Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

Chris’s forehead beaded with sweat, and he swiped it. “I dunno. Some source. You know how journalists are about things like that.”

Source… Her heart was racing. No one outside of law enforcement should have had access to that information—although there was the neighborhood rumor mill and Bethany Greene. But what motive would she have to disclose tidbits from her friend’s murder to strangers or the press? It had to be their killer behind this. Had he wanted his story out so badly that he did what he could to make that happen? She hadn’t seen the news or read any, but surely if the mutilation had gone public, she would have heard. “Someone told Mr. Reyes?”

“Ah, yeah.”

She was ready to hunt down Fraser Reyes, but she couldn’t leave without asking Ted another question. She pulled up the photo of Ashley Lynch, justifying this move because he’d mentioned squatters and maybe he could put to rest whether Ashley had stayed at 532 Bill Drive or was randomly taken there. She angled her screen for Ted to see. “Does she look familiar to you?”

Ted leaned in, his eyes squinting. Then he shrugged. “Maybe.”

“That’s how you want to play this?” she slapped back.

“I’m not just going to say something because you want to hear it, Detective.”

“This girl is dead, Mr. Dixon.” She stamped home the somber reality.

“Fine, yeah, I saw her around before.”

“Squatting in the neighboring house?”

“Maybe.”

Amanda took a deep, staggering breath and put her phone back in her pocket. She swung the front door open and spun to say, “Just do us a favor. Stop spreading rumors, and if you hear anything, use the number on the card I gave you.” She didn’t speak the threat, but if she had to see him again, she’d be taking him in.

Ted mumbled something argumentative, but she didn’t have time to deal with him.

She and Trent left. Once they reached the sidewalk, she turned to him. “We’re going to talk to Fraser Reyes.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

Thirty

Fraser answered his door in dress pants and a collared shirt, no tie. “Can I help you, Detective Steele?” He danced his gaze over the two of them.

Smug and cocky, and Amanda despised both qualities, but she’d adhere to the adage of getting “more flies with honey.” Instead of bulldozing him and accusing him of withholding information from the police, she’d go about matters slightly more diplomatically. “We need to ask you some questions about Ted Dixon. We understand he’s a friend of yours.”

“All right, but I was just getting ready to go out, though.”

“We won’t be long.” She smiled as genuinely as she could muster, and it had the reporter welcoming them into his home.

A simple apartment but tastefully appointed. He led them to a seating area with six chairs laid out in a basic circle, no couch in sight. He dropped into one wingback, and she and Trent into two others.

“How can I help the PWCPD?” Fraser asked, clasping his hands in his lap.

Interesting question. He hadn’t helped them back in January when he’d accused the PWCPD of playing favorites in a murder investigation. All the finger-pointing had landed in her direction and had her facing off with Lieutenant Hill. In response, Amanda’s temper had flared, and she’d almost walked away from being a cop for good.

“We understand that you may have come into some information about a recent murder case.” She scanned his face, curious if he’d volunteer his knowledge or make her dredge it from him.

“I’m not sure what this has to do with Ted. You said you had questions about him.”

Amanda shrugged. “It got us in your door, and Ted’s really how we came to be here talking to you.”

“I’m not understanding.”

“I think you do, but I’ll make it clearer for you. A woman, more specifically Shannon Fox, was murdered in her home on Bill Drive,” she said.

“Okay.” His face was stoic.

She was ready to abandon the whole “flies with honey” thing. It hadn’t lasted long, but at least she’d given it a shot. “We know that you found out that her tongue was severed.”

“Ah, sure. You read my article?”

“What article?” Her core rushed with molten lava.

He grabbed a tablet from a side table and swept his finger across the screen. “This one.” He held it up for Amanda and Trent to see.

The headline read: “Murder and Mutilation in Dumfries.”

She shot to her feet and grabbed the device from him and scanned the article. Shannon Fox’s name was there, along with the details of the mutilation. She took a few minutes to compose herself and cool her anger, then said in an even voice, “Where did you get this information?”

Fraser glanced from her to Trent, then rubbed his chin. “Ah, a source.” Stated calmly with no shame or remorse.

“The PWCPD’s Public Information Office is the only source you should be listening to right now. And they aren’t saying anything.”

“Uh-huh, exactly.” Fraser was the epitome of put-togetherness.

“Let me see if I understand your point,” she began. “The police aren’t talking to you, so you wrote your own story based on some source?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s your source?”

“I’m not going to tell you that,” he scoffed. “The press has constitutional rights, and the public deserves to know what’s happening in their city.”

“The police have rights, too, just as Ms. Fox has the right to justice. No one but the victim’s friend, the police, investigators, the medical examiner, and the killer knew about the dismemberment. Do you gather where I’m headed with this?”

He sighed dramatically.

Amanda pressed on. “You’re hiding behind your source.” She added finger quotes. She longed to jolt him into speaking. “But maybe you’re the source. Did you kill Ms. Fox?”

“That’s absurd!” he exclaimed.

“Where were you between four and six Friday morning?” she asked. Fox’s time-of-death window.

“I submitted a piece to a newspaper around five that day. I can get you proof of the submission.”

“We’re going to need that,” Trent chimed in and stole Fraser’s gaze.

The