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

murderer would also want to remove the weapon farther away from the house—unless the murderer didn’t flee the scene.

I think again of my friend Sam.

***

Despite the fast-moving events of the day, Lara Landrum’s innocent kiss on the cheek consumes more than its fair share of my mental energy. That the touch of those lips to my face would get me thinking untoward thoughts about her doesn’t surprise. I’m not dead yet, and Lara is a beautiful woman. I instruct my mind to change the channel. The impossibility of the situation means meeting her again off the clock is a non-starter. Prosecutors and witnesses don’t mix.

***

My cell sounds later that night while I’m still in the office. I smile at the caller ID and wonder about the mood on the other end.

I answer, “Hello?”

“It’s Sam.”

“Long day?”

“Shut up. You proved your point. You’re a big man with a lot of power. I get it. I still don’t want you talking to Liesa. I’m her lawyer, and you and the police are forbidden from talking to her outside of my presence. But that’s not why I called. I have something for you. Can we meet?”

Sigh. The thought of meeting with him again makes my head hurt. Needless drama bores me, and Sam seems intent on shoveling it out in spades.

“What do you have for me? I don’t have time chasing some fool’s errand.”

“It’s worth it. I promise. The Varsity in 30 minutes? We can grab a bite to eat.”

Sam’s promises don’t hold much weight with me at the moment, but the mention of The Varsity reminds me that I’m hungry. His suggestion of such a public place also lessens the possibility that he has completely snapped and intends to harm me.

I nevertheless ask, “You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”

He laughs.

“Man, I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

“Good. I’ll see you there.”

8

“Why are we here, Sam?”

The Varsity stays busy, and tonight reflects that norm. Sam and I sit in the back room with all the windows, affording us front-row seats of the cars charging along the interstate. The room is the only one in the restaurant without a television blaring sports. The mood here is quieter, more private. Sam pulls out a thick file from his briefcase and slaps it down on the table.

I ask, “What’s this?”

“My investigative file on Bernard Barton.”

The file is thick. Sam now has my full attention, and the interest on my face pleases him. Transparent as ever, Sam’s eagerness to now cooperate shows that he is up to something. I remain cautious.

He says, “I knew you would be interested. You think it’s the husband, huh? I do, too. I want you to have the file. Use it in whatever way you wish.”

We take the measure of each other across a cafeteria-style booth. Three chili dogs sit on Sam’s plate, a large Coke to the side. My greasy bacon cheeseburger and cup of water look healthy by comparison. Sam takes a big bite.

I don’t reach for the file quite yet. Evidence is my stock in trade, but this isn’t going to be some quid pro quo. Sam can turn over the file if he wants, but I’m not buying if he’s looking to sell.

“You can give this to me, and I’ll gladly take it, no strings attached. But you are still on the suspect list. Liesa is still on the suspect list. If either of you killed Sara Barton, I’ll nail you. That’s a promise.”

“I’ve known you long enough to know all of that.”

“Good.”

With the terms understood, I move the file away from Sam to my side of the table. Consuming the file will take hours of work, and the thought fills me with a manic joy. I ask, “Why don’t you give me a preview of what I can expect to find in here?”

While chewing, Sam taps the file with his index finger as he washes the food down with the Coke. Fresh mustard snails its way down his tie. He gives me the low down.

“Well, in lucrative divorces I always like to get a private detective working on the case. You never know what will shake out. Some of the stuff I’ve discovered over the years, you wouldn’t believe. My go-to man is good. Ex-cop. You’d like him. Seems like our Bernard likes to gamble, except he’s not very good at it. Goes to Vegas every few weeks, always taking his mistress, Monica Haywood. Well, the losses keep adding up, $763k at last count. Now Bernard makes good money, about $1 million a year, but he doesn’t take home near that much because of Uncle Sam, so he’s struggling. There’s something else. The Bartons had life insurance policies on each other. Bernard stands to collect $5 million now that Sara is dead.”

My reaction borders on disbelief. The treasure trove Sam has laid upon my lap sounds too good to be true.

“How do I know everything in here is on the up-and-up? Maybe you’re just feeding me a bunch of bull to cast suspicion elsewhere.”

“I’m not playing you. It’s all documented. Subpoena the casinos. Check flight records. There’s a paper trail.”

I believe him. Part of this meeting is no doubt a hustle. Sam wants to direct my focus to what’s behind door number one and away from doors two and three. I’m not blind to the ulterior motives working in his brain. But the information figures to stand on its own two feet. I have another question.

“The search of your home and office didn’t turn up any files on the Barton divorce. Where were you hiding this?”

“A safe place.”

His proud smile tells me that this non-answer is as far as I’m going to get. This version of Sam presents better than whiny Sam, slippery Sam, or angry Sam. By acting like a lawyer again, he is at least playing the right game. But I’m curious about the reasons behind the change.

“You seemed to have regained your wits about you. What changed since