Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2) Page 8

  Based on the texts I'd received from Bron, it seemed I owed Sergeant Sinclair a huge debt of gratitude for getting me out of my near-felony. I'd find a way to thank him later—maybe by having his favorite pizza delivered for lunch every day for the next month. My stomach growled at the thought. I sneaked another glance at my phone and found it was a quarter till noon. All I'd eaten that day was half a scone, but this was the first time I'd felt even the slightest hunger pang. Nothing like finding a dead body to kill your appetite.

  The bullpen was located at the end of the hall. At least ten desks filled the large room, each with papers and files scattered across their surfaces. Plain-clothes detectives sat behind them answering the loudly ringing phones, click-clacking away on keyboards, and interviewing witnesses for various minor crimes. My police escort led me to the desk in the far left corner of the room. The man seated there looked up from his computer monitor as we approached. He was stocky with short red hair, a matching beard, and sharp green eyes. "Good afternoon, Miss Grace," he said.

  "Hello, Detective Dixon," I said politely. The officer who brought me in nodded to the detective and then took his leave. Dixon motioned to a plastic chair against the wall in front of his desk. I pulled it forward and took a seat facing him.

  "I hear you've had quite the morning," he began. "Assault on a uniformed law enforcement officer—I never pegged you for a felon, Amelia." He made a tsk tsk sound with his tongue.

  I opened my mouth to insist my innocence, but his eyes crinkled at the corners, and I realized he was teasing me. "Do you know why the charges were dropped?" I asked instead.

  Detective Dixon grinned. "Somebody up there likes you. The Sarge went to see Thompson at the hospital. As soon as the poor guy was able to utter something other than words that'd make a sailor blush, he told Sinclair he wasn't going to press charges. Thompson said he saw you were being chased and knows you acted on instinct—he figured you wouldn't have pulled the trigger on that pepper spray if you'd known you were up against a cop."

  I nodded, dropping my gaze to the floor. "I didn't know what was happening until it was too late," I said, my tone remorseful. "I saw his gun, and suddenly I was facing Shawn Stone's hitman all over again."

  Dixon clasped his hands and rested them on the desk. He gave a nod of understanding. "Sounds kinda like PTSD." He met my gaze. "Have you sought therapy after everything that happened last year?" he asked.

  "Just physical therapy for my leg," I replied, clenching my jaw. I wasn't in the mood for another dark trip down memory lane. "I'm assuming you had me brought down here to talk about Sid Malone," I added, changing the subject.

  The detective studied me for a moment, and then he nodded. "Nothing gets by you, does it?" He winked as he straightened in his seat and placed his hands on his keyboard. "I'd like you to walk me through what happened this morning when you discovered the body."

  "This is likedéjà vu." I gave him a rueful smile.

  "Tell me everything."

  I gave Dixon the play-by-play of my morning, from arriving at Castle Rock and seeing the tour bus door open, to tripping over Sid's boot in the dark and shining my flashlight beam down into his lifeless face. When I reached the part where I found Mickey unconscious in the back of the bus, I paused. Was what I was about to say going to incriminate the former love of my life?

  Dixon read the reluctance in my body language. "It's okay," he said, his tone reassuring. "I know you're worried about your friend, but holding something back won't do him any favors." A steely look flickered across his face. "And that wouldn't end well for you either," he reminded me.

  I nodded. "I know," I said quietly. "Does that mean you're still holding Mickey?"

  My heart sank to my stomach as the Detective nodded. He gave me a look of apology. "I'm sorry, Amelia, but we have to. He's the only lead we've got right now."

  I slumped in my seat. "How long can you hold him if there's no solid proof?"

  Dixon's brow creased. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying us any attention. Seeming satisfied that we had privacy, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You know I'm not supposed to be telling you all of this—especially with such a high profile case—but in light of what you went through to help us last year, consider this my way of saying thank you." He darted another gaze around the room before continuing. "We can only hold Mr. Ward for the next few days while we look for more evidence. Given Malone's and his celebrity status, we're already getting all kinds of pressure to crack this as soon as possible. If we don't find anything, Ward will walk, but if we do…" Detective Dixon's words trailed off, letting the implication sink in. I shuddered. Mickey will go down for Sid's murder.

