“You… ah… sure?” She rubbed her throat.
“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t. You’re looking pale, Detective; are you all right?” Rideout took a step toward her.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” was what she said but she was far from it. During the time-of-death window, she’d picked up Motel Guy and climbed into bed with him at the Dreamcatcher Inn. Sergeant Malone had made it clear he required her alibi if she was to stand any chance of working the case at all.
She checked the time on her cell phone. It was just after two AM. “I’ve gotta go.” She snapped off her gloves and brushed past Trent. “There’s something I need to do,” she told him.
He moved to go with her.
She stopped walking and spun. “It’s personal.” When Trent didn’t say anything for a few beats, she considered the scenario. Securing an alibi meant by its very nature it would become known, but she’d get it lined up first, then deal with that.
“It’s far too early to start knocking on more doors, but we can’t just sit on our asses either. I need you to go back to the station and find out everything you can on Jackson Webb’s murder and see if there’s any reason to suspect Palmer’s death is connected.”
“You think they are?”
“Don’t know. That’s why I want you to do a little digging. We cover all the angles with a suspicious death. We rule out murder first.”
Trent flushed, glanced down, then nodded.
“Also, look for next of kin.”
When Trent didn’t move, she said, “What are you waiting for?”
“You going to be all right?”
“Don’t ever worry about me,” she shoved out and hustled to her car. She just hoped Motel Guy was still languishing in the afterglow.
Seven
Amanda pulled around Dreamcatcher Inn to where room eight was nestled. No sign of M
otel Guy’s Dodge Ram, but she got out and banged on the room door anyway.
“I just need a freaking break,” she called out to the night.
No answer from the room or a greater being—not that she was certain one even existed.
She drove around to the inn’s office and swung open the door so hard it hit the wall. The clerk’s head shot up like he’d been asleep.
“I’m here about your guest in room eight,” she told the dopey-eyed clerk.
“Okay, and who are you?”
She leaned on the counter and grabbed his name off his badge. “Bobby, I need the guest’s name in room eight.”
“And I need a million dollars.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Me? You come in here making demands. You need to cool it, lad—”
She pulled her badge and Bobby’s eyes widened, and he held his hands up.
“I don’t want any trouble with the law.”
“Then you’re going to be cooperative.”
He kept his arms in the air. “As much as I can be, but I can’t just be handing out guests’ names, even to a cop. Shouldn’t you get a warrant or something? And I’d still have to clear it by my manager.”