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“You know it was storming like hell that night, Mary. Raining buckets. You could barely see anything. And if Hawkins didn’t have his car lights on, maybe no one would have noticed it.”
“But no oneheardit?” said Lancaster.
“Again, the noise of the storm. But I see you really have doubts about the case now.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just saying that I believe it deserves a second look.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Despite your words, I can tell that you’re at least intrigued.” She paused and took another puff of her smoke. “And then there’s the matter of Susan Richards.”
“The wife. Left around five that day, ran some errands, attended a PTA meeting, and then had drinks and dinner with a couple of friends. All verified. She got home at eleven. When she found us here and learned what had happened, she became hysterical.”
“You had to hold her down or I think she would have tried to hurt herself.”
“Not exactly the actions of a guilty person. And there was only a fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy on Don Richards, from his job at the bank.”
“I’ve known people who have killed for a lot less. And so do you.”
Decker said, “So let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Where else? To see Meryl Hawkins.”
***
As they pulled to a stop in front of the Residence Inn, Decker had a moment of déjà vu. He had lived here for a while after being evicted from the home where he found his family murdered. The place hadn’t changed much. It had been crappy to begin with. Now it was just crappier still. He was surprised it was still standing.
They walked inside, and Decker looked to his left, where the small dining area was located. He had used that as his unofficial office when meeting potential clients who wanted to hire him as a private detective. He had come a long way in a relatively short period of time. Yet it could have easily gone the other way. He could have eaten himself into a stroke and died inside a cardboard box in a Walmart parking lot, which had briefly been his home before he’d moved to the “fancier” Residence Inn.
When she stepped out into the lobby Decker didn’t look surprised.
Jamison nodded at Lancaster and said to Decker after reading his features, “I guess you expected me to turn up here?”
“I didn’tnotexpect it,” he replied. “I showed you the paper with this address on it.”
“I looked up the basic facts of the murder online,” she said. “Seemed pretty ironclad.”
“We were just discussing that,” said Lancaster. “But maybe the iron is rusty.” She eyed the badge riding on Jamison’s hip. “Hear you’re the real deal FBI agent now. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Seemed the logical next step, if only to manage Decker a little better.”
“Good luck on that. I was never able to, despitemybadge.”
“He’s in room fourteen,” interjected Decker. “Up the stairs.”
They trudged single file up to the second floor and halfway down the hall to the door. Decker knocked. And knocked again.
“Mr. Hawkins? It’s Amos Decker.”
No sound came from inside the room.
“Maybe he went out,” said Jamison.
“Where would he go?” asked Decker.
“Let me check something,” said Lancaster. She hurried back down the stairs. A minute later she was back.
