Murder at Castle Rock (20 page)

There was only one more place I needed to go that afternoon, and that was straight to jail. I still had the notebook Detective Dixon had dropped in Kat's office. With the mystery truck chase and Laura's death, it had slipped my mind until now. I tucked the notebook back into my bag and headed across town.

The Atlanta Police Department was located in the heart of downtown on Pryor Street. It was housed in a modern structured building of tan and brown stone and story after story of windows, with a catwalk around its perimeter that was sheltered by glass roofing. I parked my grey Jetta on the street and fed the meter before ambling onto the catwalk. Shielding my eyes, I squinted through the sunlight that broke through the transparent ceiling above the walkway. It was bright now, but I could see the dark, gloomy clouds rolling in from the distance. Another storm was brewing.

Once inside the police station, I walked across the atrium and approached the front desk, which was enclosed behind a protective wall with a glass window. An elderly woman with short, curly white hair and Coke-bottle glasses sat behind the desk. The lenses magnified her eyes to the size of half-dollars. She looked up at me pleasantly and slid the glass window open. "Good afternoon." Her voice was soft as a summer breeze. "Welcome to the Atlanta Police Department."

I smiled at her. "Thank you. I am here to see Detective Ben Dixon. Can you tell me if he's in this afternoon?"

"I'm sorry, Miss, but Detective Dixon is currently out of the office. Would you like to leave a message for him, perhaps?"

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"He's due back within the hour for a briefing with the sergeant," she replied.

I thought that over for a moment before deciding that I should stick it out and wait to speak to him in person. I'd come this far to bring him his notebook, and while I was here I wanted to glean as much information from him as I could about what the police knew of Shawn Stone. "I don't mind waiting, then. He'll want to see me."

The old woman eyed me curiously then stretched her lips in another courteous smile. "If you'll just fill out this visitor sign-in paperwork for me, I'll be happy to let him know you're here as soon as he returns. You can have a seat in the lobby back there once you've completed the form and received a visitor's badge." She gestured to the waiting room to the right of her desk. I quickly filled out the sign-in form and took the visitor's badge, and then I shuffled to the lobby. I took a seat and busied myself pinning my tag to my shirt, carefully sliding the pin through the fabric to avoid tearing a hole in my navy and cream-striped top.

A tired-looking, middle-aged woman sat across the lobby from me. She leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed. There were dark circles beneath them and crow's feet in the creases of each. She looked like she'd been losing a lot of sleep over something. I figured out what that something was a moment later. A buzzer sounded, and a portly officer waddled out of the hallway, escorting a young man. The teen's face was pockmarked with acne scars, and he had jet black spiky hair, eyeliner, and a nasty scowl on his face. His look of contempt mirrored the one I'd seen on Bronwyn's face many times before. Another rebellious teen.

The tired woman's eyes flew open at the sound of their approach. She tucked her bushy brown hair behind her ears then stood, wringing her hands in distress. "Tommy, I just don't know what I'm going to do with you! Skipping classes and vandalizing public property? This just isn't like you!" she cried. Turning to the police officer, she repeated, "This really isn't like him."

"They get this way at that age, ma'am." The officer gave her an empathetic look. "Just a teenager thing, I guess." He shrugged. "I found him climbing down from a billboard on North Avenue. He'd spray-painted a mustache on a woman's face."

I fought back a laugh—the kid had gotten picked for defacing Stacy Jefferson's picture on her father's new billboard. As far as I was concerned, that wasn't a crime—it was a public service.

The woman thanked the officer and walked hastily out of the building, dragging her son along with her. I watched them go and then turned back as the officer made his way back down the hallway. On his way through the door he passed by Sergeant Sinclair, who stopped in his tracks when he spotted me. He eyed me warily. "Amelia, what are you doing here?"

I tapped the visitor's badge on my chest. "Just waiting for Detective Dixon."

"Have you got some new information for us?" He said it in a tone that suggested what he'd really wanted to say was, "Have you been snooping around where you don't belong again?"

"Something like that."

