Free Sworn to Silence by Linda Castillo Page B

steamed.
    “Sorry, Chief, but the phones have been nuts.” She sounds rattled.
    Nothing burns up the phone lines like a murder, I think darkly. “Any messages?”
    “Lots of folks calling about the murder.”
    I remember I was supposed to type a statement this afternoon. I’m running out of time. I wish I could stop the clock. “Tell anyone who asks I’ll have a statement later today.”
    “Norm Johnston has called three times. He sounds pissed.”
    “Tell him I’ll touch base with him later. I’m pretty tied up right now.”
    “Will do.”
    I disconnect, knowing I won’t be able to put off Norm much longer.
    The clock on my dash tells me it’s three P.M. when I park outside the diner. Though it’s well after the lunch rush, the place is packed. The heart of the Painters Mill grapevine.
    The smells of old grease and burned toast assail me when I enter. Dishes clatter over the din of conversation. From a radio next to the cash register, George Strait laments about desperation. I feel the stares as I walk to the counter. A woman in a pink waitress uniform and big hair smiles as I approach. “Hiya, Chief. Can I get ya a cuppa joe?”
    I’ve met her before, but only to say hello. “That’d be great.”
    “Wanna menu or you gonna have the special?”
    I’m starved, but I know if I eat here these people will descend on me like hyenas on a fresh kill. “Just coffee.”
    I slide onto a stool and watch her pour, hoping the coffee is fresh. “Is Connie Spencer around?”
    She slides the cup in front of me. “She’s on her break. Poor thing’s been a basket case all morning. Amanda’s murder really freaked her out. You guys know who did it yet?”
    I shake my head. “Where is she?”
    “Out back. Been smoking like a chimney all day.”
    “Thanks.” Leaving the coffee, I head into the kitchen area. The cook looks at me through the steam coming off his grill. A boy with a bad case of acne eyes me from his place in front of the industrial-size dishwasher, then glances quickly away. I spy the door at the back and start toward it.
    I find Connie Spencer sitting on a concrete step outside. She’s a thin woman with narrow shoulders and small, quick hands. Her eyes are the color of barn muck and rimmed with blue liner. Pink blush streaks nonexistent cheekbones. Her mouth is bare of lipstick, revealing a cold sore in the corner. Huddled in a faux fur coat, she sucks on a long brown cigarette.
    The door slams behind me. Turning, she gives me the evil eye, her expression defiant. A tactic I’ve seen more than once, usually when some tough guy is trying to cover nerves. I wonder what she’s nervous about.
    “I was wondering when you were going to show up.” She glances at her watch. “Took you a while.”
    Already I don’t like her attitude. “What made you think I would want to talk to you?”
    “Because I was with Amanda Saturday night and now she’s dead.”
    “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
    She tongues the cold sore. “I guess I’m still in shock. Amanda was so . . .
alive,
you know? I can’t believe it.”
    “When’s the last time you saw her?”
    “Saturday night. We went out. Had a few drinks.”
    “Where?”
    “The Brass Rail.”
    “Anyplace else?”
    “No.”
    “Anything unusual happen while you were there?”
    “Unusual like what?”
    “A guy showing too much interest in her. Someone she didn’t know buying her a drink. Did she have an argument with anyone?”
    “Not that I remember.” She gives me a hard laugh. “But I was pretty wasted.”
    “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Amanda? Did she have any enemies?”
    For the first time she gives me her full attention. Some of the attitude drops away and I get a glimpse of the young woman beneath all the trashy brawn. “That’s what I don’t get,” she says. “Everyone liked Amanda. She was like . . . a nice person, always up. Laughed a lot, you know?” A smile that’s much too worldly for