The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

Amanda touched Becky’s upper arm. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”

Ten

Lorraine Nash lived in a small two-story house. The place was well maintained from the outside, despite forgotten unlit strings of Christmas lights that still clung to the eaves. It was just after six in the morning when they pulled up front and there was a light on inside. Amanda took that to mean someone was awake. She knocked loud enough for it to be heard but not so loud that the Nashes would think their house was on fire. It would be jarring enough to have someone at your front door this early.

The outside light came alive and then the deadbolt was being unlocked. At least they secured their house, unlike so many in rural towns who didn’t bother. Honestly, it was a miracle there weren’t more murders and home invasions in the country.

The door was cracked opened and a thirty-something man, presumably Lorraine’s husband, poked his head out. “Yeah?”

“Prince William County PD,” Amanda said and pulled her badge. “Are you Mr. Nash?”

“Yes,” he said, wary. “Ben.”

“Hi, Ben, we’re Detectives Steele and Stenson with Homicide.”

Ben opened the door all the way. He was dressed in blue jeans and a sweater.

She added, “We’re sorry for the early hour, but we need to speak with your wife, Lorraine.”

“Lorraine? Why?”

“We’d like to discuss that with your wife.”

Ben let his gaze dance over them and eventually gestured for them to come inside. “I’ll get her.”

Amanda and Trent stayed in the entry, and Amanda soaked in her surroundings. Modest, plain, but well-loved and well-lived-in. There was a family portrait of a man, woman, baby, and a child of about six on the wall next to a coatrack and a pair of children’s shoes on a mat. A pang of heartbreak gripped her as she was reminded yet again of all she’d lost.

A woman in blue plaid pajamas walked toward them, her slippered feet scuffing along the floor. She squinted at the entry light. “You want to speak with me?”

“We do,” Amanda answered. She introduced herself and Trent to Lorraine. “Do you have someplace we could sit?” She glanced at the living room off to her and Trent’s right.

Ben flicked a light switch

on the wall inside the doorway, as if reading Amanda’s mind. The Nashes sat on a couch while Amanda and Trent took up in a couple of chairs.

Amanda leaned forward just slightly, establishing a conversational but not overbearing posture. “A man was found dead in one of the rooms at Denver’s Motel last night… well, close to midnight.”

Ben took Lorraine’s hand and squeezed. Beyond that, neither spouse showed any obvious emotion, not even shock. Then again, Denver’s didn’t exactly cater to high-caliber customers.

Amanda went on. “His name was Chad Palmer and he was in room ten. Perhaps you remember him?”

Amanda turned to Trent, hoping that he was prepared with a photograph of Palmer, because she’d dropped the ball. “Do you have a picture of him, Detective?” she prompted Trent.

“I can get one.” Trent pulled a small tablet from the breast pocket of his jacket. She saw the screen and could tell he was going to the DMV database. Palmer’s license had been revoked, but his picture would still be on record.

“Here,” Trent said and swung the tablet for Lorraine Nash to see.

“Do you recognize him?” Amanda asked her.

Lorraine paled and nodded.

“Do you remember anything about him?” Amanda said. “If he had any visitors at the motel.”

Lorraine tapped her husband’s hand and mouthed, I’m fine, to him. She withdrew her hand from his, crossed her legs, and bobbed the top one quickly up and down. She was clearly uncomfortable, and while the topic of suspicious death could make even the brave timid, Amanda wondered if there wasn’t something more substantive that was upsetting Mrs. Nash.

“That man was there alone, far as I know. Not like I really had much chitchat with the guy, but yesterday afternoon, he called the front desk—me—and reported a problem with his TV. I sent Bill to check it out.”

“And who is Bill?” Trent chimed in.