by Gregg Olsen
“Because I say so.”
Janet narrowed her steely eyes. “Done it before?”
“Lots of times,” Jim lied. “Lots.”
♦
MARTIN RAINES WAS Riveted. He couldn't even smell the stink and the orange grove used to mask it. All he could think about was the ramifications of what the young man with the bandages around his middle and arms was telling him.
“Funny thing,” Deke Cameron murmured as he let out a groan while trying to shift his weight within the tight confines of his hospital bed. “Funny thing, they were talking about Paul Kerr thinking of selling Lindy on the black market so he could get a new camper for his truck. Boy, them two were hot about that. Connie ripped Paul a new asshole. But what she didn't know was it was Janet's idea. Janet had been the one who asked a guy at the Hammer 'n Nail if he knew someone who'd buy Lindy. It was Janet who done it. Not Paul.”
Raines made a hasty call back to the sheriff's department for a video recorder. He told the deputy that the allegations made by Deke Cameron not only implicated himself in a murder-for-hire scheme, but fiancé Janet Kerr and future mother-in-law Connie Carter.
“Better get down here. This guy's singing like an American Idol on meth.”
“Why the video gear?”
Raines didn't doubt the care at Pac-O, but lowered his voice so as not offend anyone.
“Who's to say he's gonna make it? We're not talking Jason with a hockey mask. We're talking about a young guy with a stomach full of lead that'll stay there for the rest of his life—if he lives. We need his deposition on video and we need it posthaste. We need someone from the county attorney's office, too. We're talking immunity in exchange for testimony.”
Raines drove back to the office. Janet Lee Kerr and her mother Connie Carter were the perfect example of the old axiom that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. Poisoned fruit, though it was in this case. Both women had it in mind that they'd have whatever they wanted. No matter what. No matter the cost.
They had seen too much TV.
Yet, they were smart enough to realize that if they found the right lovesick men, they'd never have to get their hands dirty. Not really, anyway.
All they had to do was promise a wedding in Vegas.
Paul, Deke, Danny... Raines figured if someone added up their cumulative IQ scores, maybe they'd break triple digits.
Maybe not.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Sunday, September 1
TODAY'S LIST
Google: Being arrested in a homicide case skyrockets an author's Google hits. More than 14,000 articles mentioned me. I should get arrested for murder more often.
Crime case in the news with the most hits: Me. It's all about me.
Possible book title: Shocking True Story.
Amazon ranking for backlist: Huge gains! I'm in the top 100 for the first time. Call Mom.
Need from the store: Photo paper for more publicity shots.
♦
I DOUBTED I'D EVER TALK TO MARTIN Raines again. I had a good mind to rewrite what I had written in Love You to Death and turn him into a really fat cop with zits the size and color of plum pits. He was a little overweight and his face sometime possessed a kind of ruddiness that easily could have been mistaken for a skin condition associated with alcoholism. I'd think it over. Maybe I'd cool down later. In the meantime, I ran a search for his name in the chapters I had written to see how much time it would take to tweak his part.
When the phone rang, the detective who'd been on my mind was the last person I'd ever expected or wanted to hear from.
“Kevin?”
I recognized his voice immediately.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Kevin, it's Marty.” The cop paused. “I don't blame you for hating me. In all fairness, you know I was only doing my job. I knew you didn't have anything to do with June Parker's death. God, I'm sorry for putting you and Val and the kids through all that.”
I thought of slamming the phone down on his Dumbo-sized ears. Yeah. I thought, I'd write a passage that indicated Detective Raines' ears were the size of an African elephant...
“You have no idea what you did to me.”
“I saw the papers.”
“See the TV last night?”
“Yeah, saw that, too. Like I said, I'm really sorry, Kevin.”
Then the reason for the call.
“You still gonna write that book?” he asked.
“What's it to you?”
“Am I still going to be in it?”
“Oh, yeah, Marty, you'll be in it, all right. Don't you worry.”
