by Bush, Nancy
Okay. No need for hyperbole. She was following an investigative road and he happened to be one stop along the route. It wasn’t any more sinister than that. It just bugged the hell out of him that the thought even whispered across her brain.
Now he gulped down half the glass of wine, then took it back inside and dumped the rest down the drain though it wasn’t half bad. But if he was going to drink he wanted something stronger, and the last thing he needed was to drink himself into a stupor for no goddamn good reason.
Half an hour later, as he lay in bed, unable to sleep, he realized what he really wanted was a woman. And not just any woman. He wanted Nine Rafferty. She’d been a fire in his blood twelve years ago, and, seeing her again, that fire had been rekindled with a blowtorch.
But how to do it? How could he get past her very strong defenses?
He fell into an uneasy sleep thinking about her, his mind worrying, his dreams full of Nine’s image, always just out of reach, as shadows chased her through the dark.
Chapter 8
Sunday morning dawned hot and mean and slightly overcast, the kind of day that happens after a buildup of heat. September took a shower and then put on shorts and a tank, sat down, and felt herself start to sweat. She changed into running gear, but the air was so humid when she stepped outside that she defaulted to a fast walk and even that took its toll. By the time she cruised into a favorite Laurelton coffee shop, Bean There, Done That, she was sweating freely and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought as she ordered another iced coffee, her favorite drink this summer and fall.
She sipped it as she stood by the glass door to the outside, looking through the pane and debating whether she was ready to brave the blasting heat or stick with air-conditioned splendor.
In the light of day she was wondering if she’d made too much of the fact that Do Unto Others had started his killing spree after the article about her in the Laurelton Reporter. It felt a little like she was making herself the center of the universe.
After a few minutes she pulled out her cell phone and called Auggie. He answered sleepily on the fourth ring. “Did you forget I’m working that drug task force with Portland and Saturday nights I don’t get home till you get up?”
“I need to pick your brain,” she said, ignoring him.
“Coffee . . .” she heard him say to someone, undoubtedly Liv, who’d asked him if he would like anything. “Go ahead,” he said, sounding less than thrilled.
September stepped outside, walked down the sidewalk away from other ears, and filled him in on her thoughts about the Do Unto Others killer and how the killings started almost immediately after she began with the Laurelton PD. She stopped beneath a maple tree for some relief from the heat and briefly she gave him a rundown of what she and Sandler had picked up in their interviews on Friday, finishing with, “And I ran into Jake Westerly and questioned him some.”
“Westerly? Where?”
“At The Willows. He just—dropped in.”
“Did he know you were there?”
“No.” She heard herself, and then added, “Not that I know of. He didn’t come to see me.”
“Well, why did he come?”
September realized she had no idea. “He’d been at Westerly Vale and was in the area.”
“So, what did you question him about?”
“When Gretchen and I talked to Greg Dempsey, he brought up that Sheila was friends with Jake.”
“You didn’t mention that before,” Auggie said, sounding wide awake all of a sudden. “How friendly?”
“That’s what I asked Jake,” September said.
“And . . . ?”
“They were more like acquaintances.”
“Did Dempsey bring up anybody else?”
“Not really.”
“Just Jake Westerly?”
It felt like he was picking at a sore. “He said Sheila and Jake were having an affair.”
“Ahhh . . .”
“But it was a lie. Sheila cut Jake’s hair at a place called His and Hers Hair Salon. She went to Westerly Vale once with some friends for wine tasting and invited Jake to join them at The Barn Door. He met her once, or maybe twice, I don’t know. She had a couple of girlfriends with her, one of them was dating a guy named Phil Merit. We’re running them down now.”
“Okay.”
“And the bartenders at The Barn Door said there was another guy, Ray, no last name that we know of yet, who saw some guy harassing Sheila. Ray tried to step in, but she said she’d gone to school with the guy.”
“And this guy harassing her wasn’t Jake.”
“Nope. The bartenders called Jake ‘Mr. Perfect,’ and this guy sounded like he was pretty far from that.”
“What does Sandler think?”
September inhaled quietly, exhaled, then admitted, “I haven’t told Gretchen that I went to school with Jake yet.”
Silence. Then, carefully, “Why?”
“I just didn’t want to get into it until I knew more.” She’d never told her brother about her one night with Jake, and now she gritted her teeth for a moment, poised to tell him, surprisingly nervous to do it.
He broke in before she could say anything, “Was Westerly in your homeroom with Mrs. Walsh?”
“No, he was in McBride’s with you. But it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t send me the artwork like that.”
“Who else would send it to you? You’re clearly thinking Westerly’s connected somehow. That’s why you don’t want to talk about it. You’re trying to protect him because you like him.”
“I don’t know him enough to even have an opinion,” she stated firmly. “High school’s ancient history.”
“You liked him once. A lot.”
A frisson ran through her. “What do you mean?”
“Nine . . . I know.”
She closed her eyes and her grip on the phone was slippery from sweat. “Yeah?”
“I knew right after it happened. Guys talk.”
