CHAPTER 29
It was barely 8:00 a.m., Lang realized, glancing
to the clock on the wall, yet it felt like a year had passed since
he’d awoken this morning. As soon as he’d gotten to work, a
murder-suicide had been reported by a neighbor from one of the
expensive houses along Bankruptcy Bluff, as Bancroft Bluff was
euphemistically called, since a number of the homes had fallen off
the bluff or been condemned, having been built on a geologically
unsound area that had eroded beneath them. Supposedly the problem
had been fixed, at least temporarily, but the homes’ sales had
first languished and then, with the economy’s downturn, fallen off
altogether, so to speak. The people that owned the houses along the
bluff were fighting a bitter battle with the developer and the
city, and it was anybody’s guess how long it would last and if
anyone would come out a winner.
His cell phone rang and he saw it was
Fred Clausen, who’d gone out to check the crime scene. “What’s it
look like?” Lang asked.
“Scratch murder-suicide,” Fred said.
“Looks like double homicide. The husband and wife were bound and
shot. Message spray painted on the walls had to do with Bankruptcy
Bluff.”
Lang grunted. It wasn’t a surprise,
really. The situation was a mess, and it waxed and waned in
volatility. “What did it say?”
“The message was blood
money. The victims are Marcus and Chandra Donatella. They
were in business with the builder, and some of the other home
owners think they paid off the city to get approval for the
project.”
“This has already been through all the
lawsuits,” Lang said.
“I know. It’s just a total cluster
fuck,” Clausen agreed. “Nobody was really screwing anybody. It was
just a stupid place to build with half-assed geological
information. But these people are dead, so somebody’s pissed
off.”
Lang frowned. “Any chance it could be
something else, and the Bankruptcy Bluff stuff is just a convenient
smoke screen?”
“It’s early days. Could be
anything.”
“Stick with it, then. O’Halloran’s
backing off the patrols around Justice’s habitats and giving you
some help.”
“Yeah . . . ?” Clausen sounded as
unsure as Lang felt.
“We know he was at the home of Laura
Adderley last night, but he’s in the wind again, probably running
scared. We’ll know more once we interview her and see what the
crime scene guys get. Helluva thing that. We’ll just have to patrol
as best we can, stretched as thin as we are.”
“Okay.” Clausen hung up and Lang felt a
rising frustration. Where was the bastard? It was Monday. He’d been
missing since Friday and leaving a trail of bodies behind. In
Lang’s estimation, Turnbull was still on the coast, in some
hidey-hole they hadn’t found yet.
But they would. He only hoped it would
be sooner rather than later.
Lang swiveled in his chair, but before
he could get up to refill his coffee cup, his desk phone rang
again. “Detective Stone,” he answered tersely.
“I’m at Dooley’s, drinking a longneck.
Get down here and I’ll get you one.”
Lang relaxed back into his chair,
grinning in spite of himself. “Yeah, well, I’m about a hundred
miles away, so it’ll be a while. Hey, Curtis. What’s
up?”
Trey Curtis was Lang’s old partner from
the Portland Police Department, where Lang had been employed before
coming to the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. They had a
long-standing rule that wherever they met, the first one to spot
the other bought the latecomer a beer. Dooley’s had been one of
their favorite spots in Portland, but Lang had been away a long
time.
“I got a call for you, actually. For
the department there, anyway. A woman named Kay Drescher thinks she
knows that unidentified woman whose picture you’ve been
running.”
“Yeah?”
“Says the Jane Doe’s name is Stephanie
Wyman. Drescher’s been trying to reach her by phone and can’t raise
her. Wyman lives in an apartment in the Pearl.”
Lang had straightened up as soon as
Curtis started talking. The Pearl was a pricey section of Portland
abounding with shops and galleries as well as upscale condos and
historic homes. “You got the license number and make of Wyman’s
car?”
“Check your e-mail. It’s been sent your
way, along with her driver’s license and a secondary photo. She
drives a silver two thousand four Nissan Sentra.” He rattled off
the VIN and license plate numbers.
Lang took note as he clicked on to his
department e-mail. “Hasn’t been released yet, but the woman—Wyman,
if it’s really her—died last night of her injuries. Let’s see what
we’ve got.” He clicked open the e-mail, caught the picture of
Stephanie Wyman, and felt a new sense of rage when he looked at her
smiling, young face. “Yep. Jane Doe and Stephanie Wyman. One and
the same,” he said.
“Well, shit.” Trey let out a long
world-weary sigh. “This Kay Drescher’s on her way to the station
now, so I’ll give her the news. When we’re done, I’m heading over
to Wyman’s apartment. I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Thanks.”
Lang wondered if he should drop
everything and head to Portland but decided against it. The
homicide had taken place in Tillamook County, and he was pretty
damn sure it was related to Justice Turnbull and that this
Stephanie Wyman, or whoever she was, was just an unlucky victim of
his overall plan to harm the residents of Siren Song. But the trail
was still here, not Portland.