By the time we finished our conversation, I had softened my stance somewhat. It wasn't that I forgave him. I doubted I could ever do that. At least, not completely. I was stuck. I needed Martin Raines's full cooperation if I was going to finish Love You to Death. While I had him on the phone, I asked him a few questions to see if I could keep the lines of communication open—even though I would have preferred never to speak to him again.
“What color was the interior of Deke's Escort hatchback?”
“Not sure. Let me call you back on that one.”
I switched gears. “Do you remember when it was that you first wanted to be a cop?”
Silence on the other end.
“Martin?”
“I guess it was when I found my mother. I wanted to do something good for people. I wanted to put some good back into the world.”
I rolled my eyes and exaggerated a pause to pretend to make a note of it. “That'll be all. I guess I'll still talk to you, provided you keep Moan-a-lot and her sticky little ink pad away from me.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
I went to the kitchen for a snack before heading to my Mac and resuming my shattered career. Work would save me, I told myself. The house was quiet. Val left to run an errand and the girls were playing over at Cecile's on a trampoline I was certain would end our friendship with her family when one of my daughters broke her neck or leg. If only they stuck to something safe like Scrabble. Hedda was asleep under the kitchen table, wiggling her front legs in throes of what Valerie always insisted was a “puppy dream.”
I planned on a toasted cheese sandwich, but I couldn't get the plastic shrink-wrapping off the baby loaf of cheddar. I fumbled in the knife drawer for one of the Ginsus—my one impulse purchase from QVC. Taylor and Hayley called them “Knife Chinese Brothers,” though the brand name seemed more Japanese than Chinese to me. There were five of them in a simulated rosewood case. When I opened it, I noticed “Hop Sing,” the littlest of the brothers, was missing. I took “Kung Fu,” the next largest of the blades. The bottom of the drawer was littered with half pennies. The girls had been slicing coins again. I made a mental note to tell them for the umpteenth time it was a crime against our country to cut Lincoln's head in two.
When my sandwich was just short of scorching, I took it from the pan and went back to my work. Again, my message machine was flashing a red light; it was a light I now considered a warning more than the promise of anything positive.
“Kevin, Fred Ross here! How's it going, buddy? Sorry to read about the mixup with the cops down in Timberlake. How are you doing now that you're back home? Hey, did I tell you I have one more book for Toe Tag? God, I'll be glad when I'm done with that slimeball outfit! Hey, I got an idea. Why don't I write a book about you, you're probably too close to the case... Let me know! Let's talk! Hey, loved the cover on Murder Cruise! Call me.”
I pushed the delete button. If anyone wrote a book about my miserable life it would be me.
♦
Monday, September 2
THE MORNING AIR HAD BEEN SLOWLY cooling over the last days before school approached. I knew the feeling that accompanied the change in seasons very well. I had lived my whole life in the Pacific Northwest, but now, in my thirty-eighth year, I had begun to wonder if I had been cheated out of something, like summer. It was so brief, so hurry-up and enjoy, that from June to the begin
ning of September was a blur of gotta do's. The rocky beach, the country arts fair, Port Gamble's annual Old Mill Days festival—everything had to be done before the gray lid of winter slammed down. I even considered moving to the Midwest, the place no one moved to, but everyone was from. Sure, while it was a lot colder during the winter there, at least the skies were blue most of the time. You could look outside your window and see the sun.
Valerie and I had talked of moving in the past, though the time was never right. The girls were entrenched at Breidablik Elementary, both involved in the basketball program and both excelling in their schoolwork. To move them could be damaging. Valerie had moved four times after her parents divorced and she knew firsthand that the advantages of being the “new girl” were good only for about a week.
We had resigned ourselves to the idea that we'd live and die in the Northwest.
Now there was a new incentive to leave. Though I loved Port Gamble, I knew everyone there. Until the incident with Mrs. Parker, I loved knowing everyone. Now it wasn't such a good feeling to see the smiles of recognition at the store or the post office. Behind the smiles I knew what they were thinking.
