Detective Crofton pats his midsection. “Not me. Strict orders to lose twenty pounds and I’m still five from my goal.”
Detective West pulls a small notebook out of her bag and flips it open. “Let’s get started,” she says, ignoring the offer of refreshments while Detective Crofton pulls out a small recorder and presses the red circular button on top. Detective West says in a deep, scratchy voice, “Detectives West and Crofton questioning the material witness, Evelyn Porter, in the death of Amy Holder.” She adds the date, location, and time before meeting my gaze.
Rachel holds a hand up. “I would like it on record that Amy Holder’s death was ruled an accident. And that we are here cooperating with officials to clear my client, Evelyn Porter, of any part in what happened to Miss Holder.”
“Your note is on record,” Detective West says. Then she turns to me. “Why were you living under the identity of Regina Hale in Decatur, Georgia, at the time Amy Holder died?” she asks.
Well, we’re getting right to it. Forcing Mr. Smith’s hand ensured he’d give them everything he could to bring me down. I look at Rachel and she gives me a small shrug, reminding me it is indeed my show.
“I was in a very toxic relationship and moved to put some distance between me and my ex. He didn’t want me to leave, and I was afraid he’d come after me. I went to the police, but the only thing they were willing to do was give me a restraining order, and we all know how ineffective those are. So I used a fake name hoping he wouldn’t find me.”
This gives them pause. Rachel’s left eyebrow raises just slightly, as if she’s impressed with the answer.
“Where were you living when this happened?” Detective West asks.
“Brookwood, Alabama.”
My boss went to great lengths to make me Evelyn Porter, lifelong resident of Brookwood, Alabama, so I’m putting it to work.
“We’ll need to call and check out that story with the Brookwood Police Department,” Detective Crofton says in a quiet voice.
I nod. “Of course. My ex-boyfriend’s name is Justin Burns. His brother is on the force there. His name is Captain Ray Burns.”
Detective West scratches the information onto her notepad. If they did call, they will learn there is a Captain Ray Burns and he does have a brother, Justin, close to my age. Justin has a record too. A couple of DWIs and a disturbing the peace when the neighbors called the cops on him and his girlfriend fighting in the front yard.
If they don’t find a record of his altercation with me, they won’t assume it didn’t happen . . . they’ll assume Justin’s brother was able to keep that one off his record.
The first lie wins.
I am nothing if not prepared.
Detective West seems to be the one in charge of asking the questions, and even though my answers so far seem to have taken a bit of wind out of her sails, she presses on. “How did you know Amy Holder?”
“We were both members of the Oak Creek Country Club,” I answer.
She checks off something in her notebook, as if she’s going down a list of predetermined questions. “There was no memorial service or funeral for Amy Holder. She was an only child and was not married, nor did she have any children. Are you aware of any family or friends she may have had?”
Rachel sits forward in her chair. “We’re not here to answer questions about Miss Holder’s life. We were told you had very specific evidence that my client was at the scene. Can we cut right to that, please?”
Detective West shuffles through the papers in her lap. “We’re getting to that, Miss Murray,” she says to Rachel, then turns back to look at me. “When was the last time you saw Amy Holder?”
Here we go. I learned a long time ago to stick to the truth as closely as possible. “I moved away from Decatur in early September, and I know I saw her before I moved but I can’t tell you the date.” In fact, you can tell the truth if you word it the right way, using the right intonation. They will take I can’t tell you the date as I can’t remember it because of the tone I used instead of the truth, which is I can’t tell you the date because it would incriminate me.
“At six twelve p.m. on August twenty-seventh, Amy Holder entered the American hotel. Twenty-seven minutes later, her room was engulfed in flames,” she says, her voice flat. “Have you ever been in that hotel?”
“I’ve eaten in the restaurant located inside the hotel.” Which is true.
Detective Crofton pulls out an iPad. He lays it in the middle of the coffee table, and Rachel and I both lean in to see what’s on the screen. He pushes the play button while Detective West says, “This is the security feed of Miss Holder entering the hotel prior to her death.”
We all watch the grainy video of Amy shoving past a family of four as she crosses the street, then getting bumped by a guy who was looking at his phone instead of watching where he was going, which causes her to spin around. That red coat makes her easy to pick out, especially as she waves her arms around and throws me the bird. From this angle, I am in the background and slightly out of focus.
The video finishes playing and Detective West looks at me. The screen is frozen, and I’m just barely visible in the corner of the frame. “Does this jog your memory, Miss Porter?”
Before I have a chance to say anything, Rachel answers for me. “Are you insinuating that blurry figure in the back is my client? Half of the white women in the state of Georgia have brown hair. That could be any one of them.” She leans forward and presses the button to replay the video. “What I see is a woman who is clearly intoxicated. Miss Holder was a known smoker who died in a fire that was the result of smoking in her bed while drunk. If you have something that implies Miss Porter had anything to do with the death of Amy Holder, and for God’s sake, an actual picture that looks anything like my client, we’d like to see it.”
Okay, damn, Rachel. I’m impressed.
Detective Crofton flicks the screen to the next video. “This was taken by an eyewitness.”
Downtown Atlanta is not a particularly busy hot spot during the week, although it can get pretty crowded on the weekends. Devon tracked down every piece of video of that day, from security cameras to videos on social media, that either tagged that location or a nearby business. We only learned of the existence of this video less than forty-eight hours ago, so I’m guessing the “eyewitness” and I share the same boss.
The angle is directly even with Amy’s room, taken from the building across the street, so there is a straight, unobstructed view, unlike the real eyewitnesses on the ground, who had to aim their cameras up and only caught a sliver of the room in question once the smoke started to pour out of the balcony window.
The video opens to the camera panning the building until it stops on the open balcony doors of Amy’s room. The balcony railing is a solid structure, so you can only see the top half of the room, the bed not quite making the cut.
There’s audio, but Devon and I believe it was added later so it wouldn’t seem odd that this video just happens to capture me in the moment it does.
Detective Crofton turns up the volume and we hear the guy’s voice.
“Hot maid alert! Maybe we’ll get turndown service.”
And then there I am, dressed in the hotel’s housekeeping uniform. I’m deep in the room but in plain sight through the open balcony doors. I’m looking down at where the bed would be if you could see it through the balcony wall. And it’s a very clear image of me, unlike the one we just viewed.
I remember that moment clearly. I had just pulled the box of matches from my bag and was about to run one across the striker. It was the moment right before the bed went up in flames. A few seconds pass and the memory comes to life on the small screen, and then I’m obscured from view as thick plumes of black smoke overtake the room.
Chapter 24
Present Day
I remain calm and don’t let any emotion show, which is easy since this is not the first time I’ve seen this video.
Okay, this is it.