Ashley smiled as though we were at a tea party. No trace of fear on her face. No perspiration, no twitching around her mouth. Either this girl was accustomed to violence or there was something a little off here.
“Whatever ya got is fine,” Brock told her as he put his gun away. “Bourbon . . . gin . . . whatever. But just a shot—I’m workin’.”
Ashley put down the large glass and picked up a smaller one. “You got it.”
While she poured, I asked, “So Charlie didn’t own a blue sports car? Or have a friend who owned one?”
“Charlie was a bum. A charming, good-looking bum, but a bum all the same. And he didn’t own anything, especially not a sports car.” She laughed. “He fooled me at first. Handsome men are real good at tricks, and Charles Kerrigan had a suitcase full.”
Handing the shot glass to Brock, she stepped back to her minibar. “What’s your pleasure, Ms. Sullivan?”
“Just a splash of vodka would be great.”
“I’ve got Absolut and . . .”
I had to wonder if she was an alcoholic but reserved my opinion until I saw what she was going to drink. “That’s fine, thanks.”
After grabbing the vodka bottle, she stopped and looked at me. “You said something about being here because of Charlie, right?”
I nodded.
“But the cops said it was a hit and run. After I identified his body, I thought that was it. So . . . I don’t understand . . . what do you want, exactly?”
“I’m looking for my friend, Nathan Walker. He’s been missing since last Friday. A witness I spoke to said she saw a man standing by a sports car, wearing a camouflage jacket in the parking lot outside the building she works in. This man approached Nathan. They spoke for a few minutes and then got into Nathan’s car and drove away.”
“And you think that man was Charlie? There must be a hundred guys in this town alone that looked like him. And a thousand more who have that same kind of ugly jacket.”
“You’re right. But then I heard there was a hit and run yesterday, and the victim was also wearing a camouflage jacket. I thought maybe it was a place to start. So this morning, I visited the coroner.” I didn’t tell her what was in Barbara’s report. Holding back information would allow me to figure out how much of the truth I was going to get from Ms. Knight.
She stared wide-eyed, then handed me my drink in a crystal glass. “Why do I get the feeling that you’ve done this before? You’re not some ordinary lady off the street, are you?”
“She used to be the chief of police here,” Brock said. “And no way is she ordinary.” He held up his glass to toast me.
“For real? That’s so cool. A real life police chief, huh?” She reached for a large tumbler and filled it halfway with gin.
Yep, this lady was a serious drinker.
“Do you know why Charlie would have been alone on that stretch of highway?” I asked.
“Sure do. We had a fight and I . . . well . . . I threw him out of my car.”
“You what?” I asked, shocked.
“Oh, I slowed down. I couldn’t have been going more than ten miles an hour. Besides, for the last fifteen minutes, he kept shouting to stop, that he wanted to get out. So . . . I let him out.”
“You musta been really mad to do somethin’ like that,” Brock said.
“I’ve never been so infuriated! I swear I was seeing red.” She finished her drink and poured another. “After all I did for him? Letting him move in with me, never asking for a penny to help out with bills . . . or food . . . every time we’d go out, I paid for the whole thing . . . He never offered . . . felt entitled. And then I find out he’s doing drugs. Taking the money I gave him for gas or food—anything he wanted—and spending it all on drugs. No way, José!”
I gave her a minute to calm down. Brock looked uncomfortable, swirling alcohol around in his glass, afraid to make eye contact with the irate woman.
When I thought the time was right, I asked, “What kind of car do you drive, Ms. Knight?”
“That ugly blue pickup out front. Daddy bought it for me, insists that we only drive American vehicles. Why? Does this have something to do with the car that hit Charlie?”
No, I reminded myself, I wasn’t there investigating the death of Charles Kerrigan. I only wanted information that would help me find out if he’d been involved in a kidnapping or . . . murder.
“I’m not sure,” I lied and hurried on to my next question. “Was he working?” Of course, I knew he was working, and for whom. But I still felt the need to test her further.
“I got him a job at my father’s company. He had some experience. Said he’d worked in the machine shop in prison once . . . But he lied all the time. To think I believed a single word that came out of his mouth . . .”
“I understand your father owns Knight Construction?”
“Ya mean that guy in all them crazy ads is your old man?” Brock asked, amused.
Ashley looked insulted. “They’re not crazy . . . they’re . . . artistic. I wrote and directed all of them.”
“I’ve heard they’re very . . . memorable.” I tried soothing her ruffled feathers. “And so appropriate with a name like Knight.” I flashed Brock a stern look, warning him to be nice.
“Oh, yeah, memorable,” he agreed.
She took a big gulp of booze. “Thanks.”
“I imagine Knight Construction has all sorts of projects going on around town?”
“Across the entire state and even a few in North and South Dakota.” She was obviously proud of her father.
“Where was Charlie working?” I asked. “Do you know the exact location?”
She nodded. “There’s a big subdivision going up on Excelsior Boulevard. At least three of the homes are finished. People are already living in them. The plan is to create an area featuring modern design but surrounded with elegance and old-world charm. They’re even going to have their own little grocery store and gift shop. A planned community like they’ve done in Florida . . . but of course we don’t have an ocean here . . . we have lakes . . . lots and lots of lakes . . .”
She was talking about the site where Mr. Larkin, the first client I’d interviewed, lived. While Ashley rambled on and Brock seemed entertained, I replayed my drive past bulldozers and work crews yesterday and then remembered the trailer. It was as large as a railroad car and on the side was painted the helmeted head of a knight. Of course it meant nothing to me then, but I’d obviously stored the image deep down in my memory bank.
We finished our drinks and stood to leave. Ashley seemed disappointed that our meeting was over.
“I’m afraid I didn’t help much . . . you know, with finding your friend. If you need anything else, I’ll be here . . . I’m always here . . .”
I was going to ask if it ever crossed her mind that the police would be stopping by to question her about Charlie. If she admitted to throwing him out of a moving vehicle, it wasn’t much of a stretch to figure she ran him over. She might not have made the initial hit, but she could have been responsible for the fatal last few. Love that turns to hate is a common motive for murder. Throw in a scorned woman—an alcoholic, unbalanced woman—and you’ve got your number-one suspect.