by Vivian Barz
“Do you keep your things anywhere else? In an office?”
Howey shook his head. “Nope. This is it. Dov’s locker is over here.”
As Susan began to search through the locker, she asked Howey questions. “What did you think of Dov?”
“What do you mean?” he asked with a hint of caution in his voice.
“Was he pleasant to be around? Hostile?”
The guard thought a moment. “I wouldn’t really say he was one or the other. He wasn’t what I’d call friendly, but he wasn’t a jerk either. He wasn’t chatty, I mean. He mostly kept to himself. We’d make small talk about the weather or whatever when we were in here together, but he never talked to me about his personal life. I didn’t even know he was having a baby until people around here started talking about it after he disappeared. Didn’t surprise me, though, him taking off on his pregnant wife.”
“Would you say he was secretive?” Susan asked.
Howey shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t say that. He just was . . . hmm, humorless, I guess you could say. The other guards and I like to joke around and have a bit of fun—it makes the hours go by faster that way, if you ask me—but Dov was only here to get a paycheck. We’re kind of family-like, the guards, and Dov . . . it was almost like he went out of his way to be excluded from the group. Like maybe he was too cool for us. Funny, I didn’t know I’d gone back to high school.” The guard sniffed.
Susan pulled a clear sandwich bag from the middle shelf of the locker. She held it up to the light, so she could examine the contents. “Is this birdseed?” She peered back inside the locker and saw that there were several other bags like it.
She’d been talking more to herself than to Howey, but he answered anyway. “Yep, it’s birdseed, all right. We actually call him Bird Man, which he doesn’t find too funny. See, I told you Dov was humorless.”
“Does he eat it?”
Howey chuckled. “No, no, at least I don’t think so. He likes to feed birds on his break. It’s so weird, because the rest of us will grab a Coke or something from the vending machine and go BS—or have a cigarette, there’s a lot of guards at the dam who smoke, go figure—and Dov will be out there on his own, feeding the birds.”
Hmm, seemed a little fishy. “Have you actually seen him do it?”
“I haven’t seen him actually feed the birds, no. They’re too far away. I do enough walking during my shift, so I don’t need to be walking all over hell’s half acre on my break,” the guard said. “He always comes back without the bag, though, so there must be a few out there.”
“Out where?”
“There’s a birdhouse way out at the edge of the property. I think he might have even been the one who put it up.”
“Nobody had a problem with that, him just putting up a birdhouse at the dam?” What next, she thought, Christmas lights? Pink flamingo lawn ornaments? Lawn chairs?
Howey shrugged. “It’s just a birdhouse. And we’re the security, so if anyone would have had a problem with it, it would have been us. We saw no harm in it, though. He likes to put seed in it and watch them eat, I guess, like a little old man in the park feeding pigeons. Frankly, once we realized that he wasn’t a team player, we were happy to see him go off on his own.” Howey grinned. “Man’s strange enough, though, that it wouldn’t surprise me if he actually was eating the seed himself.”
The birdhouse continued to vex Susan. She’d found the placement of the lovely one strange enough at the exterior of Dov’s house, which had been as warm and welcoming as a prison yard, yet to have one at a federal dam was downright irregular. She thought back to the photos and books she’d seen at the Amsel household. Had there been something there that indicated bird-watching was a hobby of Dov’s? She couldn’t recall seeing anything specifically, but she also hadn’t been looking for it either.
A thought occurred to her.
She located the garbage can. Slowly, she dumped out the birdseed, using her fingers as a sieve. She’d considered that maybe Dov had been stashing whatever drugs he was on in the bags. It would be a clever way to smuggle them out on a break. But nothing.
She asked, “Could you take me to it?”
“The birdhouse? Sure, but it’s a hike.”
“That’s okay; I’ve got my comfy shoes on.” Susan wondered if Howey might be exaggerating, so as to spare himself from having to do some extra walking.
