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Eighteen

Madison was reading the arrest record for Carl Long, including some of his lawyer’s statements of defense. The house he’d entered belonged to his then-girlfriend’s father. Long’s attorney—doing what defense lawyers do—tried to minimize his part in the crime by saying that his girlfriend had told him to go to the house that night and enter through her window, only it was locked when Long showed up. Flimsy. And Long’s defense fell further apart from there. One, an invitation to his girlfriend’s room didn’t explain his friend “tagging along.” Two, it didn’t provide a basis for the fact his friend had been armed with a KA-BAR knife. Three—and the most damaging—the girlfriend didn’t back up Long’s claim.

Madison pulled the background on Long’s partner in crime, Peter Harris. Forty-five. Single. Currently employed by a car manufacturer in Stiles. She brought up his driver’s license photo and slammed a palm on her desk. Unless the Saul Abbott in the photo Lana Barrett had provided had undergone extreme cosmetic surgery, the likes of which would make Hollywood proud, Harris was not Abbott.

So how did Carl Long know Saul Abbott, whoever-he-was?

Her stomach rumbled, and a glance at the clock told her it was after one in the afternoon. She pulled out her drawer filled with the Hershey’s bars and considered eating one, but chocolate was mostly all she was eating these days. She should eat something with protein, but that would mean leaving the station, and she’d like to get some things taken care of.

Another stab of hunger pain and she gave in, peeling back the wrapper on a bar. Always heaven, she thought as she chewed. All her chastisement from a few seconds ago were gone, melted like the chocolate on her tongue.

Besides, it was much easier to think with a full stomach. And if the candy was the only thing settling these days, then who was she to argue?

How does Carl Long know Saul Abbott?

The question repeated in her head as a constant droning. Eventually, the gist of an idea floated on the edges of her consciousness. Long was loyal and likely easy to control. He was an ex-con and would have probably learned some ways to beat the system while behind bars. If he was getting a kickback from Abbott, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his payday.

She returned to Long’s background report. Listed under his place of work was Self-Employed. No details. It was hard to imagine that a person could make a living on performing wedding ceremonies alone, and he didn’t have an actual business—it would have been noted. Previous employment was a body shop in the east end of town where Carl had started a few months after his release from prison and worked for seven years.

She googled Carl Long and got nothing besides a single, inactive social media account and some articles about the B&E.

So he was keeping a low profile. It was either because he reached the point in his life where he didn’t see the value in keeping the world informed of his every move or because he was trying to live off the grid. At the least, she had a wedge that might work to get Carl Long to open up. But, for now, she’d let him stew in the drunk tank. It was surprising how cooperative and talkative a night in holding could make a person.

She tapped her foot, returning again to the question, how did Carl Long know Saul Abbott?

Not his partner in crime, she wrote on her notepad. Followed down the page by Relative? Coworker?... She tapped her pen. Cellmate?

She picked up her phone and placed the necessary calls. Weekend or not, it wouldn’t matter. She requested a list of all the prisoners Carl Long had shared a cell with. She was told it could take a bit to dig up those records.

More waiting. But she could go pay the body shop a visit on the off chance they’d be open on a Sunday and would have something to offer as to Abbott’s identity or his whereabouts.

“Hey, so I’ve got updates.” Terry was approaching with a cup of bullpen brew. With her delicate constitution, she couldn’t even think about drinking one right now. She crumpled the wrapper of her bar and threw it into the garbage can under her desk, hoping Terry wouldn’t notice. Too late. He angled his head and gave her his are-you-serious look.

“What’s the news?”

Terry set his cup on the corner of her desk and flipped through his notebook. “The canvassing officers haven’t found anything helpful. No one saw Carson on the street or heard anyone at their door in the night.”

She wasn’t surprised by this news, but still disappointed. “And…”

“Cynthia has submitted a request to Stiles Wireless for Carson’s phone records.”

“The trace on it?”

He shook his head. “No dice. So the phone’s likely off and/or destroyed, wherever it is.”

“Her laptop or journals… They tell us anything?”

Terry smirked, took a slow draw on his coffee, set the cup back on her desk. “Cynthia just got in about an hour ago and didn’t make it home until the wee hours. Let’s cut her some slack.”

“So we don’t have anything or…”

“It’s a work in progress. She did say, however, that she was going to start running photos of Saul Abbott through facial rec software this afternoon. Might take a while for something to come back—if it does. As for the laptop, she said there are a lot of password-protected files.”

“Ah.” Madison sat up straighter. “That could indicate that Carson had something to hide.”

“Quite possibly.” He nudged his head toward her. “How did you make out? Taking a stab here—”

She groaned. Such a horrible play on words at any time, let alone when working a murder case with that cause of death. “Saul Abbott wasn’t Long’s partner in crime. It was some guy named Peter Harris.” She went on to tell him about the body shop and her call to the prison.

“Huh.” He fell quiet but held eye contact.

“You want to call it a day?” She wagered a guess.

“I was hoping to salvage some of my Sunday.”

He probably wanted nothing more than to settle in with his wife and daughter. She thought of going home to Troy and Hershey, and while it held appeal, she was afraid she might come out and confront him about the lack of a proposal. And that was the last thing she wanted to do right now. “Go on,” she told Terry.

“Really?”

She nodded. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

“See ya tomorrow.” He tapped a hand on her shoulder and left. She imagined dust swirling in his haste to get out of there.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and stared at it. She should head home too. She could use her willpower and not attack Troy, or maybe the best thing would be to get everything, including how she was feeling, out in the open. She was just terrified she might not like his response. And there was at least one lead she might be able to follow today, Sunday or not. If that didn’t pan out, there was still the matter of the mystery woman. Combined, she could probably be home in a few hours, in plenty of time for dinner, assuming she could stomach real food.

She brought up the text app, intent on telling Troy when he could expect her, her hands jittering, but found she had an unread message from him.

Called in. Probably won’t be home until quite late. Pls confirm you rec’d msg. Hershey will need someone home. xo

Of all the times for him to be called in for a job.

She stared at the hug and kiss. That small expression of love felt like a betrayal these days, as if mocking her. A single hug. A single kiss. Then again, Troy was never big on adding a string of them to any message. She was reading far too much into this. She was disappointed though. She was finally going to make time to spend with him, and he wasn’t around.

But she looked at the time stamp on the message. His text had come in an hour ago, and Hershey would be fine for a bit longer. No need to put off her plans. Her day would just end differently than she’d imagined.

She keyed back, Stay safe. Love you xo

Those last two words locked in her brain as she put her phone back in her pocket. She did love that man, more than she should. Sure, she’d made a vow to love wholeheartedly, but it was made when she thought she was going to die a couple years ago. Surely it didn’t count. There was something to be said about getting out of a relationship before it sucked you down like the Titanic.