by Dakota Kahn
That struck me as one of those actual ideas, something I would have to follow up on. Which was also something I bet the cops had actually already done. I’d needle Blake for that information.
“But I can’t go into this all biased,” I said, patting Matador on the back. “I have to look objectively. I want Greene to be the killer because he’s big and mean and he looked like he was going to punch Blake yesterday. But there are other people.”
Matador quacked a question.
“Like the other developer. Miguela said something to me that made me think that with Mr. Wendover dead, there wasn’t any chance that his development could go forward. Maybe Mr. Sparks sent his weird little bodyguard out…”
Matador quacked again, putting his beak against my leg.
“You’re right. That leaves us with another question: who brought Rip back to town? Blake rode him out of town, and somebody else rode him right back in. A lady…”
My mind was going a mile a minute here. What lady would have been interested in bringing Rip back, and why? I needed to talk to my client. I needed to talk to Mr. Greene to hear him say just what happened that night, maybe find a lie. I needed… a shower, and a sleep, and to be left stewing in my thoughts until they came to something that made sense.
Just as I got out of a warm, relaxing and blissfully thought-free shower, my phone rang. Blake, calling me just minutes before my usual bedtime. I touched the phone, but didn’t pick it up.
I was doing this work all on my own, and I needed to stay on my own…
But I texted Blake something sweet seconds after the phone stopped ringing (never you mind just what I said) and went to bed with a relatively clear conscience.
My dreams all involved faces looking out of dusty old windows. Maybe I climbed stairs all night, stairs that collapsed the instant I became aware I was on them. Maybe that was just what I thought I dreamed. Either way, I woke up still tired, still groggy, and still wishing that all the bad things that had happened in the last 36 hours had decided not to happen, and I could have a normal weekend.
That feeling lasted until I got in my car, and turned on a local radio station. Usually this time Sunday morning Quentin and Vargas were on. They were radio DJs back in high school with diametrically opposed views on music - Quentin was jazz and intellectual, Vargas was punk and angry. They’d graduated to working at the local station, and together they put on a weird, wildly eclectic show that I liked to listen to. I was always on the lookout for something new in the music department, much to Blake’s chagrin. He was all CMT all day long, and even liked most of the new country, which all sounded like pop music to me, but with an acoustic guitar or a banjo making it “authentic”.
But Q and Vs Sunday Showdown was not on. What I heard instead was a woman’s voice, talking very low and very quiet into a microphone.
“Sensitivity is something that a lot of people laugh at, Bonnie. But it’s important that we recognize some people just understand things the rest can’t. We need to spread this understanding as far as we can, regardless of the pushback and nastiness and outright hatred we get in return.”
The whispery voice was familiar, and her name almost came back to me before an announcer came in and said, “Fascinating. We’re talking today on Whispering Pines Forum to Adriana Feather, a local palm reader and psychic—”
“No, Bonnie. I wouldn’t call myself either of those things. You might as well just say ‘fraud,’” Feather said, her volume rising slightly. “No, I am a sensitive who allows people to see further then they can all on their own. It’s an important, misunderstood and often dangerous profession. But I have to keep doing it for the good of the world. There are people right here in town who want to deny truths, the kind we can see and the kind we can’t. I can’t let that happen.”
“Okay, sounds like a hard job,” Bonnie said. She had the sort of NPR-quiet voice that made her sound a little like a computer-generated radio person, but even then I could hear the quaver in her voice that said, ‘I’m talking to a nutter.’
“In fact, with the terrible murder that happened less than two days ago, we have officers of the court trying to point fingers all over town, except at the people responsible,” Feather said.
“Is that so? Well, it’s an on-going investigation, so I don’t think—”
“And I know who did it. I know all the details of the case, because it has come to me.”
“Right. Well, that sounds fascinating…”
“And I know that Rip Chiaki is under arrest right now for this crime, but while he hanged the man, he didn’t do it alone.”
There was dead air for a few seconds, or maybe that was just in my own head, while I let a white hot rage open up in me. What was this woman trying to do?
“He did it with an accomplice. The very ghosts of Crestgold gave strength to his weakened limbs! They possessed his body and helped him to hang James Wendover on his own gallows!”
There was a sound of scuffling, of a microphone being moved, and then some smooth jazz played on the radio.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, KWHP is experiencing technical difficulties, but don’t let it harsh your Sunday morning. Listen to the smooth sounds as we smooth out—”
I shut the stupid thing off and pulled off to the side of the road, glaring out the windshield without seeing anything. What was that terrible woman trying to do, condemn Rip in public?
And with that ridiculous story about a ghost helping him…
What in the world was Adriana Feather so interested for? That was another avenue I had to explore. She probably got Rip’s name from my computer, so she was doing this for a reason. What reason, though?
How could our little town have such a tangled relationship to this crime? Was it all the developers faults for coming in and bringing money into our town? Or was this something that was always there, is always there no matter where you go, and that you can’t avoid?
Greed, everybody moving for their own agenda. Not to be too self-aggrandizing, but at the moment I was feeling like the last honest woman in Whispering Pines.
