Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher (For Me #2)(26)
Author: Cynthia Eden

Fort slapped his hand over the picture, covering Stacy’s face. “She sent me a text. Told me that she had to pull an extra shift—wanted the cash since it was her last night. She told me that she would be late gettin’ in.”

“But she didn’t get in at all.”

Fort’s breath was coming in fast heaves. “When I got her text, I went out for some beers with friends. I got in and passed out. I’d just woken up when—”

“When you heard the marshal banging at the door?”

A nod.

Now Anthony spoke. “Do you always run when you hear a knock at your door?”

He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.

“Then I guess today was special, huh?” Paul asked as he pulled the photo from beneath Fort’s hand. “But not so special for her.”

Did you help the Butcher kill your girlfriend?

Lauren had watched hundreds of interrogations over the years. She knew all the tricks detectives used in order to get a suspect to confess. She’d seen men crumble in an instant, and she’d seen cold-blooded killers refuse to break after hours of questioning.

When she’d had Walker in the interrogation room, he hadn’t broken. He’d just sat there, smiling at her the whole time.

Fort was already sweating. Sometimes, the guilty sweated. They sweated plenty. Their eyes darted around the interrogation room—just like Fort’s were doing. Their fingers tapped on the table, their shoes kept up a steady pounding rhythm on the floor.

Again, just like Fort.

Nervousness? Fear? A guilty conscience?

We’ll find out.

The door squeaked open behind her. She glanced over and saw a uniformed cop hurry into the room.

“Ms. Chandler?”

She waited.

The guy licked his lips. “The cops on scene were searching Fort’s home…” It had been easy enough to get the right to enter his home after the motorcycle incident. You didn’t get to nearly run down a DA without repercussions. “One of them found a stash of stolen electronics in the back. The serial numbers match a string of recent robberies in his neighborhood.”

She glanced back at the interrogation room. Anthony and Paul had wanted to know why the guy ran…

He’d been afraid he was about to get busted. That could explain the nervousness—and the guilty conscience. But was there more?

“Thank you,” she said as she headed toward the door.

He raised a hand to stop her. “We also got the report back for the marshal.” Another nervous swipe of his tongue over his lips. “The bike’s tires—they were a match to the ones at the Crawford scene, to the ones we found at Walker’s old cabin.”

Lauren glanced through the two-way glass. She hadn’t just watched interviews over the years. She understood exactly how to push and bargain with suspects.

“Thank you,” she told the cop once more, and headed for interrogation.

My turn.

“You knew about Stacy Crawford’s ex-boyfriend,” Anthony said as he stared at Fort. “And you knew how desperate she was to get out of town.”

Fort was sweating. His feet nervously tapped against the cheap linoleum floor. “Stacy hated this town. Hated the way folks always looked at her. Like she was the freak.”

Fort’s eyes were on the manila folder. The folder with Stacy’s photo.

“But you wouldn’t leave town with her,” Anthony pointed out. “You made her stay.”

The guy’s jaw locked. “I had a job here. We were plannin’ to leave—”

“Your plan was a little too slow,” Paul drawled.

The door creaked open behind them. Anthony’s gaze shot to the door, to Lauren.

Still dressed in her hiking clothes, she walked into the small interrogation room with determined steps. Her gaze cut to him, to Paul, then to Fort. “Mr. Fort, do you know who I am?” Lauren asked.

Fort’s fingers were tapping against the tabletop now. “The DA. I seen your picture in the paper.” Then his lips twisted. “And Stacy f**kin’ hated you, so I heard about you plenty.”

Her head cocked as she studied him. “Shouldn’t you be more upset?” Curiosity had leaked into her voice. A trick, Anthony was sure of it. Lauren never revealed any emotion she didn’t want revealed, especially during an interrogation or in the courtroom. “I mean, you just found out your girlfriend is dead—that she was tortured and sliced, and you sit here calmly saying she ‘fucking hated’ me.” She shook her head. “That’s not the response I usually get from grieving boyfriends.” Then she walked to Paul’s side.

Fort’s gaze followed her every move.

“Detective Voyt here works homicide, but did you know he also used to handle B and Es? He spent several years working burglaries…”

Fort’s eyelids flickered.

She leaned over the table toward him. “The cops found your stash of stolen goods, Fort. That’s why you were running from your place, right? You thought you were busted?” She waited a beat. “Guess what? You are.”

Fort rocked back, nearly falling from his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”

“I’m taking about the laptops, the TVs, the phones—all the little items you had stashed in your bedroom.” She tapped her lower lip with her index finger, as if considering. “Were you trying to make some getaway cash? For the big move to Jackson? Is that why you—”

“It was Stacy!”

The guy sure gave up his dead girlfriend fast.

“She wanted out of this town in the worst way. Ever since she found that damn necklace in her jewelry box. She said we had to leave. Hell, the robberies were all her! She took the stuff!” He raised his hands in the air. “I’m clean, it’s her, and—”

“Hard to charge a dead woman with theft,” Anthony said. What a piece of work. No grief and all too eager to pin the crimes on Stacy.

Fort’s head jerked toward him. “It was her. I’m telling you, she freaked when she found the necklace.”

Lauren was frowning. “Just when did she find the necklace?”

“Last month. I was with her, we were heading to a party and she pulled out the box, and the freakin’ thing was there.” Another hard shake of his head. “Wasn’t there the week before, I tell you, it wasn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I would have pawned it! I’d been through her box looking already, but nothin’ good was there.” He was back to tapping his fingers. Moving almost constantly. “Not then.”