The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Lance McMillian (ereader with android .txt) 📖

is the murder weapon. Too many people watching for us to be wrong. We’ll have him in a few days when ballistics comes in.”

Bobby’s election year nerves are on full display, and every day without an arrest makes him twitchy. But electoral sensitivities can’t outrun the case. Impatience makes fools of us all.

Bobby counters, “I still don’t like him being out there on the loose. What if he runs? He has the money. The press would kill me for that. Do the police have his passport?”

“If he runs, he makes our case that much stronger. He’s not so rich that he could simply disappear, not someone like him.”

He snorts his displeasure. To help him sleep better at night, I concede, “Your point about the passport is a good one. I’ll talk to Millwood about it.” That excuse also allows me a chance to feel out my mentor on the case against his client.

***

I’m on the phone with Millwood in minutes. Without going into the particulars of the case, I convey the official concern that his client might bolt the country to escape the reach of justice and that everyone on my side of the fence would sleep easier if Barton would surrender his passport. Millwood absorbs the news in that contemplative way of his.

He asks, “That bad, huh?”

“That bad.”

“What can you tell me about the evidence you think you have against my client?”

“Nothing. Any alibi your client wishes to share with the authorities?”

Millwood grunts and doesn’t answer the question. We parlay back and forth a little longer, but our hearts aren’t in it. The real battle will be in the courtroom. We’re both too experienced to give the game away in a telephone call.

“I’ll let you know about the passport,” he concludes.

“Make sure he doesn’t run.”

9

Brice Tanner sits alone in the police interrogation room, wearing an expensive suit and a scared look that mocks the confidence of his clothes. I watch him through the glass. He glances at his watch and steals a quick look toward the two-way mirror facing him, not knowing I’m on the other side. The building runs warm, and small droplets of sweat form around his temple. Scott enters to face his prey, carrying a folder and notepad.

“Mr. Tanner, my name is Detective Scott Moore. Nice to meet you. You know why you’re here.”

Brice nods, but looks down to avoid eye contact.

“Anything you want to say before we begin?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Anything you want.”

Scott throws out the bait to see if the fish will bite. Sometimes people want to get things off their chest and will reveal information you wouldn’t even have dreamed to ask them about.

Brice responds, “I don’t have anything to say. I just want to answer your questions and get out of here.”

Scott opens the file with a slow turn of the page and organizes his notepad. He begins, “Let’s get the distasteful stuff out of the way first, okay? Did you murder Sara Barton?”

“No!”

“Do you know who did?”

“No!”

“Good.”

Scott regularly uses this technique. Grab attention right off the bat by starting with the big ask and try to establish an immediate rapport by presenting the question as an annoying formality. The goal is to buy focus and trust with the same transaction. Brice can walk out of here at any point, and Scott does not want to waste time with questions that do not advance the ball.

“How did you meet Sara Barton?”

“At a firm function, maybe a Christmas party or something like that.”

“This is Marsh & McCabe?”

“Yeah.”

“When was this?”

“Last year. I had just started at the firm out of law school.”

“Why was Mrs. Barton there?”

“She was with her husband. He’s a partner in the firm.”

“Makes sense. Tell me your story.”

Brice does so. He and Sara met on the night of that initial firm function. Bernard Barton ditched his wife once the two of them arrived at the party, spending all his time with Monica Haywood instead. Brice and Sara hit it off, but nothing happened between them at first. The two continued to see each other periodically at other firm events. Some flirting transpired on these occasions, but nothing more. Five months ago, Sara showed up at his apartment door out of the blue. The affair immediately commenced.

When Brice finishes, Scott observes, “You left out the part about the sex tape.”

“What is there to say? The whole world knows about it at this point. We were recorded without our knowledge. It was an invasion of privacy as far as I’m concerned.”

“You were at the High Museum.”

Brice shrugs.

“And this scene at the High Museum was after she showed up at your apartment unannounced?”

“Yes.”

“What was Sara’s reaction to the video going around?”

“Scared. She warned me that Bernard was steaming mad and I should be careful.”

“Did Mr. Barton ever retaliate against you?”

“We never talked about it.”

“Why weren’t you fired? Sleeping with your boss’ wife at a company party would seem to be a sackable offense. It would get me fired.”

The mental picture of Scott having sex with the police chief’s septuagenarian wife crashes my mind. That would be the world’s worst sex tape.

Brice answers, “Bernard’s a partner but not really my boss. I don’t actually work with him. Other partners don’t like him at all. They protected me, I guess. I never heard anything about him trying to get me fired.”

“Don’t you see him in the halls?”

“Yeah.”

“How does that go?”

“It’s uncomfortable, I guess, but nothing’s ever come of it.”

“Except now his wife is dead.”

Brice digests Scott’s words. They don’t go down well. He looks at his watch.

“I have a meeting I need to make. Am I free to go?”

“Who do you need to meet?”

This simple question catches Brice off-guard. He does not even try to answer. He wants out. Good. When witnesses wish their questioning to be over, impatience leads to mistakes. Brice’s sweating quickens. He looks like someone who would pay $100 to take off his jacket. But taking the jacket off would signal a longer interview, which Brice wants