The woman let out a sigh. “It appears someone robbed, then murdered him.”
“Where are you? Or should I ask, where is he?”
“Ms. Andersen, you said you’d give me his name if I told you what happened.”
“I lied. It’s becoming a habit. Where is he?”
“In the harbor. Beside a Dumpster outside the Shady Lady Saloon.”
Murphy tried to work up some spit in her suddenly dry mouth. “His name is . . . was . . . Richard Zinkerton.”
CHAPTER 13
Would you be willing to come down and identify him?” Detective Buchanan asked Murphy.
“Yes. I’m on my way.” After Detective Buchanan gave her directions, Murphy hung up, pulled Elin’s key from her pocket, and raced to the SUV. The fog had started to lift, but it still looked like a layer of gauze covered the surroundings.
She pulled from the driveway and turned toward downtown Kodiak. She was driving without a license.
Even without directions she could have located the crime scene. Red, white, and blue strobe lights blazed like a carnival midway. An officer stationed on the street impatiently waved away the few cars and onlookers.
The saloon was three buildings away from Zinkerton’s motel.
Murphy parked in the motel lot, then checked to see if anyone was paying attention to her. If Hunter had flown to Kodiak to find her, he wouldn’t be staying at a place like this. At least before he was arrested, he’d preferred the fancy hotels. She’d tracked her sister and Hunter to the nicest hotel in town, but not before they’d both dropped off the map.
Dallas’s name had been on the room registration.
Murphy stroked the necklace. “I’ll have a lot to share with Bertie,” she whispered. “I just hope she keeps her side of the bargain.” She got out of the car and walked to a patrolman unrolling cadmium-yellow crime-scene tape. Before he could prevent her approach, she asked, “Where’s Detective Buchanan?”
He jerked a thumb in the direction of an attractive woman whose auburn hair was held back by a black headband. She wore navy slacks, a beige blouse, and a black windbreaker, with a gold badge and a pistol at her waist. When she spotted Murphy, she stopped talking to a uniformed officer and moved in her direction. “Ms. Andersen?”
“Yes.” They shook hands.
“Let’s get this over with.” Detective Buchanan motioned her to follow, then strolled toward an alley. “The bartender said the man was already three sheets to the wind when he came in about 10:30. He demanded a drink but was refused. He threw a hissy fit and left shortly after.” They approached a black Dumpster beside a door marked No Entrance. A few flies buzzed nearby. The acrid odor of urine burned her nose.
Murphy’s stomach tightened and footsteps slowed as she drew near. Counting the skeleton on Ruuwaq and the double homicide, this would be the fourth dead person she’d seen in less than two days. She’d known two of the victims, albeit for a short amount of time. Earlier this evening Zinkerton was calmly eating dinner, enjoying himself, oblivious to the feelings of any other person—except maybe his wife. She could understand someone throttling him. Shoving down the uncharitable thought, she focused on the scene.
Zinkerton lay on his back, sightless eyes open and pointed at the gray sky. A bloody gash on his temple had leaked down the side of his face. A dark crimson puddle pooled beside him.
She sucked in a deep breath of air, then instantly regretted it. The stench of the Dumpster and reek of body fluids filled her nose. Moving away, she took several breaths to clear her lungs.
“Yes. That’s Richard Stink . . . Zinkerton.”
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
“He wasn’t my friend. He was the crime-scene technician here from Anchorage. I met him last night.”
“He’s the technician? Oh great. I guess I didn’t need to call him in. He’s already here.” She snorted at her gallows humor. “Didn’t I hear that the other technician was also hurt?”
“She’s been transferred to a hospital in Anchorage.”
“So Zinkerton called your phone because . . .?”
“It’s actually Detective Olsson’s phone. She forgot it in the pocket of a coat she left at Salmon Run Lodge. I would imagine Zinkerton was calling about the arrangements for tomorrow’s—make that today’s work.” See how far you can push your luck in getting information for Bertie. “I’ve, um, as I said on the phone, I’m the forensic artist working with Detective Olsson. You know that double homicide?” Lying was becoming a habit.