“Arrested him....thinks he might have killed that woman down in Timberlake. Just couldn't prove it.”
Valerie told me I was paranoid, but I had better hearing than she did. I knew that though I hadn't done anything wrong, I'd have to live with Mrs. Parker's blood on me until the real killer was brought to justice.
I thought about what Raines had told me at his house about the tox screens for the cyanide and the brutality of the slaying.
“June Parker was already dead or about dead when the killer slit her throat,” he had said. “Slit, that's almost a joke when you think what was done to her. The knife cut clean into her vertebrae. Cut the bone. Whoever did that was strong. Very strong.”
Strength appeared to be a key. Who could he be? While Pierce County was undoubtedly populated with more guys in flannel shirts than Seattle in its grunge music heyday, the killer was also someone that was quite clever, quite devious. It was clear the murderer had meant for a connection to be made with the Parker murder and myself. The poison used was almost certainly Weasel-Die, which had been the source of the cyanide poisoning used by product tamperer Marnie Shaw in Over the Counter Murder. One aspect of the similarity worried me more than anything. I wondered when Raines and the crime lab would come up with what I already knew.
After the Shaw killings, the makers of Weasel-Die changed their formula. They switched to a potassium cyanide additive because they were able to chemically infuse it with a strong, unpleasant odor. It was a kind of rank scent that they hoped would sound a warning that the stuff was not meant for human consumption. A skull and crossbones on the box had not been enough of an admonition. If the product were put anywhere other than in a weasel burrow, folks would know it in a sniff. Though not near as intense, the smell was worse than limburger on a newly married bride and groom's car radiator.
I hadn't smelled anything like that at Mrs. Parker's. I wondered if that meant the poison used had been from a box before Weasel-Die revised its chemistry. The box had to be a decade old. That would make it impossible for a storekeeper to finger the killer as had happened in Marnie Shaw's case. Too much time had passed.
I let the phone ring and the machine pick up. There was no one I wanted to talk to.
“Hi Kevin! Monica here! I've been talking with Doralee Samuels at HBO and—I hope you're sitting down when you get this—she's interested in your story.”
It was Monica Maleng, so I found myself breaking down and answering. In doing so, I considered that there was no one outside of Valerie whom I'd pick up the phone for at this, the most miserable part of my life. Not my mother, not my agent.
“Monica? I just came in. I was outside raking leaves. I missed what you were saying about HBO.”
“God, I'm glad you're there. Doralee wants the story for an original.”
Original, as in original movie. I loved it when she talked that way. Besides, this was HBO. Not Lifetime! No Suzanne Somers, Kate Jackson, Markie Post or some other escapee from TV Land's last stop for aging actresses.
“What is it with those people down there? First they want it, and then they don't. They do again. Why can't they just make up their minds?”
“Because they have all of America to suck up to,” she said.
“I guess you've been following the mess up here.”
“Of course,” she said. “When can you get me some pages on it?”
“I'm nowhere near ready. The book's not even fully researched, let alone written.”
There was no answer.
“Monica? What is it?”
“I don't think we are singing the same song here,” she said.
“What do you mean? You know Love You isn't going to be done until after Christmas.”
“I don't care about Love You. I mean, I do, of course.” She backtracked and a long silence followed. “Kevin, I'm talking about your story, not Love You to Death.”
“What do you mean my story? Love You to Death is my story.”
“Doralee Samuels wants to develop an original film on your involvement in the Parker murder. They are in love with the idea at the network. In-absolute-love-with-it. You know, true crime writer yadda yadda yadda.”
My heart began to race and I drank a mouthful of coffee I was sure had been on my desk long enough to grow green hairs. A lump went down my throat and I did my best to stop myself from gagging.
“Yadda nothing,” I finally answered. “Are you telling me that they want to do a movie about me? They want the rights to my story?”
“Actually not.”
“Good,” I snapped.
