Someone was sobbing, and the volume suddenly increased. It was one of the museum employees Trammell had found tied up in the downstairs bathroom. A couple of uniformed cops were taking statements.
“It’s the same MO as the newspaper,” Martha said. “Remember he tied up the nonessentials in the bathroom?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Corvari said.
“He was wearing black military boots. You might be able to find some foot prints.”
“Yeah, we’re on it.” She paused. “But you’re sure the lady said Eric Metcalf?”
Martha again only nodded.
Corvari strode over to Callison, still at the center of the group. Separating him from the rest, she spoke to him for a moment. Martha couldn’t hear the words but knew what Corvari was saying. Metcalf, Eric Metcalf. Callison towered over the younger woman by a head. The muscles on his neck bulged. He listened for a moment, and then spoke through clenched teeth.
The detective whirled away, and Martha caught a glimpse of Metcalf suddenly left standing alone with Callison. They spoke for a moment, the tension between them obvious, even if Martha couldn’t hear the words. Arms akimbo, Metcalf shook his head and snapped a last comment. Metcalf pivoted and stomped toward the door. His eyes met Martha’s for an instant. They were full of rage.
Callison was yelling at someone and pointing toward where Martha had found the dead anthropologist. Having overcome her first impression of the brutish detective, she had grown to like him. The “Gifts for the Terminally Bored” had been a gesture of empathy and understanding not offered by any of the other officers, including the very likable Corvari. Despite his scruffy appearance, Callison had a professionalism that was missing when Metcalf led the investigation. Still, he was playing catch-up late in the game.
She was surprised when, amid the chaos swirling in the museum lobby, Callison approached and sat beside her on the bench.
“You okay?” His voice was quiet. “That’s a horrible thing for anyone to go through.”
“I’ll be okay, thanks.”
“Someone’s upped the ante,” Callison said. “At the newspaper office, Corvari tells me the operation was much the same, but they were just trying to scare you. Now, they’re killing people. The guy from the bookstore. Now this. So what’s changed?”
“But that’s not right,” Martha said. “Dr. Povich was the first person killed. That happened before the attack at the newspaper, before any of this started. That’s what scared Hewitt, I’m sure. He got the phone call from Povich’s colleague and knew his death wasn’t a suicide. He understood. He knew they’d be coming after him. He called me to meet on the pier within two days of talking to Arizona.”
“Then why didn’t he warn Martoni?”
“Maybe he did. Maybe she didn’t believe him. Maybe she didn’t think it would happen this fast. Maybe—”
“Or maybe he bolted without telling anyone anything,” Callison said. “He slithered out the back door, leaving everyone else in front of the firing squad.”
“But where’s the evidence for that? There’s no body, there’s no murder weapon. Then there’s the trashed houseboat. What makes you think that Hewitt’s not dead, and you just haven’t found him yet?”
“Maybe all we have is a lot of maybes,” Callison said, large hands running through his dark hair until it took on the Einstein look. “What we need is something concrete.”
“Did you call the Tempe police?”
“I assigned it to Metcalf. He talked to them, and he talked to someone here at the U. That’s why the lady mentioned his name. He was in a meeting with me, Martha, when this was all going down. I wanted to know why no one on this case had ever heard of Povich or Martoni. Someone’s not just a step ahead of us; they’re running laps around us. I’m getting pretty damn tired of it.”
Martha took a breath, working up her courage. “Or they had heard of Povich and Martoni, and they weren't telling."
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. The unfriendlies are getting information from somewhere. It wasn’t twelve hours before Danny Kimble knew Metcalf had been assigned to the case and had himself an authentic-looking Seattle police ID. I’m sitting in an interrogation cell when Metcalf informs me that I’m now owner of a dusty old bookstore in the U District and the building where it’s located. Metcalf knew Hewitt owned the building before he made his first accusation against me. The next morning, Metcalf tries to blame me for Ralph Hargrove’s death. I call you this afternoon to say check out Povich. You assign it to Metcalf. Less than an hour later, someone in military boots kills Dr. Martoni. What is the one common denominator running through all of this? Eric Metcalf.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Callison said. “And I don’t take it lightly. But the same series of coincidences that you cite against Metcalf, he’s holds up against you. What do you think he was just telling me? You’re holed up incommunicado for a dozen days under police protection, and nothing happens. You and Trammell take a hike, and people start dying again. That makes a homicide detective pause, even a slow one like me.”
