Jack and Djinn (The Houri Legends, #1)(2)
Carson hated to admit it, but Mr. Rat was right. There was simply no way they could spend the time hunting down all the people who might have seen something, especially when there was no evidence the victim or victims had ever been inside the casino in the first place. As he swung his muscular, six-foot-three frame into the unmarked Impala, Carson had a feeling that this was going to be a tricky case. Some were like that. You started out with very little to go on, and got no further. The boxes full of unsolved cold cases back at the precinct were proof of that.
There was something about the way the body was burned that kept turning over in Carson’s head. No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t make sense of it. Had the body been burned somewhere else and dumped in the garage? That made no sense whatsoever; the body had obviously fallen in situ. The way the bones were arranged suggested the body had toppled over dead on the spot, some bones still touching where they had been joined by tissue. If the remains had been dumped, the bones would be a jumbled mess. Besides, why would someone dump a dead, burnt-to-a-crisp body in a casino parking garage? A gambling debt? That was one possibility, but until they had a positive I.D. on the body, it was mere conjecture.
The security cameras had a few images that might be connected to the crime, but there was no footage of the crime itself.
“I’m gonna need the surveillance tapes for the whole garage,” Carson said, “going back forty-eight hours. Officer Nagle, you can handle that. Go through the footage and see if you can find anything.”
He went back to the precinct and immediately went to the forensic lab. The pistol and the casings were dusted for fingerprints, the results from the FBI database coming back a couple of hours later: The prints belonged to Benjamin Wade, twenty-nine years old, two tours of duty in Afghanistan with the U.S. Marine Corps. No priors except for a few parking tickets and a speeding ticket. Wade rented an apartment in downtown Royal Oak. A day spent digging produced Wade’s military records and resulted in dental records matching the body found in the MGM Grand parking garage.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start.
As soon as the positive I.D. on the body came back, Carson drove up to Wade’s apartment complex in Royal Oak and spoke to the apartment manager. The apartment manager claimed he’d only met Ben once, when he signed the lease. Out of all the residents, there was only one neighbor who had any pertinent information, Matthew Hackett. Matt was a retiree, a portly older man with yellow, nicotine-stained teeth and long, unkempt hair and a grizzled beard.
“Yeah, I know Ben a little,” Matt claimed in a rough grumble tinged with a thick Southern drawl. “Not well, but some. He’s nice enough to me, when I see him in the hallway. Spent two years fighting that war in Afghanistan, you know.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?” Carson asked. “Anyone who comes over on a regular basis?”
“Oh, yeah,” Matt answered, “Miriam, I think her name is. Nice girl. Mebbe five-five, real long brown hair, nearly down to her waist. Beautiful girl, that Miriam. Had a real nice set of—” Matt trailed off with his hands cupped in front of his chest. “Er. Yeah. She’s real pretty.”
“Do you know if she and Ben get along?” Carson asked.
“Most of the time, I guess. I hear ’em arguing a good bit, mostly him yelling at her. She don’t stay over, though—she usually leaves late at night. I don’t sleep much, you know.”
“So you watch your neighbors?” Carson asked.
“Well….” Matt shifted uncomfortably, flushing red. “I ain’t done nothing—I just watch her go, make sure she gets out to the street okay. I feel bad for her, a bit. Why she stays with Ben, I don’t know.”
This got Carson’s attention. “What does that mean, Mr. Hackett? Does Ben mistreat her?”
“Well…I—I’ve seen her leave with a black eye once or twice. These walls, they ain’t too thick, you know? So I hear things, but I ain’t tryin’ to listen in, you know?” The more agitated he got, the thicker his Southern drawl became. “So, yeah, I’ve heard him smack her a few times. Say, what’s this about, anyways? He finally went too far, is that it? Come to think of it, I ain’t seen him in a while.”
“We are currently investigating Mr. Wade’s death,” Carson said.
“He’s dead?” Matt was shocked. “How’d he die? You think Miriam did it?”
“I can’t divulge the details of the case, Mr. Hackett. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Matt thought before answering. “Well, they both worked at the Taproom a couple miles down the street. I think Miriam lives right near the bar. I heard ’em talking about that a few times. Try the bar. You might find something useful there.”
“Okay, well, thank you for your time, Mr. Hackett,” Carson said, handing the older man his card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
“I’m headin’ down to Florida tomorrow,” Matt said. “But I’ll think on it.”
After getting the key from the manager Carson checked Ben’s apartment and found it almost spartan. An expensive but faded leather couch and love seat, a huge flat-screen TV, no artwork or decorations of any kind, except a single picture of Ben’s Marine unit on a side table. There were a few bills lying on the dining room table, with a box of 9mm shells and spare clips next to them. Ben’s apartment seemed like it was somewhere he slept and that was about it. Other than the shells and clips, there was nothing else. The search had yielded little new evidence. But the real lead was the interview with Matt Hackett regarding Ben’s girlfriend, Miriam.