Sinclair motioned for me to stay put as he hurried to the front door of the building, returning a moment later with a piping hot box of pizza. "Follow me," he ordered. I rose from my seat and silently fell in line behind the sergeant. "Gladys, she's with me," he said to the elderly receptionist. She buzzed us through a big metal door leading into a hallway full of offices. I craned my neck as we went along, wondering if the hallway emptied into the holding cells—where they were likely keeping Reese. I didn't get the chance to find out because Sinclair stopped and ushered me into the third room on the right.

Eddie Sinclair's office was not very large, but he'd decorated it well. A black leather couch lined the far wall, and through the window I could see the golden dome atop the state capitol building. On either side of the couch were two leafy green potted plants that appeared to be well cared for—I noticed a small blue watering can beside one and grinned to myself as I pictured the sarge's mammoth hand grasping that tiny can as he watered his plants each day. "Something funny?" He scowled, looking a lot like his daughter in that moment, which I also found funny.

"No, sir." I bit my lip. "Just admiring the view and your lovely plants."

The sergeant gestured for me to have a seat in one of the two black chairs that matched the couch, both of which were positioned to face his desk. On the desk sat a framed family portrait—Sinclair in his uniform, glaring at the camera as he sat with one arm wrapped around a plump redhead that must be the Mrs., and the other around a young smiling Bronwyn with long brown hair. It took me a moment to recognize her without her pink pixie-cut and trademark scowl. Across from that was another frame that held a picture of a German shepherd. "Gerry, with a 'G'," Sinclair said with a grin, pointing to the pup.

"Man's best friend, huh?"

"You betcha. That's the best damn dog in this state. I don't know where I'd be without him." Sinclair beamed at the photograph. He opened the pizza box on the desk in front of him. "Sorry, it's been a busy afternoon. I'm just now getting a chance to scarf down some lunch. You like pepperoni?" He offered me a slice.

"Do I?" I cried happily, accepting the piece of warm cheesy and pepperoni goodness. I'd been so caught up in the chaos of the afternoon that I'd forgotten to grab lunch. "So, where is Dixon this afternoon?" I asked between bites.

Sinclair swallowed a mouthful of pizza and then reached into the mini fridge behind his desk. He grabbed two bottles of water, handing me one and taking a swig of the other. "He's out on assignment," he said and left it at that. His expression grew serious. "What did you want to tell him?"

I polished off my slice of pizza and grabbed my purse from the floor. "Well," I began as I slid the small, blue notebook from my bag and placed it on his desk, "this was on the floor in Kat Taylor's office. I wanted to make sure that the Detective got it back since I'm assuming it's important to your investigation into Parker's and Laura's murders. He's got the wrong girl, though," I added with a determined look. "Kat didn't kill Parker or Laura—and while I'm at it, I don't think Reese did, either."

Sinclair frowned and snatched the notebook off of his desk, holding it at a safe distance away from me. "I swear, one more slip up and Dixon will spend the rest of his career as a rent-a-cop patrolling mall parking lots," he grumbled. Fixing me in a steely gaze, he added, "You shouldn't have been looking through this."

I gave him a doe-eyed expression and held out my hands and shrugged, as if to say,
"Oops!"
"It was already open on the ground when I found it," I argued. "Couldn't help but read the first page."

"I get the impression that you 'can't help' a lot of the situations you've been getting yourself into," he muttered. "Tell me then, Amelia, if you're so sure that both of your friends are innocent, then who do you think killed Parker Deering and Laura Holly?"

Yes! Finally someone was listening to me!
"Well, I've done a little digging,"—that got me a scowl—"and I have a couple of theories, but only one suspect."

Sinclair raised his eyebrows and looked at me askance. "And who would that be?"

"Shawn Stone."

The sarge said nothing, so I continued. "My first clue was when I heard Stone arguing with Parker a few short hours before he was killed. Shawn could have very easily snuck from backstage to the green room and lured Parker to the tower, where I think he bashed him over the head and pushed him to his death."

Sinclair arched a brow. "And your other theory?"

