The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

Malone opened a desk drawer and withdrew a bottle of ibuprofen. He popped a couple into his mouth and swallowed them dry. “This whole thing could turn into a real nightmare quick. Have you at least called your family yet?”

She tilted her head. “When was I supposed to do that?”

“Make the time.”

“You’re so chummy with Dad, you do it.” She snapped her mouth shut, regretting her words and tone instantly. She hated putting that scowl on Malone’s face when all he was trying to do was help. “Sorry.”

“I can only imagine how hard this is for you, but you remember what I said? No drama.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “I’ll keep my shit together.” After all, a Steele keeps their word.

“Or get it together.” Malone winked at her. “But, yes, I’d be much obliged if you did.”

She’d never want to let Malone down. He had been there for her after the accident, supportive and understanding. “I’ll firm up my alibi.” A promise that was spoken with far more confidence than she had any right to convey.

“And you’ll—” Malone rolled his hand, prompting her to finish his sentence.

“Call my parents.”

Malone grabbed papers from a tray on his desk and set it in front of himself. “All a sergeant can ask. See ya.”

She let herself out of Malone’s office. She’d thought her life had turned to shit from the moment of the accident, but more clouds were moving in. She had reason to want the victim dead, an alibi she couldn’t pin down, her drug dealer was a murder suspect—and her boss was telling her to call her parents. Could this day get any worse? Getting hit by a bus might be a blessing.

Twenty

Albert Ferguson lived in an apartment complex in Woodbridge above a convenience store with bars on its windows. A discarded mattress leaned against the side of the building and kept company with a well-worn sofa chair and a picnic table. It wasn’t exactly a classy neighborhood. Amanda parked the department car along a side street. She should have called Trent back and gone with him to question Freddy, but if that angle never panned out at least she wouldn’t have wasted her time—or, more importantly, put her career in further jeopardy.

She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and wrapped it around the baggie of pills. If only she’d allow herself to swallow one and slip away. But that would require getting past her panging conscience and having the time to rest and possibly sleep. Even if she could overcome the first block, crawling into bed felt like a luxury she wasn’t sure she’d be graced with again. Or at least it felt that way. She’d been up for over thirty hours at this point, though it felt far longer with all the stops and interviews they’d made already. That was the problem with catching a case at midnight—the day felt like it would never end. She had crossed over the threshold from walking-zombie exhaustion to becoming a touch wired. After she spoke with Ferguson, she’d grab another Jabba and suck back on it until it infused her with some spark. Then again, asking a drink for motivation was probably a little unreasonable.

Jabba. Now she was thinking like Trent, Lord help her. But she was starting to find that her initial resistance to him was wearing down—just a little. He was so passive. Did that trait just come naturally to him or had he been told to be accommodating by Malone? The latter would be worse, as if she needed Malone handling the situation to the nth degree. It was possible Trent was one of those hold-it-in-and-explode types too. The kind who did well enrolled in anger-management classes. How had he survived to reach detective rank otherwise? The fellas would have eaten him alive, along with most of the women. Law enforcement might still mostly be a man’s world but the women who did the job weren’t ones you wanted to mess with. She’d met enough, besides herself, to know.

She found the doorway marked 144. There was a black mailbox mounted crooked next to it.

She rang the doorbell. She couldn’t hear the chime, but footsteps pounded down stairs and the door swung open.

A man in his fifties stood there, unshaven with gray stubble on his face and a thick mane of gray hair that came to his shoulders. He looked like a hippie. He was wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt with pit stains. He stank of stale cigarettes and had a mouth full of yellow teeth, when he pulled his lips back and said, “Yeah?”

Amanda held up her badge and introduced herself. “Are you Albert Ferguson?”

“Uh-huh.” He looked beyond her toward the sidewalk.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts Sunday night,” Amanda said, re-earning his gaze.

“Why?” he snarled.

“Chad Palmer was found murdered.”

Albert swayed and reached for the door for support, but his judgment of the distance was flawed, and Amanda helped him.

“Do you have somewhere we could sit down?” She eyed the coat on the hook just inside the door. “Maybe someplace outside? I noticed a picnic table around the side.”

He grabbed his coat and regained enough composure to walk unaided to the table. He sat down, and Amanda found herself breathing easier when the thing didn’t crumble to sawdust. She sat across from him.

“You knew Chad Palmer,” she started.

“He destroyed my son’s life.” Albert ground his teeth and tears filled his eyes.

“How?”