The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

David rubbed his jaw.

“A powder-blue sedan, perhaps?” she fed him.

His eyes met hers, and, again, he didn’t need to say a word.

She handed him her business card. “If you ever feel like talking, call me.”

She led the way back to the department car and once inside, Trent behind the wheel again, she said, “Morgan saw the powder-blue sedan, I’m positive. I can only assume it’s the same one Lorraine Nash saw. So who does it belong to and does that person have something to do with the missing money? Whatever the case, we need to find out where it went. It seemed to have left Palmer’s possession between Saturday and Sunday evening.”

“Unless Palmer just left the bag in the room while he went out on Sunday.” Trent looked over at her.

That possibility opened up theft, but why would anyone leave twenty-five thousand unattended—in a cheap motel no less?

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Either Lorraine Nash is lying about not seeing a bag or Palmer no longer had it by Sunday afternoon when he went out.”

Trent nodded.

“Regardless, we’ve got more questions than answers. Now, Lorraine said that the maintenance guy, Bill Hannigan, was sent to Palmer’s room Sunday afternoon. Maybe he’ll be able to clarify some things for us.”

Twelve

Lorraine Nash had told Amanda and Trent that Bill Hannigan started work at seven, and it was twenty minutes after that when Trent was parking once more in the lot of Denver’s Motel. There were two cars already there, and one was a PWCPD police cruiser. Amanda didn’t recognize the officer behind the wheel. Becky would have been sent home, as wel

l as Officer Deacon.

“I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” she told Trent and went to talk to the officer while Trent headed toward the motel office.

The officer got out of his car as she approached, his posture straight, his chin slightly jutted out, his eyes steely. He was assessing her and trying to gauge whether she was a threat. She’d save him any more trouble. She held up her badge.

“PWCPD. Detective Steele.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Officer Cooper.”

“What’s going on here? It’s looking rather quiet.”

“Everyone rushed to check out, apparently. I got an earful from the motel manager about it.” Cooper shook his head. “Guy gets under your skin.”

She wasn’t going to argue and looked toward the office, where she could see Flynn waving his arms like mad. Case in point. “Anyone go near the room?” She nodded toward number ten.

“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

Trent was walking toward them, his cheeks flushed, and his nostrils flared. “Hannigan’s not here. Flynn canceled everyone’s shifts today and is just about to head home. The guy’s fit to be tied. He’s bitching that he has a quota he’s to reach and it’s our fault he lost all his customers.”

She jacked a thumb toward Cooper. “Just heard a rendition of that. Curious though.”

“About?” Cooper asked.

She glanced at him but looked at Trent when she spoke. “He’s choosing to shut down the motel for the day—why? We’ve only cordoned off one room. He could rent the others.” She flicked a finger toward Cooper. “It just proves that Denver’s clientele aren’t fans of cops.”

“Pardon me,” Cooper interjected, “but most people aren’t.”

She could conjure hundreds of headlines to that effect, but what would be the point? As much as people griped about the police, the world needed them—the good ones anyway. The ones that abused and soiled the badge were worse than the criminals on the street.

“All right, well, let’s go to Hannigan’s house.” She dipped her head at Cooper to bid him goodbye, and she and Trent loaded back into the department car.

Trent logged into the onboard laptop, clicked in a search, and retrieved Hannigan’s address. “What do you know? He’s in town too. Just a couple of blocks over.”

There was no answer at Bill Hannigan’s front door, but Amanda heard clanking and banging coming from around the side of the house. She followed the sounds to a detached garage. Its door was open, and a person was bent under the hood of a classic car.