A Cry in the Dark (Carly Moore #1) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,115

a room, hidden the stash in it, then notified the buyers a day or two later.”

“Wouldn’t be smart to leave that much product unsupervised,” Bingham said. “Especially since Max sometimes rents those rooms at an hourly rate.”

Gross. “So you’re suggesting the person never showed?” I asked.

“Seems to me,” he said slowly, “that the real dealer wouldn’t make as much fuss as you did when you came to town. Then again, what do I know?” He winked and shot me a wry grin.

Did he think I was the dealer after all? “If the dealer never showed, then why were Cecil and his friends searching the rooms? Why was Seth there?”

“Because I told him I expected a drug deal to go down there. I already suspected there were traitors in my midst, and I didn’t want to clue them in. So I told the boy I’d make it worth his while if he went as my eyes and ears.”

“You asked a teenage boy to watch hardened criminals in the middle of a transaction?” I asked, outraged.

He shrugged. “The boy wasn’t as innocent as you might think. He’d done a few things that could have gotten him into trouble.”

Something about the way he said it caught my attention. “You threatened to expose him.”

He scoffed. “I didn’t need to threaten him with anything. He agreed to be my eyes and ears, but I warned him not to interfere. I can’t help thinkin’ he tried to apprehend them.”

“You put him in the position to be killed,” I said, my anger rising. “This is your fault.”

“I caught him spyin’ on me. I had a choice—tell him what he wanted to know or let him go and lose face. Third option was beatin’ the shit out of him.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Most people would find this hard to believe, but I don’t cotton to beatin’ up teenage boys who are set on avengin’ their mother’s death.”

“Well, aren’t you the nice guy.”

His attitude shifted, from defensive to sly as he narrowed his eyes. “Let’s back up to something else. You said they were searchin’ rooms. What makes you say that?”

Oh. Shit.

“Why else would they be busting down doors?” I asked, thinking quickly. “Cecil showed up at Hank’s looking for the stash. Stands to reason that’s what they were doing at the motel.”

“So you’re just speculatin’?” he asked.

“Of course. Isn’t that what most people do when they only have a few pieces of information? They take what they know and try to make it fit.”

He scanned me up and down, although his perusal felt more calculating than it did lustful. “Yeah,” he finally said. “That’s exactly what they do.” He paused. “You keep usin’ they when you talk about the people who did this. As in more than one,” he said. “I find that peculiar.”

“Why? It’s like Hank said, Cecil talked about looking for the stash for his buddies. Stands to reason there are more of them.”

“Cecil could have done this on his own. Just because his buddies wanted a piece of the stash doesn’t mean they were involved in the murder.” He tilted his head toward me. “Got anything else to volunteer?” When I didn’t say anything, he asked, “Which hand did you hold while the boy was dyin’?”

“Does it matter?”

“It seems to matter to you since you’re not willin’ to tell me. Shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”

I knew where he was headed with this question, and I had no idea how to thwart his agenda other than to play dumb. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess I was on his left side.”

“So you held his left hand?”

“Yes.”

He gave me a long look. “You didn’t notice anything on his hand?” he pressed.

My pulse escalated. He knew about the numbers. Did he also know what they meant?

I shook my head, hoping my directness would sell my story. “Should I have?”

He frowned. “You promised me a piece of information that you claimed the sheriff’s office didn’t have.”

“All in good time,” I said. “This is supposed to be a question and answer session, not an interrogation.”

A smirk lit up his eyes. “I prefer the word interview.”

“Call it what you like, it’s still the same thing.” I narrowed my eyes. Then in a risky and perhaps foolish move, I decided to goad him. “I’ve heard that Bart Drummond runs this town.”

A fire flashed in his eyes and then quickly faded to indifference. So he was a man who could control his temper. “The