“T.J.,” she said through her teeth.
“All guys talk. I pretty much wanted to kill him and Jake, but it was your business and you weren’t talking. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t believe Westerly’s good for any of this. He’s not that guy. Trust Sandler. Tell her that you and Westerly have history. She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s not an idiot.”
“Okay,” she said.
“And if I’m wrong, at least you haven’t held back on her,” Auggie went on blithely while September’s anxieties, which had begun to disperse, came racing back. It’s not Jake, she thought.
Struggling to put things back on track, she said, “So, am I trying too hard, making the world revolve around me or something, or do you think maybe I’m onto something. That the killer chose Sheila after seeing my newspaper article?”
“It’s possible.”
“But you don’t think so.”
Auggie exhaled heavily. “You know I don’t like thinking you’re his target,” he said. “But if you are, then he went after Dempsey and maybe got a taste for it, and then went after Decatur because maybe he knew her . . . ?”
“That sounds right,” September answered, glad to finally have Auggie thinking along the same lines. “And then he chose Glenda because I mentioned her uncle on television. You remember: you were with me when we found Glenda.”
“Yeah . . . there was less planning involved in that homicide, and I’ve grown convinced he had to leave before he was finished. Otherwise he would have left her in a field. He knew all three of them,” Auggie said. “And then he sent you the message.”
She heard the thread of worry in his voice though he tried to quell it. “You know, I just assumed the message was only sent to me because I’m following the case. But maybe he sent something similar to his other victims.”
“Their places were searched pretty thoroughly, weren’t they?” Auggie asked.
“Yeah. No notes . . . But I just don’t want to overlook something.”
“If t
he killer wrote the message, which I’m beginning to think you’re right, he did, then he’s toying with you.” A moment, then he said seriously, “You could be next on his list.”
“I’m forewarned, Auggie,” she said, hearing how grim she sounded.
“Be careful, Nine. Like I said, I don’t believe it’s Westerly. He sure doesn’t seem like a sociopath.” He hesitated, then added, “But again, I’d hate to find out I’m wrong.”
Monday morning Jake drove with repressed fury through the commuters, squeezing the Tahoe between drivers in order to change lanes, earning himself blasting horns and stiff middle fingers.
“Stick it where the sun don’t shine,” he muttered, turning into the parking garage and shooting down the ramp to his designated spot, a parking space barely wide enough for his rig, much to the dismay of the BMW- and Lexus-driving lawyers on seventeen.
Jake’s office was on the eleventh floor in with a group of other investment advisors who operated independently from each other. Across the hall was Capital Group, Inc., a conglomerate that dealt mainly in stocks and bonds, but continually tried to poach on Jake and his other business associates. They were called CGI, which fit in a way, as it also stood for Computer Generated Image, Hollywood magic made through companies like Pixel and Disney. That’s how Jake liked to think of them, as substantial as fairy dust, as real as a series of computer bytes. They were tenacious, though. They’d moved in right on the same floor with their competitors without a qualm. If Jake et al. didn’t like it, they could damn well move.
If it weren’t for the signed lease, he’d be gone already. As it was he had to wait another year and a half and it deeply pissed him off.
But maybe it was another sign. A reason to get out of this business and find his “bliss,” as the self-help gurus seemed to be always preaching.
Bliss, schmiss. He was simply looking for a clear path.
Nine Rafferty . . .
Her name was in his head like a neon sign, and he tried to shove it aside as he slipped into the central coffee room for their group of offices. He’d had a bad feeling hanging over him since seeing her again. She thought he was involved with Sheila’s death. She did. She hadn’t come right out and said it, but it was there all right. And the second grade artwork . . . he didn’t get that at all. It was downright chilling, when you thought about it. Who would have it? Someone in her own family, was his best guess, but she’d talked like she thought he had it.
At least that’s what it felt like after the fact. When he’d had a chance to digest everything she’d said, alluded to, and hinted at. Bullshit technique. Probably learned it in cop school.
“What are you scowling at, Westerly?” Carl Weisz asked him. He had the corner office and though his business was probably less lucrative than Jake’s, he liked all the accouterments, the special bells and whistles, that represented SUCCESS in the business world. He would poach on Jake’s clients as well, if he could. He was just that guy.
Jake couldn’t give a rat’s ass . . . which, he realized as the words crossed his mind, was what he thought about a lot of things these days. Not good.
“I’m thinking of going decaf,” Jake said as a means to deflect.
“No fucking way.”
“Sure, why not? Could be good for me.”
“Wuss,” Carl said with a doleful shake of his head.
Jake half-smiled and filled his cup with the high-powered coffee made by anyone who was willing to brew a pot, which usually fell to Andrea, one of the too-eager interns who fluttered through the offices. Her fluttering had slowed down after two months of service with no clear track to the big time and the coffee had become strong enough to chew.
Carl commented, “That ain’t no decaf, brother.”
Jake lifted a hand in good-bye and headed back toward his office, but as soon as he’d closed the door, even before he took his seat, his thoughts revolved like a gun barrel back to the first slot: Nine.
