Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

Thirty-Four

Amanda might have only gotten about five hours’ sleep, but it had done her a world of good. She probably slept well because before heading home she’d been successful at finding potential evidence that could support Samuel Booth as their killer. However, his wife had denied any allegations that her husband beat or abused her in any way. There also wasn’t any record of her receiving medical attention for unexplained injuries. Alesha was adamant that her nose had always sat crooked on her face, and she’d backed that up by showing them a childhood photo of herself.

It was eight o’clock Sunday morning and most of the county was still in bed, but she and Trent were at Central. They had Samuel shown to an interrogation room and would soon join him.

On their way there, Trent turned to her. “I’m not sure about this, Amanda.”

“I know you have your doubts about him. Honestly, so do I.”

“Open mind then?”

“Open mind,” she agreed.

“We can’t place him at either crime scene. I’ve looked at the photos again.”

“Maybe he didn’t watch, or he was good at avoiding having his picture taken.” She realized she was convicting the man again, and that wasn’t like her, but this case was making her a little crazy.

They entered the room, and Samuel barely lifted his head.

“Have a good night’s sleep?” she asked.

“Yeah. The best,” he responded sardonically.

She didn’t say anything but pulled photos of Ashley and Shannon from the folder and laid them out.

He rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was hoping you’d clue in that I didn’t kill them.”

“Not there quite yet. Ashley Lynch—” she pressed a fingertip to her photo “—was strangled, just like Joyce.”

“As you told me yester—”

“She was stabbed, also just like Joyce,” she interrupted him and pointed to Shannon Fox.

“But I don’t know these women.”

“You know that we’ll get to the truth, Mr. Booth. You killed Joyce. In your words she was a slut. Ashley Lynch prostituted herself, but it wasn’t because she had a choice. She was coerced and beaten into doing so. She was only sixteen.” She could feel anxiety ratcheting in her chest. If Samuel had killed her, he deserved the heaviest sentence the law could give. “Did you see her as a slut, Mr. Booth? Is that why you killed her?”

He met her gaze, his eyes wide and wet.

She pushed on. “Did you kill Ms. Fox because she interfered in your plans?”

“You’re losing me now.”

Her heart was palpitating off rhythm. Maybe she was rather stubbornly latching onto Samuel being the killer because she wanted this case put to rest and get justice for two victims—one of which was only a young woman. She withdrew another photo from her folder. It was of Samuel’s mother, and he visibly recoiled. “Just as I thought. You hate your mother, Mr. Booth.”

“I, ah…” He rubbed his neck.

She was getting to the meat of what she’d uncovered. “She was a single parent, and she was a drunk all the time and slept around. She brought strange men into your house. Maybe some of them even liked little Sam—”

“I want a lawyer, now!”

Her heart was pounding wildly. She felt a little out of control. Maybe she had taken her hypothetical too far, but she got a telling reaction. Brandon had mentioned the possibility of their killer being abused as a child, and Samuel’s strong outburst just as much confirmed he had been. “The lawyer’s probably a good idea.” She got up and left with Trent. She faced him and said, “While he’s waiting on his attorney, you and I are going to Washington.”

“For?”

“We’re going to talk to Detective Robbins in person and see what he has to say about Crystal Foster and Ashley Lynch. Maybe Booth even came up in his investigations?”

“I don’t know about that…”

She could see her partner’s doubt all over his face, and his expression served as a mirror for self-examination. She was the one having a hard time keeping an open mind, but all she could think about was the branding tattoo on Ashley’s chest. That poor girl had lived in hell, and Amanda was determined to get her justice.

Thirty-Five

Amanda tried reaching Detective Robbins several times before leaving Central as Trent drove them to Washington, but she kept landing in his voicemail. When they arrived at Robbins’s police district station, they were told to wait in the seating area and that Detective Robbins would be out shortly.

“You looking for me?”

She raised her head to see a man with a stern demeanor bent down and waving a hand in front of her face. She’d hadn’t even heard him approach.

“If you’re Detective Robbins, we are,” she said.

“I am. Who’s asking?”

Amanda and Trent both stood. Chester Robbins was a giant of a man and had to be six four at least.

She was quite sure the person at the front desk would have told him who they were, but she’d play along. “Detectives Amanda Steele and Trent Stenson with the Prince William County PD.” They held up their badges, and Chester immediately turned to leave. “Uh… we need to talk to you, and we’re not leaving until we do. I left a message for you last night, and I’ve tried to reach you several times today.”

Chester mumbled something that resembled “come with me” and set off down a hall. She and Trent followed.

“Did you get my message?”

“Uh-huh.” He just kept walking.

She caught up to his side. “Okay, then you were going to call me back?”

Chester glanced over at her. “When I got a chance. I looked up the name. Ashley Lynch, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She was reported missing three years ago. I’ve got fresh cases on my desk that need attention.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence? We have a fresh homicide, and we believe the victim may have been Ashley Lynch.”

He stared at her but kept moving.

She couldn’t understand why he was being so difficult. They were there with potential news about a case of his. Then again, maybe that explained the attitude—he didn’t