Dead Woman Crossing by J.R. Adler (books on motivation .txt) 📗

see it made Barbara happy to feel like she was a part of the team, like she was contributing more than baked goods and coffee, like she was making a difference. What Barbara didn’t realize was she made the most difference, regardless.

“Well, I knew we were looking for past crimes and it was all run-of-the-mill stuff, so I started thinking about it in different ways. I decided to see where these people are from, and that name, Henry Colton, is the only person from Dead Woman Crossing. Every other person is an out-of-towner.”

“You’re a genius, Barb. Of course. Why would a local go to a tourist attraction?”

“Exactly.” Barbara gave a pleased smile.

“Exactly, what?” Sam asked, entering the room.

His eyes were puffy and red. His skin didn’t have its usual tan color, more like the shade of an eggshell. Sam was clearly nursing a hangover. He held a cup of coffee in his hand and a bagel sandwich in the other.

“We’ve got a lead, thanks to Barbara’s skills.”

Sam sat down, setting his bagel sandwich and coffee on the table. As soon as he was comfortable in his chair, he immediately dove into his food. There was leftover alcohol to be soaked up.

“Let’s hear it,” he said, in between chewing. He couldn’t eat the sandwich fast enough.

Kimberley knew his suffering. She slid the notebook over to Sam. He looked at the open page, his eyes going straight to the highlighted name: “Henry Colton.” He glanced back up at Chief Deputy King while he took another big bite of his sandwich, waiting for an explanation.

“Out of all the names in these notebooks, Henry Colton is the only person that’s a local.” Kimberley’s eyes were wide with excitement.

“So…?” Sam shrugged his shoulders, stuffing the last of his sandwich in his mouth and washing it down with a gulp of coffee.

“What kind of local goes to a tourist attraction in their own town? That’d be like a New Yorker going to Times Square. You just don’t do it.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, putting his hands in front of his face, all of his fingertips touching. He looked at Barbara and then at Kimberley, mulling it over in his mind.

“Bear,” he called over his shoulder.

Seconds later, Deputy Bearfield stood in the doorway. “Yeah, Sheriff.”

“Pull everything we’ve got on Henry Colton. I mean everything.”

“You got it.” Bear nodded and hurried back to his desk.

“Good work, Barbara,” Sam said, leaning forward in his chair. “We need a gal like you on the force.”

Barbara blushed, flicking her hand at him. “Oh, it was nothing.”

“No. It was something. I mean it, Barb, good work.” A look of genuine admiration plastered on his grim and pained face. “You going to eat the rest of that?” Sam pointed at Kimberley’s half-eaten Danish.

She pushed it toward him. “Have at it.”

He ripped off a chunk and tossed it in his mouth.

“Thanks, Detective,” he said.

First names were off the table. Everything seemed to be back to normal, Kimberley thought to herself. There was no awkwardness. They were back to being comrades, work partners.

“Once we have everything we know on Mr. Colton—”

“That’s where I know him from,” Kimberley interrupted, snapping her fingers as if she just snapped the memory back in her brain.

“Know who from?” Sam gave her a quizzical look.

“Henry… Henry Colton. He hit on me at The Trophy Room. He’s a real creep,” Kimberley explained. “I knew that name sounded familiar.”

“Henry Colton is a dickwad. His name stuck out like a mule in a dress,” Barbara said, crossing her arms in front of her chest and twisting up her lips. “When he was a teenager, him and his little goober friend destroyed my flowers in front of my house. Didn’t even apologize or offer to fix them. I could definitely see him doing something like this.”

“Okay…” Sam said carefully. “And Barb here has a personal vendetta against our potential suspect. From deflowering to murder. I suppose I can see the leap, Barb.”

“I’m just saying, character-wise, he doesn’t have any good points,” Barbara said with a nod.

“Duly noted.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to swing by The Trophy Room later then to ask our dear old floral destructor what his interest was in the tour and what his alibi was the night of Hannah’s death,” Kimberley added.

“I reckon you’re right about that.” Sam nodded.

Just after 4 p.m., Sam and Kimberley pulled into the parking lot of The Trophy Room. They knew Henry Colton was inside, starting his daily ritual of getting blackout drunk and attempting to take home a woman.

Kimberley scanned the room, spotting some of the regulars, the gamblers, Ryan the bartender, a couple of bikers, and then there he was—Henry and his friend were at the dartboard drinking pints of Bud Light. She recognized the friend from her first run-in with him. Henry sported his full beard and messy, ash-brown hair. His hair was matted and greasy, and his skin was covered in a patina of farm shit and grime. He clearly hadn’t gone home to shower after his shift.

“There he is.” Kimberley pointed a finger at him.

Sam nodded and they walked in step across the bar over to Henry.

“Chief Deputy King, coming back for a little more?” Henry said with a slimy grin.

He looked over at his friend, waggling his eyebrows and smirking. His friend laughed.

“I’d walk away if I were you.” Sam tightened his jaw, locking eyes with the friend.

The friend coughed awkwardly, grabbed his beer, and walked to the other end of the bar. Another man standing near them quickly cleared out too, leaving Kimberley, Sam, and Henry standing in the corner of the bar alone. The music from the jukebox and the sounds from the gambling machines made their conversation private from everyone else in the bar. Henry’s face turned serious.

“Okay, what’s this about?” He shuffled his feet and fiddled with his fingers like he couldn’t hold still. A tell of a liar.

“Let’s go outside,” Sam said. There was a firmness to his voice that no one could argue