No.” She waved over her head.

  Madison stood there, watching her friend go to the closet for her coat and gather an evidence collection kit. Her heart was hurting so badly. First, Troy. Now, Cynthia. At least for now, Terry was on her side.

  -

  Forty-Five

  After talking with Cynthia, which was nothing shy of an assault, Madison had tried reaching Troy again. She might not be able to set things right with Cynthia just yet, but she could try with him. He picked up just when she thought she was bound for voicemail purgatory.

  “What is it, Maddy?”

  “You want to talk. We’ll talk.”

  “I said ‘at home.’ Face-to-face.”

  Her heart bumped off rhythm. His insistence that they talk at home had to be because, like Cynthia, he’d connected everything and figured out she was still looking into the mob. That would be preferable to him suggesting they go their separate ways for a while. But he wouldn’t, would he? He’d promised her at the start of their relationship it would take her pissing him off a lot for him to walk. Surely now that she was carrying his child, he’d afford her even more leniency.

  “So?” he said. “Are you headed home? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She wasn’t about to ask him where he’d been all this time, especially when she had to put him off for a bit. “I’m actually following a lead in the case I’m working on—” She paused at the distinct exhalation on Troy’s end of th
e line. “What?”

  “You should be home resting.” His voice held concern and frustration.

  “I’ll wrap it up as fast as I can.” Her entire body begged her to just go home and put her feet up.

  “Just leave whatever it is to Terry and come home.”

  She reached the parking lot, and Terry was poised to toss her the keys for the sedan he’d signed out. He knew her preference was to drive rather than be chauffeured. He lowered his arms when he saw the phone at her ear.

  “Maddy?” Troy prompted.

  She was torn, but it only felt right that she saw this through as long as she could walk and function. “I have a job to do.”

  “Please don’t be too long.” Troy didn’t sound pleased but resigned. “And don’t get on my case if you find me settled in front of the TV when you get here.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare.” To her weary bones, parking on a couch sounded like bliss.

  “Well, you’re not here, so…” There was a tinge of playfulness in his voice, but it was tentative and fragile, almost as if awaiting reality to crush and destroy it.

  “I’ll be home in time for dinner.” Last she knew, it was about two forty in the afternoon.

  “Which is?”

  “Time or food?”

  “Suppose both.”

  “Since I’m the one who’s working—”

  “Nope, no way. You act like a healthy person, you’re just as responsible for dinner as I am. Can’t have it both ways. Off working during the day, invalid at night.”

  “One of those lovely casseroles it is, then.”

  “We’ll talk when you get home. Not that you said when that was going to be.”

  “Gah. You know I’m not good with clocks.”

  “Amuse me.”

  She pulled her phone back and looked at the time in the upper left-hand corner. She’d lost twenty minutes; it was three o’clock on the mark. “Give me a couple hours, max.”

  “Wow. We’ll be eating with old people.”

  “Elderly or mature adults…either term is a little more socially acceptable.”

  “Whatever, Maddy. We can always talk while dinner is in the oven.”

  Talk. Like a huge, looming storm threatening her life. She preferred the thought of watching TV, but said, “Sure, we can talk while we wait.”

  “Good. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” She hung up, and Terry tossed the keys. She reached out to catch them, and a blinding pain fired through her rib cage. The keys clattered to the concrete. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Terry winced. “I wasn’t thinking.” He retrieved the keys while she took slow, even-paced breaths. All her lungs wanted was to gulp oxygen. “Should I take you home?”

  She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. Sparkles of white light were raining down in front of her vision. She stood there, tamping down her agony, talking herself through it, coaching herself from the ledge of defeat. “You…can…drive.” She grimaced between each word.

  “You got it.” He nimbly jogged to the driver’s door, and she waddled over to the passenger side.

  She felt every bone of her spine as she lowered herself onto the seat.

  “Just to clarify. I’m driving you…”

  “To the pub.” She pulled the seat belt across her lap and added, “Thank you.”

  “You’re the most hardheaded person I know.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “Not necessarily a compliment,” he mumbled and drove them to Luck of the Irish.

  The entire way, he didn’t say another word and neither did she. She was too busy concentrating on somehow lessening the spikes of pain still bolting through her.

  Terry parked in the same lot that Carson had, after he confirmed there were no spaces left behind Luck of the Irish. There was no sign of Cynthia or Mark yet, but they’d be showing up soon.

  The uphill walk to the pub was a little challenging and had Madison wishing she’d thought to bring another dosage of pills with her, but she wasn’t about to let the pain win.

