Nearly Lost by Molly Black

Author:Molly Black
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery & Detective, General, Suspense, Women Sleuths, Thrillers, Fiction
ISBN: 9781094395883
Publisher: Molly Black
Published: 2024-01-02T13:00:25.712678+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In contrast to the car workshop, the plastic polymer manufacturing factory – Custom Moldings – was light and bright, and there was a buzz of activity inside. Grace headed inside eagerly. The rain was worsening, the barman down the road had confirmed Michael’s alibi, and this now represented their best chance.

Custom Moldings, according to the slogan on the wall above the reception desk, offered, “the customized manufacture of high quality plastic, polymer, resin and fiberglass items of all shapes and sizes.”

That sounded exactly what they wanted. But as they approached the desk, she knew they would have to be careful with their questioning. Being outed as the company that had manufactured murder weapons – which these had basically been used as – for the killer, would backfire on them reputationally. Given that, she knew, they might come up against a defensive wall when the good people at Custom Moldings realized why she and Dylan were here.

They were only just in time. It seemed that workplace shifts were shorter than usual on a Sunday, and the receptionist was already busy closing things up when they arrived – putting folders away, and straightening out the cushions on the small couch opposite the desk.

She turned, with a helpful smile, when she saw them walk in.

A woman in her forties, with a halo of short, curly hair and dark eyes, she looked open and curious, and Grace hoped that demeanor wouldn’t change as the conversation progressed.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. “We only have one consultant here today, it being a Sunday?"

"FBI," Grace said, showing her badge. Yup, that was doing it. Already, the woman’s smile was gone.

“FBI? What’s happening? Who do you need to speak to?” she asked, glancing at the door that Grace guessed led into the factory itself. Clearly, she was hoping that somebody else could take over this difficult conversation.

“Your manager, if he’s available,” Grace said.

With a look of combined relief and trepidation, she got on the phone.

“Stanley?” she said. “Can you come through? There are – er – two officers here asking questions.”

A moment later, the side door swung open and a dark haired man, wearing a stained white work jacket, bustled through, pulling off his gloves as he approached them. He had the pallor of someone whose job kept them strictly indoors, Grace saw, and it made the tattoos on his forearms even more noticeable when the elbow-length gloves were removed.

“I’m Stanley,” he said, sounding worried. “What’s the issue here?”

"Agents Ford and Reed, FBI," Grace said. "We need to ask you some questions about items used in a serial murder that may have been manufactured here."

As she’d expected, Stanley looked horrified and began shaking his head immediately.

“Manufactured here? No way. That’s impossible, and you can’t be correct there. Do you have any proof of it?” Then, as if a light bulb had gone on in his head, he added, “Wait! That’s got something to do with the – the incident that happened out on the river, isn’t it? You’re here about that?”

“Correct,” Grace said.

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