  The detective met my gaze. "If you want to help your friend, Miss Grace, then you'll tell me everything you know."

  "All right." I took a steadying breath and continued with my statement. "Mickey was out cold, so I slapped his cheek a few times until I was able to wake him up. He swears he doesn't remember what happened when he returned to the tour bus last night…"

  "Yet there was blood all over his shoes," Dixon finished for me.

  "Right," I agreed, trying to keep my tone even. I fixed the detective with a thoughtful look. "But I'm not sure he had anything to do with Sid's death."

  "Then why'd you run from him?"

  I held out my hands, fingers splayed. "For the same reason that I hit Officer Thompson with the pepper spray," I replied. "I was scared." The detective studied me for several moments without speaking, so I kept going. "I found Mickey near the body with his shoes covered in blood, and I panicked. Now that I've had some time to calm down and think it through, something doesn't quite add up. Where was the weapon? And why would Mickey hang around after committing the crime?"

  Dixon glanced down at his notes. "You told Officer Grimm down at ACDC that you smelled alcohol on Mr. Ward's breath," he said, ignoring my first question. "Maybe he killed Sid Malone in a drunken rage."

  "Or maybe he was so hammered that he stumbled over Sid's body without even realizing it was there," I challenged. I leaned forward, placing my hands on the desk. "Look, Detective. I've known Mickey Ward for years, and I'm just not sure he's capable of killing someone."

  "He might be where you're concerned—especially after Malone gave you that shiner." He gestured to the bruise on my temple.

  I flinched. "You know about that?"

  The detective didn't respond right away. Instead, he swiveled in his chair and began plunking on his keyboard. After a few taps and clicks, he placed his hands on either side of his computer. "The whole internet knows," he said finally, turning the monitor so that I could see the screen. I felt my stomach clench at the sight of the Tune Talks logo in the header of the website Dixon pulled up. Whatever he wanted to show me, I knew I wasn't going to like it.

  Dixon clicked his mouse several more times until he located Tim Scott's blog. The title of today's post read Royal Flush Bass Guitarists Battle and You Won't Believe What Happens Next! A video was embedded in the post, and as the detective pressed play, I could plainly see Sid and Dillon glaring at each other from across the autograph table in Castle Rock's tower. The gritty, low-quality video clip appeared to have been taken on a cell phone, probably from one of the fans at the meet and greet. There was no sound, but it was obvious by the body language of the two men that they were arguing. Several seconds into the footage, Sid ran around the table and began to beat his fists on Dillon.

  As I looked on in horror, my own face appeared on the screen. The video version of me rushed forward, arms out as I tried to break up the fight between the two bass guitarists. Suddenly, Sid's fist shot out and connected with the right side of my face. Video Ame went completely rigid and then dropped to the floor. The clip froze there and rewound on its own, repeating Sid's knockout punch to my temple over and over again while the theme song from the Rocky movies played in the background.

  I was still gaping at the footage when Detective Dixon turned his computer monitor back
around. "That must have made you pretty mad, huh?" he remarked. He clasped his hands in front of him and gave me a predatory smile. "I'd like to ask a few more questions now. For starters, where were you last night after this incident occurred?"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "I'm going to kill Tim Scott!" I thundered, slamming my fist down on the table so hard that the plates and silverware rattled. Some of my whiskey sour sloshed over the side of its glass, the splash narrowly missing my half-eaten slice of Camila's chicken pesto pizza. I ground my teeth and pushed my plate away, seething.

  "Calm down, babe," Emmett said in a soothing tone. He slid his arm around my shoulders and began rubbing my back with one hand. "It's going to be all right."

  "Easy for you to say," I grumbled. "A video of you getting your lights punched out didn't just go viral. The YouTube clip already has thirteen thousand views!" I slurped down more booze. It didn't matter that it was before five p.m. on a Sunday—I'd earned a stiff drink.

  "Then you should be happy," Bronwyn said, her lips curled in a smirk. "That makes you an online celebrity. You're insta-famous!"

