The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

Albert met her eyes. “I think you must have some idea, as you’re at my door.” He shifted his jaw side to side.

“There was an accident years ago, when your son and Chad were teenagers,” she said. “The report said your son was behind the wheel.”

“Utter bullshit. Taylor, my son, and Chad were headed home from a party they never should have been at in the first damn place. Boys being what they are, they were drinkin’ but, instead of calling for a ride, they drove—more accurately, Chad drove,” he spat. “Paramedics and police say they pulled my son from behind the wheel, but I say that Chad had been driving. It was his car and there’s no way he would have let Taylor drive it. He dragged my son from the passenger seat and put him in the driver’s seat to save his own selfish self.”

The last bit was shoved out with disgust and bitter rage. It made the skin tighten on the back of Amanda’s neck. There was definite motive here for Albert Ferguson, and despite the passage of years, the wound still seemed fresh. She could relate, but she hadn’t killed Palmer so maybe she shouldn’t rush into thinking Ferguson had.

“What makes you think that Chad moved him?”

His eyes snapped to hers. “I don’t think it; I know it. Doctors told me that Taylor could have survived the accident unscathed had he stayed still and waited for the ambulance. I asked Taylor many times over the years if Chad had been driving. See I really think Chad moved him, but Taylor was insistent that he was driving. After all, he’d been the one found behind the wheel. But when paramedics arrived, Taylor was unconscious, and I think he’d blacked out on impact, and Chad took advantage of that and moved him. Though how do you prove that? I know he ruined my boy’s life, but no one was taking the case. Chad got away with it. And now my sweet Taylor is dead.”

She bristled at the past tense. “He died?”

“From that day if you ask me. His life was never the same. He was a quadriplegic for the rest of his life.” Albert rubbed his hands and blew into them. There was a little nip to the air, but at least they were somewhat sheltered by the side of the building. Albert continued. “He died a few months ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Had Taylor’s death been the final trigger for Albert?

He reached into his coat pocket and she tensed, preparing herself instinctually for him to pull a gun or weapon. He held up his other hand. “Just want to show you something.”

She relaxed but watched the man closely.

He withdrew a leather wallet and pulled out a photograph and handed it to her across the table. The photo’s edges were frayed and whitened; it had been in and out of his wallet many times over the years.

Albert pointed to the picture. “That was taken a few years ago. Not long after Trixie left.”

“Trixie?”

“My wife.”

Amanda nodded. She studied the photograph, which showed Taylor in a specialized wheelchair—it would have cost a fortune. Albert had lost more than his son. He’d lost his wife and his money, judging by his current living arrangements. Taylor’s care wouldn’t have come cheap. But Amanda noted that Taylor’s face was familiar. She’d check when she left here, but she was quite sure Taylor had been one of the two boys with Palmer in that photo he’d carried around. But why had Palmer held on to it? To remind himself of what he’d done, to remember the good times, to punish himself? And who was the other boy?

“He was a handsome kid,” she said, handing the photo back to Albert.

“He took after his mom.”

Amanda saw quite a bit of Albert in Taylor, but it would be awkward to say as much and flatter a potential murderer. After all, motive was stacking against him. “It must have been tough, caring for him by yourself,” she said.

“It c

ould have been worse. Thankfully, I’ve got myself a good family to fall back on, but yeah, it drained my finances.” He jacked a thumb toward the building. “Why I live here now. All I can afford. And I’m laid off from work right now, which isn’t helping either.”

Her heart pinched at his mention of having a good family. She’d had one of those, but instead of letting their efforts to console her do just that, she viewed them as suffocating and as a brutal reminder of what had happened to Kevin and Lindsey. At least money had never been an issue for her; Kevin’s insurance policy had seen to that, but she kept most of it squirreled away in case she ever did act on the urge to run far away and start fresh. She’d only pulled from it for their funerals and for the family plot. Otherwise, every time she thought about touching the money, she was inundated with flashbacks to that horrid night and guilt that she should somehow profit by what had happened.

“I have to ask this…” She wished she could backpedal her words, make herself sound more authoritative, but the truth was a part of her wouldn’t blame the man for killing Palmer. But she had her word to see through. “Where were you Sunday night from six until midnight?”

“I was out with my girlfriend. I stayed at her house. I could get you her number.” Albert’s reaction to the question was calm and collected.

If he was guilty, he was a cold, hardened psychopath. Just the kind who would hang around for hours to see the job through. “I’ll need to call her.”

“Name’s Karen Smith.” He pulled out his phone from a pocket in his jeans. “Can never remember her number.”

“That’s why we have contact lists.” She smiled at him and he returned it.

“Here it is.” He rattled it off and she keyed it into her phone. She’d call Karen after she left there.

“Actually, while I have my phone out, I’d like to show you something. You might be able to help me with it.” She brought up the picture taken from Palmer’s wallet of the three boys with their bikes. “I’m pretty sure that’s Taylor—” She pointed to the boy in a striped shirt and camo shorts.

“That’s him, all right. The kid insisted on dressing himself, but he had horrible taste. Couldn’t coordinate his wardrobe.”