The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (top 20 books to read TXT) 📕

room provided a nice respite, but come Monday I can’t escape the searing publicity. Confidence in the case remains strong. It’s the lawyer in charge of the case that worries me.

I check out of the hotel and walk back to the parking garage in the condo. The fresh air should do me good—if only it were fresh. The smog and smells of Friday afternoon traffic put to bed any notion concerning the rejuvenating power of being outdoors. The city is dirty. The stale air of my car tastes sweet as watermelon in comparison.

***

I drive over to Liesa’s house. Before Scott’s call two nights ago about the second bullet, I had all but landed on suicide as the safest explanation for Sam’s death. But now murder is squarely on the table. Barton, Brice, and Liesa are all leading candidates. I am unsure what Liesa wants to discuss, but I will record our conversation. Anything Liesa says can and will be used against her in a court of law.

We sit in the same places as our first awkward meeting about the Barton case. That day seems like a long time ago. It was three months. Liesa’s steel resolve, worn so defiantly then, is vanished, replaced by red and weary eyes.

“Where are the kids?”

“At my mom’s.”

Tears stream down her face. She grabs a box of tissues from another room and reclaims her place. The possibility of another revelation about Sam makes me antsy. I hope like heck that box in the mountains is where I left it.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I cannot believe Sam is dead.”

“Me either.”

“Why did he have to die?”

I study her. Sam was probably murdered, and Liesa is a suspect. Last time we met, she played me for information while I got precious little out of her. That won’t happen again. Grieving widow or not, I will hold my cards close.

“I don’t know, Liesa. I really don’t know.”

“Was he murdered?”

“I don’t know. Did you kill him?”

“Really? I can’t believe you would ask me that.”

She moans, takes a deep breath, and cries some more. The tissue box is empty. She throws it to the side in frustration.

“I loved that man. Loved him since the first time I saw him in the law library. He could drive me mad, could hurt me, could make me question my self-worth, but I would never kill him. I loved him too much. I gave up my life for him, and now he’s gone. I need a drink.”

Liesa leaves for the kitchen, returns with a bottle of wine, and fills herself a generous glass. She doesn’t offer me any. She knows I don’t drink. Haven’t for a long time. Because of Amber. I got drunk one night, acted like an ass toward her, woke up sick and hung over. She didn’t speak to me for two days. I promised her I would never drink again, and I haven’t. Maybe I should. Maybe it would help me sleep, dull the pain.

I ask, “Would Sam kill himself?”

“Did he kill that woman?”

“That’s the second time you asked me that. Is there something you know that I don’t?”

The image of Sam’s angry face as he penetrated Sara Barton infiltrates my brain. Liesa shakes her head in denial.

I respond, “Good. Because Bernard Barton killed that woman.”

“Then Sam didn’t kill himself.”

I see the reasoning. Murdering Sara Barton would be too far out of character for the Sam I knew. But if he had killed her for some impulsive reason, then I could see him killing himself out of guilt. The nervousness of living with that burden would’ve eaten him alive. He may have been weak and stupid, but he was not evil.

Liesa asks, “Did you find what you were looking for in the mountains?”

“It wasn’t important.”

“It was important enough for you to harass me on the day I buried my husband. How could you be so cruel? You of all people should know better.”

She’s not wrong. I sit there appropriately chastened. She sips more wine. But the tug of the case is a hard drug to resist. I ask, “What are you going to do now? Is there any life insurance to help you get through?”

Liesa laughs. She spots my fake concern a mile off.

“You still trying to pin Sam’s death on me?”

“Look, I got $2 million when Amber died. I’m not judging.”

“Did you kill Amber?”

I flash her a cold, hard look.

She says, “Shoe is on the other foot. Don’t like to be asked if you killed your wife, do you?”

“Amber never gave me a reason to kill her.”

Point scored. Her wounded eyes wave the white flag of temporary surrender. Whatever this meeting is—old friends commiserating about shared experiences of loss, the questioning of a murder suspect, or Liesa pumping me for information—we have both brought out our switchblades to freshly puncture the spots where each of us hurts the most. I feel no bitterness toward Liesa, have no ancient score to settle. But our uneasy conversations point to some hidden antagonism. Were we ever really even friends? I reflect that all of my relationships traffic in dysfunction.

I plead, “Can you just answer a simple question?”

“You’re just doing your job, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Sam had a $1 million personal policy, and a $2 million dollar business policy. I get $3 million, but I didn’t kill him.”

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Might as well. You’re going to anyway.”

“Where were you on the night of Sara Barton’s murder?”

Liesa does not answer. She pours herself another glass of wine. Her third? I’ve lost count. I need to press her for an answer before she loses her coherence to the bottle.

I say, “Can I offer you up a theory about what you were doing that night? You can tell me if I’m hot or cold. I think Sam told you he had to go out. You decided you’d had enough of whatever was going on and followed him. You see him enter the Barton residence and see him come right back out. He then