Sam jumped out of his chair and began to walk back and forth across the office.
Danny continued. “A short woman got out of the vehicle, went to the front door. Then she ran south, along Twenty-first, toward the factory entrance. He was pulling out less than ten minutes later when he saw her come around the corner from the north side of the building, like a bat out of hell, he said. She got in the SUV and roared out.” She caught Sam’s arm as he paced past her. “He saw the first and last letters in the plate as she pulled out. They were G and O. Amanda drives … ”
“A two-year-old red Toyota Highlander with a plate that says ‘GLASSCO.’” Sam finished her sentence as he shook off her hand.
“Amanda was there, Sam, around the time of the murders. The question is, why does she think she has to lie about it?”
“Christ,” Sam muttered as he continued to pace around the room, his hands jammed into his jeans’ pockets. “What the hell did she think … ?” He stopped in front of Danny Hartmann. “What did she say when you asked her to explain?”
“Haven’t asked her yet but I intend to today. I wanted to see if she’d said something to you that might help us understand what went on.”
“No, she said she went to work at noon and home a little after nine. Other than that, all she said was that she’s freaked. Thinks the same thing’s happening that happened last year.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Don’t be. You’re not the one who lied to me … to us.” He started to leave the office.
Danny rose from her chair. “Wait, I’m on my way to see Liz Fairchild.” She turned to their boss. “Okay if Sam comes along? He’s the one Liz agreed to see.”
Angel nodded consent and the meeting broke up.
• • •
Sam and Danny drove separately to The Fairchild Gallery so his partner could go see Amanda afterwards. Since he wasn’t exactly on a roll that morning, he was surprised when he scored a parking space right in front of the gallery.
He waited for Danny to join him, then knocked at the gallery door. Liz Fairchild immediately answered. Before he could finish introducing himself, Liz interrupted. “Of course I know who you are. I remember what you did last year for one of my best artists. Come in.”
“This is Detective Danny Hartmann,” Sam finished the introductions. “Thanks for seeing us before you open up.”
“No problem. But I’m curious what the Portland Police Bureau thinks I can do to help them,” Liz said as she led them through the gallery. It was elegant looking, all cream-colored walls, focused light and strategically placed partial walls at interesting angles. In the front of the gallery was an exhibit of scenes from the Southwest. In the back, the works of other artists were on the walls; metal sculpture and glass pieces were displayed on pedestals. In a simple but well-designed case, jewelry and smaller objects were arranged.
Her office, on the other hand, was decorated with nothing except a calendar and a large bulletin board covered in layers of announcements, postcards, and invitations. Which suited the furnishings — a battered desk and two equally beat-up file cabinets. Accommodations for visitors consisted of a couple of folding chairs. Only the computer looked state of the art. Liz clearly didn’t waste money on anything her clients wouldn’t see.
Sam and Danny opened the folding chairs and sat while Liz poured coffee for them, coffee that thankfully matched the classy gallery and not the office if the aroma was any indication. Settling in her desk chair with her mug, Liz looked from one detective to the other and said, “So, what can I do for you this morning?”