Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I stopped as something occurred to me. “Did you check the surrounding buildings for cameras? I already know Bob didn’t have any at Wild Haven.”
Henry shook his head. “I haven’t gotten to that yet.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Appreciate that. Good luck, West.”
I nodded. I wanted to say I didn’t need luck, that old-fashioned detective work would get the job done. But luck never hurt, especially when I was looking for a needle in a haystack.
I drove back out to Wild Haven Brewing. The building wasn’t in great shape—the north wall burned away, and the roof was sagging. Whoever had done this deserved to pay, but I knew it hadn’t been Avery.
Wild Haven Brewing was surrounded by other warehouse-style buildings, close but not right on top of each other. One of them looked like it had cameras up by the roof that might have been pointed close enough to Wild Haven to catch something. No one was there when I knocked. I’d go back later and track down the owner if they still weren’t there.
My next stop was Bear Run Brewing, Matthew Holt’s new place of employment. I wasn’t getting tunnel vision, but it’d be foolish not to check on the one person I knew had a motive to frame Avery for arson—her former brewmaster and ex. Unless Prentice’s killer had set the fire, Matthew was the only person in Sawyers Bend who had reason to go after Avery.
My phone rang as I turned into the parking lot. Sterling. I answered, and she started talking before I got a word out.
“You can’t ask how I know, but Matthew was at Wild Haven when the fire started.”
“How do you know that?” I demanded, despite her warning.
“I’m not telling you,” Sterling said with a huff of exasperation. “That’s why I said you can’t ask how I know.”
“Fine,” I said, reframing my question to find out what I really needed to know. “How solid is that information?”
“His phone’s location showed he was at Wild Haven Brewing between 4:40 p.m. and 5:15 p.m. on the day of the fire.”
“And if that information had been obtained legally,” I asked, annoyed and grateful at the same time, “would it stand up in court?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Sterling,” I admonished.
“Hey, look, I made some calls, okay? I’m not going to let my sister go to jail for something she didn’t do.”
“Neither am I,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, well, now you know it was him. You won’t waste your time looking for somebody else.”
I wanted to argue, but I wasn’t going to waste my time. “I’m at Bear Run Brewing right now,” I told her.
“Oh, good,” she said cheerfully. “When you arrest him, I want a copy of the mugshot.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. She could want one. Didn’t mean she’d get it. “Are you at home or Sawyer Outdoor Adventures?”
“I’m at work,” Sterling said. “Quinn just had a group go out, and I’m working on a project. Top secret.”
“All your work is top secret these days,” I said, “but thanks.”
“Anytime, Chief,” Sterling said with a laugh, hanging up on me.
I should be mad she’d gone around me. If we’d really needed it, I could have figured out a way to get a warrant for Matthew’s cell phone records—probably bending the rules in ways that would grate on me because I didn’t have enough yet to get that warrant. And while I couldn’t use that information to arrest him, Sterling was right. Now I had no doubt who was responsible. I just had to prove it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
WEST
Bear Run Brewing had a shop and a taproom, neither of which was open at this hour of the morning. I went around to the side and tried the door that led into the brewery itself. It was unlocked, so I wandered in, looking for Chris Fields, the owner. I knew him by name and sight, though not well. We’d met a few times, but I wouldn’t say we were friends or even really friendly.
An employee spotted me and came over. “Hey, Chief Garfield, what can I do for you?” The young man gave me a friendly smile, and I returned it. I was good at making people feel like there wasn’t anything wrong when there was. It was a handy trick when the mere sight of you could strike fear.
“I’m looking for Chris. He around today?”
“Yeah, in his office. Back this way,” he said, leading me to an office that reminded me of Avery’s. It was bigger—the whole place was bigger—but his desk was stacked with papers, crammed with files and books, boxes of labels, samples of bottles, a few pony kegs, and a random assortment of things a brewer might want to have at hand.
“Hey, Chief Garfield. Problem?” Chris stood, extending his hand. He wore a tie-dyed shirt advertising Bear Run’s signature lager, his long sandy hair caught in a low ponytail, a friendly smile on his face.