Page 42 of Last Seen Alive
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There was a two-tone brown beat-up truck in front of the trailer marked 217 at the Sun and Shade Mobile Home Park. The place itself had seen a fresh coat of paint, and Amanda would guess it might have been last month or the start of this one. Most of the places were in a decent state of repair and resembled tiny houses with their small, attached decks and flower gardens. The park felt homey and not as depressing as she’d built up in her mind based upon stereotypes.
Before coming here, they’d collected the hotel surveillance video and a list of times the clerk remembered seeing Claire leave the hotel. She also had Trent look up the name of the occupants of the mobile home.
Bill and Wendy Stevens both worked full-time jobs. Him at an auto supply store, and her in an insurance office.
The Stevens had a wood-carved sign that hung from a hook next to the front stairs that announced their surname to whoever happened by.
Amanda stepped up on the deck and knocked on the door. Rather quickly, footsteps could be felt in the boards beneath their feet as someone inside padded across the mobile home toward them.
The door creaked open. “Yes?”
Amanda held up her badge. “Detectives with the Prince William County PD, ma’am. Are you Wendy Stevens?”
“I am.” Her tone was wary as was the way she was watching them.
“We have a few questions for you, if we could come inside for a minute.”
“It’s not exactly a good time right now.”
Amanda was about to state her case a little more strongly when Wendy stepped outside with them. She was in her late fifties, of petite build, with graying hair. “What’s this about?” she asked.
“Deb Smith.” Amanda thought she’d get straight to the point, see if she could gauge a reaction—and she got one, all right. Confusion.
“Ah, who?” The sunlight had lost most of its power, but she still squinted as she crossed her arms. She set her gaze over Trent, then back to Amanda.
“This address is showing on record as belonging to her.”
“Well, that’s just ludicrous. I have no idea who Deb Smith is.”
“What about your husband? Does he know her?” Trent asked.
“I don’t like what you’re implying. My husband might love his beer and hanging out at the bar with his friends, but he’s not getting any on the side.”
Trent held up a hand. “Never meant to insinuate that he was.”
“Uh-huh. Now where in the blazons did you get this Deb having her address here? What record?”
“Her license,” Amanda said.
“Nope.”
“You ever get mail here for her?” Trent inquired.
“Not that I remember.”
As if they didn’t have enough to confirm the vic was Claire Hunter, this was yet further proof the license was fake. Otherwise they’d have received mail from the government. Amanda was about to thank Wendy for her time when she thought she’d try one more thing. “Do the names Claire or Michelle Ramsey mean anything to you?”
“Ramsey…” She tapped her chin. “That name I know. Isn’t he the man who killed his wife? Those his girls?”
“Yes,” Amanda said.
“That’s all I know about the lot of ’em.”
“All right. Thank you for your time,” Amanda told her and was the first to turn to leave.
Back in the car, she said to Trent, “The license for Deb Smith was a complete forgery. Not legit on any level.”
