“With Murphy?”
He nodded.
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” She just wished they had enough to warrant tapping his phone. Unfortunately, the pictures she had of Murphy at Club Sophisticated weren’t enough for a subpoena as they weren’t acquired during an official police investigation.
She put on her shoes and coat, said goodbye to Hershey, who looked content on his bed, and locked the door behind her and Terry.
“I heard back from the bank on Keller’s rent check.”
“Really? It’s only nine forty-five. Someone’s up early.”
“Someone’s a fan of cops.”
“Guess there are a few left.”
“Cheery and optimistic this morning, I see.” Terry laughed and loaded into his van. She got into the passenger seat.
“And?”
“The name attached to the account is Morgan Palmer, female. And I have an address.”
“Someone else paid her rent or is Shannon Keller a fake name too?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
“After, we exchange this thing for a department car.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
As Terry drove them to the station, her mind kept drifting to the vehicle they were in. Would a van be her next vehicle?
“I assume you pulled a background on Morgan Palmer,” she said.
“Yep. She’s thirty-five, a brunette, five-ten.”
“Okay, but I’m more interested in her criminal record.”
“Doesn’t have one,” he said.
“Hopefully, this Palmer lady can give us a lead on Keller. Again, that’s if she’s not Keller. Let’s face it, this wouldn’t be the first time we ran into a fake name with this case.”
Terry grinned. “Want to make a bet?”
“Really?”
“It also wouldn’t be the first time.”
She considered then said, “Okay, the regular twenty?”
“I’m in.”
“All right. I say that Morgan Palmer and Shannon Keller are the same person.”
“Don’t cry when you lose.”
“Don’t you.” This friendly bet was lifting her spirits, and she was ready to collect.
He got them to the station, and they signed out a department car, swapped seats so she was driving, and they headed to Palmer’s address.
Her phone rang on the way. Caller ID told her it was Cynthia. Madison answered, prepared for a lashing—from her friend and Terry, who usually freaked out when she spoke on the phone while driving.
“How are you?” Cynthia asked.
“Fine.” Madison hadn’t expected that to be the first thing out of her friend’s mouth.
“I should have known you’d come back with that.” There was the teeniest hint of a smile to her friend’s voice.
Then there was an awkward silence.
Cynthia offered, “I’m sorry if I hurt you yesterday. I’ve had all night to sleep on what I heard between Troy and Garrett. I think he’s shady as hell. But I haven’t said a word of this to Lou. As far as he knows, it was just you and I hanging out last night.”
“I appreciate that. Listen, maybe we could meet up and talk in person?”
“I’d love that, but work first, right?”
“Always. Actually, Terry and I are following a lead in the Carson case at this minute.”
“Oh, well, I have some news for you. I watched more of the video from the city.”
“You got the plate on the Mercedes?”
“Why do you always do that? Jump in and try to steal my thunder?”
Madison felt tingles run through her body. “So you got a plate?”
“Not exactly. And I can’t zoom in and clean up the tag enough to read it.”
“Why give me a hard time, then? What’s your news?”
“Just that I saw a silver Mercedes SUV enter the pub lot at nine fifteen the Friday Carson was attacked.”
“You saw who was behind the wheel?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay… That’s all?”
“And I wanted to apologize.”
Madison shut her eyes briefly and opened them. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go catch a killer.”
Cynthia beat Madison to hanging up.
Terry looked over at her from the passenger seat. “What was all that about?”
“Cynthia has a silver Mercedes on the city’s video but no plate.”
“Hmph. Hardly worth a call.”
Madison smiled and pulled in front of a brick bungalow. “You said number two thirty-four?”
“Yep. This is it.” Terry beat her getting out of the car, which wasn’t much of an accomplishment as she was still in discomfort.
She noted the vehicle in the driveway as she walked to the front door. It was a newer model sedan, but no Mercedes.
Terry rang the doorbell before she got there, and footsteps padded toward them.
“Yes?” A woman in her thirties, brown hair, approximately five-ten, stood there, dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt.
Terry held up his badge, Madison followed his lead.
“We’d like to speak with Shannon Keller,” Terry said. “Or should I say Morgan Palmer?”
The woman smiled and let her expression carry from Terry to Madison, then bolted into the house and down a long hallway. Terry tore after her. Madison wasn’t running anywhere for anyone. She calmly stepped inside and thought of ways she was going to spend the twenty bucks she’d made off the bet.
Terry’s shoes clamored on the wood floor as he chased Keller—or rather, Palmer. It wasn’t long before there was a loud thud, followed by a string of expletives and Terry yelling, “Get to your feet!”
He hauled Palmer back toward the front door.
“Why run? Unless you’re guilty of something.” Madison scanned Palmer’s eyes.
Palmer balled up her face like she was going to spit or scream, but the ugliness washed away as quickly as it appeared. She shrugged free of Terry, and he let her go.
“Tell us about Jake Elliott,” Madison demanded.