Soon, however, Susan realized that the guard wasn’t kidding about the distance. She wondered if this might be where Dov went to do drugs when he was on shift. He’d certainly have privacy. Just when she was about to suggest that they go back and get her car, Howey pointed to a pole about a hundred yards away. “There.”
“Well, that’s weird,” Susan muttered.
“What’s that?”
She shook her head. “I was just thinking how strange it is that the birdhouse is so low.” Just like the one at the Amsel residence, she thought—and it looked a lot like the one at the Amsel residence too. “Aren’t those things supposed to be higher up, so that the birds can actually see it? That thing’s like chest level.”
Howey cocked his head. “Huh. You’re right. I guess I never noticed that before, though I never come all the way out here.” The radio on his hip blared to life, and a voice Susan recognized as the female guard asked what was taking so long. She also informed Howey that her shift was over, making it clear that she was not thrilled having to wait around.
“You know what—I got it from here,” Susan said. “Why don’t you head on out. I’ll see myself back to the car.”
Susan was more relaxed having Howey gone. Maybe it was the small-town cop in her that had gotten used to working on her own, but she found that she could think clearer without having someone looming at her side, distracting her. Which is also probably why you’re single, a voice in her head chided. She promptly told the voice to shut up.
Susan’s frown deepened as she neared the birdhouse. It wasn’t like the one at the Amsel residence; it was an exact replica, right down to the orange-red paint on the underside of the roof. That had to be more than a mere coincidence. She found it odd that there was no sign that birds had ever used the house: no poop, no cracked seeds, no feathers. What was he doing with the seed, then? If he’d wanted to take a walk for his break, surely he didn’t need to concoct a story about having to feed birds at the far end of the parking lot. It was his free time, so he could have used it how he’d wanted. And, as far as taking drugs went, he could have saved himself a journey and done them in a bathroom stall, unless he was smoking something.
She walked a few yards past the birdhouse, where the parking lot ended and a wide open field began. It was there she saw it, a small mound of sandwich bags full of seeds. What had he been up to? she wondered. She peered inside the birdhouse, finding it empty.
No, that wasn’t quite right, she realized upon further inspection. On the far back wall of the house, there was a carving: a red D with a triangle around it.
DOTE?
CHAPTER 17
Eric didn’t have to strain too hard to understand why Jake wasn’t returning his numerous calls. He was probably embarrassed.
Or, what he thought was more likely, worrying about yet another reprimand for his drinking. Eric was now questioning whether he’d been presenting his concern in a fashion that had had the opposite effect of what he’d intended, which was to help. Obviously, it hadn’t worked, or else he wouldn’t have received the drunken voice mail from his friend in the middle of the night.
He also regretted discouraging him to further investigate DOTE. Defiant as Jake was, that was exactly what he would go and do now. After his conversation with Greta Milstein at the police station, he was worried his friend was feeding himself to the wolves.
But Jake was an adult, and he’d been in more than a few precarious situations in his day. Eric trusted that he’d keep his head cool in danger, despite his recent erratic behavior while intoxicated.
He was just about to cal
l Jake again when his phone started ringing. “You must be psychic,” he told Susan as he picked up.
“No, that’s you, not me,” she said dryly, but he knew she was kidding. “Look, I can’t talk long because I’ve got a lot of other work to do, but I wanted to get back to you about a couple things.”
Eric seized the opportunity. “Will you be free in a few hours? Want to come to my place for dinner?”
She hesitated so long that Eric thought she might have disengaged from the call. “Do you think it’s a good idea?” she finally said.
Eric’s casual tone was in direct contrast to the sting he felt from her words. “Well, we’ve both got to eat, right? And I’m sure it’s been a long time since you’ve had a home-cooked meal.”
“I actually can’t remember the last home-cooked meal I had.”
“There you go. It’s long overdue, then.” That was as far as he was going to push it, he decided, lest he sound desperate. Or, heaven forbid, like he was begging.
