“Turn around, please” was all she said, and continued her brisk impersonal patting and probing. When she left the room the door closed behind her with an unpleasantly loud click, and I realized that there was no doorknob on my side.
The room felt suddenly smaller, and I had to practice exhaling again.
Several more eternities passed, and then a young man, also in civvies, came in to examine and scrape my hands—for gunpowder residue, of course. I was an old hand at this, so to speak. He didn’t say much either. Soon afterward the woman returned with a pile of clothing. At least she made eye contact this time.
“Take off everything and put these on, please. They’re kind of miscellaneous, but they’re clean.”
The county jail must not run to uniforms, because the clothes were indeed miscellaneous. But my own clothes were still damp from the rain, so I wasn’t sorry to pull on the gray sweatpants and green plaid shirt she handed me, and to jam my feet into dry socks and someone’s oversize loafers. I even raked my fingers through my hair in a reflexive attempt to make myself presentable. But for who?
I found out soon enough when a uniformed officer escorted me down the hall and into an office. Detective Lieutenant Orozco stood behind the desk, looking snappy in a dark shirt and light blazer. The woman who’d searched me was sitting to one side with a notebook in her lap.
I took in Orozco’s shoe shine and cologne. “Sorry to interrupt your night on the town.”
“Ms. Kincaid,” he said solicitously, coming around the desk. “Please sit down. Your hair is wet; are you cold? Would you like some coffee?”
I’m not stupid, I could see that now the bad cop was playing the good one. But at this point I wasn’t immune to a warm smile, and I’d have sold my soul for hot caffeine.
Soon I was cradling a fragrantly steaming mug, and Lieutenant Orozco was answering my questions. Sort of. He was meticulously courteous, as before, but somehow evasive.
“Of course you’re not under arrest,” he said, as if such a thing had never crossed his mind. “We simply need to analyze all the available evidence, such as your clothing, if we’re to eliminate innocent persons from involvement in Ms. Doyle’s death.”
“I see.” He made it sound so reasonable. “But I can leave if I want to?”
“Naturally you’re free to go, but I understood that Ms. Doyle was your friend. Don’t you want to assist us in finding her killer?”
“Sure I do, but can’t I assist you tomorrow?”
“It’s best to record the details while they’re fresh in your mind, and time is of the essence in this kind of investigation. As a witness to a violent crime—”
“The aftermath of a crime,” I pointed out. “I didn’t actually see the murder.”
“What did you see, exactly? You were in the boat with Ms. Doyle, and then what happened?”
“I wasn’t in the boat with her! I mean, I was when Calhoun got there, but— Let me start from the beginning, OK?”
“By all means. Officer Henniman here will record your initial statement.”
I didn’t like the sound of “initial.” Would I need to make more than one? But I took a deep breath and described the afternoon: my brief conversation with India about Guy Price, followed by her abrupt departure from the picnic, then the way that Aaron and I had hitched a ride back to Friday Harbor, and Scarlet’s run-in with a rock on the road above the bay.
“We’ve had your car brought back here,” he said. “It wasn’t damaged. Please go on.”
The woman named Henniman scribbled constantly, but Orozco also made notes on the pad in front of him. He wrote a long one with a lot of underlining when I reached India’s mention of the mysterious Brenda Bronson. I tried to read it upside down, but his handwriting was terrible.
“Then when I saw it was India in the boat,” I said, giving up, “I climbed in and found this gun—”
“You handled the gun? You admit that?”
“There’s nothing to admit! I just bumped into it and moved it out of the way. Then Calhoun yelled at me and that was that.”
“I see. These two men, Hank and . . .”
“Frank.”
“Hank and Frank, yes. Last names?”
“We didn’t ask.”
“What about the name and model of their vessel?”
I shook my head. “It was bigger than India’s, though, with steps down into a cabin.”
“That’s not particularly helpful.”
