by M. G Scott
They were just north of Neskowin, along the Oregon Coast Highway. She looked at the map on her phone. “That’s right. This is it.”
Brieman jockeyed the Porsche into neutral and let it coast into a row of thistles. They took a peek at the boards tacked at every angle across the abandoned restaurant’s windows.
“Any idea what this was?” Sabrina asked as she stepped into the clear, dark sky.
Brieman walked around to her side of the car. “Not sure. In the five years I’ve been here, I don’t recall anybody ever mentioning this place.”
They walked toward the worn and bruised colors of the abandoned building. Sabrina kicked back a few broadleaf weed stalks, revealing the branding of a long-abandoned restaurant chain.
“Drive-through, eh?” Brieman asked
“I’d say so.” But there was no sign of Mona or her car. She checked her watch. “She should’ve been here by now.”
She peered through one of the boarded up windows. Brieman took a step off the path and did the same. Paper cups, branded with a Chihuahua wearing a lime green sombrero, were scattered about.
“I guess the Chihuahua died a stray.” Brieman said.
Sabrina rolled her eyes. It was a bad joke but for some reason it calmed how nervous and worried she felt—both for their lives and Mona. “I’ll try to forget that one,” she casually replied.
“My bad,” he added.
She turned around and buzzed the parking lot with her eyes, swatting a few mid-season flies along the away. “We’re only twenty-five minutes late, but there’s no sign of Mona.” Something just didn’t feel right. “Could she have left?”
Brieman shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Let’s plan on staying another fifteen minutes or so. Can you call her again?”
She redialed the number. Two rings and then voicemail. “Nothing,” she said. Brieman didn’t respond. Sabrina pulled her hair back and again looked around the lot, squinting to see against the dark sky. “Scott?”
“Yeah, over here.” He was on the opposite side of the restaurant.” A pause. “You gotta see this.”
She jogged around the building. “What is it?”
“Take a look at the entrance.”
She eyed the boards covering the doorway and shrugged. “I don’t see anything. Looks boarded up to me.”
“Look at the screws. They’re new.”
“Maybe they replaced them because of vandals.”
“Maybe.” The headlights of his car bounced off the glossy screw heads. “But they look brand new, like they were replaced today.”
“You think it has something to do with Mona?”
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” he replied. “But how many times do people patch up a boarded up joint?”
“We should look inside. You have a screwdriver?” Sabrina blurted. Not knowing where Mona was made her feel wretched.
He nodded. “I like your thinking. I think there might be one in the hatch.” He ran back to his car.
“Hurry,” she yelled after him. “I just want to make sure nothing’s wrong.”
He returned a minute later. “Got it,” he said—a screwdriver in one hand, a black flashlight in the other. He gave the flashlight to Sabrina. She flipped it on as he started loosening four screws holding the wood in place. The board dropped onto the cracked concrete. She kicked it to the side as he placed the screwdriver and screws on the weathered window sill. “Throw the light inside. Let’s see what we have here.”
Sabrina scanned the restaurant. A small animal scurried under a swinging door—most likely the kitchen. “Ugh.” She shuddered and grabbed Brieman’s arm. “Doesn’t exactly make me want to eat,” she whispered. They moved through the door and stood just inside, by the counter. Sabrina’s grip tightened around Brieman’s arm as she looked around.
The restaurant looked like it had been abandoned without notice. Cups still filled the dispenser. Advertising signs, containing long-forgotten slogans and motifs, littered the empty booths, while condiment packages were still in their holding trays. “When a fast food chain goes belly up, I guess they don’t waste any time,” Brieman muttered under his breath.
Sabrina’s eye caught something unexpected with her sweep of the floor. It was around the corner from the counter, toward the bathrooms and a side galley that contained a few more booths. It wasn’t necessarily something resting on the floor, but rather a shimmer that didn’t exist elsewhere on the faux brick tile.
“Over there,” she whispered, pointing her flashlight toward the floor in the distance.
“I don’t see—”
She tugged Brieman toward the spot—her flashlight never straying from the focus of her attention. They stopped a foot from the round puddle.
“I don’t believe it,” Sabrina muttered.
Brieman broke from her and bent toward the circle of bright red liquid. He dipped a finger in it and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb. “It’s blood all right. And it can’t be more than a few hours old. The consistency is still holding.”
Only one thing came to mind. “You don’t think it’s hers, do you?” Sabrina asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, but look at that.” She followed his finger with the flashlight toward a trail of smeared blood that snaked its way toward a rear exit. “It has the look of somebody dragging a body, either dead or alive out the door.” He walked along the path of the blood. “We’ve got to get the police here now.”
“But what about Mona? If she’s still alive, she needs our help now.” She could only imagine the horror she must be going through. I’ve got to do something, she thought. She headed for the entrance.
He grabbed her. “There’s no way we can leave. We’ve got to stay until the police arrive.”
“Then give me the keys.”
“We have to stay.”
“Mona needs our help. The police aren’t going to react in time. Look, they won’t even think she’s missing for twenty-four hours.”
Indecisiveness crossed his face, his eyes darting every which way within the restaurant. He then reached into his pocket and flipped her the keys. “At least tell me where you’re going.”
She caught them with both hands. “Her house.”
He shook his head. “I need to go with you.”
“No. You’re right. Someone needs to stay.” She grabbed his forearm before heading back toward the door.
“Be careful,” she heard him yell.
Chapter 37
“Detective Sam Urbina, please,” Sabrina said to the police operator. She had thought about calling 911, but she needed somebody she could trust.
