I attempt to refocus on the man sitting across from me. The fact that Forrester made bail so fast should have told me they didn’t have a lot of evidence that he killed Oscar Stanley. Needed to see it for myself, though, so I could confidently cross him off the list of suspects. I’m not quite ready to do that yet. Not when he had motive and opportunity. But the honesty ringing in his voice is causing my heartburn to act up.
There’s potential meat to this case. Meaning, I’m not getting away from Taylor any time soon. And I really, really need to get away from her. I’m sitting here, sure, but my mind is on her. Her safety. I know damn well what happens when I get emotionally involved in a case. Last time that happened, the outcome was so unacceptable, I turned in my detective’s badge. Like it or not, Taylor Bassey is involved in this situation. Hell, I haven’t even been able to eliminate her or Jude as suspects yet. She’s going to be in the periphery of this investigation and she is a too beautiful, too interesting distraction that I cannot afford.
And I don’t like the way she makes me feel.
I don’t need her surprising me or challenging me. I just want to remain an impartial observer of life. A blow-in. Just passing through. I haven’t even spoken to my parents or brother in three years, because attachment to anything and anyone after what happened on my final case with the Boston PD? It fucking hurts. I hate the weight of attachment sitting on my chest. Connections to people are nothing but responsibilities—and I don’t want them. I don’t need people around to be disappointed when and if I fuck up. And in this line of work, fucking up is inevitable, right? People die. They go missing. God help a man if the victim ends up being someone he’s started caring about. So yeah, I don’t need my head muddled by a woman or I’ll lose sight of my job here. To solve a murder.
Then I can get back on my bike and get the hell out of here.
The sooner the better.
I lean sideways in my chair to access my pocket, taking out the letter found beneath Stanley’s floorboards and I lay it on the table in front of me. Forrester doesn’t react. There’s no recognition there, but I ask anyway. “Do you recognize this envelope?”
“Nope.”
I take out the letter, unfold it and smooth it out, not taking my eyes off him once. “Did you send this to Oscar Stanley prior to murdering him?”
“No! Jesus, I told you a hundred times, I didn’t kill that piece of shit.”
I replace the letter in my pocket. “Do you own a firearm?”
He hesitates. Wets his lips and looks around.
That’s a yes, but he’s reluctant to share.
The cops must have asked him this question, right?
Why does it seem like the first time he’s answering this question?
“Look, I don’t have the authority to fine you for not having permits. Just tell me how many.” I click open my pen. “And what models.”
I already have information on his registered weapons, but what he’s actually holding could differ. Drastically. There’s always something extra hiding somewhere.
Sighing, he rubs at his eye sockets. “Couple of thirty-five millimeters for hunting. A Glock for protection. Nothing crazy.”
He’s not looking me in the eye. “And which one doesn’t have a permit?”
A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. “The Glock,” he sighs.
“Mind if I take a look at it?”
“I loaned it out to a buddy,” he says. Too quickly?
Even though Forrester is acting shady, there is something that doesn’t place him at the scene for me. He doesn’t have an alibi—claims to have been home alone. But there is something cold and precise about a bullet in the center of a man’s head that doesn’t speak to this man’s temperament. There are two dozen pictures framed on the walls depicting his hunting accomplishments and in every single one of them, he’s surrounded by friends, antlers in one hand, a can of beer in the other. When he beat up Oscar Stanley, he had an audience, too. His daughter and all of her friends.
Forrester wouldn’t be satisfied with a quiet, solitary killing. For my money, it doesn’t fit, even if I can’t quite cross his name off the list yet.
We go over his story one more time, me searching for those subtle changes that can often break a case open, but he’s firm on details and getting impatient with me in his kitchen. It’s late afternoon by the time I get on my bike and head back to my motel on the Cape. With evening turning the highway into a sea of headlights, I try and fail not to think of a certain brunette with green eyes. Not a simple feat when her frilly red panties are burning a hole in my pocket.