“Ask Aaron, then! He’s staying at the Hotel de Haro. He’s there now. In fact, I want to talk to him myself.”
I reached for the desk phone, but Orozco dropped his hand over the receiver. He wore a broad gold wedding band, and I noticed that he bit his nails.
“I’ll be calling Mr. Gold myself. In the meantime, if you would just wait . . .”
It sounded like a social invitation: “If you would just wait in the parlor.” But the little beige room was no parlor, and I wanted no part of it.
“Thanks anyway,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll be at the Owl’s Roost if you need me. You’ve been there, you know the address.”
The phone under his hand rang, and he motioned me to a halt as he picked it up.
“Orozco. All right, go ahead. . . . When? . . . You confirmed that?” He looked at me and raised his eyebrows appraisingly. Then he said to the caller, “Yes, just in time. Thank you.”
The lieutenant replaced the phone and drummed his fingers on it. “Ms. Kincaid, I must ask you to remain with us.”
“You said I was free to go.”
“It seems that I have more questions for you. For example, about the violent argument you had with the deceased just this morning.”
“What violent argument?” I said, violently.
“Apparently there was an altercation at the Winter home, during the course of which you seemed to be threatening Ms. Doyle.”
“Threatening?” Damn that Adrienne. “I didn’t threaten India, I just snapped at her a little. It was very trivial.”
“And the reason for this trivial snapping?”
“It was . . . she was . . . I don’t remember.” I set aside that embarrassing memory. “Look, you need to talk to Aaron Gold. He was there when it happened, and he can tell you all about Hank and Frank too, and how we came back from the island.”
But confirming that part of my story wouldn’t prove that I didn’t kill India, and the lieutenant and I both knew it. I could have done everything I’d said, including leaving the SUV at the roadside, and still committed murder.
Orozco took another tack at that point and returned to the subject of Guy Price’s death. We went back over all my observations, and then he zeroed in on India’s theory that Guy was a drug dealer.
“What made her think that?” he asked me. “Had she uncovered specific evidence?”
I shook my head. “As far as I know, it was still just speculation. She was asking around—”
“Asking who?”
“I don’t know. Her contacts on the island, I guess, but I don’t know who that would be. She said someone was going to be calling her—”
“What?” Orozco looked up sharply. “Calling her today? You didn’t tell me that before.”
“I just now remembered.” I closed my eyes, trying to recall India’s exact words. “She said she was waiting for a call back from someone who might be able to help her.”
“Man or woman?”
“Just . . . someone. I asked her who and she wouldn’t tell me. She said she couldn’t reveal her sources.”
I wondered, as the lieutenant was clearly wondering, whether one of those sources had arranged to meet India Doyle on her boat and then brought a gun to the meeting. The thought of that little black hole in her forehead set me shivering.
“Are you all right, Ms. Kincaid? I can call a doctor if you like.”
“No, thank you. But call Aaron Gold—”
“I will,” said Orozco. “Meanwhile, I’m sure we’ll have more questions
for you as we investigate further, and I know that you’ll want to cooperate with us.”
“I’m already cooperating! I just want to go home.”
“I’m afraid not.”
The light dawned.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Is this that twenty-four-hours deal, where you can hold someone without actually charging them?”
“You’re very well informed.” Orozco smiled, as if he were pleased to pay me the compliment. “Under certain circumstances, yes.”
“Circumstances like these right here?”
“Yes.”
“So I can’t leave?”
He shrugged sympathetically. “Alas, no.”
Which is how I came to spend Friday night in a holding cell.
Chapter Twenty-Five
If you’ve never spent the night in jail, I would strongly advise against it.
Television shows the usual horrors, of course, the third degree from hard-faced cops and the threatening sneers from thuggish cellmates. But I had faced nothing so dramatic from Orozco, and I didn’t even have a cellmate.
That was part of the problem, in fact. As I sat in the little beige room for the next hour or so—they had taken my watch—I had no one to talk to, nothing to do, and nothing to think about except the tragedy of India Doyle’s death. And whether or not I should call a lawyer.
