The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

She walked out of the bar again, not preoccupied with securing a warrant. She was quite sure that would be easy, but she was thinking about Palmer drinking vodka. If someone had taken out Palmer because of his drinking, surely they would have poisoned him with his drink of choice so it would look more like an accident—or would that appear too obvious a connection? But Palmer had been found with empty bottles of whiskey. Was that intentional or an oversight on the killer’s behalf?

She was well aware that alcoholics had a favorite drink. Her own father had battled with alcohol addiction when she was younger. It had almost broken up her parents, but when she was young her dad had started working through the twelve steps with Alcoholics Anonymous. She couldn’t remember what his preference had been, probably because of her age at the time or the passing years.

But she had to seriously consider why the killer would have chosen the murder method they had. Was it to throw off the investigation? To make it look like an accident instead of homicide. Was it really that simple? Or were there more layers to its purpose?

And returning to what Charlie had said: Palmer had been drinking alone. So if he had left Denver’s Motel with Freddy in the afternoon, what had happened to Freddy? Had Palmer dropped him off somewhere? And if so, where and why? Was it a simple matter of business being concluded between the two of them?

Her phone rang. Blocked caller ID again. “Detective Steele,” she said firmly.

“I’m back at the station.” It was Trent. “And there’s something you need to know.”

“Just spit it out. I’m not one for surprises.”

“I brought Freddy in for questioning.”

Her stomach turned into acid. “I’ll be right there.”

Twenty-Two

“I stopped by to see Lorraine Nash again before going to Freddy’s,” Trent told her. “She wouldn’t say as much, but her eyes lit up when I showed her Freddy’s picture. She recognized him, no doubt, and I’d say it was Freddy who Palmer left the motel with on Sunday aft

ernoon.”

“Did you ask Freddy about this?”

Trent’s eyes narrowed, the tiniest tell that her lack of confidence in him had pissed him off. About time, she thought.

“And,” she prompted. She’d finally detected a pulse and felt like ratcheting it.

“Freddy’s real name is Hank Cohen,” he said, speaking slowly, likely trying to piss her off. She was finally getting a reaction.

She rolled her hand as if bored and impatient with his detour. “I know all that. Catch me up on why he’s next door in an interview room.”

“He confirmed that he got together with Palmer yesterday afternoon and that they left Denver’s in Palmer’s Caprice.”

“Okay, and where did they go? What did they do?”

“He said that if I wanted that information, he’d demand a lawyer.”

Trent must have been deliberately trying to piss her off by dragging things out. “Sure, and…?”

“I told him that if he wants his little operation to be left alone,” Trent said, “then he best consider being more cooperative. He still didn’t want to talk, so I threatened to drag him down here.”

“And then you did. So we still don’t know what they were doing together Sunday afternoon?”

Trent deflated. “All he gave me was that they took care of some business.”

“Did you get what sort of business out of him?”

“Not exactly, but I have a feeling it was something illegal.”

“No shit.”

“I was thinking maybe if you had a go at him…” Trent met her gaze briefly.

Her heart picked up speed. She’d had a bad feeling it would come down to this when Trent had told her that he’d dragged Freddy in, but she wanted more intel before she saw Freddy again. Anything that would give her the upper hand in the interaction. “How did he react to Palmer’s murder?”

“No real reaction, but he wasn’t surprised.”