“Okay, okay!” she said with a light chuckle. “You’ve got a point there. What time are you thinking? I can’t stay long, though, because I’ve got to work early in the morning.”
Four hours later, Eric was setting the table for dinner and trying to keep his hands from shaking. Though they’d occasionally spoken on the phone, he hadn’t seen Susan in person since they’d “officially” called it quits. While he was aware that they were, in no uncertain terms, not having a date, he wanted to get the evening right. He’d felt uneasy about the way they’d left things, awkwardly, which he partially attributed to being clueless after a divorce.
He’d opted to keep the meal on the fun, casual side, for fear of looking like he was trying too hard by whipping up something elaborate. Funny enough, although he was now confident in his culinary skills (dare he even say a show-off), he’d been a disaster in the kitchen when he’d first moved to California. This he blamed on a coddled upbringing and his ex-wife’s insistence on cooking everything—she’d said that it was more for herself than for him, since he frequently attempted to make up for his failings as a chef with enough salt to make one’s mouth pucker. There was also the easy access to fast food and ready-made meals, as well as his sheer laziness. He used to consider the oven merely a place to store extra cookware, and stovetop cooking was a term he applied to anything edible he could heat straight from a can—really, the only food he could “cook.” Being in a relationship with Susan had only intensified his laziness in the kitchen, since she cooked even less than he did. If he’d been under any illusion that she was going to prepare all his meals for him the way Maggie had—or at least the way she had in the beginning of their marriage, before she’d taken up sleeping with his brother—he’d been sorely mistaken. To Susan, “meal prep” was throwing some crackers and a block of cheese onto a plate.
After his relationship with Susan ended, Eric, who was a firm believer that idle hands were the devil’s playthings, decided to sign up for some cooking classes to help take his mind off his heartache. He hadn’t gone out of the way to find them; they’d just sort of popped up in his peripheral vision. Literally. He’d walked by a notice board at his local coffee shop and had seen the flyer. Had it been a similar advertisement for martial arts, he’d be tying on a karate gi now instead of an apron. He’d been skeptical when he’d met the instructor, Kent, who boasted a bowler hat, a beard long enough to tuck into the hem of his pants, should he choose, and a Japanese-style tattoo bodysuit that ran from his neck to his toes; Eric had opted to simply believe him on the full-coverage thing, though Kent had made numerous offers to show him intimate parts that weren’t exposed—“No shame in my game,” he’d said. Eric had to give credit where credit was due. The man could cook, and now so could he, though for tonight’s fare, he’d decided to keep it simple.
His late father had been a master of the grill, so he was using his recipe for the hamburgers he’d touted as “world famous,” though Eric could remember only his family ever having them. The key to the burgers was to use the freshest, highest-quality meat available, plus a dash of Worcestershire sauce, capers, and a few finely chopped fresh herbs. On the side, he would be serving homemade sweet potato fries with a chili blue-cheese sauce. It sounded like a whole lot of flavors going on, but, when Eric had made the meal for himself in the past, he’d found them complementary.
Susan arrived at eight o’clock sharp, looking, though a trifle on the thin side, as beautiful as he remembered her to be. “You cut your hair,” she blurted when she saw him, and then they exchanged an awkward hug.
He ran a hand through his cropped mane. He’d worn it on the longer side most of his life, but the change felt nice. “You like it?”
“Handsome,” she said, and then her cheeks became a little pinker.
They ran through the standard pleasantries of asking how their days went and made idle chitchat about work and life in general while Eric fried up their burgers. It felt natural enough, their conversation, as if only a day or two had passed since they’d last seen each other. She’d mentioned earlier that she couldn’t stay too long, so he made a point not to dawdle. He handed her a cold beer and a plate of food, and then they took seats in his kitchen at the small rustic table he ate his meals on.
Eric felt compelled to get right down to it, to show her that he hadn’t asked her over for dinner merely as a ploy to spend time in her company. “So, do you want to start with the Jake stuff or the murder stuff?”
