All I've Ever Wanted - Adrianne Byrd [10]
“Were you supposed to?”
“I was hoping for a break, yes.”
“What was on his schedule for Friday night?”
Dossman held up the book and pointed to an empty block. “Nada.”
“Seems like we’re on a roll.”
Zone Five Precinct
Monday, 12:45 p.m.
Max slammed the phone down and released a long stream of profanities. No one knew, saw or heard anything. “Isn’t that just great?” he muttered.
“I take it we’ve hit another dead end,” Dossman said, slouching in his seat.
“Gee, how did you guess?”
He laced his fingers together. “Let’s just call it a hunch. Maybe we’re looking too hard. We didn’t find anything in Underwood’s house or his office. Even his car, which we found parked two blocks from the crime scene, didn’t turn up anything we could use.”
“Yeah. But I’m not buying that the victim decided to take a leisurely stroll through one of the highest crime areas in the city.” He thought for a moment. “I agree with you. We must be looking too hard.”
“Okay, then let’s start over.” Dossman shuffled through the papers stacked on his desk until he recovered his worn notepad. “We know that on Friday Marion Underwood left his office at 7:35 p.m. We also know from the autopsy that the time of death was around midnight.”
Max nodded while he pulled out a copy of the coroner’s report. As he reread it, he pointed to one item. “Where did he eat dinner?”
“Another mystery.”
“According to the autopsy, he did eat.”
Dossman failed to hide his irritation. “Do you have any idea how many restaurants are in Atlanta?”
“I’m not concerned about how many restaurants are in Atlanta. I’m only interested in how many are between Underwood’s office and the crime scene.”
“There’s no proof that he had dinner at a restaurant. He could have gone to a friend’s house, or some lady’s house. According to Hickman, he didn’t eat at home.”
Max’s brows rose as he studied his partner.
“What? There are still a few women out there who’ll cook a homemade meal for their man.”
“Then why hasn’t she come forward?”
Dossman held up three fingers and counted the possible reasons. “Doesn’t want to get involved. Wants to avoid suspicion. May be an accomplice to the murder.”
“Okay, okay. I see your point.”
“But do you know what’s been bothering me about this whole thing?” Dossman met his partner’s gaze as he leaned forward. “His car.”
“What about it?”
“A top-of-the-line Mercedes, left on M.L.K. for over twenty-four hours, and nothing was disturbed? What are the chances of that happening?”
“I wondered about that, too,” Max admitted. “It made me think about who controls that area of town.”
“Controls?” Dossman frowned, then slowly his eyes widened with understanding. “The Skulls.”
Georgia Diner
Monday, 1:15 p.m.
Kennedy’s head swam as she watched another news report regarding the slaying of A.D.A. Marion Underwood. This time the coverage had made headlines on CNN. She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat, rushed to her locker to find some aspirins. With any luck, the pills would not only clear her headache, but also eliminate her guilt. The right thing to do wasn’t necessarily the easiest.
“Kennedy, put some pep in that step. Your station is full.” Bennie’s booming voice shattered the silence.
She jumped and dropped the bottle of aspirin. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she said, kneeling to gather the pills.
A few minutes later, she returned to her station and resumed taking orders from impatient customers. All the while, she made sure she kept her smile bright and cheery. But, inside, her stomach twisted into knots.
How do you keep something like this a secret? she wondered, as her thoughts returned to the possibility of making an anonymous call. Too risky.
One of Kennedy’s female customers screeched at her companion. “I don’t care, Reggie. I don’t want to be the last one there when this story breaks. Do you know what this could do for my career?”
“What about our source that said Collier’s looking for a possible witness?