Page 41 of Shadowed Witness (The Secrets of Kincaid #2)

After leaving Allye’s, Eric headed for home. It had been a long, draining day, and he was over it. He just wanted to get something to eat, veg a little, and hit the sack. Tomorrow he’d launch into the investigations with a fresh mind.

If only he could say the same about his relationship with Allye. But he’d dug himself into that hole. And though he’d apologized, it was up to Allye if she wanted to fill it with water and drown him or offer a hand up instead.

He wouldn’t blame her if she chose the former.

He pulled into the driveway but didn’t immediately exit his car. Arriving home to a dark house didn’t usually bother him, but tonight the emptiness screamed across the space between it and him.

Sighing, he went inside and straight to the freezer. Too tired to come up with something more appealing, he pulled out a frozen dinner. He stuck it in the microwave and stared at the digital display as the numbers counted down.

When it beeped, he removed the plastic tray and carried it to the living room. He dropped onto the couch. It was Thursday. Should be a football game on. He had no idea which teams were scheduled, but he didn’t really care. He just needed noise and distraction.

Three bites into the meal, his work phone went off. He muted the TV and swallowed his mouthful of mediocre chicken before answering.

“Thornton.”

“It’s Richards. I’m on my way to the station with a backseat passenger. Guy had a nice stash of drugs in his vehicle—too much to just be a user. You interested?”

“Definitely.” This might be just the break he needed. “I’ll be there in ten.” He scarfed down the rest of his dinner in less than two minutes and rushed out the door.

When he arrived at the station, Richards met him in the reception area.

“Thanks for calling me in. What’ve you got on this guy?”

“His name’s Samuel Phillips. I clocked him doing fifty-five in a thirty-five. When I pulled him over, he was clearly under the influence.”

“Drunk or high?”

“High as a comet. Tried to tell me the drugs sitting in the passenger seat were preportioned baggies of baby powder for his girlfriend’s kid.” Richards scrunched his face into an absurd expression.

“Oookay, then. You said it was quite the stash. How much we talking?”

“A dozen or so bags. Haven’t logged them yet, but I’d guess they’re about five G’s apiece.”

Eric let out a low whistle. That would fetch a pretty penny on the streets. “He say anything on the way over?”

The officer chuckled. “He hardly shut up, but most of it was unintelligible mumbling mixed with bouts of singing. Guy’s got a decent voice. Too bad I’m not a classic country fan.”

“Pity.” He glanced toward the back of the building. “He in the interrogation room?”

“Yeah, Vernon figured there wasn’t much sense hauling him in and out of the holding cell if you were only gonna be a few minutes.”

“I’d better get back there, then. If Mr. Phillips is that much of a chatterbox, Vernon’s probably getting tired of babysitting.”

“Probably.” He slapped Eric on the back. “Good luck.”

He could use some right about now. Stopping by his desk to grab a voice recorder, he sent up a quick prayer for help. Then he cut through to the small room at the back of the building.

The words to “Take Me Home, Country Roads” greeted him before he reached the closed door. Richards was right. The guy wasn’t half bad.

He rapped on the door and opened it. Vernon’s half-glazed expression morphed into relief so fast, Eric almost laughed. Stifling his smile, he took a quick visual inventory of Samuel Phillips.

The man was young—twenty-two, maybe twenty-four, max.

Dark hair. Average height and build, maybe a bit on the thin side.

Dressed in baggy cargo pants and a wrinkled T-shirt, he looked and smelled like he hadn’t showered in days.

The condition of his teeth gave a pretty good indication of his drug of choice.

A full three seconds later, Phillips noticed him and broke off his song in the middle of the chorus. “Hey. Who’re you?” There was no defensiveness or demand in his tone, only curiosity.

“I’m Detective Thornton. You can call me Eric if you’d like.” He could already tell this guy would respond better to friendliness than intimidation.

Vernon slipped out quietly, and Eric lowered himself into the vacated chair. He pulled out his notepad, then started the recorder and stated the necessary information. Phillips watched as if totally intrigued.

“So, Samuel—do you go by Samuel, or can I call you Sam?”

“Everybody calls me Sam.” He scratched his arm, and his left leg jiggled like he had a spring attached to his heel. “Well, except for my mom. She always calls me Samuel. But everybody else says Sam.”