  Terry got the door to the pub for her, and she stopped to read the sign posted next to it. On Fridays, they opened at noon and closed at three the next morning. It provided a good time frame for Cynthia to watch the video. That was assuming she was going to do that and not delegate the responsibility. Normally, it would be something Cynthia would take on herself, but she was more than ticked off at Madison. Though, surely she wouldn’t let the personal conflict effect how she did her job.

  For midafternoon, the place was bustling, and there were more people in there than could have parked out back. People were seated along the length of the long bar, which had to have twenty to thirty stools.

  Madison wedged between a couple men, Terry behind her. A man in his thirties, wearing a change apron, smiled at them from behind the counter.

  “What can I get ya?”

  Madison could do hard liquor if it weren’t for Peanut. Peanut? She withdrew her badge from her pocket and held it for the bartender. Terry mirrored her actions. The men to each side of her shuffled their stools over, giving them more room.

  The bartender moved back. “I can get the manager for you.”

  “Actually, you might be able to help us,” she said.

  The man on her left got up and walked away. She watched after him, but he just found himself another spot at a table. Back to the bartender, she asked, “Were you working the night shift two Fridays ago?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did I hear you’re looking for someone who worked two Friday nights ago?” A female server approached them, holding an empty tray in one hand.

  How she’d overheard was a miracle. Between the music coming over the speakers and people’s conversations, the place wasn’t a library.

  “That’s right,” Madison confirmed. “Were you?”

  “I was.”

  Madison studied the young woman in front of her. Would she be the key to finding Jake Elliott?

  -

  Forty-Six

  Madison asked the server if they could speak somewhere quieter, and she led her and Terry to a table in a shadowed corner. Not exactly private, but the music was decibels lower here. The server sat down so she was looking out over the restaurant, and Madison took the chair on her right. Terry sat across from the woman.

  “I’m Detective Madison Knight, and this is Detective Terry Grant. What’s your name?”

  “Chloe Summers.”

  Madison pulled out her phone and brought up the DMV picture of Chantelle Carson. “Did you see her in here two Fridays ago?”

  Chloe bit her bottom lip and leaned over to get a better look at the screen. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Do you remember if she met up with anyone that night?”

  “No, she came alone, left alone. Probably why I remember her so clearly. Most people hook up with someone.”

  “She didn’t?” Madison asked.

  Chloe shook her head. “And she even looked sad, ya know? Not the right word really.” She screwed up her mouth. “Hardened. Yeah, that’s it. She stood out, too, because she was in her forties when most people in here on Friday are college age.”

  “Okay,” Madison started. “But did she seem interested in anyone?”

  “One regular, but all the ladies like him.” Chloe twisted a strand of her hair around a finger.

  Apparently, the waitress was included in all the ladies.

  Terry held his phone across the table, and Madison caught the image on the screen. Jake Elliott. “This the guy?”

  “Hey, you know him?” Chloe’s smile quickly turned sour. “Why are you asking about Saul?”

  So Elliott had also presented himself to the waitress using his alias. Curious that he tossed the name around so casually. He took a serious risk b
y doing so, but maybe he was too cocky to think he’d be found out. “What was your relationship with him?”

  Chloe licked her lips, glanced away.

  “Just a guess, but I’m thinking you know him rather well. You called him by his first name,” Madison added.

  “As I said, he’s a regular, and showing personal interest in customers is a good way to get larger tips.”

  Madison raised an eyebrow. “That’s all it was with Saul?”

  Chloe looked away, tucked hair behind an ear this time, then put both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I slept with him a few weeks ago. Just the one time.” She emphasized this with an erect index finger.

  Madison sat up straighter and smiled tightly to bury the pain crackling through her. Maybe Chloe could give them something useful in finding him. Madison would play a little role first to relax Chloe. “Hey, he’s a good-looking man.”

  “Oh yeah, and good in bed.” Chloe winked at her. “He has money, too, I think. He drives a silver Mercedes SUV. Don’t ask me the model, but they’re all pricey, aren’t they?”

  “They’re not cheap,” Madison consented. But Elliott, a.k.a. Abbott, would have been flush with all the cash he’d defrauded from women over the years. “Did he take you back to his place?” Madison could only hope, but she wasn’t banking on it.

  “My place, but why would you care?” Chloe pushed her back into the chair and crossed her arms. “And why are you interested in that woman and Saul? She the ol’ ball-and-chain or something?”

  It would seem Chloe wouldn’t care if she were a homewrecker, which had Madison’s respect for the server disappearing. She bit back the urge to spit out, “Murder victim.” Instead, she said, “Her name was Chantelle Carson, and she was murdered after she was here two Friday nights ago.”

  “Dear God.” Chloe’s eyes widened, and she glanced at Terry. “For real?”

  “Afraid so,” Terry replied.

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”