“Of course he would. Did you ever consider it might have been a set up? Who fought the hardest against putting Trammell and me in that hotel? Detective Metcalf. He claimed he had no resources, no manpower. He fought with two superior officers about it. Our going into protective custody had to slow his attempt to eliminate all evidence of the documents and the people who knew about them. By the way, did your resident choirboy tell you that he might actually have belonged to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir? He’s a Mormon, Callison. Born in Provo, Utah, to a long-standing Mormon clan, graduated from BYU, had his first job as a cop in Orem, Utah. The LDS are quite thorough with their genealogy research, and a couple of minutes on Google fills in the blanks. Someone from the LDS is desperately trying to prevent these documents from seeing the light of day. And it sure as hell looks like they’re getting their information from someone inside.”
Callison leaned forward, his voice a harsh whisper. “Or someone in a financial crisis thinks these documents are a lot more valuable being sold back to the Church rather than being published in the newspaper. How much would they be worth to the Mormons if they could bury them forever? I have no idea, but that might be an interesting question to ask. And, this same someone is now sleeping with the paper’s head dude. Coincidence? Keeping a close eye on him and everything he knows? This someone also lied to me about where she was going to be last night. Imagine my surprise when the Port police informed me your boat wasn’t in its slip in the marina. In fact, it wasn’t anywhere in the marina.”
“Last minute change of plans.” Martha snorted with contempt. “Since the police haven’t been able to protect anyone yet, why would I be so naïve to think anything’s changed?” She shook her head. “So Metcalf’s convinced you that I’m the prime suspect here. I thought there was at least one smart cop working this case.”
“Seems stupid is a contagious disease, Whitaker. You didn’t think we were smart enough to be told about the key and the postcard. You withhold evidence, beat up an officer or two, meddle in a major murder investigation. Framing a cop isn’t such a big step from that. And you wonder why we’re having a hard time believing anything you tell us.”
Having started, Callison seemed unable to stop. He perched on the edge of the bench, his face turning red as he spat out the words. “Metcalf hasn’t convinced me you’re behind this any more than you’ve convinced me that a Seattle cop is involved. My job is to consider all possibilities. That means you. That means Trammell. It means Hewitt Wilcox may be dead or he may not be. I don’t believe or disbelieve any of it until I’ve got proof one way or the other.”
“You know what else the choirboy pointed out to me? How did our perps know Trammell and his newspaper were involved? You were the only one who had met him. Metcalf had never heard of him until after the break-in at the newspaper.”
“That’s ludicrous, Callison. Check my cell phone. You’re the ef
fing police; you can run the records. You won’t find any frantic calls the night I met Trammell, you won’t find any calls to shady associates. And you won’t find any calls to Arizona. I’ve got nothing to hide. You know where I live. Get a warrant, search it, have forensics dust it for fingerprints. Hell, you don’t even need a warrant. You have my permission. Just go for it. But, hell, you’ve probably already done that anyway. You’ll find my prints and yours and Rebecca’s. You’ll find lots of cat hair and some sawdust. I never heard of Povich or Martoni until this afternoon, and Povich was killed weeks ago. If someone knew about Povich, it was because they’d been investigating Hewitt and who he saw to get the documents authenticated. They probably also knew he had met with Trammell about getting them published.” She paused. “And I suppose the Hammer of God was a decoy? I set him up and had him killed so I’d get more of the cut?”
“No honor among thieves,” Callison retorted. “Doesn’t it seem odd that a bunch of supposed professionals can’t seem to shoot straight when they’re aiming at you?”
