Page 17 of Little Bitter Truths
“Oh, I’ll tell him,” Whitlock said.“But I might wait until he’s in a better mood first.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
“I try.”
A car drove past me into the parking lot, its tires crunching across the gravel before pulling into a space near the restaurant.
“What else did Cooper say about their visit?”Whitlock asked.
“He said they talked about their marriage and that Wren admitted she missed him.”
“He can say whatever he likes.Doesn’t mean it happened.”
“Cooper also said it was a pleasant conversation, with no arguing or raised voices.”
“After speaking to him, what do you think?”
“Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s the calmest liar I’ve met in some time.”
“Given he withheld important information, I’m leaning toward the latter,” Whitlock said.
“That makes two of us.When I asked why he never mentioned seeing Wren during his interview with you, he blamed it on shock.”
Whitlock snorted.“Funny how being in shock erased the most important detail of his story.”
“He did admit to being scared.”
“Doesn’t matter.He could have corrected it, and he hasn’t.It’s a bummer.I took him at face value.Suppose that makes me a chump.”
“You’re not, and hey, he didn’t have to come clean today.As far as I know, no one saw him at Mia’s house that night.He didn’t have to tell me.”
“Still, he lied, which means we’ll need to bring him back in.What’s your next move?”
“I’m heading back to Cambria to talk to Clive Simmons.”
“The guy Wren fired?”
“That’s the one,” I said.“While I have you, do you have an address for him?”
I heard the shuffling of papers in the background.
“Lives in a small place outside Cambria,” he said, giving me the address.“Couple miles inland off Santa Rosa Creek Road.”
“I appreciate it.”
I ended the call, set the phone down in the center console, and started the car.Then I pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the highway.An hour later the vineyards gave way to winding country roads and scattered ranch houses.Clive lived down one of those roads.
I slowed as I approached a narrow gravel driveway marked by a rusted, crooked mailbox.The faded number on its side matched the address Whitlock had given me.
A small, weathered house sat at the end of the drive.
I parked and stepped out of the car.
The place looked quiet.
Almost too quiet.
I walked toward the front door and knocked.