Savvy was just coming back to her desk
with a full cup of coffee, and Lang looked at it longingly and
swept up his own cup. Before heading to the vending area, he
brought her up to date on the car information, finishing with,
“Let’s find that Nissan,” to which Savannah nodded and sat at her
computer to gather all the pertinent details and get the word out
to their officers.
The morning routine at Kirsten Rojas’s
house was more like a study in controlled chaos. Her daughter,
Didi, jumped up at six thirty, which got Chico barking and turning
circles, and Kirsten herself started calling orders like a drill
sergeant just to keep everybody working toward the same goal: to
get Didi to preschool by nine.
Laura found the craziness comforting, a
normal family living a normal routine and expecting normal things
to happen during their day. She had slept in a pair of sweats and a
T-shirt and now stumbled into the bathroom to wash her face, only
to promptly throw up the little bit she’d eaten the night
before.
Rinsing out her mouth and washing her
face, she dried her cheeks on a towel and then ran a hand over her
abdomen before heading out of the bathroom.
Pancakes were being poured onto a
griddle as she entered the kitchen area, and she smiled wanly at
Didi, who’d regarded her earlier with wide-eyed suspicion upon
finding a strange woman on the couch. The little girl with the dark
pageboy had then ignored Laura and jumped on Harrison, who
pretended to be able to sleep through her efforts to wake him up,
which included beating on his chest with her small fists and
attempting to jump on him, which Kirsten managed to halt before
real damage occurred by sweeping Didi away from her uncle,
hollering at Harrison to get up, and apologizing to Laura for the
noise at the same time.
“Pancakes,” Didi announced, dipping a
piece in a bowl of maple syrup before popping it into her
mouth.
“I see,” Laura said.
“Would you like some?” Kirsten asked,
her gaze moving past Laura to the living room. “Harrison! Are you
up! Get moving!”
“Got any coffee?” he responded,
appearing at the arch that separated the kitchen nook from the
living room. His hair was a disheveled mess, his jaw darker than
ever with his beard shadow. He wore a pair of low-slung,
disreputable jeans, but his chest was shirtless.
Laura glanced away, but not before the
memory of his lean male chest was burned onto her retinas. She felt
oddly light-headed and hoped to hell it had something to do with
her pregnancy, knowing, really, that it probably
didn’t.
Kirsten half smiled. “I work at a
coffee shop. What do you think?”
“Is it made?” he questioned, to which
she snorted and poured him a cupful into a mug that said
LIKE I CARE in bold black letters on a
white background.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked
Laura, whose stomach still wasn’t sure. But she felt Harrison’s
look and said, “That would be great.”
“Pancakes, too?” Didi demanded,
frowning as if she expected Laura to refuse.
“Please.” Laura just hoped to hell she
could get them down without drawing attention to herself. She was
momentarily swept by a feeling of drowning; it was overwhelming,
the things that were happening. She hadn’t had enough time to
process half of what she was feeling and going
through.
“After I get Didi to preschool, I’ve
got to stop by the store and pick up some supplies. And then I have
a half shift today, so I’m going to work around noon. What about
you two?”
“Supplies?” Harrison
asked.
“Beads.”
“Aha.” Harrison turned to Laura. “My
sister’s into quilting and knitting and, of course, macramé. She
has beads and hemp and pots and plants and all kinds of stuff.” He
waved a hand around the kitchen, where there were a number of
potted plants snuggled in knotted, ropelike slings sporting colored
beads and hanging from the ceiling. “Macramé,” he said again,
pointing to the knotted rope. “Really big in the seventies.
Kirsten’s trying to bring it back.”
Kirsten shot him a look of mock fury,
then hurried Didi through the rest of her meal, while Laura sipped
at her coffee and managed a few bites of her pancakes. Harrison
tucked into a stack covered with syrup and two cups of coffee
before Kirsten and Didi and Chico, who’d been locked, whining, in
Kirsten’s bedroom while they ate, appeared at the
door.
“We’re heading out,” Kirsten said,
glancing between Harrison and Laura.
“You’re taking the dog, right?”
Harrison asked.
“What is it with you and Chico?” she
asked. “No, I’m not taking the dog. Look. He likes
Laura.”
Chico had taken up residence at Laura’s
feet, his beady eyes focused on Harrison, waiting for even the
slightest move.
“So, you’ll be back in like what? An
hour?” Harrison asked.
“Yeah . . .” She glanced at her
brother. “Chico’s already been outside and done his thing, but it
wouldn’t kill you to walk him.”
“Right.”
“You’re insufferable,” Kirsten said on
a sigh.
Harrison managed a smile. “Only when it
comes to the dog.”
“I’ve got to get to work,” Laura said.
“We’ll be out of your hair.”
“It’s not that,” Kirsten said. “I just
was wondering what was going on, y’know?”
Harrison shared a look with Laura, then
said, “Full details later, but it’s to do with Justice
Turnbull.”
