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Six

Madison cupped her eyes and squinted into the sedan’s driver’s-side window. It was immaculately kept. No dust on the dash or garbage within sight. It was possible Carson was the type who stuffed crap under her seat, though. Madison went around the car, repeating the process. “Wow, she keeps this thing clean.”

“Not everyone treats their car like a garbage bin on four wheels.”

“In your words, hardy-har. I’m too busy to—”

“An excuse. Everyone’s busy.”

She’d defend herself, but he was right. She had a horrible habit of tossing trash over her shoulder into the back seat. She wasn’t quite as bad as she used to be because it drove Troy mad.

“So Carson came down here last night at eight,” she started, “but then where did she go?” She looked toward the sidewalk.

“Again, a crystal ball would be helpful.”

“Wouldn’t it.” She scanned the area. There were trees at the east end of the lot, separating it from the neighboring property, which was a house. The north side offered an optional entry point off Napoleon Avenue. “If she was attacked near here, why not head back to her car?”

“We don’t know where her keys are. Maybe her attacker took them, leaving her without a way to get in her vehicle.”

Madison chewed her bottom lip and stepped to the sidewalk, looked east. Nothing but houses. “What compelled her down the street as far as the Bernsteins’?” Her phone pinged with a text. A message from Higgins. “Next of kin is her ex-husband. Bill Carson. Higgins is sending more info to me via email, including his address. I also have Carson’s phone number.” They could potentially track it, but first, to even see if it was on, Madison called the number. She got a message that the line was no longer in service. She shared that with Terry as her phone beeped again. “And we have Carson’s DMV picture.”

“Not that we should be flashing that around until the ex-husband is notified.”

She hated that he was right. “We can still ask around, using her description. Maybe someone saw the altercation?” She paused, taking in all the houses, and added, “Surely someone saw her stumbling along the sidewalk.”

A police cruiser pulled into the lot, Higgins behind the wheel. He parked next to Carson’s car and got out.

“I know I requested officers to canvass Burnham, but with her car being here, it’s even more important that it gets done,” Madison said.

Higgins nodded. “I get that. I’ll update the officers who will be working the street about her car.”

“Thank you,” she said. “We’ll leave this to you, then.”

“Why?” Terry asked. “Where are we going?”

“To do some canvassing ourselves.”

“Shouldn’t we notify the ex—”

“Just amuse me for a minute.” She proceeded west along Burnham Street.

The first establishment west of the public parking lot was Luck of the Irish. The pub was next to a restaurant Madison wouldn’t return to or recommend. The service was slow, the food bland, and the prices ridiculous.

The laneway between the two businesses was just wide enough for one-way traffic. And only the select few were rewarded with parking at the backside of the pub and restaurant. Any delivery trucks bringing food and drink to the establishments would have had to park temporarily at the curb or go around to Napoleon Avenue.

Madison walked down the lane to the lot, and someone coughing got her attention. A man in his late forties/early fifties stood on a small stoop with cracked and crooked concrete steps outside a back door, a burning cigarette in hand.

He took a toke, exhaled. “Can I help you with something?”

Madison and Terry raised their badges.

“Detectives with the Stiles PD,” she said, closing the distance between herself and the man. He didn’t move except to take another drag on his smoke. “Were you in the area last night, say from about nine until two this morning?”

“Rather specific window.” He flicked ash, took another hit. His eyes were beady and lazily drifted from her to Terry and back again.

She didn’t want to get into the fact a woman was found dead not too far from there, especially without her next of kin being informed, but she wanted to probe some. He might have seen the attack. “Can you just answer my question?”

“I was working in the kitchen until ten. Headed out and went straight home.” He extinguished his cigarette on a plate he held in his right hand.

“You didn’t take any smoke breaks?” she asked.

“I did.”

Madison wanted so badly to show him the DMV photo of Chantelle Carson but would follow protocol. “During your shift, did you happen to hear or see any altercations—either out here or maybe one that started inside the pub?” If the thump Mrs. Bernstein had heard was Carson, this man would have long been home by the time she was attacked, but until they had definitive reason to believe the noise was Carson, they had to consider the entire TOD window.

“I don’t recall. Nothing out here anyway.” He waved his cigarette over the lot. “If there was an argument out front, I might not have heard it.”

“And nothing of that sort made it back to you in the kitchen?” She just wanted to be certain.

“Nope. Just a typical Friday. College kids out to get hammered.”

“Did you notice any people in their forties in the crowd? I know you work in the kitchen, but you must pop into the dining room sometimes.”

“There’s usually some any given night. But like I said, no rumbles in the jungle.” The man smiled at Terry.

“Okay,” she said. “We might be around later.”

“Whatever floats your boat, darlin’.”

She left thinking that some people really were an acquired taste.

Terry walked the lot. She looked to the west of the pub, toward the restaurant and beyond it, to the back of the establishments within line of sight, of which there were several. Other businesses were across the street too. That also equated to a lot of dumpsters, and until they had a better way of knowing where the attack had taken place, searching all of them for the mere possibility of finding evidence didn’t make sense.

“Let’s head back,” she said. “We’ll talk to the Bernsteins now that we have Doe’s real name and a photo.” Given that the body was found on their property, an exception could be made.

“And the other bars and restaurants?”

“I’ll have Higgins get officers to pay them a visit.” She pulled her phone and keyed a quick text to that effect. “We’ll also need to get ahold of the city for traffic-cam footage.” She pointed just west of the pub and restaurant where Burnham intersected with Market Street. “It could give us something.” She called her contact at the city but had to leave a message. She hung up and filled in Terry.

“Not much of a surprise with it being Saturday.”

“Nope.” It didn’t mean that it wasn’t frustrating. It was also frustrating that bars and restaurants along the stretch likely had security cameras but wouldn’t hand them over without a warrant. And without something that confirmed Carson was indeed attacked in the immediate vicinity, no judge would approve the request.