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)
Matthew spotted me as I approached, his face going hard. Whether it was out of guilt or because he knew I was with Avery was unclear, but I was betting on the former. He had a curt word with the employee beside him, and the man disappeared. Matthew closed the porthole and latched it shut.
“Chief Garfield. Interesting seeing you here. Problem?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Just wanted to talk to you about yesterday afternoon. Chris said you had an event here.”
“We did. It was great. Huge crowd.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“That’s what I heard,” I said, keeping my tone affable and a little distant. Just a cop doing his job. “And you were here all afternoon?”
“Yep.” He raised his chin a fraction. “Ask anyone.”
“I’ll get to that,” I assured him. “And no one saw you leave? Did you run out to get supplies, anything like that?”
“No.” Matthew flicked his hair out of his eyes. “We were packed. All hands on deck. You know how it is.” His tone was friendly, but his eyes were hard. “What’s this about?”
I had no doubt he knew exactly what this was about—first, because with every word that came out of his mouth, I was more sure he was guilty as hell, and second, because everyone knew what had happened at Wild Haven. Matthew pretending that he didn’t wasn’t a check in the column of innocence.
“I’m investigating the fire at Wild Haven Brewing. Checking to make sure I have a clear picture of where everyone was.”
“I thought you’d made an arrest already,” Matthew said, and I wondered if he was going to mention Avery’s name specifically.
I nodded. “That doesn’t mean we stop investigating.”
“Gotta collect that evidence, I guess,” Matthew said, dropping his crossed arms and shoving his hands in his pockets as if this was just a relaxed chat. I was almost impressed with his ability to fake it. “Wish I could help you, but I was here all day. I didn’t see a thing except happy customers drinking beer and having fun.”
I nodded again. “If anything comes to mind—if you remember something from yesterday that seems suspicious—you let me know.”
“Sure thing, Chief,” he said.
I felt his eyes on my back as I crossed the room for the door. I might not have a smoking gun pointing at Matthew yet, but there was no doubt in my mind he was guilty. Sterling’s info was the first nail in the coffin. But the way he’d handled my questions was the second.
It was almost lunchtime. I had to get back to the station, but I’d make one more stop first. I drove back to Wild Haven and knocked on the door of the nearby warehouse that had cameras on the roof. This time, someone answered—a scruffy guy with a round belly and frizzy hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a while.
“Chief,” he said slowly. “What’s up? Here about the fire?” His words were sluggish, as if he’d already hit his morning joint based on the light haze of smoke hanging in the air. Marijuana was illegal in North Carolina, and I knew if I searched him, I’d find enough for a misdemeanor, maybe more. But a little weed wasn’t why I was there.
“Notice you have a camera up there on the corner of the building.”
He looked faintly surprised and leaned past me to look up. Then nodded. “Yeah, I do. Brother-in-law set it up for me after somebody robbed the place a couple of years ago.”
“Is it turned on?” I asked, searching for patience.
“Oh yeah, it records to a tape in my office. Goes back to the beginning when it’s full. I don’t mess with it much. Never had another break-in.” He scratched his elbow, waiting with bleary eyes for me to get to the point.
“Any chance I could look at the tape from yesterday?” I asked.
“For the fire, right? Sure, sure, yeah. Come in.” He led me into the building, stopping short as we both encountered the haze of smoke and the pungent scent of weed.
“I just want to see the camera, bud,” I said, and he visibly relaxed.
“Yeah, cool, okay.” He led me through stacks of what I would call junk—an ancient broken highchair with a Formica tray, a pile of lawn ornaments that looked like windmills, a row of stacked doors in various states of decay.
“You sell a lot of this stuff?” I asked, trying to imagine who would want any of it.
He brightened and shot me a bleary grin. “You’d be surprised. I polish up some of this junk and take it down to the flea market. Most of it moves. Enough to make a living, you know?”
If he said so. I’d seen enough of the local flea markets to know one person’s junk was another’s treasure. The cramped office in the back corner of the building was dim, the overhead light flickering. The computer monitor on the desk, a sleek flat screen, looked new, as did the black box on the desk with blinking lights.