“He’s a douche bag.”
So she knew him by his real name. “That part we figured out already. Now we’re trying to figure out if he’s also a killer.”
“A killer?” Palmer pushed out. Not so much from shock, but amusement. Her eyes lit.
“Uh-huh.” Madison closed the front door, encasing the three of them in a shadowy entry. She found a light switch and flicked it on. “Where can we find him?”
Palmer wiped her cheek on her shoulder.
“Want to clam up? Really?” Madison huffed out. “You operate under an alias. Only criminals do that. And I’m sure you were in on the cons Jake pulled.”
Palmer’s gaze flicked to Madison’s.
The fact Palmer knew Elliott’s real name was enough to verify for Madison, but the eye contact at her accusation sealed it. “So that’s a yes,” Madison concluded. “Do you know or have you heard of Chantelle Carson?”
“Maybe.”
Terry nudged Palmer in the back. “A yes or no would work nicely.”
“Yes,” Palmer hissed.
“Well, she’s dead. Murdered.” Madison delivered the news without tact to get a reaction. Palmer’s shoulders sagged—that’s all.
“Well, I can’t see Jake killing anyone.”
“Let us determine that,” Madison said. “Tell us where we can find him.”
“I’ve fallen out of touch with him in the last several months.”
“That’s convenient,” Madison said drily and thought it was probably a lie.
“I mean it, but he’s probably in his mother’s basement.”
“And where would that be?” Madison was
losing patience with this woman.
“She has some nerve, I’ll tell you that. She just showed up one day, kicked me out, and she moved in. Said her son didn’t need me anymore, and with him being the douche bag he is—an effing momma’s boy—he didn’t say anything.”
Kicked me out, and she moved in… “What’s the mother’s name?”
“Mary Smith.”
“That her real name?” Madison tossed back.
“Probably a fair question. Don’t really know, come to think of it. I was told her last name was different than Jake’s because she’d remarried after he was born.”
Madison was having a hard time reconciling the sweet, little, unassuming Mary Smith she and Terry had met with the vindictive mother Palmer was painting. “Does she know what her son does to unsuspecting women?”
“Know?” she scoffed. “She’s like the kingpin. Always telling him that he’s got to use what God gave him. It would be disrespectful not to. Yadda, yadda.”
“And that translates to…?” Madison was hoping for some clarity.
“Using his looks to rope in women and then rip them off. Mother and son have no conscience. But murder? I was his girlfriend for eight years. I can’t see Jake killing someone.”
“Even if someone threatened to expose him?” Madison countered.
Palmer worried her lip, met Madison’s gaze. “Maybe, I suppose.”
“We’ve been told Jake drives a gray Mercedes SUV,” Madison began. “We don’t show any vehicles registered to him. Do you know whose it might be?” They had been thinking it belonged to his latest mark.
“That would be Mommy Dearest’s.”
Madison was trying to picture the elderly woman at the wheel. “Do you have a number for Jake?”
“Yeah.” Palmer rattled it off, and Terry pecked it into his phone.
“All right, well, we’ve got to go. Detective Grant.” Madison nudged her head toward the door and opened it.
“Wait. You’re not arresting me?” Palmer called out behind them.
“Should we be?” Madison volleyed back.
She looked down at the floor.
Palmer probably had information she could provide on Elliott’s other cons. Heck, she was likely in on them herself, but Madison wasn’t with the fraud department. Not that she’d let her walk but solving Carson’s murder was her priority. “Just stick around Stiles. You will be questioned further about the extent of your relationship with Mr. Elliott and your involvement with the cons he ran. But who knows? If he’s behind Ms. Carson’s murder, you may provide useful testimony for the prosecution and secure yourself a deal.”
“Okay.”
Madison hurried back to the car, Terry close behind her, and she settled behind the wheel.
Terry pulled his phone and said, “I’m going to give that number a try.”
“Hold up, and say what?”
“What I was going to say when I called the numbers on Carson’s outgoing list. That I’m looking for Jake Elliott because he stands to inherit.”
“Okay, but use Saul Abbott, not his real name, in this case.” It felt like a lot had happened since that conversation.
A few seconds later, Terry shook his head. “Didn’t ring, and there’s no voicemail.”
“So it’s off but still in service. That’s good news. Maybe Cynthia could track the phone. Can you call her?”
“Sure, and you’ll be…”
“Driving us to Mary Poppins.”
“You mean Mary Smith?”
“Well, it’s possible she’s just as fictional as the nanny who descends from the sky holding an umbrella. Wait. You don’t happen to remember the name on file for Jake Elliott’s birth mother, do you?”
“Nope.” He gestured to the on-board computer. “Take a look.”
She did and the results were there in black-and-white. “Mary Smith is his mother’s name.”
“There you go.”
Terry might have been convinced everything was on the up and up, but she wasn’t. It just seemed strange that after eight years of Palmer being with Elliott, his mother would show up out of the seeming blue one day and kick her out. Madison was determined to get to the bottom of it.
