He watches with pleasure as Emma rubs the goosebumps on her arms, then continues. “The only thing we had to do was empty the station house. Police are predictable creatures. When an officer falls, they rally. Every one of them.
“All we had to do was kill a cop—any cop would do.
“We used a diversionary tactic to draw a squad car to a bridge. And that’s when I got the driver in my sights and squeezed the trigger. Boom! Sam was out of the game.”
“I don’t understand why you want to kill Mick. He’s off the force. And you got your drugs.”
“Aah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I didn’t get the drugs. My brother was one of three people who got caught. He’s the one who stashed the drugs. He’s the only person who knows their location.”
“And he won’t tell you where they are?” Emma asks.
“Dead men tell no tales,” Jason retorts with an angry snarl. “My brother was killed in jail before he could tell me. So, I’m out ten million bucks, and McPherson’s going to pay.”
“But why Mick?” Emma asks. “You said any police officer would do, and you shot Sam. So why Mick? Why now? Why five years later?”
Jason smirks and says, “Consider it tying up loose ends, just like I’m going to do with you.”
Emma closes her eyes and remembers a captivating article she’d read on the flight from San Diego to Seattle. It discussed the notorious “Golden State Killer” and the difference between sociopaths and psychopaths. It said, “Psychopaths are more dangerous because they don’t feel shame or experience guilt connected with their actions. They point blame instead.” It went on to say, “A psychopath is a human predator who wears a mask of sanity, an aggressor who preys on others merely for the pleasure of it, simply because they can.”
Emma shudders.
Mick approaches Thoreau from the rear. With his weapon drawn, he drops into a half squat and edges his face around the corner. Peering into the solid glass wall, he does a tactical scan. He can see everything inside the cottage except the bedroom and bathroom.
Making his way to the front door, he tests the handle and discovers that it’s not locked.
He enters crouched. Ready.
Pivoting on his heel, he performs a 180-degree sight line. Clear.
He listens for sounds. Nothing.
His senses are on high alert as he makes his way to the bathroom and bedroom. His torso swiveling, his gaze sweeps the space, drinking everything in like a dry sponge soaks up water. Empty.
Satisfied, he stands for a couple of beats taking it all in.
The closet reveals that Jason hasn’t hung any of his clothes.
Mick opens the first of two suitcases sitting on the floor next to the bed. It contains folded clothing, a pair of shoes, and a lightweight jacket.
The second one contains folded white towels that appear to be from a hotel. Divided into two stacks, the top two towels have rectangular name badges pinned to them. The one on the left says Rose and also bears the name and logo of a hotel. The one on the right says Yolanda with a different hotel name and logo.
Lifting those towels, Mick discovers that each subsequent towel in the suitcase also has a name badge affixed. Linh, Teagen, Mai, Teresa, Amala, Veronica, Devi, and Silvia.
The two common denominators that he can readily see are white hotel towels and badges with female names. But each badge belongs to a different hotel.
Racking his brain, Mick recalls dropping Jason off at Thoreau on that first day. In his mind, he pictures him with a suitcase in each hand, and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
Where’s the backpack?
Back in the central part of the cottage, Mick finds numerous empty bottles of Jack Daniels. He also sees the empty boxes UPS delivered with Jason’s manuscript—the pages are nowhere to be found.
I wonder what was really in these boxes?
The cell phone in his pocket vibrates. Mick sees Libby’s name on the screen and answers.
“The police are here,” she says.
“I’ll be right there.”
When the vehicle sensor buzzes in the main house, signaling the arrival of the police, Niall buzzes them in and Libby phones Mick as he requested.
The cruiser pulls into the roundabout just as Fran arrives.
“Is everything okay?” she asks the officer who steps out of the car.
“Mr. MacCullough asked me to come out,” Joe offers. Extending his hand, he continues, “And you are?”
“I’m Fran Davies, one of the writers staying here this month.”
All heads turn as Libby opens the front door.
“Oh, Fran,” she says, looking surprised. “You’re here too. In all of the commotion, I forgot we were going to pick up Cynthia.”
Stepping out of the way, she continues, “Come in everyone, please.”
Fran and Joe follow Libby to the kitchen.
“My God it smells good in here,” Joe says. As he extends his hand, Niall says, “I bake when I’m upset.”
“He bakes regardless of the emotion,” Libby says smiling. “Please have a seat.”
“Did the hospital say they would release Cynthia today?” Fran asks.
“With the recent developments, I haven’t called yet.”
Niall sets a plate of freshly baked scones on the table, and Libby pours coffee for everyone. After taking a bite, Joe says, “Seriously, what is this? I’m in heaven.”
“They’re chocolate-drizzled chocolate scones with chocolate-and-orange-speckled clotted cream and orange marmalade,” Niall answers. “Chocolate is my drug of choice.”
“What developments?” Fran interrupts.
Before anyone can answer, Mick arrives. After thanking Joe for coming back, he says, “First and foremost, we’ve got to find Emma. Emma Benton.
“When Libby and I went to Austen cottage this morning, the front door was bolted, so we went around back and entered through the sliding glass door. She wasn’t there, and we didn’t see any signs of a struggle.
