Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

called me. One of Fox’s neighbors, a Chris Ingram, told Officer Wyatt that he saw a jogger the morning of her murder. It might be nothing, but it’s a lead we need to follow.” She proceeded to tell him the man’s address. “Malone’s forwarding over a copy of the interview. We’ll read it and pull Ingram’s background before we knock on his door. But you get us there.”

They got into the car, and she read the interview while they drove the thirty minutes back to Dumfries. At least there were no delays this time.

Twenty-Nine

Amanda was probably starting to hinge too much hope on this eyewitness account about an early-morning jogger panning out, but a detective couldn’t be picky as to what leads to follow. Every one needed attention like loose threads on a sweater. Though when applied to an investigation, one wished for a string that, when tugged, ripped apart an entire seam. Real effect and consequence. Sadly, finding them was the tricky part.

When Amanda and Trent got out of the department car at Chris Ingram’s house, located at 603 Bill Drive, it was going on four o’clock in the afternoon.

Across the street, a piece of yellow crime scene tape had snagged on a bush in Fox’s front yard and flapped in the breeze. She looked toward 532 and saw a growing memorial, but there was no police car.

“Just a minute,” she said to Trent as she pulled out her phone and called Malone. Received voicemail. “On Bill Drive following up that lead you gave me and noticed there’s no uniform on five thirty-two. Why? Please call me back.” Once she finished leaving the message, she noticed a man standing in the front window of Ingram’s house.

She and Trent headed up the walk, and the front door was opened before they climbed the stairs and reached the landing.

A man in his forties was studying them.

Amanda held up her badge, as did Trent. She announced them. “Detectives Amanda Steele and Trent Stenson. Are you Chris Ingram?” He looked just like his DMV photo, but it was always best to confirm identification.

“That’s me.”

“You provided a statement to Officer Wyatt. We have a few follow-up questions we’d like to ask.”

“Come in.” The offer was extended on a sigh, but Chris stepped back to allow them room to enter.

The house smelled strongly of pine cleaner and gave Amanda an immediate headache.

“Do you have somewhere we could sit?” Trent asked.

Her pounding head was making it hard to fully concentrate. She did note a living room to the immediate right of the entry, though. Zero clutter and the basics: a couch, a chair, a couple of coffee tables, and an entertainment stand. But in place of a TV, there was a fish tank. Maybe that’s what the cleaner was trying to cover. Fish could be peaceful—or boring—to watch, but their tanks could stink if they weren’t cleaned regularly.

“Here fine?” Chris gestured toward the sitting area.

“Perfect.” Trent smiled politely.

Chris sat on the chair, and Amanda and Trent shared the couch.

“You told Officer Wyatt that you saw a man jogging across the street around five thirty yesterday morning.” Amanda knew that from reading the officer’s interview on the way here.

“That’s right.”

“I know you provided a description of the man to Officer Wyatt, but could you tell us again, in your own words?” Amanda asked.

“In his thirties, early forties maybe. He had dark hair, trimmed short. Average build and height.”

That matched the statement the officer took and was generic as hell. “Had you ever seen him before?” Again, she was aware of what the interview had said but wanted to hear it for herself.

“I don’t think so.”

Amanda glanced briefly at Trent, as if to instill a teaching moment, but said to Chris, “You told Officer Wyatt that you hadn’t seen him before.” Changing stories or memories that resurfaced were why she always questioned things that came from a third party.

Chris’s gaze flickered just slightly, as if annoyed. “If you know everything I told him, why ask me?”

“Just now, you said that you didn’t think you’d seen him before. A lot less definitive than you were with Officer Wyatt,” she pointed out. “I’ll ask again.”

“I might have. I’m not sure. He wasn’t jogging the other time, though.”

Trent and Amanda both inched forward on the couch. He asked, “When and where?”

“Just walking down the street… with a woman?”

She hated it when eyewitnesses responded with a question like they were unsure, but she had to take what she was given. “He was with a woman? Can you describe her?”

Chris took a deep breath, let out a funky moan, and said, “She was blond. Probably about your height.”

Amanda was five nine. “Did you get a good look at her face?”

“Nah, it was dark out.”

“Early morning or night?” A valid question as the sun didn’t rise until closer to seven these days.

Chris rubbed a hand down his face. “I’d been drinking, so it must have been night. Don’t ask me the time. Heck, probably why I’m not even sure if I saw him.”

She was just going to ignore his self-doubt. “When was this? Recently? A while back?”

“I’d say recently.”

“Within the last couple of days?” She was really hoping to narrow the timeline down a tad.

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

And there was the gold nugget that Amanda had been looking for—a possible connection to Ashley Lynch. She had been murdered two days ago and was about Amanda’s height. Was she the woman Chris was talking about? There was the matter of Chris saying that he saw them at night, and Ashley’s time of death was pegged between four and five thirty in the morning. Did that mean the killer had spent time with Ashley before killing her—and doing what? It hadn’t been sex because Rideout had found zero evidence of that—consensual or otherwise. But maybe Amanda was getting carried away to think it was Ashley and her killer that Chris had seen. “How old would you say she was?”

“I didn’t get a good look.”

Amanda continued to