-
Fifty-Three
Madison pulled a report through the on-board computer, and no Mary Smith lived at the rental address. A reverse-address search proved useless. Next, she tried a quick DMV search, but no Mercedes SUVs tied back to the rental property or Smith. But she wasn’t sure if that meant anything or not.
Madison parked in front of the house, and no vehicles were in the drive, but there was a garage. She walked around the side, and there was a window.
“What are you doing?” Terry said.
“Just trying to get a peek inside.” She pressed her hand to the glass to cut the glare and said, “No car at all.”
“Maybe no one’s home?”
Madison knocked on the front door. She was braced to knock again when it opened.
“Hello, Detectives.” Smith smiled at Madison and Terry.
If this woman was the devil that Palmer had painted her out to be, then she deserved acting awards, but there were holes that needed filling. “Do you have a minute to talk?” Madison plastered on sweetness herself, but she’d never claimed to be a good actress.
“Sure. Come on in. I was just making tea.”
Smith set them up in the living room that was tastefully decorated but sparse with no personal touches or pictures of Jake Elliott. Sort of odd for a mother who was supposedly so infatuated with her son.
They waited several minutes for Smith to get herself a tea and return to the room.
“Ms. Smith,” Madison started. “We understand that Jake Elliott is your son. Is that correct?”
Smith sat straight in a cushioned chair, her tea in a teacup on top of a saucer, held primly in her right hand. “That’s correct, dear.”
“We’re trying to reach him about some important news.” She was going to stick to the plan of saying that he stood to inherit. Smith might be willing to part with her son’s whereabouts if there was money at stake.
“Oh? What would that be?”
“Well, it would be best if we could tell him in person, but we’re having a hard time reaching him,” Madison said. “Would you know where we could find him?”
Smith’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “Whatever you have to tell him, you can tell me.”
“Yeah? You’re sure?” Madison smiled, calling upon acting skills once again.
“Of course, dear.”
“Okay, well, we have come into the knowledge that he is the beneficiary of a substantial life insurance policy.” Half of that was true; they didn’t know the amount.
“Wow. Really?” Her voice took on a high pitch that was seemingly uncharacteristic of the older lady. She set her plate and teacup on a nearby table.
“But as I mentioned, we will need to speak with him,” Madison started. “If there’s some way you could put us in touch?”
“He’s actually out of town on a job.”
“Okay, well, what about a phone number for him?” They had one, assuming the one Palmer had provided belonged to Elliott, but Madison was getting a feeling in her gut Mary Smith was stalling.
“I’d love to, but…dang.” Smith slapped her leg. “Just before you got here, I was looking for my phone. That’s the problem with all these high-tech, finagled gadgets. The numbers go in them and straight out of the noggin’. But maybe you could help me understand something, dear. Why are two detectives here about something like this?”
This woman was as shady as a downtown alley at night. “The deceased was a woman he was involved with, and she was murdered.” Madison paused to insert a frown. “I’m sure your son had deep feelings for Ms. Carson, too, so it’s best that we break the n
ews about her death to him. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Ms. Carson, you say?”
“Uh-huh,” Madison replied. “You knew her?”
“I met her once.” Smith put her teacup to her lips. “Such a shame.”
Madison’s skin crawled. Something wasn’t quite right here. She’d just told Smith that Carson was murdered. Most people inquired as to what happened to cause the death. Smith hadn’t. But what was Madison thinking—that this older lady stabbed Carson? Was that even physically possible?
“Well, we should go. But please have your son call us.” She handed Smith her business card, and she and Terry left.
Back in the department car, she said, “That woman gives me the creeps.”
“I think something’s off, too, but she’s an old lady. Hard to imagine her killing Carson.”
“I thought the same. Let’s just hope she bought what we said.” She drove down the street, turned around in someone’s driveway, and parked facing the direction of the rental house. “And now we wait.”
Terry shifted his body toward her. “For what? Elliott? He could be home and inside.”
“Sure he could, but I think he’s out in the Mercedes. It’s not in the driveway or the garage.”
“So we’re just going to sit here?”
“Yep.”
“I hate stakeouts,” Terry mumbled. “Especially ones without food or coffee.”
His complaint made her stomach rumble. She could do another Hershey’s bar, but when couldn’t she? And now chocolate made her think of Troy and how he was making out at that very moment. Was Murphy doing or saying anything to implicate himself?
She pulled out her phone and fired Troy a quick text. Thinking of you. R U ok? Having any luck?
A few seconds later, her phone bleeped back. Nope. Doing OK. Hope ur taking it easy.
She’d told him she planned to work today, and pecked off, With Terry, following lead.
Nothing for a bit, then, Ok.
Her phone rang, and it was Cynthia. She put her on speaker.
“Okay, so I spoke to Judge Myers, and he gave me verbal approval. But no luck tracking the phone.”
“Knew not to get too excited,” Madison mumbled.
What We Bury Page 26
