Page 96

CHAPTER 94

CINDY WAS RACING to discover the truth about Brett Palmer. Brett’s voice on his lost-and-found recorder had been chilling. As Cindy had listened to his complaints and declarations to his brother, Nate, she got a sick feeling that she was in real danger.

She hadn’t felt this way when she and Brett were chowing down on their breakfast at the Ritz. Now she felt as if Brett were standing behind her with a coiled rope in his hands.

Cindy went back to the beginning and prepared herself to listen again to the whole damned hour and a half of Brett’s “Notes for file.”

Twenty minutes in, Brett said to Nate, “I couldn’t stand it anymore. When Ange and I got divorced, I gave her the house, the car, even the damned plants. Plus 300K in cash.”

Nate said, “No respect—that’s what she gave you.”

“I gave her what I had. I said, ‘You dead.’”

Cindy was still rocked by Brett’s admission. He’d all but admitted to killing his ex-wife, Angela Kinney Palmer—and how many others might there have been? He had to be stopped. A recorded conversation pertaining to a crime was legal as evidence. But she also knew that in a trial setting there were a dozen ways the defense could undercut it.

But if Brett’s confession was confirmed by Nate Miller, Cindy would be handing the prosecution an almost certain win. And maybe, maybe, she’d write another true-crime bestseller.

Cindy fast-forwarded past Brett Palmer’s appointment schedule, meeting notes, and list of expenses. Then she slowed to catch the last of Brett’s “I said, ‘You dead’” declaration. She was obsessing, but she had to follow this lead. Yes, she was dogged. Yes, she was tenacious. But doggedness and tenacity were necessary if she was going to find the truth.

She wasn’t at the truth, yet, but she felt close.

Cindy was outlining her story to date when the front door opened.

“Hon?”

“In here, Richie.”

Rich Conklin stuck his head into the small room Cindy used as her home office.

“You’re busy. Call me when you take a break.”

“Rich. I need you to listen to something.”

“Okay. What’s up?”

“It’s a recording of Brett Palmer, talking to his stepbrother, Nate Miller. Brace yourself.”

Rich dragged a chair over to the table Cindy used as a desk and sat down. “Hit me,” he said.

“The first voice. That’s Brett, talking to Nate.”

Cindy pressed Play.

Brett’s voice came from the recorder’s small speaker accompanied by the clanking of cutlery. He said, “It still makes me furious. Angela kept calling. Texting. She sent me a pair of her panties. I told her no in every way imaginable. I told her, ‘All I’ve got left is the sweat on my balls.’ She still wouldn’t quit. So. You know. I said, ‘You dead.’”

“Good job, bro. I never liked that bitch.”

Cindy hit Stop. She was shaking at the coldness and brutality.

She looked up at Richie, who said, “Oh, my God, Cindy. Palmer is cooked. Well done.”

Cindy handed her phone to her husband. She didn’t have to explain.

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Conklin. He tapped in a number.

“Lieutenant. It’s Conklin. Cindy turned up great evidence on the ‘I said. You dead’ psycho. Yep. That’s the one. Here’s Cindy.”

He handed Cindy the phone.