Page 127 of Secrets Along the Shore
Tommy’s shouting reaches a new decibel level and I toss a glance in his direction. “You think he’ll let me come back and finish what I started?”
Dalton shrugs. “You can ask him, but Fogerty might not come back today. Could be an overnight stay.”
I don’t like the idea of Fogerty having so long to think about things before we talk again. I want to catch him off guard, play him against his own bravado. Now he can plan. And I’ll have to come back a second time to do something I didn’t want to do in the first place.
Of course, the upside is that, by then, we might have an ID on the victim.
A jolt of realization bolts through me. “Could I have my phone back?”
Dalton calls to the clerk and when she glances over, he points at me, then makes a cell phone gesture. She shoves a hand into the box where they store the phones, pulls mine out—I guess it was the only one because she didn’t ask what it looks like—and walks it over.
“Thanks,” I say. Over my screensaver photo of James and Bilbo playing in the snow on a rare winter-weather day, is a notification that I’ve received a message from Goat. When I open it, a balloon expands in my chest.
GOT HER. CHECK YOUR EMAIL.
CHAPTER
NINE
I needto hustle out of the jail as quickly as I can without seeming rude, my phone burning a hole in my hand. As a private investigator, it doesn’t matter that I’m in a hurry, not when my investigations often depend on someone giving me a break or letting a rule slide. “Rude” can un-grease the wheels of your momentum faster than the flash of the evil eye you get when someone who has just done you a favor—or who you mightneedto do you a favor in the future—feels slighted.
That’s true to some degree everywhere, I suppose, but especially true in small southern towns, where “rude” is just shy of cursing somebody out. Most of the time, I relish the politeness that governs social interaction down here. It’s warm and friendly and there’s something utterly charming about it. Sometimes though—like when you’ve just been delivered the identity of the person found murdered that morning—it can be a tad inconvenient.
Even so, I can’t risk a cold exit, so I thank Officer Dalton, stick my head inside a red-faced Tommy’s office to say “bye,” wave at the clerk and then, finally, I’m out the door. I stride through the parking lot, not even to my Jeep before I’ve got my phone out and the email from Goat open.
SOPHIE,
HERE’S THE INFO YOU ASKED FOR.
Short,sweet, and to the point. I have to give Gen Z one thing. They don’t waste words.
There’s an attachment at the bottom of the email. I fumble with my door, yank it open, and climb into the driver’s seat. I hurriedly toss my backpack into the passenger seat, before clicking on it.
“Kamden Avery’sentire life boiled down to a single page,” Tasha says, leaning forward in her chair.
We’re in the D.A.’s office, gathered around a conference-sized table in the workroom, also known as the “Kurt Fogerty Trial War Room” for the last month and a half. I’m sitting in a chair opposite her, and Keel is a few seats down from me.
The light from Tasha’s laptop highlights her face as she continues to review Goat’s report. She clicks her mouse pad, presumably checking out another one of the links he included to online information about Kamden Avery. “I can’t believe your guy got all of this so quickly,” she remarks, her eyes glued to the screen. “That program of his is amazing.”
I cut a glance at her over my open laptop. “Yeah, well, even I’m surprised Goat found her so soon, with only that necklace to go on.” It isn’t the first time he’s beat the sheriff’s department to the punch, but he did do it in record time. “If she hadn’t been wearing it in that Instagram photo, we’d still be wondering who she was.”
Two huge magnetic whiteboards hang on the front wall of the room. One is plastered with all kinds of photos, documents, and notes pertaining to every aspect of this case—victims, perpetrator, crime scenes, evidence, and any other key facts we wanted visual reminders of. The second one is full of notations penned in dry-erase markers, outlining the prosecution strategy. To avoid having to erase anythingto make room for the new investigation, Tasha wheeled in a third whiteboard, which we’re covering with the details of the latest victim.
The three of us are the only ones in the office. I would have thought D.A. March would be here, but he relied on Tasha and Keel for the majority of the prep leading up to the trial. It makes sense that sentencing wouldn’t be any different.
It’s closing in on three o’clock, and my regularly scheduled mid-afternoon energy slump is right on schedule. I’ve got a cup of coffee in front of me, doctored with a heavy dose of the vanilla oat milk creamer Tasha keeps stashed for me in the office fridge. Tasha’s is black, no sugar, and Keel’s gone straight for the Red Bull. The hope we were all harboring for a little bit of rest today has evaporated into thin air, much like our victim did nine months ago.
Kamden Avery of 1422 Emerson Street, Birmingham, Alabama, was twenty-nine years old the last time she was seen by her roommate, around September twenty-fifth of last year. From Goat’s research, we know she was married at twenty-two and divorced at twenty-six with no children. Her socials contain no mention of a family of any kind. Her ex-husband, Nate Alley, is a car salesman living in Phoenix. Kamden’s jobs over the prior few years have included bartending, retail, and ride-share driving, but her employment in general has been sporadic and short term. She had two minor drug-related convictions in the past five years.
Goat’s one-page report includes all this information, as well as over three dozen online links to everything he could find on Ms. Avery. These are the links we are currently reviewing and printing anything that can help form a comprehensive picture of Kamden Avery.
“Those possession convictions got her a few months each,” Keel says, hopping up to jot the timing of the two convictions and the short span of jail time on the whiteboard. “There’s also one traffic citation by the State Highway Patrol,” he adds, scribbling a note about that offense too.
“Possession of?” Tasha asks as she types.
“Marijuana and molly,” he says, finishing the notation on the board with a quick snap of his hand, popping the top back on the blue marker.
“Okay.” I exhale and pat my hands on my legs as I lean back. “Just went through her Instagram account. @KamAlley96 has been inactive for almost a year. Before that, it’s a roll of photos documenting a party lifestyle—bar-hopping, clubs—but always cheap and always low-end. A hundred different guys fill these pictures, so I’m guessing there wasn’t anyone serious in her life, or if there was, she wasn’t sharing it on Insta. It does appear she had a few unhappy exes and disgruntled former dates, given some of the ugly comments on some of the posts.
