o’clock, she’d seen Shannon outside. Bree and Matt returned to the SUV.
Matt climbed into the passenger seat and closed his door. “Owen’s looking better and better.”
“Most murdered women are killed by their significant others.” Bree started the engine, turned the vehicle around, and drove away from the house. “But Shannon also had motivation. Holly wanted to pull the plug on their mom. I can’t imagine a more emotional subject for an argument.”
“So, this was a crime of passion?”
Bree tapped a thumb on the steering wheel. “Blunt force trauma can be passionate. Strangulation feels passionate. Even a gunshot or knife attack can be fueled by emotions. But a blood choke feels more . . .”
“Calculated?”
“Yes,” Bree said. “Even poorly executed, a blood choke takes knowledge and technique. If the ME is right, then the killer was behind her, with his arm around her throat. A real confrontation would be face-to-face. This feels sneaky.”
“Dr. Jones said the technique wasn’t great,” Matt said. “But I wonder if our killer has studied martial arts.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Financially, Shannon is hurt by her sister’s death,” Matt pointed out.
“Yes, she is.” Bree shifted the vehicle into gear. “But I also had the feeling she was holding something back.”
“I caught that too. It was something to do with Owen and Holly’s fights.”
Bree checked her phone. “The search warrant for Holly’s residence is in.”
“Let’s go see Owen,” Matt said. “I find it interesting that he never mentioned Holly’s father died at the same bridge.”
“Me too.” Bree called Todd and asked him to send a deputy to Owen’s address with a copy of the search warrant in about thirty minutes.
“We’ll stop at the bar on the way. I want to know how strong his alibi is before we question him again.” Bree drove toward the Grey Fox, the bar located a few blocks from Holly and Owen’s condo. The Grey Fox was a dive inside and out. A few men were lined up at the bar, sipping beer and watching sports on three TVs mounted from the ceiling. The bartender was about thirtyish and a scrawny five eight. The tattoo of a skull on his scalp showed through closely shorn dark hair. He was drying a wineglass with a suspiciously dirty rag. Bree crossed the Grey Fox off her list of possible hangouts.
The bartender spotted Bree’s uniform and froze.
She walked up to the bar. “I’m looking for Billy.”
“I’m Billy.” But he looked like he’d rather be anyone else.
Bree introduced herself and Matt. “What’s your full name?”
“Billy Zinke.” He resumed drying the glass.
Bree said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Owen Thorpe.”
Billy shot her a wary frown. “What do you want to know?”
Bree leaned her forearms on the bar. “When did you see him last?”
“He was here most of the weekend.” Billy slid the dry glass stem up into an overhead rack and picked up another. “He showed up Friday night, pissed at his wife. Nothing new there.”
“What time did he leave Friday night?” Matt asked.
Billy snorted. “He didn’t. I had to pry him off his stool at closing and drive his ass home with me. If I let him walk, he’d have ended up in a ditch somewhere. Dude was hammered.”
“What time is closing?” Bree asked.
“Four a.m.” Billy tossed the rag over his shoulder.
“Why did you take him to your place?” Bree asked.
“Because he was so drunk, I was afraid he would fall and break something—like his head.” Billy folded his arms across his chest. “Owen’s been a regular here for years. Believe it or not, this place is not always busy. There have been plenty of nights that it’s just me and a couple of customers watching the game.” He nodded toward the TV overhead. “I’ve hung out with Owen plenty of nights.”
“What time did he leave your place on Saturday?” Bree asked.
Billy shook his head. “I don’t remember exactly, but neither one of us woke up before noon.”
Bree glanced up at a surveillance camera mounted over the bar. “Do you have security feeds to back up that timeline?”
Billy followed her gaze. “We have security cameras on the front and back door. That’s it.”
“What about that one?” She nodded at the camera in the corner.
Billy lowered his voice. “Hasn’t worked in years.”
“Do you have a roommate?” Bree would have liked additional confirmation for Owen’s alibi.
“No.” Billy shook his head. “I live alone.”
“I’d like the footage of the doors then, please,” Bree said. “Also, I’ll need you to come to the station and sign a statement.”