“It’s important to note that Austen cottage is specifically designed around the needs of a person in a wheelchair. I lived there myself, that’s where I recovered.”
His look is grave as his eyes travel from face to face around the table. “I’m point on this case.” His tone brooks no discussion as he leaves to get the journal.
Returning from The Ink Well, his glove-clad hands set the book on the table. Before opening it, he brings them up to speed on the towel-filled suitcase he found in Thoreau.
“When we’re done here,” Joe says, “I’ll retrieve the suitcases. They could be evidence. I’ll run the names on the hotel badges against the hotels to see if we get any leads. From what you said, I don’t recognize any of those hotels as being from around here.”
Turning back to the book, Mick says, “Each of our guests has access to and is encouraged to write something in the Pines & Quill journal. This morning, a newly coned Hemingway,” he nods in the direction of the Dutch door, “knocked over the stand this sits on,” he says, tapping the edge of the book.
Nodding toward Libby, he continues, “When my sister picked it up, she saw a new entry.” Pointing to it he reads out loud. “‘Look in the mirror and what do you see? An eerie reflection that looks like me.’ It’s signed, Andrew Berndt. He’s one of the two ringleaders in the drug heist that killed my partner, Sam.
“I think that Jason Hughes is the other ringleader. I think he’s Andrew Berndt’s fraternal twin.”
CHAPTER 21
“This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until it’s done. It’s that easy, and that hard.”
—NEIL GAIMAN
When Libby and Fran arrive at St. Joseph Hospital, the cacophony of institutional sounds and intrusive fluorescent lighting stirs unwelcome memories of long, white hospital hours that Fran has spent searching for answers to her infertility. A sinking sensation fills her chest. She blinks, swallows down a wave of nausea, and makes herself f
ocus. Hands fisted at her sides, she keeps it to herself as the two women walk with purpose to Cynthia’s room.
Cynthia has never been happier to see two people in all of her life. “The cavalry has arrived,” she says, beaming. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
“Paddy, what are you doing here?” Libby asks her brother-in-law who’s sitting in the chair next to the bed that Cynthia’s sitting on.
“I’m at St. Joseph’s on chaplaincy duty and discovered Ms. Winters. She just brought me up to speed on the recent events.”
“Well, it’s good to see you. Please come out to the house later this week for a visit. Niall and I were just talking about you.”
“So that’s why my ears were burning.” He winks. “I will. Thank you for the invitation.” Turning to Cynthia, he continues, “I wish it had been under different circumstances, but it was a pleasure to see you again.”
Libby and Fran step away from the doorway so Paddy can leave. As he steps out, an orderly with a wheelchair steps in.
Libby turns to Cynthia. “Hospital discharge policy dictates that patients be wheeled to their ride home.”
“But I can walk.” Cynthia shakes her head.
“If you want Dr. Zimmerman to change her mind—” the orderly says.
“No, I don’t,” Cynthia interjects.
Leaning forward between the two front bucket seats, Fran asks Cynthia, “How do you feel? Are you really okay?”
“The only thing that’s wrong with me is that I’m out of the loop. What happened while I was in the hospital?”
In rapid-fire succession, Libby and Fran fill her in on the recent events.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Cynthia says. “I saw Jason fall over the cliff, but the diving team hasn’t found his body, at least not yet.
“When you went to check on Emma in Austen cottage, you had to enter through the glass slider because the front door was bolted shut. She wasn’t there, and there were no signs of a struggle. Yet she hasn’t been seen or heard from since last night when she remembered she’d forgotten to turn off the flame under the tea kettle.
“Mick found one of Jason’s suitcases filled with towels that have hotel name badges pinned to them.
“And poor sweet Hemingway is wearing an Elizabethan collar because of the wounds he got while saving my life.”
“Whew! That about sizes it up,” Libby says, turning to sigh at Cynthia.
Officer Joe is walking to the squad car, carrying a suitcase with a gloved hand when the Pines & Quill van pulls into the circular drive by the front door.
Cynthia pushes the button that lowers the passenger window and calls out, “Please wait.”
“What’s up?” Fran asks.
“I want to see those towels and name badges,” she says. “I might be able to get information from them.”
Curiosity piqued, Libby and Fran get out of the van with her.
Joe has a perplexed look on his face as three women—who look like they mean business—approach him.
“Joe, you haven’t met Cynthia Winters yet,” Libby says. “She’s the one who was taken to the hospital last night. Will you please come into the house for just a few minutes?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Joe says, touching the bill of his cap. “But I’m on my way to the station with potential evidence.”
“Yes, but there’s something important you should know. Please.” Libby’s eyes plead. “It’ll just take a moment.”
Niall, who just finished wiping down the kitchen counters, looks up, surprised to see the women enter the kitchen with Joe in tow.
“Now, what’s this all about?” Joe asks the women, his empty hand resting on his hip.
Cynthia steps forward. “I’ve helped several law enforcement agencies solve cases. You see,” she continues, “I’m a forensic intuitive.”
Brows knit together, Joe looks to the others for confirmation. “Is that so?”
Wiping his hands on a dish towel, Niall steps forward. “Yes, she is, Joe. And if she can help in any way, shouldn’t she be given a chance?”