“Great. Sam, then.” Eric glanced at his paper as if referencing a notation, though nothing was written yet. “How long you been dealing?”

The man swiped at his nose. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really? I heard you had a lot of product in your car.”

“Whoever said that made a mistake. I didn’t have anything illegal in my car. I was just on my way to ... to...” His eyes roamed as he thought. “To hit a drive-through. Yeah. I was just going for something to eat. No crime in that.”

“But what about all those bags you had?” Eric leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “They made up quite the stash. Looked like a couple grand worth.”

“I still don’t ... know.” Sam’s eyes continued to skitter around the room, and he scratched at his arm again. “I mean, I need to clean it out. Yeah. There’s probably lots of burger wrappers and fast-food bags.”

Eric shook his head but kept his tone conversational. “I’m not talking about those. I’m talking about the little plastic bags with powder in them. Remember those? The officer you came in with collected about a dozen of them from your passenger seat.”

“Oh. Those bags. That wasn’t anything. Just sugar.”

Eric cocked his head. “Sugar?”

“Yeah. I got a sweet tooth.”

“Why all the separate bags?”

“I, uh...” He scratched harder. A dot of blood appeared on his forearm. “It’s not as messy as carrying around the big bag. You know, the five pound one.”

“Makes sense, I suppose. So why’d you tell the officer it was baby powder?”

The man blinked. “Oh, uh, some of them are baby powder.”

“Sounds like it’d be a nasty mistake if you happened to grab the wrong one.”

“Yeah.” He attempted a disgusted look, but the effect was more comical than believable. “I did that once. Tasted awful. Had to wash my mouth out and everything.”

This had gone far enough. The guy was too high to realize how ridiculous he sounded. Eric was going to have to add a little pressure if he wanted to get anything useful from him.

“I’m going to level with you, Sam. We know the bags aren’t sugar—or baby powder.” He leaned back and clicked his pen. “Fact is, you had a serious amount of drugs in your possession.”

Sam’s leg started bouncing faster and harder. “No, I don’t sell drugs. Don’t do ’em either. Just say no, right? That’s what my mom always said.”

“But see, here’s the problem. We found them in your car. You could serve some serious time. Worse—” he paused for effect—“people around here have been dying from fentanyl-laced meth. If your bags come back from the lab showing fentanyl content, you might go down for homicide.”

His leg stopped bouncing for the first time since the interrogation started. “No! These are clean. Marco’s the one who did the lacing, and the big guy said anyone else caught doing that would pay like he did. I don’t wanna die.”

Gotcha.

Eric kept his face placid, but his mind raced with the new information.

The lacing hadn’t been sanctioned. Somebody had stepped out of line to pad his own pockets, and the “big guy” hadn’t been happy about the deaths—probably because it called too much attention to their operation.

Who was this Marco? Was that the name of their John Doe?

He stuck that question in his pocket for later. He had a more pressing one first.

“So who’s the big guy?”

Sam’s eyes widened, and sweat broke out on his forehead. The jiggle returned with renewed vigor. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know who the big guy is?”

He shook his head vigorously. “No clue. I ain’t never heard his name. Never saw him either. Don’t want to.”

That wasn’t surprising. Sam Phillips was a low-level dealer and a user. The head of this ring likely guarded his identity with all but his most trusted. It had been worth asking though.

Eric clicked his pen. “Who’s your supplier?”

“I can’t talk about that, man. Not for you or anybody else.”

“Come on, you’ve gotta give me something.” When Sam didn’t respond to that, he decided to try another tack. “Okay, don’t worry about that for now. I wouldn’t want to cause you trouble with these guys.”

Sam relaxed, but only a fraction. Eric needed to get him comfortable and talking again. Maybe he’d let something else slip.

“Hey, you want a drink? We’ve got water, Coke, Sprite.”

“I’d take a Coke. Those are my favorite.”

Eric leaned out the door and signaled Vernon. “Can you get him a Coke?”

The officer gave him a two-finger salute, and Eric retook his seat.

“We’ll have that to you in just a minute, all right?”

His head bobbed. “No problem. I’m a patient guy. No problem at all.”

Vernon opened the door and handed in the bottled soft drink. Eric gave Sam a moment with his distraction. The man hummed as he struggled to break the seal, then after he finally got it, he took a long drink and grinned.