Martha rose, snapping the zipper of Corvari’s hoodie up tight to her throat. She offered him her wrists. “It’s time to either handcuff me or let me go. I’ve heard enough of your accusations for one night. Should I call my lawyer? He would love to join us at the table. You might want to ask Metcalf how that went. In the meantime, Military Boots, Danny Kimble, and the masked man are still running free. I wonder who’ll be their next target—me? Trammell? Someone we don’t even know about yet? This case might just solve itself if they run out of people to kill.”
“You’re better than that, Whitaker.” Callison stood. They stood eye to eye but his bulk made her feel frail, vulnerable. “You can help us, but we’re not here to help you in your private investigation. If you find something or have a brain fart in the middle of the night that might be relevant, you tell me and only me. If the old man calls you in the middle of the night full of mea culpas, you call me and only me. If one of the creeps comes visiting in the middle of the night, you don’t kill him; you call me. Otherwise, if you don’t want to go back into lockup, stay out of my fucking investigation. Take Trammell and go check into a beach cabin under an assumed name or something. But tell me where you’re going, and then be there. I will check.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Martha stormed out of the Burke, only to run into Metcalf standing under the wide overhang, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Hard-won restraint kept her moving despite a fervent desire to push his nose out the back of his smug face. She charged down the stairs past the carved orca, afraid of what she might do if she hesitated.
“Martha, wait,” Trammell shouted.
She spun around. He had followed her out of the museum, and now shrugged into his rain jacket.
“Trammell, hold up a sec,” Metcalf called out.
Martha continued down the sidewalk. In a minute, Trammell came jogging up beside her.
“Did he tell you to watch your back?” Martha snapped, eating up the sidewalk in long, hurried strides.
“Yeah, he did—but he said ‘you guys be careful.’ It was pretty specific. ‘You guys.’ Gave me his cell phone number if we need to contact him directly.”
"Did he tell you that he’s got Callison thinking that I’m behind the break-in at your office or that I’m sleeping with you just to keep an eye on you? Which, of course, means he still thinks I’m behind Hewitt’s disappearance, the murders, all of it.”
“Matter of fact, he didn’t. Didn’t sound like that at all. Actually said ‘good sleuthing’ about finding Povich. Of course, he didn’t say thanks or anything else remotely civil. But, it is Metcalf, after all. Is that why you’re sleeping with me?”
“Fuck you, Lance.”
“Come on. It was a joke.”
“Yeah. Hilarious. A woman’s dead, I’m covered in blood, the police think I’m responsible. Ha ha. Take the stand-up routine elsewhere. I’ve got work to do.”
“Martha, I’m sorry.” Trammell reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. “We’ve come this far together. Let’s finish it together. Besides, how do you know that’s not why I’m sleeping with you?”
She rolled her eyes, but this time when he clasped her hand, she let him.
For a few minutes, they walked side by side, through the puddles, across the wet grass. They were true Seattleites, walking without an umbrella in the rain as if God’s tears didn’t fall on them.
Parked at the ramp to Hewitt’s houseboat, Martha and Trammell sat quietly, alert to any movement in the shadows. Lights from Pete’s Supermarket spilled out into the night. Her anger had been replaced by a quiet determination. If Metcalf’s cynicism had now infected Callison, then she would clear her name herself.
She glanced at Trammell. He too studied the darkness for any hidden threats. With him, she felt the slaking of a long thirst. Yet, she still found herself hesitant to reach out to him. What was she afraid of? Loss of freedom? Maybe just loss. The blood on her jacket could just as easily have been Trammell’s. When he rolled over the hood of that car.
Martha turned off the car. Her growling stomach told her it had been a long time since her small lunch. She nudged Trammell. “Watch my back. I’m going to buy a bottle of wine to go with dinner. They carry a nice Pinot Noir.”
She grabbed her briefcase and splashed her way toward the store. Inside, she headed to the back and stopped in front of the store’s best wine selection. Karen Brown, the sleeves of her Pete’s sweatshirt rolled up to her tanned elbows, was kneeling, stocking a new shipment. She looked up with tired eyes and smiled.
