19
On the drive to Grumpy’s, I called Detective Hardin again. Judging from his tone when he answered, his mood hadn’t improved with the day. Then again, neither had mine.
“Hey, when you interviewed the Schwartzes’ neighbors, d’you talk to a gal calling herself Shartroose?”
“The meth junkie? All I got from her was a lot of nonsense.”
“She told me she saw a black van in front of the Schwartzes’ house shortly before the murder. Driver matched Holly’s description of the man who attacked her mother. African-American. Long hair. Orange shirt. Black creeper van. I think Holly’s story may be legit.” I chose not to mention the stalker letter or the money-counting machine. Reading other people’s mail was a federal crime. And my breaking into the house when I had no reason to believe she was ther
