“Hello,” Amanda called out.
The person, a man in his fifties, straightened out with a grunt and a hand to his lower back. “Can I help you?”
“You can if you’re Mr. Bill Hannigan,” she replied.
“That’s me.” He squinted.
Amanda held up her badge. “Detective Steele, and this is Detective Stenson.”
“What can I do for ya?” He grabbed a soiled rag hanging over a side mirror.
Amanda walked around to see the top of the hood. “A ’69 Camaro, and the first year Chevy offered the super scoop that was designed to enhance the power of the high-performance V8 engine. I’m going to guess this is either the SS or the Z/28 model.”
“The SS. You know your cars.”
“My brother had a bit of an obsession. I picked up on some of the knowledge over the years.”
Bill smiled. “Good for you. A woman can do whatever she puts her mind to, just like a man.”
Amanda was certain his words were well intentioned, but they still made her bristle. Probably more because the man felt the need to say them. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that a man was found dead in room ten at Denver’s Motel.”
“I heard about it.” He twisted the rag and tucked it into a back pocket of his jean coveralls. “Manager’s none too happy about it. I assume you know that?”
“We do,” Amanda said. “We heard you got the day off. Hence the house call.”
“Lucky me, I tell ya. I was already up so I figured I’ve just got more time to restore this beauty.” Bill paused and looked upon his car with pride.
For good reason, Amanda thought. Kyle would have killed for this car when he was younger. “We understand that you were sent to room ten on Sunday afternoon. Is that right?”
“I might need a little more information…?”
“Apparently his television was having issues,” she said.
“Ah, yes.” Bill rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “It was just a couple of cables that came loose. Nothing he probably couldn’t have figured out for himself if the world wasn’t so damn lazy and amped up. Especially considering he said he was just wanting to pass some time.”
Amped up and passing time. It would seem Palmer’d had immediate plans. “Did anyone come to his room while you were there?”
“Nope.”
“Was he drinking?” Amanda asked.
“Not that I figure, and probably a good thing. He got in his car and went somewhere not long after I got into the room.”
“His car?” She squeezed the question out.
“An old Caprice.”
The skin tightened on the back of her neck. “The color?”
“Light blue.”
“And he was driving?” All sorts of emotions were whirling through her and she couldn’t pin any down except for anger.
“Yeah.”
She’d somewhat come to grips with the fact that Palmer had returned to the bottle so quickly after prison—that’s if he hadn’t been force-fed the stuff—but it took some brass balls and demonstrated a careless and unrepentant attitude for him to drive. After all, Palmer’s license had been revoked. But she tamped down her anger and focused on the case. Hannigan’s insight also raised the questions of where had Palmer gotten the car and where was it now? And did the car’s existence explain where the money might have gone? But then an old Caprice wouldn’t have cost twenty-five grand.
Trent cleared his throat, and she glanced at him. He held his pen poised over his notepad and asked Bill, “Did you catch the license plate on the car?”