The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

“One more question. Any of the customers in here now that were around last night when he was here?”

Charlie picked up a cloth and wiped the bar. “Ah, yeah, George, but you just missed him.”

She shot to her feet and seethed, “You do realize that you have a legal responsibility for the people you serve.” She rushed out the door.

In the fresh air, she inhaled deeply a few times, trying to rein in her racing heart. It was so disgusting how everyone had moved on with their lives—everyone but her and her sweet family. She balled her fists and searched for George, but there was no one in sight. She headed back to her car swearing to herself that she’d missed a potential good lead. George could have seen if Palmer had arrived with someone, left with someone, confirmed the car, maybe even a license plate. She had her hand on the driver’s-side handle when she spotted George against a fence at the back of the lot, one leg bent and cocked against it. She headed his way but kept her movements slow to avoid startling him. George didn’t seem affected by her approach at all. He casually lowered his l

eg, lost his balance a bit, but kept himself upright.

“George?” she said.

“That’s me.”

She hadn’t caught his odor in the bar, but whoa, this guy reeked of whiskey. She’d take short, shallow breaths for this conversation. “Detective Steele with Homicide. I understand you were here last night.”

“I’m here a lot. I heard you asking Charlie about some guy who died.”

“He was murdered, but yes, that’s right.”

George didn’t flinch. “I heard Charlie say the guy was drinking back vodka last night.” He burped and spittle bubbled in one corner of his mouth; he wiped the drool away with a flick of his wrist. “I’m pretty sure I know who you’re here asking about. I don’t know his name, but I did see him.”

“Did you see if he came alone or left alone?”

“Like Charlie said, he was alone… until someone came up on him when he was working to get in his car.”

George had seen the car, but she was stuck on the other part of his sentence and felt a sense of excitement. She could be on the verge of hearing their first solid lead. “Someone came up on him? Attacked him you mean?”

“Yep, exactly what I’m saying.” George scratched at his scraggly chin whiskers and hiccupped. “Think he struck the guy with a gun. He stumbled back like he’d been hit real hard.”

A gun. She squirreled away this fact to consider later. “Did you try to intervene?”

“Wasn’t in any shape for that. And I haven’t stayed alive all these years by playing hero.”

That caused her to smirk. George smiled back, a twinkle in his otherwise dull blues.

“It was smart of you to stay out of it,” she assured him. “No sense getting yourself shot.”

“That’s what I thought.” His mind seemed to drift, carried on booze to somewhere far away.

“So this guy with the gun,” she prompted, “what did he look like?”

“I didn’t get a real good look at ’im, but he was wearing a black hoodie.”

She nodded. “You’re certain it was a man?”

“From what I could tell.”

Not exactly solid assurance, but she’d run with it. Especially considering this hooded assailant could be connected to the past cold cases. Factor in, too, that Freddy was a suspect and male.

George went on. “When the guy with the gun first approached Vodka Drinker—sorry I don’t know his name—he turned and tried to talk himself out of the situation.”

“Drunks always think they’re invincible.” The words birthed of their own accord and she wondered if that’s what Palmer had thought of himself the night he’d got behind the wheel and killed her family.

“We are, darlin’.” George smiled again, this time showing a hint of charm still lived in the older man.

“I’m sure. So do you think they knew each other?”

“Not sure, but whatever was said didn’t work, because the next thing I know the guy butted him in the head with the gun.”