The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

Amanda wasn’t about to let herself get waylaid or dragged down with empathy for this woman; she couldn’t find the emotion in her to tap into regardless. “And you never met up with him at Denver’s Motel?”

“What part of what I’m saying don’t you understand? Last time I saw him was two weeks ago.”

“I’m pretty sure that you have your reasons for not telling us who you suspect of Jackson’s and Chad’s murders,” Amanda began, “but if Chad was mixed up in something, and we’re looking at the same killer here, what’s to say they won’t come for you next? Talk to us, and we can help you,” Amanda appealed.

Courtney pinched her eyes shut for a moment, opened them, sighed. “Fine. Jackson and Chad fenced stolen goods through their pawnshop. You happy now?”

“Who did he fence for?” Amanda ignored Courtney’s snide remark, not surprised by what she’d just told them. Pawnshops made great fronts for criminal activity. Stolen goods were turned in and bought at a fraction of what they were worth and turned around and sold at a hefty profit. Inventory sometimes hit the books, sometimes it didn’t.

“I told the cops back when Jackson was murdered that I had nothing to say.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “And it kept Justin and me safe. It also protected Chad. I didn’t want to make his situation any worse.”

Amanda clenched her fists. She had no idea what a “bad situation” was by comparison to what Amanda had lost. “Who did they fence the goods for?” Amanda said through gritted teeth.

Courtney’s gaze dashed to Trent, then back to Amanda. “Some guy who goes by Freddy.”

“Freddy,” the name scratched her throat upon exit.

“Yeah.”

Freddy, the drug dealer and apparently a thief. Freddy, who knew she was a cop and had her personal license plate and make and model of her car. Freddy, who could destroy the rest of what she had left to lose. That same Freddy could be behind the murders of Webb, Palmer, and that girl in Georgia. Bile shot up Amanda’s throat almost faster than she could swallow it back down.

Nineteen

“Unlock the car,” she barked at Trent and she heard the distinct clicks in the department car’s handles. She got behind the wheel and said to him, “Hurry up, and get in.” She just needed him close by with the keys and the ignition would turn.

“Everything all right?” Trent spaced out his words slowly and methodically.

Everything was far from all right, but she couldn’t tell him that. She had to deal with this on her own, like she’d dealt with all the crap that had come her way in the last five and a half years.

“If you know this Freddy character,” Trent began, “we could bring him up in the system and show his picture to Lorraine. Maybe he’s who she saw Palmer with on Sunday night? Just a possibility.”

“Freddy’s a no-good lowlife. He has a record for drug dealing, though I doubt that comprises his entire criminal portfolio. Now we have Courtney Barrett telling us he’s involved with stolen goods. You should also know that Freddy’s friend, Rat, was questioned during the course of a homicide investigation years ago. But as a witness not a suspect.”

“Still confirms the world this Freddy guy’s a part of, and with that sort of knowledge on the street, it could explain why the Denver’s Motel employees aren’t talking. They’re afraid. And we know from Courtney that Palmer could have very well owed that cash to Freddy. She seemed fearful.”

“Yeah, but the fact that Palmer planned on hanging around for at least a month—given how long he rented his room at the motel—tells me he settled his debt with Freddy. That’s probably what happened to the twenty-five K. But if Palmer paid Freddy, where’s his motivation to kill him, and if Freddy also killed Webb and Casey-Anne—we know the same gun was used—what would be his motive there?”

There was a passage of silence.

Amanda’s thoughts were skipping from the recent slip that had brought her to Freddy’s door to the possible repercussions, but she was also thinking about a connection. The pawnshops for the partners, but Casey-Anne… Then it struck. “You said you couldn’t find any Casey-Anne Ritters in the area.”

Trent nodded.

“Maybe that’s because she didn’t want to be found. And, if that was the case, what would that tell you?”

“That she might have been on the run and hiding from someone,” he suggested, but the lack of enthusiasm in his voice told her he hadn’t stitched together the full impact of that conclusion. “Freddy?”

“Not so sure, but… and this is just a theory. But Webb and Palmer ran a pawnshop, and what does anyone on the run need?”

“Money.”

“Right. So let’s assume for a second this Casey-Anne didn’t have any. What would she do?”

Trent’s forehead pressed in thought. “She could have pawned something for money.”

“Right, and maybe whatever that was hadn’t been hers to turn over and the real owner wanted his property back.”

“Freddy’s, though?”