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

strikes me as powerfully authentic. Brice now fully understands we have a mutual enemy.

“Unethical bastard,” he mutters.

True enough.

I continue, “So the bad guys know about your past, which is why we need to know everything you can tell us about whatever happened with Brittany.”

He takes a deep breath.

“We met as freshmen. I was her first serious boyfriend. She was my first serious girlfriend. We loved each other crazy-like, but we fought a bunch. We broke up, got back together, broke up again. During one of these break-ups, I was following her around trying to talk to her. She called the police to get back at me, claimed I was stalking her. I was arrested. She never pursued it further, we got back together, and the prosecutor wasn’t interested in the case. I mean, I was just walking around campus. That’s it. It was nothing. I got it expunged. Still had to report it to the bar. That stuff is supposed to be confidential.”

He leaks a bit more bitterness as I review the police report. The document is scant on details, saying only that the arrestee was following Ms. Wood around and refused her multiple requests to leave her alone, leading her to call the police. When the police arrived, Brice was still following her around, culminating in the arrest. As stalking goes, it’s pretty light. I can see why the prosecutor wasn’t clamoring to pursue the case.

The mug shot is the worst part. The close-up, invariably taken in unflattering light, shows unkempt hair, unbalanced eyes, and an unfriendly mouth. The visual contrast among Attorney Brice, Mountain Man Brice, and Mug Shot Brice mystifies me. Who is this guy?

I go back to Sara Barton. She was a beautiful woman. Plenty of men would’ve jumped at the chance to bed her, and yet she landed on Brice. Maybe after living daily with the insufferable arrogance of Bernard Barton for so long, Sara sought refuge in the neediness of weaker men like Brice and Sam. It’s a theory.

Scott asks, “If we talked to her today, what would Brittany say about you?”

“Nothing. She’s dead.”

That gets our attention. Scott crosses his arms and stares at Brice with incredulity before saying, “Do tell.”

“I thought it was your job to find things out, Mr. Detective.”

And Jesus wept.

The marijuana must be wearing off, making Brice cranky. The trace of a throbbing vein in Scott’s temple flares with each breath. Like a good lawyer, a good cop is part actor. But I doubt the reaction is an act. Already rattled from the snake encounter, Scott has zero tolerance for insults from some dopehead attorney living like a mountain beatnik. My eyes plead with Scott not to go nuclear on him. We need the dopehead to get Barton.

Scott says, “Listen, Mr. Smart Ass, I have a good friend at the DEA who would be quite interested in the dope house you got going over there. One call, that’s all. And you know the feds. They love drug charges and aren’t happy unless they throw at least twenty-five counts into an indictment. You could be looking at twenty to thirty years. Now, do you want to answer our questions in a pleasant manner or would you rather answer the DEA’s questions in federal lock-up?”

Brice pouts at Scott like a defiant teenager whose only defense against authority is hostility. But Brice is also a lawyer who should know that Scott has him by the balls.

Scott demands, “Well?”

“I’ll answer.”

Let’s call that a teaching moment.

I hope that Brittany Wood’s death isn’t an unsolved murder. Two murdered women in the vicinity of the same lover carries coincidence beyond its stretching point. Even if Brice were in another country at the time, Millwood would find a way to pin Brittany’s killing on him.

“Brittany died in a car wreck. Somebody was texting and driving and killed her.”

“When?”

“The middle of our senior year. She never even graduated. It was sad.”

We all pay a respectful silence to the late Brittany Wood—another random victim of God’s Cosmic Wheel of Fate. The illusive shadow of Mr. Smith teases me, as hard to catch in the forest as he is in the city. Why Amber and Cale? Why Brittany? Why anyone?

Scott brings me back to the present, “Anything else?” He is talking to me. If we leave now, we might beat the worst of afternoon traffic. The woods are quiet. Too quiet. A person living alone up here could easily lose his mind. I assess the disheveled mess of a person sitting across from me and make a plea for him to clean himself up.

“Brice, I need you to testify at trial, and I cannot put you on the stand the way you’re looking now. This is not the image you want to present to the world at the moment the whole world is watching you.”

“I don’t care what people think about me. I don’t even see why I have to testify. I don’t know anything.”

“That doesn’t matter. Bernard Barton is on trial for murder and has already started throwing the blame your way. Why do you think Monica Haywood told us about your stalking arrest? You’re their fall guy. Barton’s lawyer is one of the best around. If I don’t call you to the stand, he will. We need to be teammates here. You owe Sara that much. Barton beat her, and then he killed her. Because of you. Are you going to let him get away with it? Or are you going to avenge the woman you loved?”

The appeal to his thirst for revenge is nakedly cynical. Whatever works. I have a murder trial to win.

Brice nods.

24

My brother Ben calls with “some bad news.” Mom crashed her car into a tree. The breathing in my chest catches—one of those instances in life when you wonder if everything you’ve ever known is about to change forever. I’ve already buried one parent. I’m in no hurry to bury another.

“How bad?”

“The car died. Mom didn’t.”

Thank goodness. But she did earn herself