Kirsten glanced at Didi, who was
looking at the adults with a scowl, sensing she was being left out
of the conversation on purpose. “Okay,” Kirsten said. “I’ll be back
later. We’ll talk then.”
After she left, Harrison picked up
Laura’s barely touched plate and his own clean one, put them both
in the sink. “Thought you had the afternoon shift.”
“I just wanted to let your sister know
I had somewhere to go.”
“I’d rather you stuck around here. You
look a little pale,” he added. “You sure you’re all
right?”
“I’m fine. Really. But there’s
something kind of strange . . .”
“What?”
“When I was running away from Justice,
he touched me. He got his hand in my hair and then he raked his
finger down my back.”
“He scratched you?”
“No . . . not really. He just touched
me, but it felt like a burn. I can still kind of feel
it.”
“Want me to look?” he asked,
concerned.
She was still wearing the T-shirt and
sweats she’d slept in. Carefully, she turned her back to him and
lifted up the hem of the shirt. She felt him staring at her skin,
but after a moment all he said was, “There’s no mark.”
“Good.” She yanked down her shirt. “And
there’s another thing. I think there’s something wrong with him,”
she said slowly. To the ironic lift of Harrison’s brow, she added,
“I mean physically wrong. He’s sick. More than what we
think.”
“Huh.”
“I told you I could sometimes tell
things about people by touching them.”
“Or them touching you?” he pointed
out.
“Yes,” she said. Then, more strongly,
“Yes!”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “All
right.”
“With Justice, I got an even stronger
hit. There’s something really wrong with him. It’s going to kill
him.”
“Good!”
“I don’t know when, though.” She shook
her head, wishing she had more answers. “I don’t know. But I’m
going to tell Catherine and my sisters. It will go a long way to
making them feel better.”
“You’re going to Siren Song
today?”
“Maybe.”
“We need to go to the
authorities.”
“I know. I will. Later,” she said. “I
am a little tired. But I promise. Later today.”
Harrison gave her a sideways look, then
glanced at his watch. “I’ve got some things to finish up, but I’m
not leaving you here by yourself. Maybe you should come with
me.”
“Your sister will be back in an
hour.”
“Will you stay here with her, then?” he
asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Until
work.”
“Then, I’ll leave when she gets
back.”
“What’s on your agenda today?” she
asked when the conversation stopped cold for a few
moments.
“First, I’m going to the Deception Bay
Historical Society and read about your people. I met a guy
yesterday. An old guy who knows Dr. Loman. Herman
Smythe?”
Laura shook her head. “I don’t know
him.”
Harrison gave her a quick recap of his
meeting with the man in the wheelchair at Seagull Pointe and then
said, “Then I’m going to call his daughter, Dinah, and see what she
has to say.”
“You’re still working on a story about
my family?” she asked cautiously.
“Just background, but yeah. I’m not
going to report anything you told me that was off the record, but,
Lorelei, Justice isn’t going away. He’s trying to kill you. And
your family. And the whole damn thing’s going to blow up at some
point, and hell yes, I’m going to write the story. And I won’t be
the only one. But first and foremost, I want you to be safe. That’s
what I really care about.”
She wanted to be upset. She wanted to
scream and yell, to rant and rave, to let out all her frustrations.
Instead she bit her tongue, unable to refute anything he’d said
because it was simple fact.
“You’re the truth seeker,” she said at
length, expelling her breath in a sigh.
“Well . . . yeah . . .” He was clearly
lost about the direction her thoughts were turning.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?” he asked
cautiously.
Laura would have liked to argue with
him just for argument’s sake, but in truth she didn’t want to be
alone, either. “Okay, I’m going to trust you,” she said, then
headed for her overnight bag and a shower.
Kirsten was as good as her word and
reappeared just as Laura was finished dressing. Harrison told his
sister to take care of Laura, received a growl from Chico when he
gave her a short hug, then left, sketching a good-bye with his
right hand as he headed out.
Laura watched his dusty Impala back
down Kirsten’s short driveway.
“All right, he’s finally gone. How did
you meet?” Kirsten demanded as soon as Harrison was out of sight.
She had dropped her bag of beads and rope and various other items
on the counter and was now rummaging through it. “Tell me the
truth. And don’t be embarrassed if it started out as a one-night
stand. I know my brother.”
Laura stood in silence, unable to think
of a reply.
Looking up, Kirsten said in surprise,
“Oh, sorry. You haven’t slept with him yet. I thought the whole
bed/couch thing was just you being private about it.”
“Your brother’s into one-night stands?”
Laura asked.
“Not always,” she said, but her face
said it was a lie.
“Mostly?”
“How did you meet him
again?”
Laura thought about it a moment, then
admitted, “Justice Turnbull has me on his short list. I’m related
to the women at Siren Song. Many of them are my sisters. Harrison
was after a story . . . but he’s been trying to protect
me.”
Kirsten stared at Laura in amazement.
“Oh . . . sweet . . . Jesus . . . Sit down. We gotta
talk.”