Page 74 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

After stopping at home to walk Bilbo and change, I head to Huntsville.

It’s noon when I cross over the Tennessee River on Clement Clay Bridge, and my stomach is rumbling.

I stop at BBQ Ray’s food truck on Huntsville’s south side and make short work of a slaw-smothered barbecue sandwich, seasoned crinkle fries, and hushpuppies.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

I spend a few minutes trying and failing to rub an orange barbecue sauce stain out of my jeans, then check my messages. I’m disappointed, but not surprised I haven’t heard back from Reggie, Kamden’s supplier with the crush.

After searching several online databases last night, I’m fairly sure his full name is Reggie Banks.

I’ve texted and called the number Serenity gave me for him, but so far, no luck.

Hopefully, Reggie’s feelings for Kamden will win out over any desire to avoid law enforcement, but I’m not counting on it.

If I don’t hear back by this afternoon, I’ll have to go down there and ferret him out.

I head up Memorial Parkway, the main north-south thoroughfare through the city, fighting the lunch hour congestion which makes what should be a five-minute drive a twenty-minute one.

Thank goodness someone years ago had the foresight to build the multi-lane parkway before it was needed.

I can only imagine how horrible the traffic would be without it .

Huntsville is a bit of a unicorn—a mix of Southern hospitality and high-tech innovation. It’s Alabama’s largest metropolis and home to NASA, the Space and Rocket Center, and more engineers and scientists than you can shake a calculator at. This place helped get us to the moon.

Now if they could only do something about the humidity.

Huntsville doesn’t only have names like Boeing and Lockheed Martin and Redstone Arsenal.

It’s got Trash Pandas baseball, the Orion amphitheater, Panoply Art Festival, a symphony, and botanical gardens.

The area is highly educated and infinitely more cultured than people sadly assume—given it’s Alabama—with enough artisan coffee to satisfy hard-core caffeine addicts.

It’s a pretty wonderful place to land.

I make a quick stop at my office and switch cars with Goat—he lets me borrow the Tesla when the need arises—then head to the offices of Hutchins Investigations on University Drive, about ten minutes away.

My GPS takes me to a long, white brick building split into three spaces.

Hutchins Investigations sits in the middle, flanked by a barber shop on one side and an empty office on the other sporting a half-scraped, unreadable logo on the door.

I pull into the lot and park facing the street, making sure my rearview mirror gives me a view of the office entrance.

A familiar black Toyota 4Runner occupies the parking spot closest to the front door.

I check myself in the mirror and find I’m hardly recognizable.

The auburn wig with straight, shoulder-length hair, black-rimmed glasses, and blue contact lenses have made me into another person.

One I am banking on Roy Hutchins not recognizing if and when he sees me.

He definitely won’t recognize the Tesla.

Showtime.

My nude high heels tip-tap on the pavement as I cross to the sidewalk along the building’s front. I straighten, hoping that, despite my small stature, I make an impressive silhouette in my navy shell dress and dangly silver earrings.

A bell rings as I open the door, and I’m greeted by the same odor of cheap, bitter cigarettes that filled the 4Runner .

“Can I help you?” The receptionist—a woman in her late thirties wearing lipstick too red for anyone—sits behind a U-shaped desk with a chest-high counter in front.

“Is Mr. Hutchins in?”

“I’m sorry, no. You just missed him.” She appraises me as she speaks, her gaze settling on the massive diamond on my left hand, which actually is my engagement ring. I kept it on because it fits the look I’m going for.

True story…I didn’t want anything this ostentatious, but James wouldn’t take no for an answer. The wedding band I’ve slipped on for this act is the one Daniel gave me, which l keep in the porcelain box we got on our honeymoon in Italy.

“Oh, no,” I say, turning my mouth down in a full pout. “I need to speak with him as soon as possible, Ms.…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“Angie.”

“Angie, I…have a matter that needs his immediate attention. If he has the capacity to work it in.”

“I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to talk to you as soon as he returns.”

“Hmm. So…he’s already busy with a case?” I glance off in the distance as if contemplating my options. “Is it very involved? I’d need his full attention. My divorce has…well, turned very ugly, very fast.”

“Mr. Hutchins is more than capable of handling multiple cases at one time.”

“I need to know…it’s not another cheating husband, is it?

” I whisper the words like uttering them aloud would make my tongue burst into flames.

“I wouldn’t want him trying to do two of those at a time.

It wouldn’t be fair to me or the other wife.

Or is it a different kind of case? That would be all right. ”

“I’m sorry. Information about his cases is confidential.”

“Well…I suppose I can wait, if you think he’ll be back soon.”

She grimaces. “He’ll probably be at least an hour. Are you sure you don’t want to just come back?”

I shake my head, turn toward the three chairs positioned against the windows, and lower myself into the nearest one. “I’ll wait.” I clear my throat, then clear it again as she sits back in her chair. “Sorry—allergies. I don’t suppose you have a bottle of water?”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.” She disappears through a door to her right which, I’m assuming, leads to whatever makes up the back half of this place.

Normally, this would be where I’d scour her desk, check her computer, rifle through the papers stacked on the desktop—but I can’t.