“Actually, not your rights. They want Valerie's and the girl's...in case, you know.”
“No, I don't know.”
“In case. In case you're convicted.”
My voice rose with my blood pressure. “Convicted? I've been released. It's over! I didn't do it and they know it. I can't believe you, of all people, would suggest such a thing.”
“Listen, Kevin, this is your chance. I know it isn't as you imagined, but if you hold on and play along a little, we can get some decent option money. That'll help you with your defense.”
The hairs on the back of my neck were a hedgehog's spine.
“Defense? There won't be a defense. I didn't do anything,” I snapped bitterly.
“Of course. I know. But you've got to work with me here. I don't want Doralee to know that. If you're found innocent, it will be a dealbreaker.”
I had reached my limit.
“You know, Monica, I'm going to pretend we didn't have this conversation, all right? I want to remember you as a friend and not some huckster looking to capitalize on my misfortune.”
“Gee, Kevin, you just described yourself.”
I slammed down the phone. I did not know this person. My hands were shaking.
Immediately it rang again.
I let the machine take the message. It was Monica.
“You know, Kevin, I know you're there. Pick up, pick up! Either you work with me or I'll do this thing public domain. I hate to do that to you and Val, but I've got a cracked pool to repair. Call me. Still friends, okay?”
I didn't think so.
Adena King, the producer who had screwed me over by stealing a copy of Murder Cruise before publication, had a soul mate in Monica Maleng.
I was just too blind to have seen it before.
♦
But not too blind to type. In fact, I'd been the only guy in a high school classroom of girls in Typing III, and a bonafide member of the Flying Fingers group that could type 120 words per minute without looking at the keys. I tried to calm down as I shook the fading toner cartridge and waited for the printer to spit out the next pages of Love You to Death. I handwrote a note to Val: I promise you, baby, everything will work out. Tomorrow is Labor Day—I'm calling it Hard Labor Day now—and I promise not to work.
But for now, read on:
Chapter Twenty-eight
♦
Love You to Death
PART EIGHT
DETECTIVE RAINES STOOD ON THE FRONT STEP of Jim Winston's G Street address, pulled open the screen door, and knocked. While it was clear that survivalist and mill hand Jim Winston had not killed anybody, the fact that he had been offered a sum of money by Timberlake's mother/daughter would-be murder team was sufficient to get him in deep enough to squirm. If Deke Cameron was to be believed, then Janet and Connie had only let their budget get into the way of their plans to use Jim as a hit man to kill Paul Kerr.
Timberlake was a small enough place that when Jim opened his door, the recognition of the cop was instantaneous.
“Jim Winston, I'm Martin Raines with the Pierce County Sheriff's office.”
He nodded.
“Can I come in and talk?”
“About?”
“Deke Cameron's over at Pac-O and he's given us a statement,” the detective said, fixing an intimidating stare.
Jim shifted his weight. Nervousness was setting in. Trouble was, quite literally, knocking on his door. “He, I had nothing to do with that. Nothing to do with any of it.”
Five minutes later, magazines still in place, room still spit polished, Jim Winston told the cop what he knew. He had not wanted to kill anyone.
“Hey, I was just having fun,” he said.
“Plotting a murder's a good time for you?”
Jim's eyes wandered over the wall behind the detective. His face flushed. “You know what I mean. I was just playing with those two. They had a problem and I wanted to see how far they'd go. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't mean anything.”
“Playing spy? Soldier boy?”
“Something like that.”
Then he told his story....
-
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS AFTER Janet, Deke, and Jim conspired to kill Paul Kerr, Mrs. Carter called them over to her home in Seastack when their shift concluded at the mill. It was two in the afternoon and she had been drinking since ten that morning. The garbage can in the kitchen overflowed with paper cups. Connie Carter never used the same cup twice, never a cup that could be washed. She told herself she wasn't drinking that much if the cups were small and disposable. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over the living room sofa like the grey belly of a UFO.
