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“I wish I had.” Bill met Amanda’s eyes, and his were soft. “What did you say the man’s name was again?”
She hadn’t said, but she did now. “Chad Palmer.”
“I see.”
She didn’t care for the way he said that or for the way he was watching her like she was fragile. “Did you happen to notice if he had much in the way of luggage?”
“Kind of a strange question, isn’t it? I mean considering the guy just got out of prison recently.” Bill peered into her eyes.
“How did you know that?” She could barely find her voice.
“Something he said.”
Amanda’s heart pounded. She had a sinking feeling there was a lot more to Bill’s knowledge than his intuition stitching together verbal clues. “You know who I am.”
“I might, yeah.”
She forced a smile. “Come on, Mr. Hannigan, be honest with me.”
“I know you’re the former police chief’s daughter. I recognized your name when you introduced yourself. And Palmer… I know what he did to your family. Real sorry about that.” He frowned. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, and had I realized then who that scumbag was, I never would have let him drive.”
“You’ve actually given us a lot to go on.” She held his gaze for a few seconds, then said, “Good day, Mr. Hannigan,” and headed back down his driveway, Trent at her side.
“Good day,” he called out behind her.
She should have known better than to think she could investigate Palmer’s death without someone recognizing her at some point, but it certainly hadn’t taken long.
Thirteen
With the interviews completed with Denver’s Motel employees, Trent and Amanda’s next stop would be Jerrod Rhodes, who lived in Woodbridge. She’d sit back and enjoy the ride—she could get used to being chauffeured around—but she was feeling si
ck after her encounter with Bill Hannigan. Sweet man, but he could destroy her career by going to the press if he were inclined. Hopefully, the bond she’d made over classic Camaros would be enough that he’d keep his realizations to himself.
Her phone pinged with a text message. It was from Rideout. She read it to herself and then shared the update with Trent. “Palmer’s autopsy is happening this morning at eleven.” That wasn’t much notice but still gave them a couple of hours and plenty of time to speak to Rhodes.
“Are you wanting to attend?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Her darkest thoughts were focused on seeing the man dissected as a catalogue of parts—he deserved no less—but she also judged herself for thinking that way.
“Yeah, of course.”
She stared at Trent’s profile, just wishing for him to question her decision. Fight with me, she thought. If he did, maybe she could convince Malone to let her work this case solo, but that was probably foolish thinking.
Trent parked in front of a rundown duplex that was split down the middle.
“Palmer’s old place is the unit on the right,” he told her. “Rhodes is actually living where Palmer used to.”
“Good to know. All right, let’s do this.” She was the first out of the car and down the walk. The advantage to tracking leads in Woodbridge was that fewer people would know her.
A sixty-something man answered the door in a cotton robe and slippers, holding a steaming cup of aromatic coffee. If her brother would have killed for a classic Camaro, she’d have done pretty much anything for a coffee at this point.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“You Jerrod Rhodes?” she asked, holding up her badge.
“Yeah,” he dragged out.
“I’m Detective Steele”—she gestured to Trent—“and this is Detective Stenson.”