I decided on not, partly because I didn’t know any lawyers, on or off the island, but mostly because I was hoping to be released any minute now. Or at least to be talking with Aaron. He’d covered enough crime stories, he could help me figure out what to do.
So when someone knocked at the door, my heart leapt up and so did I. Though my first thought was of Aaron, more realistically I expected Officer Henniman again, or maybe Orozco himself with an apology.
What I didn’t expect was Jeff Austin with a pizza.
“I figured you might be hungry.” He came in, filling the little room with his masculine bulk, and looked around as if in surprise at the lack of furniture. Then he set the flat white box on the bunk and handed me a tall paper cup that rattled with ice cubes. “How are you doing?”
So, they were playing good cop, good cop. I tried to figure out what that meant, but my empty stomach trumped my brain. As the savory aroma of hot cheese filled the cell, I realized I was ravenous—but no cheesy bribe was going to make me forgive his recording our date.
“Off the record?” I said coldly. Then I reminded myself not to say more, since Jeff didn’t know that I knew about the wire. Tangled web and all that.
“Mostly off.” He tipped his big hands palm up with a rueful grin. “If you confess I’ll have to report it. But honest, I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
“How all right could I be?” I sat on the bunk and lifted a corner of pizza box. Half pepperoni, half sun-dried tomato. How did he know? I licked dry lips and took a slurp of soda. “But if you mean have I been treated properly, I guess so. Except that I shouldn’t be here in the first place and I certainly shouldn’t have been handcuffed.”
“Handcuffed?” Jeff’s blond eyebrows rose in surprise, but he bit back whatever he was going to say next. “Well, have some supper, anyway.”
But I had some questions first. “Are you guys out looking for the real murderer? And do you think that whoever killed India killed Guy too? The two murders seem so different, but I know she was asking around the island about him, so—”
“Carnegie,” he said, “we’re doing everything we can, I promise. But I can’t talk about the details, you know that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I hit him with my final question. “Did you bring any napkins?”
He had a bunch in his back pocket, and he was hungry too, so we demolished the pizza in companionable if uninformative silence. Then he wiped his good-looking mouth and shifted uncomfortably on the cheap plastic chair. He made it look like children’s furniture.
“I should get going,” he said. “Need anything else?”
“Pen and paper would be good,” I said eagerly. “I’ve got a wedding to put on this weekend, and it would help me think.”
Assuming I was out of the slammer soon. But I have to believe that, I just have to.
“Sorry,” Jeff said sheepishly. “No pens.”
“Oh come on, you think I’m going to attack you with it? Do I look like some kind of ninja commando?” He shrugged, and I let it go. There was a more pressing issue. “I asked Orozco to call my friend Aaron. Do you know if he did?”
He nodded. “At the Hotel de Haro, right. There was no answer on his phone, so we asked the front desk to check the room. He’s not there.”
“He must be having dinner. Can you send someone to look in the hotel restaurant? He’ll want to know where I am. He’ll want to be here.”
“Sure. I’ll go myself, since I’ve met him before, and we’ll keep on calling. This Aaron must be a good friend.”
“He’s . . . well, he’s part of my alibi.”
“Of course.” Jeff began to gather up the debris from our supper. “You think he can tell us more about India Doyle?”
“I doubt it. He wasn’t there when she told me about this Brenda Bronson person.”
My paper cup slipped from the deputy’s hands and cartwheeled to the floor. It still held some ice cubes, which scattered at our feet with a noise like breaking glass.
“Brenda Bronson?” he asked as we cleared up the spill. “Did you tell the lieutenant that?”
“Of course I did. Do you know her?”
“I might have heard the name.”
I pressed on, just in case he was wired again. “I told the lieutenant absolutely everything I know. I never threatened India. We had a little bit of friction, that was all. And I’ve never fired a gun in my life!”
