Chapter 3 #2
She shrugged. “It was my idea. And to be fair, the lead detective did not feel comfortable putting me in this guy’s path.
But I would have put myself there one way or another.
He killed a fifteen-year-old girl. Her family deserved answers, she deserved justice, and he was getting way too confident that he was off the hook.
Sloppy. Truthfully, I was in the right place at the right time. The police did all the hard work.”
“They usually do,” I agreed, but I couldn’t help being a little impressed. “So that was your last season?”
“No, two seasons ago. The last one was another cold case, another murdered woman. I didn’t get the answers I wanted on that one.
But at least her story’s out there. The more people who hear it, the more we have a chance of sparking somebody’s memory, digging something up.
” She sat back, tapped the point of her pen against the blank page of her notebook, leaving little blue dots to track her impatience.
“Do you always get the answers you’re going for? ”
I shook my head. “We usually get the job done, but we don’t always get the answers.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s the hard part of investigations.”
“And now?” I asked. “What are you investigating now?”
At that question, Sylvie straightened, wrote the date at the top of the clean page of her open notepad, then my name, a dash, and Sinclair Security.
“Last night,” she said, “my van was blown up.”
I stared at her, at a loss for words. The wobbly knees and dirty clothes made more sense. But— “Are you here for help finding out who blew up your van? What do the police think?”
“I haven’t talked to the police,” she said, her voice still calm. Too calm, if what she’d said about her van was true.
“Why not?” I asked, letting my voice get sharp. What kind of idiot didn’t report an explosion to the police? “Wouldn’t that be the normal thing to do after someone destroys your property? File a police report, tell them what you know?”
“Normally,” she said. “But it happens that the woman I’m investigating died when her car blew up in her driveway, with her in it.
Everything about her murder has been weird.
I came to Atlanta following a lead—my only lead—and then my van gets blown up.
I don’t believe in coincidences. Generally, things that look like coincidences aren’t.
There’s always a connection when you dig.
And this—” She shook her head. “I’ve tried talking to the police who investigated her murder, and I got shut down fast.”
I didn’t love the parallel between Sylvie’s van exploding and the murder victim’s car blowing up, but I pushed back. “I’d think that would be procedure. The police generally don’t love collaborating with the media.”
“I’m not really the media,” she said. “And yeah, sometimes they don’t love civilian investigators.
I get it. But this was different. I’ve worked with law enforcement.
I know there are bad apples out there, but I respect what they do.
The detectives I usually work with want to solve these murders as much as I do—more. They’re invested. They care.”
“But not this time,” I prompted.
“This time, no. They just wanted Emily Shaw’s murder to go away.”
Every cell in my body went stiff when Sylvie Calloway said that name. What were the odds? Like Sylvie, I didn’t believe in coincidences.
Her eyes sharpened on me, and I knew I’d given something away at the mention of Emily’s name. Deliberately, I didn’t follow up. “Walk me through what happened. What time did your van blow up?”
Sylvie sat back and went through the events of the night before, ending with her huddled in a rainy alley, watching her van burn.
“Did you stick around to wait for the fire department? Talk to the cops?”
“No,” she said. “I took off. I found a place to hole up that was somewhat dry and headed here as soon as I thought you’d be open.”
“This is the part that’s intriguing me,” I said, still ignoring her mention of Emily Shaw.
“Our address isn’t available online. It’s not listed in the phone book—not that anyone even uses those anymore.
I have to wonder, how did you find Sinclair Security in the first place? Usually, people get here by referral.”
“You know how I said I came to Atlanta following a lead? Well, you’re the lead.” She dug in her backpack and pulled out an envelope, and from that envelope a yellow sticky note.
Written on the front in handwriting I didn’t recognize were two scrawled letters, SS, the street address of our building, and the number to Sinclair Security’s direct phone line. Emmett had found a connection from Emily Shaw to Silas, and now we had another from Emily to Sinclair Security.
“And where did you find this?” I asked, handing the note back casually, as if it wasn’t important.
“My murder victim. I connected with her old neighbor. This showed up in the mail.”
