“Excellent,” Millie said.
Scott pulled away from the curb. “What’d you find out?”
“Not much. Wilma doesn’t remember anything from that night. But she told me that Rupert Skinner was one of Clay’s roommates and backed up Clay’s claims that they were all partying and that she stayed willingly.”
“That prosecuting attorney,” Scott retorted. “He’s too personally involved with all of this.”
“We did know they were friends in college, so it doesn’t surprise me that they lived together.” She reached for her phone, pressing speed dial.
Scott slowed down as a dog ran across the road.
“Hey there.” Brigid’s voice came through the speaker system. “You find out anything?”
“Not really,” Millie said. “However, will you conduct a background check on Rupert Skinner? He lived with Clay Baker in college, and I’d like to know if anybody filed claims against him.”
Smart. Scott kept an eye out for more dogs. If they could find evidence against Skinner, maybe he’d be more forthcoming with facts about Clay.
“You’ve got it,” Brigid said as the sound of typing came over the line. “Anything else?”
“No, we’re just going to meet with Henry Halcomb’s girlfriend. Are you sure she’s willing to talk us?”
Considering Halcomb had tried to kill them as part of a hit squad, it was surprising anybody would talk. Scott took a left turn, driving slowly through a new neighborhood.
“Yes. Her name is Nancy Wilcox, and I texted you her address. She sounds young,” Brigid said.
Scott glanced up at the gathering clouds. Great. More rain. “Thanks, Brigid,” he said.
“Happy to help,” Brigid said cheerfully. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t found any relatives or acquaintances of Bob Phillips or Gene Lightfoot yet. Apparently, they met Henry Halcomb in prison. Phillips is from Montana and Lightfoot’s from California, but so far they’re just loners.”
“Loners make better members of hit squads than people with full families,” Scott said grimly as he drove around town and away from the nicer homes.
“True that,” Brigid said, parroting Wolfe. “Also, your aunt Mae is up and baking again. We’re having enchiladas for dinner.” Brigid clicked off.
Millie looked at Scott. “You are in for a treat. My aunt makes the best enchiladas in the world.” His stomach rumbled as if on cue. Millie looked at him as he drove toward the other side of town. “How are you doing, anyway?”
He blinked, surprised. “Fine. Why?”
“You were pretty restless in your sleep last night. Were you having nightmares?”
He thought about lying to her. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had nightmares before too. It’s probably normal after the other night, right?”
“I don’t know what’s normal,” Scott admitted, driving through an older commercial part of town.
Millie’s phone dinged and she pressed a button. “Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Chief Wyatt.”
Millie stared at the dash. “Hi, Chief. You’re on speakerphone with Scott and me. What’s up?”
“I finally got ahold of Max Crouse at the gas station at the edge of town. He handed over the VCR tapes for his CCTV for the last two weeks.”
Scott’s jaw dropped. “Did you just say VCR tapes?” He hadn’t met a soul the last five years who hadn’t switched over to NVR.
“Yup,” the chief affirmed. “The system is ancient, but according to Crouse, it works. He has time-lapse recordings.”
Millie sighed. “So there are about thirty hours per VCR tape, then. Are you sure he still has the night of Clay’s death? Those old tapes record over themselves.”