“Yeah. We must be running a murder special this week.”
“Um, what do you think happened here with Zinkerton?”
“We think he stepped into the alley to relieve himself,” Buchanan said. “His pants were unzipped, and it smells. Someone came up behind him and smashed him in the head, then stabbed him. His pockets were inside out, no wallet or jewelry, so we’re looking at a robbery-homicide.”
“He was wearing a gold Rolex. He made a big deal about it at dinner. I’d imagine he flashed it around the bar as well.”
Detective Buchanan pulled out a small notepad and pen, then jotted a note. “What else can you tell me about Mr. Zinkerton?”
Murphy recounted the evening. Buchanan’s eyebrows rose when she heard Detective Olsson had been the one to drop him off at the motel, but she continued to write.
Glancing around the narrow alley, Murphy asked, “Why’d they leave his cell on him?”
“They didn’t.” Detective Buchanan moved around the Dumpster, pulled out her flashlight, and aimed it at the ground. “It was there, near the wall. We think it fell out of his pocket when he was attacked, and it slid.”
“You said no wallet or jewelry. I take it there wasn’t a keycard for a motel?” She folded her arms. “He was staying just up the street at the Economy Inn.”
The detective raised her eyebrows. “On purpose?”
“I think your department put him up there.”
Buchanan put her notebook away. “Someone sure didn’t like him.”
“Mmm.”
“They sometimes rent rooms by the hour.”
“Really.”
Buchanan gave a brisk nod, then turned and moved toward the motel. “I don’t suppose you know what room he was in?”
“Thirty-two.”
Buchanan glanced over her shoulder at Murphy.
“He mentioned it before he left the lodge.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she said.
“You didn’t have to. Just for the record, I met him today. He wasn’t the most . . . likable of people.”
Buchanan held up her hands. “Okay. Okay. It’s none of my business. You don’t have to convince me.”
Murphy bit her lip. Why is it so important for me to convince her that he was someone I just met?
She followed the detective to the Economy Inn’s office, a small space with fake wood paneling, old posters, and hand-lettered warning signs. No Smoking! No Pets! No Noise after 10:00 p.m.!
The clerk needed a shave, shower, and clean change of clothing. “Now what?”
“I need you to let me into room 32.” Detective Buchanan tapped a nail on the counter.
“Got a warrant?”
“He’s dead.”
The clerk turned a shade paler. “Someone didn’t just croak in one of the rooms, did they?”
Detective Buchanan just held out her hand. “Key.”
The clerk pushed a few buttons on a machine, swiped the plastic keycard, and handed it to her. “Let me know when you’re done.”
Buchanan snorted, grabbed the key, and headed toward Zinkerton’s room.
The door to number 32 was open a crack.
Buchanan grabbed Murphy’s arm and pulled her away. “You packing?”
Packing? “Oh, a gun. No.”
Slipping her cell from her pocket, Buchanan dialed. “Yeah. I’m at the motel, outside room 32,” she whispered. “Door’s open. Send backup.” She hung up and pulled the Glock from her holste
r.
They didn’t have to wait long. Two beefy uniformed officers soon arrived and took positions on either side of the door. “Police,” one of them said. “Come out with your hands up!”
Curtains twitched in the rooms around them, but no one emerged from number 32.
Bang. The same officer slammed open the door.
Murphy jumped.
Light spilled out of the room. Both men rushed in, guns drawn. After a moment, a voice said, “Clear!”
Buchanan reholstered her pistol, then pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. “Don’t touch anything.” She waited for the officers to exit, then entered the room with Murphy.
Zinkerton’s open suitcase rested on a stand, with the contents spread across the room. Someone had pulled out and discarded the dresser drawers, tossed the mattress, and overturned a chair. A lamp lay on its side on the battered bedside table.
A small folded piece of paper sat just inside the door. Buchanan took out a pencil and nudged it open. It was the keycard envelope with the room number penciled on the corner of the paper. “Made it pretty easy for the killer to know which room would be empty.” She tilted the envelope and the plastic card slipped out. “And to get in the room.”
