Hard Play by Kurt Douglas

but I understand your family had a legal run-in with a Mr. Campbell.”
    Mrs. Allen nodded as she turned to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. Her hands shook. Offering the pot to Amy, she asked, “Would you like some?”
    Amy waved her hand.
    “No thank you, Mrs. Allen,” she said, then asked, “Did you know he was released on parole six months ago?”
    Placing the pot back on the warmer and cupping her mug in both hands, Mrs. Allen said into the steaming coffee, “I did not. You don’t think he has something to do with Pat going missing, do you?”
    “When was the last time you saw Mr. Campbell?” Amy asked.
    “Not since the trial.”
    “And when did your husband last see him?”
    “As far as I know, not since the trial,” Mrs. Allen answered, her voice shaky and flat. “After what he did to us, I never wanted to see him again.”
    Amy nodded.
    After a moment of contemplation, Amy looked down her clipboard and asked, “Can you tell me about your husband’s recent purchases of PETN?” She looked once more at her clipboard. “Pentaerythritol tetranitrate.”
    Mrs. Allen’s confusion was obvious and Amy elaborated, “Your husband’s credit card records indicate a series of large purchases of a medicine used for heart conditions.”
    “Pentaerythritol tetranitrate,” she annunciated clearly. “He purchased more than any one doctor could prescribe in a year. Can you tell me about that?”
    The woman shook her head.
    “I thought all our credit cards were in the red,” she said.
    Amy nodded. “Okay, Mrs. Allen.”
    Holding her clipboard firm in her hands, she asked, “How often does your husband go up to the Hollywood sign?”
    “Never?” Mrs. Allen answered it like a question.
    Amy pressed, “Not for a run? Maybe a morning hike?”
    “No,” the disheveled woman rebutted. “He goes to the gym for stuff like that.”
    “If he’d ever actually go,” she added into her cup.
    “What gym, Mrs. Allen?”
    She sipped her coffee, then replied very matter-of-factly, “24 Hour Fitness.”
    Amy wrote down the words while shaking her head. Then she paused, collecting her words, trying to find some way to make it sound better than it was. Realizing it was no use, she settled on the fewest words to make her point.
    “Mrs. Allen,” she finally said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but we found your husband’s body this morning off of Mulholland Highway, near the Hollywood sign. He appeared to have been murdered. And, Mrs. Allen, we have a suspect.”
    Those last words took none of the force from the former. The color went from the woman’s face. Her fingers went limp and along with her heart, the mug fell, shattering against the floor. The white porcelain smashed to bits as Mrs. Allen struggled to stay on her feet. Following the crash of the mug, a loud, gasping sob came from the hall. Then, a young girl no more than twenty years old burst into the kitchen in baggy, gray sweat pants and a tight-fitting Tetris shirt. Her dark hair was pulled up in a messy bun and streaks of tears muddied up her makeup.
    “It couldn’t have been Chad!” the young girl exclaimed. “He’d never hurt anyone. You know it was all dad’s fault!”
    Mrs. Allen’s eyes widened. Her jaw loosened. Letting go of her bottom lip and leaving her mouth open wide, though not as wide as her eyes.
    She cried to her daughter, “Carrie, how could you say that? After what he did to you and your dad?”
    The girl wiped her tears from her face and crossed her arms in the doorway. Leaning against the jamb, she stared with unforgiving eyes at her mother and the strange woman with the clipboard.
    “Who the hell are you?” she chided Amy as she pretended to spit on the floor.
    Amy gripped the clipboard tight at her waist. The metal clasp dug into her hip. With a quick pivot of the foot, she turned to face the girl.
    “My name is Amy Van and I’m with the Los Angeles Coroner’s Office.” She tipped her glasses. “Who are