Free Lia Farrell - Mae December 02 - Two Dogs Lie Sleeping by Lia Farrell Page B

Fred said. “I understand you talked to July yesterday. My wife is still pretty upset about your visit. Furthermore, she said you might need to talk to her again.” His voice hovered on the edge of anger.
    “I may.” Wayne paused. “I’d like to talk to you too. Do you have time to answer some questions?”
    “On the phone or do you want to come over here?”
    “I’ll come on over to your office.”
    “Okay,” he said. Dory wrote on a pad of paper that Fred worked at IT Fixes Now—a business located in a large office building just off the highway between Rosedale and Nashville.
    “Sheriff, I’m going to go talk to Fred Powell,” Wayne called as he walked by the sheriff’s office. “I just spoke with him on the phone.”
    “I already got a search warrant for their house, so I’ll get George and Rob to start the search while you’re talking to him,” Wayne’s young boss said.
    When Wayne got into his car, he noticed that the temperature display on the building read 92 degrees. High temperatures made him short -tempered. Watch yourself, Wayne Nichols. Keep your cool. Solving this one would take every ounce of his mind and ability—until they nabbed the killer, or moved it to the cold case file where it would be a reproach to him for the rest of his life.
     
    Fred Powell met him in the entrance to the large building saying, “I thought I’d watch for you. You probably haven’t been here before, have you? I’d be happy to show you around.”
    “Do you have a conference room where we could talk?” Detective Nichols asked.
    “Sure,” he said. “What’s this about?”
    Wayne just looked at him, irked that Fred would offer him a tour of the building. Fred Powell knew perfectly well why the detective was there. The man was playing games. Fred kept his expression impassive. The two men walked down the marble tile floored corridor to the impressively furnished conference room. As they sat down, Fred gestured to the sideboard that was loaded with a variety of coffee machines and an urn filled with coffee. It smelled burned; clearly it was the last coffee of the day. Wayne shook his head.
    “Mr. Powell, what time did you get home on August second?”
    “I got an earlier flight, flew standby. The conference I was attending ended a little early and I wanted to get home. I never sleep well when I’m not in my own bed.”
    “What time did you get to the Nashville airport?”
    “It was right about three-thirty.”
    “So did you call someone to pick you up?”
    “July was supposed to, but I knew she had to finish up her project, so I took a cab. I did send her a text, but I never got a response, so I don’t think she saw it.”
    “ Did you go straight home?”
    “No, I came here to the office. I didn’t get home until about seven-thirty. That’s when I found out about Tom Ferris’ murder. July was still at her parents’ house.”
    Detective Nichols set his hands on the table, palms down. His voice trembled with repressed fury. “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Powell. We know you took a cab to the Booth Showhouse.” Fred’s eyes darted sideways. “You arrived there around four-thirty. The victim died of a gunshot wound at five fifty-seven. Do you own a gun?” Wayne watched his face carefully. He knew the answer to this one and wanted to see if Fred would confess to owning a semi-automatic.
    “A gun? For hunting, you mean?”
    “For any reason.”
    “Surely you aren’t suspecting me of this murder, are you?”
    “We have to get the whereabouts of everyone who may have been involved. Your wife found the victim dying, and she and Ferris were very close at one time, as I’m sure you know.”
    S ilence. Fred looked at Detective Nichols and he looked back. Neither of them blinked.
    “Yes,” he said, finally. “I own a gun, but I keep it locked at the Rosedale Gun Club. I resent you even asking me that question.”
    “Did you know Tom Ferris?”
    “No.” Obviously Fred had decided that he was going