“Good?”

“Perfect. You want a drink?” He tilted the bottle toward Eric.

“Nah, I’m good. You enjoy it.”

“It’s just right—bubbly and ice cold.” With hardly a breath’s pause, he launched into another topic, the words popping out like he couldn’t hold them back if he tried.

“You know, you’re a nice guy. I always thought if I ever got arrested that the cops would be a bunch of mean guys with a superiority complex. You’re all right.”

Eric smiled. “Most of us aren’t so bad.”

“Good to know. I’m glad to hear that, really. Especially since I’m here in the middle of the station, surrounded by cops, you know?”

“Sure. That’s gotta be a relief.” He tilted back in his chair. “I’m curious about something though. This Marco—what’s his last name?”

“Hmm?” Sam stared at him blankly.

“Marco, the guy who laced the drugs? You know his last name?”

“Uh, maybe Stevens? Stevenson? Something like that. I don’t pay too much attention to names unless they’re weird.” He shimmied his shoulders and hummed like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“So what happened to him?”

Sam took another drink of his Coke and continued humming.

Eric snapped his fingers but kept his posture relaxed. “Hey, Sam, you hear me?”

The humming stopped. “Oh, sorry. The music’s really loud in here. What’d you say?” He squinted as if focusing was a difficult task.

“I asked what happened to Marco.”

Sam’s lip trembled. “They killed him. He didn’t mean it though—didn’t want anyone to die. He told me. He just put too much in, and then it was too late. But the big guy didn’t care. He had Bernie call him in, and then—” His voice cut off in a sob.

“And then what?” Eric made a mental note of the new name, but he didn’t write it down. If Sam realized he’d slipped up, he might stop talking.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Head swaying back and forth, Sam attempted to screw the cap back on his bottle, but it spun off and skipped across the table.

Eric snatched it before it hit the floor and returned it to the man. “Sounds bad. How’d you find out about him?”

“They videoed it.” The words escaped in a hoarse whisper. “Sent it to us all as warning.”

That was a surprise. There was a video of this murder floating around?

Allye hadn’t mentioned anything to that effect.

Did that mean this was a different murder after all?

Or had she just not noticed the camera or phone?

She had seen another man in the shadows, so it was a possibility he could have been filming.

“When did this all happen?”

Sam touched his thumb to his index finger, the middle, then the ring finger as if counting. He repeated the motions, then shrugged. “Couple days ago? I dunno. Time’s just a blur sometimes.” He launched into a ballad about quickly passing time.

Eric didn’t recognize the song, but that didn’t matter.

He was done here. He used his phone to snap Sam’s photo, then stopped the recording and passed the man back to Vernon’s care.

It was late enough, Sam would spend the night in the holding cell.

Tomorrow he’d be transferred to a neighboring county since theirs didn’t have a jail.

After settling at his own desk, he texted Allye the photo with the words “Recognize him?” He was pretty confident Sam was not her attacker, but it would be foolish not to at least confirm.

While he waited for her response, he ran a search for a Marco Stevens or Stevenson in the area.

He got a couple of hits in the driver’s license database, but only one fell within the age range of their John Doe.

He pulled that one up first. Despite the condition of the body they’d found, he could see the resemblance.

His phone buzzed with a text from Allye.

Sorry, no

That was the answer he’d expected. He sent her a thanks, then returned his attention to the screen. He pulled up a picture of the victim and compared them side by side. They’d have to do comparisons, maybe call in family to see if they could identify him, but Eric would bet this was the same guy.

With that done, he put in an electronic request for a warrant to search Sam’s phone and computer, if the man had one.

He hit send, then moved on to transcribing his thoughts from the interrogation while it was still fresh in his mind.

Sam hadn’t given him as much information as he’d hoped for, but he had a few leads and some names. It had been well worth coming in.

He leaned back in his chair. He needed a plan for tomorrow.

If nothing happened to disrupt his morning, he’d start by listening to the recording with fresh ears and make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

Then he’d see about finalizing their victim’s identity.

Hopefully by then, he’d have the warrant to search Sam’s devices.

Finding that video—and the sender—would be gold.

He just might be able to solve this case before anyone else got hurt.