At the sheriff station they certainly weren’t looking at me like that. Deputy Woody was at the front desk, looking a bit like the dog that ate the birthday cake. He gave me a pained smile when I came in, asked how I was, the whole nine yards.
“Did I get you in trouble?” I said, looking at the big man sitting behind the big desk.
“Naw, I got myself in trouble. I should have been there watching out for you. It’s not like somebody was going to be able to sneak up on the road without me hearing them. And then I could’ve… well…”
“Stopped me from charging like a moron into highly collapsible buildings?” I said, grinning.
“That thing, yeah,” he said, laughing with me. Kind of a half-hearted laugh, I thought, but it was better than him being morose or self-pitying. “So, Kate Becker, prettiest lawyer detective in town, what can I do for you?”
“You can put Rip in an interrogation cell so I can ask him some questions,” I said.
The smile faltered a little.
“Ah, that. You see… maybe you didn’t hear but the words got out that Rip is the fella we’re holding,” he said.
“I heard. I want to talk with him—”
“But Sheriff Dulap, he said he wasn’t looking for no curiosity seekers, no lookie-loo types. Right? So… he said no visitors.”
Woody’s apology smile was no longer quite so ingratiating. In fact, from my vantage point I was starting to feel like he was the friendly face put on a very unfriendly policy, indeed. A policy of railroaded justice. Justice denied! We’re going to the Supreme Court on this one.
“Woody,” I said, trying to not sound like I was calling him an idiot while kinda calling him an idiot, “It is the right, sacred right of any prisoner held in this country,” I said waving one hand behind me so he knew the country was a great big place, with a lot of rules that I understood very well, being one of its lawyers, “to see their counsel and�
��”
“Uh, but that’s the thing, Miss Becker,” Woody said, and he kept his eyes down in a way that threatened to break through my sudden shield of righteousness. I was kicking a puppy here, but damn it…
“What’s the thing, Woody? That Sheriff Dulap and Detective Schwille and, hell, Mayor Reynolds,” I said, nodding to an audience who was not there but who would be hanging on my every word, “that these supposed public officials have decided scapegoating, and political expediency are more important than my client’s rights?”
“Actually, he ain’t your client,” Woody said, simply.
When I looked back on this, I knew I would deeply appreciate Woody not taking on the same tone of talking to a dummy I’d put on. He’s a sweet guy.
In the moment, all I could say was, “What?”
“Rip, he said he… he expressed an opinion about things, and then said he would be his own counsel.”
“Expressed an opinion about things?” I said.
A gloating, harpy voice floated in above my bewilderment and Woody’s shame-faced decency.
“He said no piss-poor charlatan that can’t even get a real job and not have to suck off the government tit was going to do him a tinker’s cuss worth of good in court, and he’d be better off just mooning the jury rather than deal with the bottom of the barrel scum who end up as PDAs these days.” Liz Schwille, invisible behind the divider separating the desk from the rest of the office, appeared like a bad penny just to ruin my day.
“Um…” I said. “Wait, no. Even if he wants to represent himself, he needs someone in court—”
“Not you, sweet cheeks.”
Liz leaned down on the desk and gave me as frankly a disagreeable look as I’ve ever seen. I didn’t love this woman, but I don’t remember peeing in her Cheerios or running over her cat, so I’m not entirely sure why I was getting all this grief.
“This isn’t right, and I can file a complaint.”
“And I can file charges of obstruction of justice which, if they don’t get you put in jaily-jail,” Liz said, waving her hand toward the back, the little incarceration cubicles with many tenants and one toilet, out in the open. “They can disbar you, and certainly while awaiting trial you’re not going to be getting anymore work as a public defender in town. So, Little Miss Becker, turn around and leave.”
A great comeback. That’s what I needed right then. Something more than an aggrieved look and doing what I was told… but the truth is, I was up the creek, no paddle. Rip had every right to be stupid and wrong and throw me over. I could probably argue my way out of an obstruction charge by claiming I was working for my client. That was part of being a defense attorney.
Only I wasn’t his attorney now. I was just a concerned citizen who couldn’t even bill anybody for her time.
“I’m going,” I said, then I gave Woody a significant look, and waited outside the sheriff’s office.
And waited. Either my significant looks weren’t all that significant, or Woody had decided not to come and join the losing team. I was about to kick something when a cop car pulled up. Maybe I’ll kick that.
Except then my boyfriend/fiancee stepped out of the car and ruined all my vengeance thoughts. I looked at him with a weird, growly quizzical scowl on my face. He took it in without any change in his own expression.
“Huh,” he said, when I didn’t say anything for a while.
“Huh, yourself,” I said, crossing my arms, feeling incoherently mad.
“I tried to call you last night,” he started, then said, “But you’ve already heard. Look, Kate, we really need to talk.” He grabbed me and pulled me away from the front of the building, as if spies could be anywhere.
“What about? I could tell you I’m just trying to do my job, but it’s not my job anymore. Rip threw me over,” I said. I may have shuddered a little when I said it, but I was not about to cry.
“I know,” Blake said. “I was calling you last night about it, but somebody’s so damned stubborn and thinks they know everything they wouldn’t take a phone call.”