  "And an insta-suspect." I blew out a breath. "I should've known when Dixon started feeding me details on what he knew about Mickey that he was just softening me up for my own interrogation."

  After showing me the video on Tim's blog, the detective had turned his suspicion on me, saying the pain and embarrassment from Sid's right hook to my face could give me possible motive—and, according to him, it was "awfully convenient" that I found and reported the body. It was by the grace of a higher power (or "by the Grace of Amelia," Kat had teased, poking fun at my name) that I alibied out of the timeline they'd worked out for Sid's murder. Our bouncer, Derek, was able to confirm that he drove me straight home from Castle Rock the night before, and Emmett vouched that I was at my apartment with him all night, er, recuperating. Still, though I was in the clear, the viral video and temporary murder suspect status were just two more slices of stink on my crap sandwich of a day. Ugh.

  "Relax," Emmett murmured, kissing my hair. "It was nothing personal. Dixon's gotta follow up on any and all possible leads—especially with a case like this that's going to get major media attention. Until he gets results back from the crime lab, the suspect pool is pretty wide."

  "Well, hand me a towel, 'cause I'm tired of swimming," I said sulkily. I sipped my drink again. "I swear, the next time I see Tim Scott, I'm going to knee him right in the balls. He turned me into click bait!" I gave a disgusted growl.

  "Sheesh," Kat said from across the booth. "Prison changed you, Ame." She playfully stuck her tongue out at me when I aimed a sour expression her way.

  "Yeah, what was jail like, anyway?" Bronwyn asked, a look of wicked fascination on her face. She pulled a mushroom off her slice of Camila's veggie pizza and popped it into her mouth then chased it down with her Coke. "Did a butch chick named Bertha try to make you her bitch? Did you have to shank anyone?"

  I rolled my eyes. "You've been watching too much Orange Is the New Black. I wasn't in prison, just a holding cell at the detention center." I gave Bron a sardonic smile. "And I think the word you're looking for is shiv, not shank."

  "Nah, either works—check Urban Dictionary," Bronwyn joked. "They both describe something used to stab someone—" Her words caught in her throat, and a mortified expression spread across her pale face. The laughter at the table died out as quickly as if someone had just doused us with a bucket of ice-cold water. The four of us sat in somber silence, the gravity of the situation crashing back into focus. "Oh man," Bron said finally, her voice above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have joked about it, I just—it's so surreal, ya know?"

  I nodded. "It's okay. You were just trying to cheer me up. I think we're all just trying to find a way to deal right now."

  "I talked to Chad and Jack this morning." Kat shook her head sadly. "They were stunned. Sid's a total jerk-off, but he didn't deserve to die." She chewed her lip and gave me a troubled look. "Is Castle Rock cursed? I feel like every time I turn around we're getting shut down as part of a crime scene." While I was in jail, Kat had spoken with Sergeant Eddie Sinclair, who requested that Castle Rock close for a day or two while the investigation was underway. We were ordered not to enter the building in case the crime techs found anything on the tour bus that led their search into the venue.

  I blew out a sigh. "Well, at least it's not like the Bobby Glitter fiasco," I said. "Our biggest show of the weekend happened last night, and we're closed from Sunday to Tuesday anyway." If ever there was a time we could afford to be shut down for another murder investigation, this was it—not that there is ever a good time for that sort of thing.

  "Some freaking silver lining," Kat muttered. Her gaze shifted to something above my head, and the color drained from her pretty face. "Sharon!" she called to our waitress as the plump woman passed by our booth balancing a tray with a calzone and two pints of beer. "Can you turn up the TV?"

  "Sure thing, hon," the middle-aged waitress said with a nod. She set the tray down in front of the patrons at the booth behind ours and started toward the bar counter, her red beehive hairstyle—part of her 50's style Camila's uniform—bobbing up and down as she went.

  Emmett and I swiveled around in our seats to see what had caught Kat's attention. My jaw dropped. "Crap," I moaned, staring at the photograph of Mickey's face that filled the television. "The media frenzy has started."