Murphy slowly looked around, peered into the trash can, then pointed to a carry-on roller bag in the corner. “Would you open that?”
Detective Buchanan picked up the bag and lifted the lid. Empty. “He probably had a laptop in here.”
“Maybe a laptop. Probably a digital camera and several bags of evidence he got from Bertie. They’re all missing.” She looked at Detective Buchanan. “I don’t think this was a random homicide and robbery. I think Zinkerton was murdered for evidence.”
“From that double homicide you were working with Detective Olsson?”
She blinked at the lie she’d told earlier. “Um . . . no. From what I saw, Detective Olsson put all that into bags and had them loaded in a van. I’d bet they’re at your department. Um . . . in evidence.”
“So what are we talking about here?” Buchanan asked.
“Another case. Bertie, that’s the crime-scene technician who was hurt, and I flew out to Ruuwaq Island on a cold case.” She explained the details of the past two days. “Zinkerton took the stuff we gathered . . . the evidence . . . from Bertie’s vest at the hospital. And I saw Elin give Zinkerton the camera. He had it when he left the lodge.”
“When you say ‘stuff’ and ‘evidence,’ what are we talking about?”
“Some dirt. Part of a dog collar. Maybe a bone.”
Buchanan folded her arms. “Ms. Andersen, I can’t say I knew the Kodiak Police Department had a forensic artist.”
“I’m on loan.”
“I see. Do you have your credentials with you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, what exactly do you do when you’re not working with us?”
“I work at Salmon Run Lodge.”
“So you’re a civilian. And your job at the lodge is what? Housekeeping?”
“Waitress.”
“You’ve made my point. Without credentials, as far as I’m concerned, you’re an amateur when it comes to crime.”
Murphy’s face grew warm. Considering the five bodies she’d sketched, the skeleton, two deaths yesterday, and Zinkerton, she’d probably been involved in more murders in the past two days than Detective Buchanan had in her career.
“Just look at this place.” Buchanan waved her arm around the room. “It’s clear someone used this opportunity to toss the room looking for money or things to sell, probably for drugs.”
“I just don’t think so. Someone took a great deal of trouble to make it look like a robbery. But why would someone toss all the clothes out of a suitcase, then take the trouble to close up and replace a roller bag? Why would they take bagged evidence—dirt, a buckle, a bone? Worthless items for a crook. The lampshade isn’t damaged, which it should be if it were knocked over. It was placed on its side. And that keycard was left so you’d be sure to find it.”
Buchanan frowned and slowly turned in a circle, staring at each item Murphy had pointed out. “Maybe.”
A man in blue coveralls appeared at the door. “Got something for me?”
Buchanan nodded and said to Murphy, “I’ll have more questions for you, so don’t leave town.”
Murphy trudged to Elin’s SUV, got in, and locked the doors. If what she believed happened to Zinkerton was true, someone was going to great lengths to prevent whatever happened on Ruuwaq Island from being unearthed.
CHAPTER 14
Murphy barely closed her eyes before the alarm sounded at five that morning. At least I didn’t dream. She rushed showering and dressing, then raced to the kitchen to help Olga.
“Goodness, child, you look like you were up all night!” Olga clicked her tongue. “What’s the matter?”
She’ll find out soon enough about Zinkerton. “Nothing. Um, strange bed . . .”
“Well then, go set the tables. The one by the window will be for Mr. Stewart and his grandson, Lucas. The second table, the one on the side, will be for Mr. Wallace.”
“Yes, ma’am. Why is Mr. Wallace here rather than the guest lodge?”
“He’s writing an article about Salmon Run. He has more access to Denali this way.”
It didn’t take long to set the three place settings. Olga checked her work, smiled in satisfaction, then had her cut fresh fruit into a big bowl.
Murphy’s stomach growled.
“When’s the last time you ate?” Olga asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“I can’t have my staff fainting from lack of food now, can I?”