Not when I’m acting as an extension of law enforcement.

I have more resources at my disposal when I’m working for the Mitchell County Sheriff or D.A, but there are also a lot more limitations on what I can do without a warrant.

Because that’s when those pesky constitutional protections kick in.

What I am allowed to do is see whatever there is to see out in the open.

I return to the counter and take in everything I can from that vantage point.

Hutchins’ calendar—pulled up on the computer—contains a one o’clock entry for “Rosie’s, Mrs. Bateman.

” I already know about that meeting, because I’m Mrs. Bateman.

I made the appointment to ensure he wouldn’t be here.

I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the rest of the week’s appointments.

It’s in plain sight. Don’t need a warrant for that.

The plethora of unorganized files, notes, and papers strewn across Angie’s desk gives the impression that there’s a lot that needs to be done, but isn’t getting done.

I take more photos until approaching footsteps sound from behind the door.

I turn back toward the chairs when inspiration strikes.

Leaning over the countertop, I press the first speed dial button on her office phone console without lifting the handset.

As expected, the name “Roy” comes up on the console’s screen, along with a phone number I memorize in seconds before scooting back to my chair.

It’s not exactly in plain sight, but I could learn the same information with some research. This is just faster.

I barely settle back in my chair when Angie appears in the doorway, her hand extended toward me. “Here you go,” she says, handing me a bottle of water.

I thank her and take a sip as she returns to her desk. “Could I have your name and number to give to Mr. Hutchins? ”

“Ella Carter.” I grimace. “I’d rather not give out my number until I’ve decided to work with him, if that’s all right. You know…privacy issues and all.”

She looks down, apparently writing a note. I give it about half a minute, then walk over to her, pasting on my best Housewives of Atlanta face.

“Listen, Angie, you’ve been great, but I'm not getting a good feeling about this. I don’t think I’m going to wait, after all. I mean, who knows how long he might be? I’ll get back in touch if I still need him. Thank you”—I wiggle the bottle—“for the water.”

Angie calls after me as I leave, asking if I’m sure I don’t want to leave my phone number.

I’m sure.

I got what I needed.

I drive away from Hutchins’s parking lot, go about a block, then pull into a gas station to look over the photos I took of Angie’s desk.

After five minutes of perusing them, I don’t find anything interesting—at least nothing interesting that’s related to the case.

The photos of some nut-case writing insults on the windows of someone’s house with shoe-polish—apparently an ex-girlfriend given the nature of the insults—won’t help me solve Kamden Avery’s murder or find out who hired Hutchins to follow me.

That done, it’s time to spend a couple of hours in my office before my business implodes.

Just so I can tell James about it, I tell the Tesla—I’ll never get over this self-driving car thing—to head for MillWorks.

I’m there in ten minutes, walking into the converted mill with its century-old wood floors and the lingering, musty scent of history.

Muted sunlight offered by the cloudy sky filters in through the multi-paned windows.

I could take the elevator, but the only working one—a freight elevator—is on the opposite side of the block-long building.

Instead, I hike up the stairs, begrudging my heels even though the outfit seemed to do its job, and clop down to Goat’s office, right next to mine .

His door is open as usual. He’s sitting at his desk, an L-shaped IKEA thing set up against the wall we share. Three enormous screens sit atop it, each displaying something different. His feet are propped up, a keyboard sits in his lap, and his gaze is locked on the center screen.

“I’m back,” I say, dropping his keys on the long part of the desk that separates us. “Thanks for the loaner. I really appreciate it.”

Goat holds one finger up without looking at me.

His black Call of Duty T-shirt is wrinkled and his baggy gray joggers are far too big, bunching in folds where the elastic cuff meets his Adidas.

After a final exaggerated series of taps on the keyboard, he cuts a glance at me through a dark lock of hair falling along the side of his nose.

How he sits there, without shaking the hair out of his face, I’ll never know. It’s like a cat’s tail parting his head in two.

“Whoa.” His eyes go wide. “Did a Kardashian dress you?”

“It’s for a case.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Believe me,” I say, kicking off my heels, then picking them up. “I can’t change fast enough.”

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“Eh,” I say, my disappointment bleeding through. “Probably got nothing, but we’ll see.”

“This the murder case? That guy that’s killing women?”

I nod.

His lips form a thin line, a rare hint of gravity emanating from him. “Let me know if I can help. With anything. I know you don’t like to take advantage of our arrangement, but this one’s free.”

“Thank you,” I say, as a violent itch sparks beneath the wig, right at my crown. I scratch aggressively for a couple of seconds. “Actually, I was hoping you could follow up on something for me. I need to know where the last photo in her Instagram account was taken.”

He spins back to his computer. “Say less.”

For everyone over thirty, that’s Gen-Z for, “I understand, and no need to say more. I’ll take care of it.”

“Awesome. My witness—the victim’s housemate—says it seems familiar to her. She doesn’t ever leave Birmingham, so you might want to focus there and on the surrounding areas.”

“Logged,” he says.

Confident Goat’s on the case, I back out of his office, leaving him to his electronic wizardry. I’m halfway to my office, eagerly anticipating getting this wig off when my phone buzzes.

I check the number, and my heart skips a beat.