“The letter was written by Stanley? Meant for someone else?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Which might also mean…the camera wasn’t left here to record the guests at all. It was here to record him.”
“Yeah. He was targeted for a reason. A target for murder.” His eyes move over the three threatening lines of the letter. “Might have even made himself one.”
Chapter 6
Myles
“I didn’t kill that guy. Swear to God.” Judd Forrester swipes sweat from his brow. “Believe me, I wanted to. I came this close. But he was breathing when I left.”
For once in my life, I wish my gut feelings weren’t so stubborn. Intuition is telling me this man didn’t kill Oscar Stanley and, shitty as it sounds, I wish he had. That would make wrapping up this case and moving on a whole lot easier. As soon as Forrester opened his mouth, unfortunately, a little voice whispered in the back of my head you’re not going anywhere yet.
I left Taylor’s place about two hours ago and rode a couple more to Worcester. The chief of police over at Barnstable PD—the department on the Cape that responded to the crime scene—is extremely reluctant to give me any information pertaining to the case. There isn’t a single cop alive who jumps for joy when a bounty hunter, or in this case a freelance investigator, rolls into town and starts digging into the same crime with a lot less red tape to deal with, but it sure as hell lights a fire under their asses.
It took a promise yesterday to share any information I stumble across for the chief to spill the news that Forrester made bail. Tracking the man down was up to me, though. The chief drew the line at sharing Forrester’s address. Thank God I have the internet for that. And when those searches don’t pan out, I can still tap my contacts in Boston. I guess I can’t be too mad about the police keeping me out of the loop, since I’m not sharing the threatening note Taylor and I found. I’ll share it with them eventually. But there’s no harm in getting a hard start holding the new piece of evidence, if it turns out to be relevant.
I attempt to refocus on the man sitting across from me. The fact that Forrester made bail so fast should have told me they didn’t have a lot of evidence that he killed Oscar Stanley. Needed to see it for myself, though, so I could confidently cross him off the list of suspects. I’m not quite ready to do that yet. Not when he had motive and opportunity. But the honesty ringing in his voice is causing my heartburn to act up.
There’s potential meat to this case. Meaning, I’m not getting away from Taylor any time soon. And I really, really need to get away from her. I’m sitting here, sure, but my mind is on her. Her safety. I know damn well what happens when I get emotionally involved in a case. Last time that happened, the outcome was so unacceptable, I turned in my detective’s badge. Like it or not, Taylor Bassey is involved in this situation. Hell, I haven’t even been able to eliminate her or Jude as suspects yet. She’s going to be in the periphery of this investigation and she is a too beautiful, too interesting distraction that I cannot afford.
And I don’t like the way she makes me feel.
I don’t need her surprising me or challenging me. I just want to remain an impartial observer of life. A blow-in. Just passing through. I haven’t even spoken to my parents or brother in three years, because attachment to anything and anyone after what happened on my final case with the Boston PD? It fucking hurts. I hate the weight of attachment sitting on my chest. Connections to people are nothing but responsibilities—and I don’t want them. I don’t need people around to be disappointed when and if I fuck up. And in this line of work, fucking up is inevitable, right? People die. They go missing. God help a man if the victim ends up being someone he’s started caring about. So yeah, I don’t need my head muddled by a woman or I’ll lose sight of my job here. To solve a murder.
Then I can get back on my bike and get the hell out of here.
The sooner the better.
I lean sideways in my chair to access my pocket, taking out the letter found beneath Stanley’s floorboards and I lay it on the table in front of me. Forrester doesn’t react. There’s no recognition there, but I ask anyway. “Do you recognize this envelope?”
“Nope.”
I take out the letter, unfold it and smooth it out, not taking my eyes off him once. “Did you send this to Oscar Stanley prior to murdering him?”