The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

“Sounds like a good idea, but there’s something I’d like to take care of first.”

“Name it.”

“My alibi.”

“But you didn’t kill him,” Trent said gingerly.

“Of course I didn’t— if that was a question.”

“It wasn’t. Besides, I can’t imagine anyone thinking you killed Palmer. You’re a good person—a cop at that.”

“I don’t know about that.” If only her rookie partner had any idea of the hedonistic murder methods that she had fantasized about closer to the time of the accident and after Palmer’s lame sentence hit. Her mind skipped to the Xanax in her coat pocket. Why hadn’t she taken one yet? Hadn’t she already done the worst of it just by scoring them from a drug dealer and thereby putting her career in jeopardy? She was busy with the case, sure, but she was also procrastinating, rethinking whether she really wanted to get hooked. Because once she was back on them, she wasn’t sure she’d have the willpower to stop again.

“So tell me where I’m taking us.”

“Us?”

“I’m your partner and I want to help.”

“Fine.” She went on to tell him about picking up Motel Guy at a bar.

“Okay, we’ll pop by the bar. Which one is it?”

“Tipsy Moose Ale House in Woodbridge. Thinking I’ll just go in and flash my badge.”

“Sure, because we’ve seen firsthand how it gets people to open up.”

“Mr. Sarcastic.” She found herself smiling. “Okay, then, how would you suggest I handle things?”

He put the car into gear and said, “I’ll tell you on the way.”

If the Tipsy Moose Ale House was a sad-looking sight at night with its dim lighting, beer-soaked tables, and peanut-shell-covered floors, then during the day it was downright pitiful. Diffused sunlight came through the slimy windows and sparkled off floating dust particles in the air.

Amanda glanced around. No sign of the waitress from last night. Amanda went straight to the bar where a male tender was wiping out the inside of a glass with a towel. She’d never seen this man before, but she didn’t make a habit of coming in during the daylight hours.

“Good day, darlin’,” he said.

“Hi.” She smiled at him and coyly tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. Act flirtatious but give the impression she was just out of reach. She’d become the mystery a man wanted to solve, but as Trent pointed out, men also wanted to help a damsel in distress. She’d be working to take advantage of that psychology—even though she despised playing the role.

He grinned, flashing a couple of dimples, put down the glass and braced both of his hands on the counter. “What can I get ya?”

“I was actually hoping you could help me with something.” She started to sit on a stool but bounced back up. “Actually, ah, you know what? I should go. It would be too much to ask of you.”

“No—” He reached out to stop her. “Why don’t you try me? You can talk to Bud.”

“And you’re Bud?” She flashed another smile.

“I’m Bud,” he affirmed.

“This is probably dumb…”

“Talk to me.”

“I was in here last night with my boyfriend.”

“Were ya now?” A flicker of disappointment crested over his face.

“Uh-huh. He’s the rugged type, calloused hands, strong, blond.” As she rattled off Motel Guy’s attributes, she became turned on again. No wonder she’d succumbed to the guy’s charms.