“Oh, hi,” she said, rising. “Any word on Hewitt?”
Martha shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Karen nodded. “Did you get the hot dish I left on the houseboat? Thought you might need a little comfort food.”
“Oh, that was you! Thank you so much. We’re going to go finish it right now. I saw you carried the Beaux Freres Pinot Noir from Oregon. I thought it’d go nicely with the mac and cheese.”
“Nice choice.” Karen checked the shelf, moved a couple of bottles, and then turned. She yelled toward the open office door. “Hey, Brownie, you sell the last Beaux Freres Pinot?”
A voice came back, “Yeah, last night. To Kat and Nat.”
Turning back to Martha, she said, “I’ve got a nice Et Fille Pinot Noir you might want to try. It’s light, but the flavor is still intense. It’s what we drink at home.”
“Then it’s what we’ll drink.”
Brownie popped out of the office in a pair of khaki cargo shorts, his spindly legs covered in white long johns and ending in wool socks and Gore-Tex hiking boots. He buried his hands deep in his pockets. He said, “Any news?”
“No, nothing new,” Martha lied, trying to emphasize it with a weary smile.
Karen shook her head. “My goodness, what’s it been, two weeks now? What are the police doing?”
“It’s January, the water’s cold, and we’ve had some big tidal flushes with the new moon. They can’t make . . .” She trailed off.
“How can the police have nothing?” Brownie said. “His car’s found in the Sound, someone’s ransacked his boat, and they have nothing?”
“Oh, they do,” Martha said. “Me. I’m the person with the motive. I inherit Hewitt’s estate if he dies. The police have practically accused me of orchestrating Hewitt’s disappearance. None of it’s true, but why let details get in the way of a good theory?” She paused. “You don’t remember anything else that Hewitt might’ve said or anything he might’ve hinted at when he was here?”
Brownie’s head glistened as he shook it. “Nothing. I’ve been over it with you and a Detective Metcalf and some guy named Callison. Told them I helped Hewitt package up a bundle, which they knew because my fingerprints were all over it. That he scribbled a note on the back of that postcard. I mean, I don’t know anything else.”
Martha leaned close. “Scribbled a note. What note?”
“On the back of the postcard.
”
“There was nothing written on the card when I found it in the houseboat.”
“Then it must have been on the other half, the one he taped to the envelope.”
“Oh, Christ,” Martha muttered to herself. She had dropped to one knee and was searching through her briefcase. She flipped through pockets until she found the white envelope with half a postcard of Pete’s Supermarket taped to the front. Once she had made the match of the two halves of the postcard, she had been anxious to look at what was inside the envelope, but had never looked further at the part taped to the envelope. Now, she found an edge and carefully removed it.
Karen and Brownie went still, as if afraid to breathe. Martha turned the card over and read aloud: “Turn, Beatrice, O turn your holy eyes upon your faithful one who, that he might see you, has come so far.”
Several seconds of utter silence followed her reading of the line. Fucking Hewitt, Martha raged to herself. Another goddamn cryptic message to decipher when what she needed was a straightforward pronouncement.
Brownie said what they were all thinking. “What the hell does that mean?”
A long-ago memory came to her. Hewitt had used the line when Martha arrived at his houseboat with two black kittens nestled in a shoebox. Nearly identical, brother and sister. Hewitt kept the brother, named him Dante, and Martha took home the sister, Beatrice, the two cats forever linked with the line which she now recited, “Turn, Beatrice, O turn your holy eyes upon your faithful one who, that he might see you, has come so far. Out of grace, do us this grace; unveil your lips to him, so that he may discern the second beauty you have kept concealed.”
“It’s from Dante,” she said. “The angels in the Earthly Paradise are asking Beatrice to show her face to Dante.”
Brownie looked at her as if she had just escaped from the asylum. She added, “Dante, the Italian poet from the Middle Ages, not Hewitt’s cat.”
Out of the Cold Dark Sea Page 23
