The Girl Who Cried Murder. Пола Грейвс

into all sorts of scrapes.

      For a brief, exciting moment, I felt as if my life was finally going to start.

      And then, nothing. No thoughts. Almost no memories. Just that whisper of Alice’s voice in my ear, and the haunting sensation that there was something I knew about that night that I just couldn’t remember.

      I tried to talk to Mr. Bearden a few days ago. I called his office, left my name, told him it was about Alice.

      He never called me back.

      But the very next day, I had a strong sensation of being watched.

      * * *

      MIKE WRAPPED UP his third training session of the day, this time an internal refresher course for new recruits to the agency, around five that afternoon. He headed for the showers, washed off the day’s sweat and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved polo. Civvies, he thought with a quirk of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile. Because the thought of being a civilian again wasn’t exactly a cause for rejoicing.

      He’d planned on a career in the Marine Corps. Put in thirty or forty years or more, climbing the ranks, then retire while he was still young enough to enjoy it.

      Things hadn’t gone the way he planned.

      There was a message light on his office phone. Maddox Heller’s deep drawl on his voice mail. “Stop by my office on your way out. I may have something for you.”

      He crossed the breezeway between the gym and the main office building, shivering as the frigid wind bit at every exposed inch of his skin. He’d experienced much colder temperatures, but there was something about the damp mountain air that chilled a man to the bone.

      Heller was on the phone when Mike stuck his head into the office. Heller waved him in, gesturing toward one of the two chairs that sat in front of his desk.

      Mike sat, enjoying the comforting warmth of the place. And not just the heat pouring through the vents. There was a personal warmth in the space, despite its masculine simplicity. A scattering of photos that took up most of the empty surfaces in the office, from Heller’s broad walnut desk to the low credenza against the wall. Family photos of Heller’s pretty wife, Iris, and his two ridiculously cute kids, Daisy and Jacob.

      Even leathernecks could be tamed, it seemed.

      Maddox hung up the phone and shot Mike a look of apology. “Sorry. Daisy won a spelling bee today and had to spell all the words for me.”

      Mike smiled. “How far the mighty warrior has fallen.”

      Heller just grinned as he picked up a folder lying in front of him. “One day it’ll be you, and then you’ll figure it out yourself.”

      “Figure out what?” he asked, taking the folder Heller handed him.

      “That family just makes you stronger.” Heller nodded at the folder. “Take a look at what our background check division came up with.”

      “That was quick.” Mike opened the folder. Staring up at him was an eight-by-ten glossy photo of a dark-haired young woman. Teenager, he amended after a closer look. Sophisticated looking, but definitely young. She didn’t look familiar. “This isn’t the woman from my class.”

      “I know. Her name was Alice Bearden.”

      Mike looked up sharply. “Was?”

      “She died about ten years ago. Two days before Christmas in a hit-and-run accident. The driver was never found.”

      Mike grimaced. So young. And so close to Christmas. “Bearden,” he said. “Any relation to that Bearden guy whose face is plastered on every other billboard from here to Paducah?”

      “Craig Bearden. Candidate for US Senate.” Heller nodded toward the folder in Mike’s lap. “Keep reading.”

      Mike flipped through the rest of the documents in the file. They were mostly printouts of online newspaper articles about the accident and a few stories about Craig Bearden’s run for the Senate. “Bearden turned his daughter’s death into a political platform. Charming.”

      “His eighteen-year-old daughter obtained a fake ID so she could purchase alcohol in a bar. The bartender may have been fooled by the fake ID, but that doesn’t excuse him from serving so much alcohol she was apparently too drunk to walk straight. And maybe her inebriation was what led her to wander into the street in front of a moving vehicle, but whoever hit her didn’t stop to call for help.”

      “And he’s now crusading against what exactly?”

      “All of the above? The bartender was never charged, and the bar apparently still exists today, so I guess if he sued, he lost. Maybe this is his way of feeling he got some sort of justice for his daughter.”

      Mike looked at the photo of Alice Bearden again. A tragedy that her life was snuffed out, certainly. But he hadn’t asked Heller to look into Alice Bearden’s background.

      “What does this have to do with Charlie Winters?” he asked.

      “Read the final page.”

      Mike scanned the last page. It was earliest of the articles on the accident, he realized. The dateline was December 26, three days after the accident. He scanned the article, stopping short at the fourth paragraph.

      Miss Bearden was last seen at the Headhunter Bar on Middleburg Road close to midnight,

      accompanied by another teenager, Charlotte Winters of Bagwell.

      “Charlie Winters was with Alice when she died?”

      “That seems to be the big question,” Heller answered. “Nobody seems to know what happened between the time they left the bar and when Alice’s body was found in the middle of the road a couple of hours later.”

      Mike’s gaze narrowed. “Charlie refused to talk?”

      “Worse,” Heller answered. “I talked to the lead investigator interviewed in the article. He’s still with the county sheriff’s department and remembers the case well. According to him, Charlotte Winters claims to have no memory of leaving the bar at all. As far as she’s concerned, almost the whole night is one big blank.”

      “And what does he think?”

      “He thinks Charlie Winters might have gotten away with murder.”

Chapter Two

      Making four copies was overkill, wasn’t it?

      Charlie looked at the flash drive buried at the bottom of the gym bag’s inner pocket. Were four copies a sign of paranoia?

      “I wonder if Mike is married.” The voice was female, conspiratorial and close by.

      Charlie looked up to find one of her fellow students applying lipstick using a small compact mirror. Midthirties, decent shape, softly pretty. Kim, Charlie thought, matching the name from Monday’s roll call to the face. She’d tried to memorize all the names and faces from the class. Partly as a game to relieve her boredom, but partly because the knowledge might come in handy someday.

      Like during the zombie apocalypse?

      Oh man. She was paranoid, wasn’t she?

      “I didn’t expect him to be so hot,” Kim said, punctuating the statement with the snap of her compact closing. “I didn’t see a ring.”

      “Maybe he doesn’t like to wear it when he’s engaging in self-defense activities.” Charlie grimaced at her lame response. Kim was clearly trying to be friendly, seeking to engage Charlie with a topic they might both find intriguing. And her response was to cut her off at the knees?

      “Maybe.” Kim’s smile faded. “Probably. A guy that good-looking is either married by this age or gay.”

      “Or commitment-phobic,” Charlie added.