The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (primary phonics txt) 📗

Whatever she hoped to accomplish, Liesa just placed a huge target on her back.

The whole encounter upsets everything I thought I knew about the case. I wonder if Barton is really my man after all.

***

Later that night, uninterested in working and too afraid to attempt sleep, I channel surf. Television stories on the murder have dwindled. With nothing fresh to report, the crime shows divert their attention elsewhere. I keep flipping, longing for a distraction. I breeze past the Celebrity News Channel, only to go back when a passing image of Lara Landrum catches my eye. The broadcaster promises, “More to come after the break.” I put down the remote.

The report begins: “Breaking news out of Hollywood tonight. Lara Landrum, still recovering from the shocking murder of her sister Sara Barton, has decommitted from all her future movie projects, citing the need for personal time. Insiders also tell us that Landrum has become withdrawn in the wake of her sister’s murder, and friends worry about her present emotional state. Landrum intends to stay in Atlanta for the immediate future to be closer to her sister’s memory. The murder of Sara Barton remains unsolved.”

The rest of the segment features the suntanned host interviewing gossip reporters for their reaction to the news. The reporters pretend to possess special knowledge about the situation, but the generalities they peddle betray their ignorance. The whole exercise is vapid. I switch off the TV and head to bed.

An hour or so later, my cell phone rings. The clock shows 2:26 a.m. I don’t recognize the number. I prep for bad news.

I answer, “Hello?”

“Chance Meridian?”

“Yes?”

“I shouldn’t have called. It’s Lara Landrum. You gave me your number the day you and Detective Moore visited my house. Did I wake you?”

I bolt upright—the President calling from the Oval Office would’ve been less surprising.

“I’m awake. What’s wrong?”

“That’s the thing. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted someone to talk to. I keep thinking of Sara. She is my twin. Now she is gone. I feel so alone. I thought you might understand what I’m going through.”

Of course. A simple Google search would reveal the painful particulars of my past. Dead wife. Dead son. The killer still on the loose. Unsolved murders haunt the families left behind in murder’s wake, and I’m the poster child.

I respond, “I’m not sure that I make the best grief counselor.”

“I just want to talk.”

“Are you hungry?”

***

We meet forty-five minutes later at Waffle House. In the dead of night, we have the place almost to ourselves. I’m a regular.

We order and make small talk. Country music plays in the background—the modern variety, not the good stuff. When the food arrives, the conversation turns to death. Lara again apologizes, “I shouldn’t have called.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I need to know. Does it get better?”

“That’s what they say.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

I shrug my shoulders, unsure what I can add. Two years have passed, and I still suppress most memories of Amber and Cale just to ward off the darkness from taking over. My coping mechanism for grief is to run from it.

Lara presses forward, “The murder does not feel real. I expect to see her any day now. The phone rings, and I expect it to be her. It never should’ve come to this. I remember her wedding day. She was so happy and beautiful.”

“Still think Barton did it?”

“Definitely. Who else?”

***

We stand outside—two hurting people marking time with each other. As we walk to her car, Lara asks one final thing, “Will you bring my sister’s killer to justice?”

Thoughts of Mr. Smith—the unknown murderer of Amber and Cale—hover in the back of my mind. But families of victims often ask this question. The standard response I give promises diligence but never results. The future is always obscure. This time—whether because of the lateness of the hour, emotional weakness, or the person doing the asking—I avoid lawyerly platitudes. I say just one word.

“Yes.”

She kisses my cheek and drives away. I lurk in the parking lot for a spell and breathe in the night air.

7

The next morning Sam barges unannounced through the door of my office, startling me from my work.

He demands, “What do you think you’re doing?”

A saying among trial lawyers goes like this: if the facts are on your side, argue the facts; if the law is on your side, argue the law; if neither the facts nor the law is on your side, bang the table. Sam is banging the table.

“Sam, a lot of deputies around here with loaded guns get skittish when they hear loud disturbances in these offices. You might want to lower your voice a little.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Close the door and sit down.” He smarts for a bit but does as he is told.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

Sam leans forward, and in an elevated whisper, airs his grievance, “You went to my house and talked to Liesa behind my back. You surprised her and scared her and threatened her. You told her about me and Sara after you promised you wouldn’t. Liesa won’t talk to me now and is threatening to get a divorce and to report me to the state bar. I could lose everything. You should have come to me first before talking to her. You owe me that. I could’ve given you whatever information you need. You didn’t have to be such a prick, Chance.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s enough.”

I ask myself how I want the rest of this meeting to go. Sam and Liesa are now both persons of interest in a murder investigation, and I have to approach things in that frame of mind. The open question is whether I proceed with an attitude of cooperation or confrontation. I choose the latter. The velvet glove has yet to work with the Wilkins family.

“Sam, let’s get one thing straight. I don’t need permission from you to do my job. Got that?”

He chews on that a bit before acknowledging the truth of my statement. His eyes avoid mine and look past