She hadn’t changed a bit.
She’d changed completely.
He couldn’t get the memory of that long ago lovemaking out of his head. Was this a case of being too long away from a woman? He and Loni had broken up in January but he honestly couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex. Musta been the year before . . . December? God, he hoped so, but he wasn’t entirely sure. . . .
And there’d been no one since. Almost, with Sheila, but that was as close as he’d gotten.
He leaned his head back in his office chair and rotated to look out the window. He had a view of the Fremont Bridge in the distance, a suspension bridge like the Golden Gate only white. Today it stood bright and distinct in the sun above the dark green Willamette River.
Call her, a voice inside his head said. Talk to her. Ask her to lunch.
“She thinks I’m a serial killer,” he said aloud.
She thinks you know more than you’re telling.
His cell phone rang and he recognized the ringtone he’d chosen for his brother, Colin. Sweeping the phone off his desk, he answered, “’Bout time you got back to me.”
“Phone works both ways, brother,” Colin said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, really.” Jake wasn’t sure how to tell his brother, who seemed completely satisfied with his life, that he didn’t feel the same. He wasn’t even really sure Colin was the one to talk to about it. Instead, he moved into a general discussion about the winery and B&B, and finally Colin said, “I thought there was some big message. If that’s it, I got stuff to do.”
“Go to it,” Jake said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Hanging up, he was fully aware that he was going to have to figure out what he wanted to do with his life or drive himself, and everyone who knew him, crazy. He picked up a squeeze ball from his desk, designed to exercise the hand, and thought back to Nine Rafferty again. Did he know more than he was telling? More about Sheila? Was there something that had been said, something he’d heard or seen or sensed that might have stopped her from being killed?
No. He’d been down this road. There was nothing there.
But Nine had riled up all his nebulous fears. The ones that had been rolling around inside his head ever since he’d learned Sheila had been murdered. He knew a few of Sheila’s friends, not well, but he’d met some of them. He could tell Nine more about Phil, Carolyn, and Drea. Conversations they’d had, as much as he could remember.
Or . . . he could make some calls himself, he thought, his mind moving in another direction.
Face it, Westerly. You’re just searching for a way to be with her.
With a growl of impatience directly solely at himself, he pulled out her card, debated, then forewent the cell phone to call the Laurelton Police Department directly. She wanted it by the book, he’d give it to her by the book.
Sort of.
September and Gretchen were in the principal’s office at Twin Oaks when the bell rang for first period class. The principal herself, Amy Lazenby, was short, busty, and about sixty with steel gray hair, clipped short, and a pair of readers perched on her nose. She looked over the readers at both of them, her eyes narrowed, as if she thought they were truants rather than police investigators.
“I wasn’t here when Ms. Dempsey was a student,” she said after Gretchen informed her why they’d come and said she’d check her files. “She left at the end of her sixth grade year. Mr. Abernathy has been teaching sixth grade for over twenty years. He’s still here and may remember her.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Such a shame about Ms. Tripp. She’d applied for a full-time position, but we didn’t have the funding to hire someone extra, so she was only going to be here for the summer.”
September nodded. Outside the office, students were shuffling down the halls to their homerooms. She could hear their movement, a dull wave of noise punctuated by a few yells. After they entered their classrooms, the quiet was surprising. Ms. Lazenby looked satisfied, her eyes on the overhead clock.
“Abernathy is in room . . .
?” Gretchen asked.
“I’ve asked him to come to the office. It will take about twenty minutes for him to get his students settled.”
“Twenty minutes,” Gretchen agreed.
It took more like thirty before Abernathy made an appearance. Some problem with a question of thievery between two students in Abernathy’s room, which held him up, he said, when he appeared in Ms. Lazenby’s office. He was somewhere in his early fifties with a receding hairline and was thin and precise in his dress. His mouth was pinched and his ginger mustache bristled, as he said, “No respect for others. None at all. You wonder how the world will survive in the next generation.”
Ms. Lazenby excused herself and they were left with Abernathy, who looked from Gretchen to September and back again. From the expression on his face, it didn’t appear that he appreciated being interviewed by the police. “How can I help you?” he asked stiffly.
September said, “We’re investigating the homicides of Sheila Schenk Dempsey, who was a student here when she was in the sixth grade, and—”
“Yes, yes, I remember Sheila,” he interrupted.
“—Glenda Tripp, who was teaching summer school here this past summer until she was killed.”
He blinked, clearly surprised by the last part. “I didn’t even know Ms. Tripp! I wasn’t on staff this summer.”
“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Gretchen soothed though the edge in her voice could have cut glass. “What do you remember about Sheila?”
But Abernathy was on his own path. “I wasn’t here this past summer. Ask Amy if you need to know anything about Ms. Tripp.” He paused, then added, “I thought the police would have already checked all this.”
“We’re following up,” Gretchen told him tightly. “About Sheila Dempsey . . . ?”
“She was very popular,” he said after a moment’s thought. “She could have been a much better student if she’d applied herself.”