“This’ll all get sorted out, you’ll see.” Jeff gave me a reassuring smile. “Get some rest now.”
Rest, my eye. Try hour after hour after hour of tedious sleepless solitude, wondering about the murders, wondering how much trouble I was really in, and especially wondering where Aaron was. If his damn arm was hurting so much, why wasn’t he in his hotel room where he belonged?
The night dragged on endlessly, broken only by the strangely embarrassing necessity, once the soda worked its way through, of knocking at the window to ask Officer Henniman to escort me to the bathroom and back. They don’t talk about bladders on TV, but if you’re locked up in real life it’s a serious issue.
By Saturday morning I was ready to jump screaming out of my skin.
I knew it was morning, despite the unchanging fluorescent light in the hallway, because dear Officer Henniman, who was growing quite friendly, showed up with a toothbrush for me. After another supervised trip to the bathroom, she brought me coffee and a tired croissant, and then I put in another hundred years or so of sitting and pacing.
No wonder prisoners dig tunnels—I was ready to start excavating with my fingernails. Where on earth was Aaron? If I ended up having to call my mother from jail, I’d kill him.
Finally, finally, there came another knock on the door. This time my visitor was truly unexpected, and truly welcome: Michael Graham. Lily’s bridegroom, my friend, and hopefully my ally.
Mike is an attractive man, with serious brown eyes and crinkly brown hair, and he’s normally a snappy dresser. But today he was in summer tourist mode, looking just a tad dorky in a yellow polo shirt, khaki shorts, and a black nylon fanny pack worn frontward.
But he’d never looked so good to me, and I could have kissed him. In fact I only refrained because Lieutenant Orozco was waiting behind him in the hall.
“Mike!” I cried. “You came early. Can you get me out of here?”
“I flew up when I heard what was happening,” he said, his somber face warming into a smile. “Lily and the boys are still coming by ferry. And yes, the lieutenant is releasing you.”
“So I’m off the hook?” That made me sound like a trout, catch and release. “I mean, everyone knows I’m innocent now?”
“We’re pursuing various lines of inquiry,” said Orozco formally, but with a glint in his eye. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Kincaid. Your car is in the lot next door. Lieutenant Graham assures me that you’ll remain on the island for the near future, in case we have more questions for you.”
Mike dropped an arm around my shoulders. “She’s not leaving, Tony. I can’t get married without her. Come on, Carnegie, I’ll walk you out.”
He escorted me up the hallway to the front desk, where my pal Officer Henniman waited with a big plastic sack of my belongings and a receipt. I dashed off my signature and grabbed the sack, pausing only to pull out my tote bag.
“Can I return the clothes you gave me later?” I asked her, desperate to be gone.
“Certainly, just—”
“Great. ’Bye!”
Then, hallelujah, I was trotting down the courthouse steps in the bright breezy morning, a free woman. Physically grubby and emotionally mortified and just plain sick from lack of sleep, but free.
No thanks to Aaron Gold, who was just now coming up the steps toward us.
“Hey, Mike, good to see you,” he said.
The two men shook hands, and I noticed that Mike did a smooth job of not reacting to the scar. But Aaron noticed too and quickly moved past the moment by looking at me and snickering.
“Nice outfit, Stretch.”
I glanced down at the sweatpants and loafers, and then up at him. Scar or not, he was looking cocky, complacent, and worst of all, well rested.
“Where the hell were you last night?” I demanded. “You said you were going straight to bed!”
I should have known that would put his hackles up. He said crossly, “I took a walk and had a couple of drinks, so what?”
“I was counting on you and you let me down, that’s what. Didn’t you get any of your messages?”
“Yeah, I got a message to go see someone named Orozco at the cop shop.” He shrugged. “So here I am, going to see him.”
“Aaron, I was in jail all night. Orozco wanted to talk to you about my alibi.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” He did a double take. “Your alibi for what?”
You May Now Kill the Bride Page 16