After a moment’s consideration, Joe says, “I can’t see any harm in that.”
Turning to Cynthia, he continues, “But you’ll need to wear crime-scene gloves, so nothing gets contaminated.”
“Certainly,” Cynthia agrees.
After she slips on a thin pair of latex gloves that Joe hands her, he opens the suitcase.
Before touching anything, she looks at Joe and asks, “May I?” After a quick nod of his head, she lifts the top towel from the left stack. It has the name badge “Rose” pinned to it.
All eyes are on Cynthia.
Holding the folded towel on her left palm, she touches the badge with her right hand and traces each engraved letter: R-o-s-e.
Putting it back in place, she looks at Joe again, points to the towel on the top of the right stack, and asks, “May I?”
Again, he nods assent.
Everyone leans toward Cynthia in wide-eyed anticipation and a collectively held breath.
She does the same thing, this time tracing the letters Y-o-l-a-n-d-a.
After returning it to the suitcase, she says, “Death. These two women are dead. And I suspect you’ll find that the other name badges belong to women who are dead as well.”
Astonished, and not knowing what else to say, Joe closes the suitcase, clears his throat, and says to the group at large, “I’ll let you know the results I find at the station.”
As Libby walks him to the front door, she says, “Thank you, Joe. If you hear anything more from the diving team, you’ll let us know?”
“Yes. And if Mick, or anyone else,” he says, raising his eyebrows and pointing his head toward Cynthia, “discovers something more, please call me.”
“I will,” Libby assures him.
After placing the suitcase in the cruiser’s trunk, Joe gets into the car and radios Toni.
“Yep,” comes her response.
“Where are you?”
“I’m near the entry gate. I’ve been scouring the woods and haven’t found a thing, except for mosquitoes.”
Joe hears a sharp swat in the background. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Make it fast,” she responds.
Joe laughs, shakes his head, and puts the cruiser in gear. Not one to miss details, he looks up as he drives down the long lane beneath a canopy of leaves, and muses. The tree limbs look like wrinkled alligator skin.
I wish Hemingway was with me scouring the woods around Emma’s cottage, Mick thinks as he swats mosquitoes away. Niall’s right, that dog’s got a nose for news. But wounds have his four-legged companion in temporary confinement—otherwise known as the mudroom.
Mick comes across short, unblemished sections of tire tread marks in the now-drying mud from last night’s storm. Thin and evenly spaced, he knows they’re from a wheelchair. It looks like someone’s made an effort to cover them. But who? And why?
Using the camera on his cell phone, he takes photos, and a few more when he finds a partial shoe print. I don’t know if they’ll match the images that Chris took on the bluff earlier, but I intend to find out.
With mud, twigs, and decomposing leaves, the ground is covered in dark camouflage, so when something light is added to the mix, it stands out, making it easier to see.
Approaching the back side of Thoreau cottage, Mick squints as he focuses on something a few feet ahead on the ground.
Careful where he steps, he finds a pearl earring.
Recognition floods his mind. He remembers twin pearl earrings peeking from the deep red curtain of Emma’s hair. He also recalls expressive eyes that brought to mind the deep bottle-green Bahamian pools he’d scuba dived in.
I’d give anything to drown in those eyes again.
On the drive from Pines & Quill to the station, Joe doesn’t mention his conversation with Cynthia to Toni. He isn’t one to buy into mumbo-jumbo, hoodoo-voodoo, or superstition, and he do
esn’t want to cause embarrassment to himself or anyone else.
At the Bellingham police station, Joe pours a cup of black coffee before sitting at his desk computer and connecting to the homicide database. Indispensable, this resource helps police from multiple jurisdictions to coordinate their respective investigations.
The next step is to fill in the parameter fields. Not knowing a specific location, Joe leaves that field “national.” In the “first name” field, he types in “Rose” and leaves the “last name” field blank. The only other piece of information he has is the name of the hotel that’s printed above the logo on the rectangular name badge. Once he keys that in, he presses “enter,” sits back, puts his hands together like steeples on his stomach, and waits.
Toni untucks her legs from the chair, pushes to her feet, and then walks to Joe’s desk with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. She looks over his shoulder and asks, “Do you need any help?”
“No, but thanks for offering. Hey, why don’t you work on the Mitchell case? We’d all love to see that one put to rest.”
“Okay.” She nods and returns to her desk. Once there, she swivels in her chair and watches Joe. Her eyes are narrowed, and her eyebrows pulled down in intense concentration. After a few moments, she twists her mouth and bites the inside of her bottom lip. Then with a slight shrug, she turns back around to focus on the Mitchell case.
Joe leans forward, his arms braced on his thighs. He stares at the computer screen when the information that Cynthia shared—death—comes back confirmed. A coldness runs across the back of his neck.
Rose Gonzales was part of the housekeeping staff at a hotel in New York, New York. Her body was found in the bathtub of room 313. It was rolled in a shower curtain that had been removed from the rod. Her throat had been slit with precision and accuracy. The room had been registered to an Edgar Wycoff. There were no fingerprints. Everything had been wiped clean.
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