“Interesting,” was all I could say as everything I knew flipped upside down.
I’d walked into this room wondering how quickly I could ditch the murder podcaster and get back to the business of figuring out what had happened to Silas.
Now it looked like the murder podcaster was our best link.
The only lead we currently had on Silas went straight to Emily Shaw.
If we could find out who killed her, we’d be that much closer to finding Silas.
But Sylvie Calloway didn’t need to know any of that.
“The sticky note brought you here. You said you had questions. Ask away,” I said, leaning back.
Sylvie’s eyes narrowed in what I thought was frustration. At what, I couldn’t tell. “Is Emily Shaw a client?” she asked.
I shook my head. “You have to know I can’t answer questions like that. Confidentiality is a big part of what we do.”
“Understandable,” she said, making a note on her pad in some kind of shorthand I couldn’t decipher. “You can’t confirm if she’s been here. I tracked her to Atlanta several days before she died, but I don’t know what she was doing here.”
That was news to me. Emily Shaw hadn’t been at Sinclair Security, but had she been headed to us? Had Silas sent her to Cooper? If he had, she’d never made it.
“I hate to give you a dead end, Sylvie. I really do. And normally, I would tell you I can’t disclose any information about a client. I absolutely wouldn’t tell you a thing if Emily Shaw were a client of Sinclair Security. But she’s not. Which leaves you with nothing. Correct?”
Sylvie gave an abrupt nod. I could practically hear her teeth grinding.
“And you still have a problem. Your vehicle was blown up.”
“My home was blown up,” she corrected.
Interesting. I hadn’t pegged her for the van life thing, but it made sense for a podcaster who needed to be mobile.
“When you say a van, like a camper van?” I asked.
“Exactly,” she said. “My home on wheels.” She let out a sigh and sank back into the chair, for the first time losing her composure as fatigue washed across her face. She’d told Alice she hadn’t eaten. She had to be at the end of her rope.
I wasn’t above using that to my advantage.
“A day ago,” she said, “I was considering walking away from Emily Shaw’s murder. Now I’m not sure I can.”
“You need help,” I said.
Sylvie eyed me with suspicion.
“I don’t know if she mentioned it, but Alice is a fan,” I added.
“Really?” Sylvie flashed a brief smile. “That’s cool. I have a pretty big audience, but not so big that I’m bumping into them right and left.”
“Alice pretty much runs this place, and she’ll be pissed off if I sent you away without offering to help.”
Sylvie straightened and shook her head. “I came here to ask a few questions, hoping to shake something loose about that note, but I can’t afford Sinclair Security. Especially considering I’m currently homeless with a lot of expensive equipment to replace.”
I leaned forward, the better to make her comfortable as I figured out how to play this. “You’re right, you probably can’t afford us. But I think we might be able to work something out,” I said, my mind racing.
There was no way I was telling the podcaster why we were interested in Emily Shaw, but the fact was, we both wanted answers.
She was going to be out there digging. I didn’t even have to ask—whoever decided blowing up her van was the way to deal with Sylvie Calloway should have made sure she was inside when it went, because now they’d pissed her off.
She was hungry, exhausted, and suffering from some degree of shock, and still she wasn’t ready to give up. Once she was feeling a little steadier, she was going to be furious. I could work around her if I had to, but I could control her more easily if we were on the same team.
How to explain without tipping my hand? I needed to talk to Cooper and Ryder.
A knock sounded on the door, and it swung open to reveal Alice, with coffee and a package wrapped in waxed paper, smelling of bacon and cheese. Sylvie’s stomach rumbled audibly, and I cracked a grin.
“I’ll leave you with your breakfast and the coffee.” I snagged the other cup out of Alice’s hand. “I need a word with Cooper and Ryder before I go any further with Miss Calloway.”
“They’re both in Coop’s office,” Alice said. “You’re all right in here for a few minutes, Sylvie?”
She looked up from the biscuit sandwich she was unwrapping and nodded. “I’m fine. This is great, Alice. Thank you.”