Deadhead: Bedhead Book 3

team.”
“Sure.” It’s Bull who speaks for the pair.
Reaching into my breast pocket, I retrieve several of my cards. Placing them on the coffee table, I ask them to call me if they think of anything.
“We will.” Patsy says, smiling. “We want to help Tayler any way we can.”
“Thanks.” I make my way to the front door. Reaching for the knob, I turn and repeat, “Seriously. Any information you think of, let me know. You’d be surprised what can help.”
“We will,” Patsy responds like she’s the spokesperson for the group.
I suppose she is.

Chapter Three


Gage
Strange. None of the women from Beedle Drive asked any questions about Kara. I know she wasn’t a nice woman, but they hung out with her, yet none of them even asked how she died.
Pulling into my small two-bedroom bungalow, I put the car in Park and sit with it running. Come to think of it, neither Tayler nor Luke asked how she died. In my mind, if it were me being arrested, I think that’d be my first question. But I am a cop. Still, if they had, maybe knowing the cause and that it likely wasn’t premeditated would help. Whoever killed her—and I’m not entirely convinced it was Tayler—grabbed the first thing they saw and bam. It’s what we call a crime of passion. Which means anyone could have done it. The weapon of choice, a four iron from what appears to be Kara’s golf bag, was something anyone could have grabbed and swung with enough force to kill a person. You don’t have to be male or even especially strong to do the damage that was done, because the golf club did all the work.
Just then, I hear the phone vibrate in my pocket. Leaning back, I slide the phone out and see it’s Quinn calling. I knew it was just a matter of time. I’ve been dreading this.
“Hello?” I answer with as much calm as I can muster.
“Oh my God, Gage. What’s going on there? You arrested Tayler? For murder?” The last word came out as a loud sort of screech. “How could you? She’d never kill anyone. Trust me.”
“Quinn—”
But she doesn’t let me speak. “She’d never kill anyone. Ever. She’s so happy. She and Luke finally figured their stuff out. She wouldn’t jeopardize that.”
“Quinn, listen—”
“You’ve got to find who really killed her, Gage.”
“Quinn—”
“How’d she die, anyway?”
Finally! “Blunt force trauma.”
“Huh?”
“She was hit over the head.”
“Tayler couldn’t hit anyone hard enough to kill them. She’s a wimp. She’s got no upper body strength.”
I want to laugh. I really do. But this is serious.
“The weapon appears to have been a golf club.” I shouldn’t be saying anything to Quinn. They haven’t released anything to the press. If it gets around that I’m telling people, especially the suspect’s best friend, about the crime scene, I’d be reprimanded.
“Well, there you go. I know it wasn’t her. Tayler hates golf.”
That’s it. I can’t help it. I laugh. Which makes the other person on the phone grow silent. It’s then I hear what sounds like sniffles. Quinn’s crying.
Shit. “Quinn, I didn’t mean to laugh.”
More sniffles.
“Quinn?”
“She’s my best friend, Gage. This is serious. She’s in jail!” she wails. Between sobbing and deep breaths, she adds, “She didn’t kill her. I know it. Can’t you do something? Can’t you investigate more? Because I promise you, Gage. Tayler. Didn’t. Do it.”
“It doesn’t work like that. The detective in charge….” Is an asshole who thinks he’s the best of the best, but the few times I’ve worked with him, I haven’t been impressed.
“Please, Gage.” Her voice sounds so sad and desperate. “I’m worried about her.”
“Gage, mate.” I can’t help noticing Quinn’s voice has gotten deeper and British.
I’d love to tell you that I liked Quinn’s boyfriend, Cooke Thompson, famous rugby star, but that’d be a lie. I tolerate him for her sake. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a decent guy, but I had hopes for Quinn and me.
Shaking my head, I finally speak. “Hey, Cooke.”
“Listen, mate, Quinn’s bloody beside herself, and I can’t do shite here to help her. We’re getting on a flight day after tomorrow, but until then, can you please do whatever you can to find the real killer? You know she didn’t do it, mate.”
Mate? We’re not mates.
“Please, Gage?” Quinn’s voice comes back on the line, and it breaks my heart.
With a reluctant sigh, I say something I shouldn’t. “I’ll do some more digging. Okay?”
I can hear her blow her nose on the other end of the line, but then she says, “Thank you. Thank you so much, Gage. I know you’ll find the real killer because you’re the best police officer in Ames.”
Okay, now she’s just blowing smoke up my ass. “Right. I’ll see you when you get back.” Because she’s not going to let this go. And I don’t blame her.
“Bye, Gage.”
“Bye, Quinn.”
With a sigh, I put my car into Reverse, back out of my driveway, and head back over to Social Apartments. There’s something our eyewitness said that’s been bothering me. Might as well see if I can speak to Daisy Buchanan again. Maybe this time she’ll open the door all the way.
This time when I pull into the apartment complex, I drive directly to 1320 and park. Reaching down to my left, I pop the trunk to retrieve my Ames PD wind jacket. Since I changed into street clothes at the station, I feel as though I need to wear something identifying me as a cop doing official business, plus it’s getting colder now that fall’s setting in. Pulling that over my head, I check my pocket for my badge and contemplate adding my holster but decide against it.
When I knock on Buchanan’s door, I expect the same thing to happen as this morning, that she’ll open it an inch and that’s all, but surprisingly that’s not the case. No, this time she opens it at least six inches. It’s just enough to see her—well, most of her.
She’s short. I knew that.