 "Then there was Laura," I said. "Stone went back to the hall closet to retrieve his coat on Wednesday night before Laura was shot, and he returned it sometime before she was found. His coat was still dripping wet when we checked out the closet. I think he could have shot Laura, stashed the gun in Reese's jacket—which was still in the closet—and then he returned his own coat before strolling backstage again like nothing had happened. The venue was so crowded that nobody would have even noticed if he'd shaken the rain off of his coat before hanging it back in the closet. There was a nice, big, incriminating puddle underneath it. What I can't figure out," I added drumming my fingers on my chin, "is what his motive was for shooting Laura. Parker, I understand—at least, I will if I can ever find out what they were arguing about. But Laura? It doesn't quite add up."

Sinclair frowned down at his desk, avoiding my gaze. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said, "Amelia, I understand that Laura and Parker were your friends and that you want to help—but I hope you also understand that I can't divulge details of our investigation to you. All I can say is that we've run a background check on several of the people that were present at Castle Rock on the night that Parker was killed. We are currently following several leads. Now, will you
please
do me a favor and keep out of it? No more eavesdropping or snooping around for clues. Leave the detective work to my real detectives, okay?"

"Deal." So what if I had my fingers crossed behind my back? He didn't have to know that.

*  *  *

I sped away from the police station and headed back to my apartment to determine my next move. Parking in my assigned slot, I quickly gathered my purse and zipped to the elevator. I bumped into two of my neighbors, William and Jay, in the hall. They stood by William's door, making small talk as they munched on plates of cake and potato chips. "Hey Amelia, how's it going?" Jay asked as I walked by.

I snapped out of my little trance. "Hey guys. Whatcha' got there?"

"Today's the grand opening of the new gym. You should head down there and get some free refreshments," Will said through a mouthful of cake. He held up a forkful of yellow pastry with an inch of sugary icing on top. "Of all things to serve at a gym opening, they had a table full of junk food—I guess that's their way of making us need to use the new workout equipment." He and Jay snickered and went back to chowing down on their goodies.

There was a piece of paper stuck under the door of my apartment. Stooping down to retrieve it, I saw it was an envelope. My name was typed in black across the front. Pushing the key through the lock, I leaned back on the door to push it inward, still staring at the envelope in my hand. I closed the door behind me and then tore it open. It contained one single sheet of paper. In the center of the page was a message typed in all caps:

BACK OFF BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

Panic sliced through me.
Did the killer leave this
?
He knows where I live!
I whirled around to deadbolt my door. My sudden movement alarmed my cat Dos who had been lounging on the kitchen counter atop a stack of my mail. He dove off and scurried across the room, sending the pile of mail scattering down to the floor. I stooped to retrieve the fallen letters, and my eyes fell on a bright blue sheet of paper with the image of a male and female bodybuilder flexing their muscles. It was the flyer I'd received on Tuesday morning for the grand opening of the apartment gym.

I reached down to pick up the rest of the mail when something on the flyer caught my eye. Under the picture of the bodybuilders was the text:

Come on down to the 1st floor this Thursday for our Fitness Center Grand Opening! Food, fun, and prizes await!

My heart pounded in my ears as I read the flyer a second time and then a third.
The party would be a perfect cover for someone to get into the building and sneak up here to leave me a note…but everyone that enters the building has to sign in. Is Parker's killer on the guest roster?

I unlocked my deadbolt and raced down the hallway back to the elevators. On the ground floor, I sprinted past the new gym. Two rows of treadmills and elliptical machines were set up to one side, and the other side of the room was dedicated to free weights and bodybuilding machines. Along the far back wall was a table decorated with balloons and a spread of goodies and sweets. There were a handful of people gathered around the table putting the treats away into plastic containers and taking down the decorations. A few turned their heads as I jogged past, but I kept running. I arrived at the front desk of the building lobby. Panting, I asked the receptionist, "Did anyone sign in to visit me today? Amelia Grace in 1302?"

The receptionist was a snooty, young, blond woman with pursed lips and a pinched face. She squinted at her clipboard. "No," she said in a clipped tone. "Nobody for Grace or 1302."