“It was Matador,” I said. “He wanted an evening in. Oh, Blake, what am I going to do? I was all revved up on getting Rip off, on proving he didn’t do it… and now… Do you know what Liz is threatening to do?”
Blake nodded. “It’s nonsense, but that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt in the short run, and maybe long run, too. You need to…”
“One thing I don’t need is to be told what to do,” I said, ready to slap a Blake.
“Darn right you don’t,” he said, so quickly I wasn’t quite sure I heard what I did. “You don’t need me or anyone telling you just what to do. But you also don’t need to be doing things that’ll get you in trouble.”
“If I get in trouble, I’m doing it of my own accord. And if I stay out, it is of my own accord. Nobody is going to get me in or out of my own trouble,” I said, still feeling angry, though I wasn’t quite sure at the moment at whom it was directed. If it was Blake, he was being his usual, annoyingly calm and understanding self.
“I got it,” he said. “And I know you’re blowing off steam. But Kate, Kate, Kate,” he said interrupting me three times as I started to go off.
“What?” I said, finally, exasperatedly.
He looked over his shoulder. Then back around the other side. Then, like we were conspirators, he whispered in my ear.
“You’re exactly right. Rip is getting railroaded, and something’s got to be done about it.”
I pulled away, and looked Blake right in the eyes. In that instant, all my concern for anything but grabbing this man and dragging him to Vegas for a quickie wedding completely evaporated.
“You called me in,” I said, maybe for the first time realizing the significance of just what Blake did yesterday morning. He’d called me in, given me a crack at Rip. I thought I was the lonely soldier fighting against everybody, but the whole time my man had my back.
He’s pretty good.
“But now that’s all done,” I said.
Blake shook his head. “No. You’ve got to talk to me about everything you’ve found, and even your crazy ideas. I don’t trust Liz as far as I can throw her. She doesn’t care, but Dulap does, and if I can get something definitive, something that he can’t ignore, he won’t go against his conscience. I know it.”
He grabbed me again, pulled me toward the parking lot just as the front door of the station opened, and Liz Schwille stepped out.
“Oh, you’re still here,” she said. “Why don’t you stick around? Reporters from the radio station, the paper, and from the TV station are coming to talk to me about our speedy detective work. Deputy Spanner—”
“Taking my lady to breakfast,” he said, almost physically depositing me in the passenger seat of his cop car.
As we drove off, we passed a small army of vans painted with logos from TV stations and the Newspaper. Liz Schwille was going to get a moment in the sun.
And with any luck, Blake and me, we could toss mud at her just when she was in the limelight.
Chapter 11
Blake is quiet. By that I do not mean he is mousy or can’t have a conversation or you wouldn’t notice him in a room. He’s the least mousy man I know - big and strong, works out four times a week and bugs me to do more of it. He can talk, too, and sometimes is more clever than I remember he is, which I hate.
No, he’s quiet in that he’ll do things that he doesn’t crow about like some kind of animal. He doesn’t need credit for all of his slyness, like he didn’t say yesterday morning that he was calling me in to be Rip Chiaki’s only hope. And like he didn’t say he was picking a restaurant where I could already continue my investigation without making my own big show about it.
But it took 30 seconds of stepping into Whiskey Mountain cafe, usually a cut above the price Blake pays for his breakfast, for me to spot some of the other patrons. He’d barely ordered his coffee before I grabbed his knee and said, “There’s Greene!” in a shout-whisper.
And there Greene was. I was used to seeing him now, his meathead jaw and scowly face.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the woman with him. She sat across from him so I could only see her profile, but it was a striking one. Sharp, pretty, framed by shoulder length blonde hair that swept back like it was straining to organize itself into a ponytail.
She was looking at her menu while Mr. Greene was sipping his coffee. Suddenly, like a scene from a horror movie, a creature popped up in the booth between them, and roared. My grip on Blake’s knee got so tight I heard him groan. And then the creature laughed and pulled back on its weird froggy looking mask, revealing a little kid’s face.
I wish I could say it was the cutest little kid I’ve ever seen, but it happened to be a tiny girl with her father’s lantern jaw. Luckily, she had the same bright blue eyes and blonde hair her mother had, and a smile that, from my quick glance at the two of them, neither had had for quite some time.
“Omigosh I gotta talk to them,” I said.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Blake said. He looked casually over his shoulder, saw the Greenes, then nodded to me. “Yeah, that’s them. That doesn’t mean you need to do anything about it.”
“What?” I said. I knew Blake picked this place because the Greenes were here. He had all kinds of cop tricks for knowing this stuff. I couldn’t just not use this info.
“It’s the whole Greene family,” he said. “Think about how you’d feel if somebody came to talk to you about what you’re going to talk to them. Right in front of their little girl.”
“Oh,” I said, then I put my elbows on the table and my head in my hands, like a pouty child. “Shucks.”
“I didn’t say you can’t, I just said think. Enthusiasm’s not your only asset, kid.”
Then our waitress came by, and Blake ordered a steak omelet, which just sounded weirdly extravagant to me. I got a healthy meal of fruit and cream (augmented by a pair of enormous Belgium waffles) and settled in to half-watching the Greenes while Blake grilled me about my own findings.