Susan made a satisfied moaning sound and then dabbed her chin with a paper napkin. “Good God, I didn’t know you could cook so well.”
He shrugged modestly, though he was pleased she seemed to really like it. Susan had never been one to blow smoke, so if she said it was good, it was good. “I’ve been taking lessons.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Really? Good for you. It shows. This is delicious. Let’s start with Jake. You said you’re worried about him?”
Eric swallowed down his bite, took a sip of beer. “I don’t think he’s fully processed the deaths of Chuck and Madison. Or, maybe he’s processed it, but he doesn’t know how to deal with it. His band, as you know, was his life. He told me he can’t go near his violin now without getting sick to his stomach. He says the last time he played the thing was up in Clancy.”
She nodded. “Makes sense. That’s where their last show was, and where his friends were murdered. That’s a shame. His talent is being wasted.”
“His grades are also slipping. He tried to downplay it when I questioned him about it, but I’m buddies with a guy who works in admissions. He’s not supposed to, but he let me see Jake’s academic records. He went from As to barely passing. The school’s actually about to send him a notice to let him know that he’s been placed on academic probation. If he doesn’t get his grades up, they’re throwing him out.”
“Yikes.”
“That’s not all. Worst of all, he’s been drinking. A lot. He left me the most insane voice mail, telling me that I wasn’t the boss of him, or something to that effect. It was hard to tell what he was saying because he was so wasted. I think he was mad at me because I told him not to investigate DOTE, which he’s said he wanted to do.”
Susan asked, “You think he’s an alcoholic?”
“It’s a weird one, Suze. I don’t think he’s drinking because he craves booze. My brother, Jim, now he had issues with alcohol, and his behavior was different from Jake’s—though I imagine no two alcoholics are the same. But, with Jake, I get the feeling that he just needs something to occupy his time, because when he’s on his own, he mopes. He needs to stop isolating himself. He’s acting like I did right after I moved out here after my divorce. When you feel down like that, it’s easy to get into your own head and forget that the world keeps moving without you. That was a train-wrecky time for me.”
She smiled. “But, hey, you got through it.”
“A lot of that was thanks to you,” Eric said before he could think better of it. The comment hung in the air above t
hem like the sky was about to fall. Their eyes met for a brief second, and then they both quickly looked away, as if trying to fool one another that they hadn’t seen each other’s reaction.
Susan cleared her throat and wiped a hand under her watery eyes. Was she on the verge of tears? “You’d said something earlier about him wanting to investigate DOTE?”
“He doesn’t think Bryan is guilty, and, now that he’s dead, he wants to investigate their group.”
“Maybe he should.” Eric frowned, and she clarified. “I’m not saying he should act like a secret agent and put himself in harm’s way, but I don’t see what it could hurt if he poked around and asked a few questions. He’s one of them, after all, so they might be more inclined to confide in him.”
“What do you mean, one of them?” he asked.
“Well, he goes to Lamount, where they’ve got a DOTE club on campus, right? And you’ve said before that students don’t really tell you things because you’re viewed as the man. So maybe Jake could get something out of them,” Susan said.
She had a point. He said, “And, I suppose, it would give him something to focus his energy on, if only for the time being. Besides, something tells me he’s going to do it anyway, if he hasn’t already. Jake has a tendency to do what he wants, regardless of any advice given to him.”
“He’s certainly headstrong, our boy. But just keep an eye on him, would you? If he continues going downhill, we might have to stage an intervention,” she said, and Eric nodded. “But, speaking of the DOTE situation, I looked further into Bryan McDougal’s so-called sex offense.”
Eric didn’t miss her use of so-called. “Go on.”
“Here’s what I gathered: It relates to a campus stunt that involved streaking during his freshman year. Seems Bryan and a few idiot friends had gotten drunk one night and decided that it would be funny to run naked across the quad.”
“Did anyone get hurt—assaulted?” he asked, his heart sinking.
“No one whatsoever. They actually made no physical contact with anyone.”