  Sharon turned up the volume, and the news reporter's voice grew louder. "…was brought in just this morning on charges of suspected murder," the blonde woman in a red skirt and blazer set was saying. "Ward is accused of killing this man—his Royal Flush bandmate, Sidney Jacob Malone." The screen cut to a close-up of Sid playing his bass guitar on stage at last night's show. "Malone was found stabbed to death on the band's tour bus. Our sources say Mickey Ward was present when the body was discovered."

  "If local news has picked it up, the national media will be all over this in a matter of hours," Kat said, her voice tight with worry. She flicked a quick glance at me. "I should check on Chad and the guys. Chad said the tour's been postponed, and they'll probably be holed up in their hotel rooms to avoid the reporters and paparazzi."

  I nodded. "Good idea. Give them all a hug for me. I'll call you later." I waved good-bye to Kat as she slid out of the booth. She placed a twenty-dollar bill next to her plate and headed for the door.

  "You think Mickey really did it?" Bronwyn asked.

  I shook my head. "I don't know what to believe," I said honestly. "He was there when I found the body, but…" I paused, looking from Emmett to Bron. "You guys should've seen him." My forehead wrinkled. "He seemed so genuinely shocked when he saw Sid's body."

  "It could've been an act," Emmett suggested, running his fingers through his short, black hair. "Of course he'd want you to believe he was innocent."

  I tilted my head to face him. "But what if Mickey really is telling the truth?" I asked.

  Emmett let one shoulder rise and fall. "That's for the detectives to determine."

  "I'll bet it was that Dillon guy who showed up last night," Bronwyn piped up, "the one who used to be in the band." She met my gaze, a look of excitement dancing across her young face. "Let's bust the sucker, Ame! Just like old times."

  Our shared near-death experience back in November had left Bron more fascinated than terrified. Ever since, she'd been chomping at the bit to do more amateur detective work. Last month, she'd even managed to track down a thief who was stealing instruments from several Atlanta concert venues, including Castle Rock.

  "That's a terrible idea," Emmett said. He shot Bronwyn a stern look that made her flinch. "This isn't some Nancy Drew novel or cutesy sleuth movie on the Hallmark Channel." His face reddened, and his voice grew louder. "This is real life! Your actions have real consequences. Didn't you learn anything from what happened last year? You two were nearly killed!" He was practically shouting now.

  "Sorry," Bronwyn said, her voice subdued. Her cheeks
glowed nearly as pink as her hair.

  "Whoa, easy there, tiger." I put a hand on Emmett's arm. While everything he said was true, I was taken aback by the sudden outburst. People from other booths were even staring.

  Emmett huffed, and I felt some of the tension ease out of his body as he rested against me. "Catching criminals and solving murders is dangerous," he said, clasping my hand in his. "And after this morning, it's probably best that you don't do anything that could earn you more attention from the police—that includes snooping around, looking for ways to prove your ex-boyfriend didn't kill his bandmate."

  I wasn't thrilled about Emmett's ex-boyfriend comment, but his use of the word snooping was what really got my panties in a twist. "I wasn't snooping," I said in a clipped tone. "And what happened this morning was an accident." I hadn't told him all of the details leading up to my mistaken assault on Officer Thompson, but now didn't seem like a good time to mention that I'd been running from Mickey since it'd only support his side of the argument. "And besides, Detective Dixon told me to let him know if I came across anything that might help with the case. I don't want to see my friend sit in jail if he's innocent." I put extra emphasis on the word friend.

  "But that doesn't give you license to launch your own investigation, babe." Emmett's jaw tightened.

  "I never said I was going to," I shot back. I took a gulp of my whiskey sour, but the burning in my gut was more from anger than the alcohol. Emmett and I glared at each other in silence, the tension between us thick enough to cut with Sharon's pizza slicer.

  "Um, you guys," Bronwyn said from across the booth. "I, er, just remembered I have to be somewhere else. Gotta fold laundry or file my taxes or something…" Just as Kat had done earlier, Bron slapped some money on the table and hopped out of the booth, making a beeline for the front door. I couldn't blame her. I didn't want to stick around for the fight brewing between Emmett and me either.