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

sees you. Something happens between the two of you—a fight, an argument, something. The neighbors heard you. Sam tells you to get the hell away from there and gives you time to leave before calling the cops. This theory allows for the strange dichotomy that you think Sam might’ve killed Sara Barton and he thought you might’ve killed her. Thoughts?”

“I don’t like that theory.”

“Well, another theory is that you killed Sara Barton. Sam discovered you. Hilarity ensues.”

“I don’t like that theory, either.”

“Me neither. I like the first theory better since I’m putting Bernard Barton on trial for murder next week.”

Liesa lets the conversation stop, and I ponder my theories in the resulting silence. She avoids eye contact and stares at her wine with uneven concentration. Without looking up, she asks, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t. I wasn’t pretty enough for Sam.”

“I doubt that had anything to do with it.”

I read something once. The Bible teaches David was a man after God’s own heart. Yet David probably had at least 300 wives and concubines. Even that wasn’t enough. He still wanted Bathsheba for himself. Or take Solomon. He was the wisest person ever, warned the multitudes against the danger of sexual sin, and then destroyed his own life chasing women. What sense does that make? Lust devours reason, no matter the man.

She says, “I don’t want to date again. I’m too old to start over, too young not to. I’m stuck. Like everything else in life, it’s easier for men. But I’m a single mom with three kids. Nobody will want me. Or if they do, it will be for the money. What about you? Is there someone new?”

I don’t answer the question, but the reaction in my face gives the game away. There is someone. Liesa asks, “What is she like?”

I think: Lara is beautiful, insightful, twisted, passionate, crazy, fun, scared, scary, hateful, and unpredictable—wonderful at times but possessed of a negative energy that will either defeat you into passive submission or make you angry enough to kill. I think back to the earlier scene in the condo. One word crystalizes in my mind.

“Bipolar.”

Saying it out loud creates in me one of those random eureka moments. Bipolar. My mind works fast. Is bipolar disorder hereditary? Ella has Sara Barton’s medical files. We haven’t focused on them because they lack much relevance to the case. But I will ask Ella to take a look for evidence of bipolar disorder. The diagnosis would explain a lot.

Liesa scoffs, looks closely at the wine in her glass, and decides to take another drink.

She asks, “Did you ever cheat on Amber?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t. Too much of a boy scout, looking down on the rest of us in moral disapproval.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Probably.”

“Where were you the night of Sara Barton’s murder?”

“I never liked her that much.”

“Who?”

“Amber.”

My head hurts. The memory of a concussion suffered on the football field reaches me from the past. The same signs then are present now. I ignore Liesa’s provocation and wonder if I should go to the hospital.

Liesa continues, “Mind you, I didn’t want Amber to get murdered or anything. She just rubbed me the wrong way. Too goody two shoes for my taste.”

“Whatever you’re doing, stop. You’re most likely going to be a witness in my murder trial next week. We need to work together here.”

“She used to lead you around by the nose, that’s for sure. Everybody said so.”

“I’m beginning to see why Sam cheated on you.”

That shuts her up for the moment. Just like our first meeting a few months ago, my irritation with Liesa leads me to smack her in the face with Sam’s adultery. Both of us are starting to boil. I felt angry enough to kill Lara this afternoon, and I’m not in the mood for a repeat performance. Liesa’s drunk, and I probably have a concussion—a volatile mix. I stand up to depart.

She demands, “Who killed my husband?”

“Where were you when Sam died?”

“Leave. Just leave.”

“You’re going to have to answer these questions sometime, Liesa.”

“Get out of my house.”

***

The drive home is an angry one. First Lara this afternoon, then Liesa tonight. The confrontation with Liesa is the fresher event, but it is the drama earlier in the day with Lara that plays on a loop inside my sore head. I’m losing control of myself, and she is the cause. Knowing that I am dancing to her tune enrages me all the more.

The garage door closes behind me. Alone, I can begin some much-needed personal repairs. I sit in the car for a good ten minutes. My blood pressure returns to normal. I scamper into my house ready to put this sordid day to bed. I don’t get far.

Lara stands before me, and part of me dies inside. She approaches without a word and slaps me with everything she has. I flinch a retaliatory punch, but stop short. No.

She is insane, and I struggle for my soul against the wave of her craziness. She kisses me hard, but I push her away. Roughly. I want to hit her. She kisses me again. Bites my lip. Draws blood. She grabs my hand and puts it on her body. I feel her desire. Emotion overwhelms logic. I flip her on her stomach over the back of the couch. Base instinct takes over.

Across the way a mirror hangs that displays the face of a wild beast—my own. She meets my crazed look in the mirror, smiling a sneer of triumph that proclaims, “I own you.” My third murder trial I got a conviction of a man that strangled his ex-girlfriend. I put my hands around Lara’s neck. Her eyes dare me, but I lose my nerve.

After I complete my last revenge-filled thrusts, I toss her aside. I pant heavily on the couch—the racing heart taunting me that I am no longer a young man. Sitting on the floor, she wears a self-satisfied grin that would mortify Lucifer.

Minutes pass in silence. She slithers her way back toward me and snaps