Murphy soon found herself at a table in the corner of the kitchen with a mound of pancakes in front of her. “Thank you.”
“Pffff.” Olga waved a spatula. “Eat. I can take care of three men for breakfast.”
She dug into the stack of pancakes, not stopping until her plate was clean. “That was the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“I sure don’t know where you put all that food,” Olga said. “I don’t expect anyone here for lunch, so I’ll leave a sandwich in the refrigerator with your name on it. I have a gal that comes in to clean. If Mr. Stewart invites more guests here at the family home, you’ll be helping her. I’ll need you back here to prep for dinner at four. Did you have any plans for the day?”
“I’m going to a cannery with Elin.”
Olga paused in rolling out dough. “Really?”
“Something to do with the sketch I did.”
“Are you or that awful man—”
“Richard Zinkerton.”
“That’s him. Are you going back out to the island?”
“No, ah, Mr. Zinkerton’s . . . no.”
Olga seemed satisfied with her answer.
Murphy put her dishes in the dishwasher and headed to her room. Once there, she locked the door and found the small card she’d been given at the hospital. After talking to a few people, she finally got Bertie’s room number. Bertie answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Murph, ’bout time you called. I’m going stir-crazy here. What’s happening?”
She caught Bertie up on her impending visit to the cannery and Zinkerton’s demise.
“Well. I’m not sure what to say. I couldn’t stand the man. If I weren’t here in this hospital bed, I could be a suspect. I wanted to kill him often enough.” She sighed. “He was good to his wife, I will say that. As obnoxious as he was, and as drunk, he easily could have started something in that bar with a local. You said his Rolex was taken. Well, there’s some justice in that. It was a knock-off.”
“I think whoever killed him took the photos and evidence from Ruuwaq.” She explained the appearance of the motel room.
“I don’t know, Murph. We didn’t collect enough evidence to do diddly-poo.” She was silent for a few moments. “With Zinkerton dead and me laid up, I’m not sure how soon another technici
an will be sent over to work on Ruuwaq. Older and cold cases are low priority.” She was silent again. “I don’t mind telling you, this whole thing reeks. I think you need to get out there as soon as possible.” Another pause. “Tell ya what. I know this retired pilot, Butch Patterson—”
“Elin mentioned him. He was the one who told her about Ruuwaq. But why not use Jake?”
“Right now there’s not a lot of people I trust. Butch was the eye in the sky who was working on the Terror Lake dam project. You know the story.”
“I don’t know the story.”
“Really? It was the oldest missing plane crash in Alaska and one of the oldest in US history. He was the guy who flew over the tundra in a fixed-wing plane and identified the bears they needed to dart, age, take blood from, and collar.”
“For tourists—”
“Nah. One of those environmental studies on the impact of a dam on the Kodiak bears. Once he spotted one, he’d radio to a helicopter waiting in a staging area. The helicopter would swoop in and the biologists would shoot the bear with a dart, then land and tag it. They lost their dart kit at one point, and when they went looking for it, they stumbled on a forty-year-old plane crash, bodies still in it.”
Murphy gripped the phone tighter at the mention of bodies.
“Anyway, he’s the best pilot out there and he owes me a favor. I’ll call him and ask him if he’d fly you out to Ruuwaq. If he can’t land, at least he’s super at aerial reconnaissance. If he can put down, you can get the stuff we left behind. In fact, since Elin probably hasn’t officially turned the case over to the troopers, see if she’ll go with you. If she’s along, you can finish gridding the area. Do the same in the Quonset hut. Get more photos.”
“I don’t know—”
“Come on, Murph! Think of it as on-the-job training. You’ll have an actual case under your belt for when you apply at the crime lab.”
“But—”
“And above all else, update your notebook on facts and questions.”
“I’ll try. Now it’s your turn. What did you find out about my sister?” She sat on her bed, grabbed a pillow, and hugged it to her stomach.
“Give me a minute.” Paper rustled and something clattered. “Just got started, so not much yet. I noticed the necklace you wear and grab on to when you’re stressed.”
Formula of Deception Page 10