A click followed and then she heard the gravelly voice of the man she had only met once but felt immediate comfort with. “Who’s this?” Urbina demanded.
“It’s Sabrina Katz. I don’t know if you remember me from Neskowin? I was the reporter …” Her voice trailed off.
“Katz, eh?” The voice lightened. “How could I forget? I was your first interview. You’re lucky you caught me here. Usually I’m at the bar tipping a few by now. What’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“Ah, the New Yorker needs help. With what?”
She took a deep breath. “Possible homicide. We were at an abandoned restaurant—”
“Hold on there, rookie.” His voice was demanding again. “What do you mean we? Who were you with and what were you doing there?”
“Look, I don’t have time to explain.” Sabrina responded impatiently. “I think somebody’s in grave danger, if not dead, and I need your help.”
“You gotta give me something more.”
“Her name’s Mona Frederick. She worked with Eric Sanchez.”
“Ah, there’s the connection. I had a feeling you were still trailing that scent … however stale it may be.”
“She was supposed to meet us at an abandoned fast food restaurant north of town but never showed. We went inside and found blood. I was with a doctor who thinks it’s
recent.” Her words became jittery. “And I think it’s Mona’s.”
A pause. “As much as I want to help, you really need to contact the county—it’s their jurisdiction.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I need someone I can trust. Please,” she pleaded, “you gotta help me.”
A sigh. “Okay, Sabrina. Calm down. Where you headed?”
“Mona’s house.” She looked down at the address she found for Mona. “She’s at five four five eight Chinook in Oceanside. It’s just off Iris Street. A small white ranch,” she said.
“Okay. Just stay put where you are. I’ll take care of it.”
“But I’m already here … at her house. Sitting in the driveway.” God, somebody needed to come. She was afraid to turn off her headlights it was so dark.
“Shit. Okay, don’t do a damn thing. I’m coming. And I’ll send County to the fast food joint. Just …” A pause. “Just sit tight and don’t do anything stupid. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I won’t.”
The phone clicked dead.
She threw the cellphone on the passenger seat. She stared at her hands. They were trembling worse than she ever remembered. What was she going to do? Urbina was at least forty-five minutes out and Mona could be bleeding to death.
Sabrina sighed deeply: Mona didn’t have forty-five minutes.
She looked through the windshield at Mona’s house number written in script above the door. It was definitely her home. She lowered her eyes and focused on the drawn blinds across the small front window. Time was not on Mona’s side.
Maybe I should go in, Sabrina pondered. She admitted she was strong-headed. And most of the time it got her into trouble but just now it might save someone’s life. She said a prayer and dragged herself from the car, making sure the headlights were trained on the front door. The closer she got the more lifeless it seemed.
Mona should’ve come out by now.
The faux arch doorway crept up to her. She stepped on a shard of wood, causing it to helicopter into the grass. A hand went up to her mouth as she gasped at the mess around her. Splintered wood was scattered up and down the walkway. She stepped onto the stoop and stared at the door. It had been violently chopped into thirds.
Oh Mona, she thought.
The perennial rhythm of a Pacific Northwest rain fell behind her. She turned and watched the water run across the headlights. Could she feel any more alone? I should’ve stayed with Brieman, she thought.
Mona could be minutes from dying and there was nobody else that could save her. She looked toward the gray-black sky. What should she do? The rain fell harder and the wind changed, causing her nylon pullover to whip around like a flag. She turned back around. The decision was made: Anger would win over fear. She moved carefully around the wood shards and walked up to the colonial-style white door. She peered with one eye through a gap the size of a brick. It was dark, save for few speckles of light working its way in from her headlights.
“Mona?” she screeched. She cleared her throat and began again: “Mona?” This time she was calm and deliberate.
No response.
She moved her eye around the room, trying to catch anything that may have been disturbed by her voice. “Hello?” Another few seconds whisked by. She looked at her watch. There was no other choice but to go in. Sam was still miles away. Thinking she needed to preserve the scene, she reached into her windbreaker pocket and used the fabric to hide her fingerprints. She pushed the door open, allowing the fading headlamps to work their way into the room.
Chaos was everywhere. Everything in sight had been torn to shreds or thrown carelessly around. She stepped inside, being careful not to step on any evidence, and moved toward a small kitchen. All the cabinets were open—silverware, dishes, and food were scattered across the tiled floor and counters. The refrigerator was half open—its light the only glow against the stark surroundings. Now she knew: The intruders were looking for something of value.
She peered into a bedroom just off the kitchen. The room was trashed—Mona’s clothes had been tossed as if they were a salad. The nightstand and simple dresser were turned on their side. The mattress and box spring had been hacked with some sort of knife. She closed her eyes and then opened them, trying to comprehend what her eyes were telling her. The room started spinning, her mind unable to grasp the gravity of the moment. A nauseating feeling blew through her. Covering her mouth, she ran out the front door and into the grass. As if on cue, her stomach churned and vomited the only thing she had in her—chips and soda.
The realization that she hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day buzzed through her. She coughed up the remaining fluids and then stayed there, kneeling on the wet blades of grass. It might’ve been still raining but she didn’t care. A flood of tears welled around her eyes and then let loose down both sides of her cheeks. Everything that had happened in the past month seemed to bubble to the surface: Eric and Carla Sanchez, the car accident, those pictures, Mona’s voicemail, the blood in the restaurant. She starting crying, shedding tears like she hadn’t cried in decades. She had fought so hard to stay composed but her body had had enough. It was all coming out in one enormous purge.
Oh, God. What is happening to me?
Finally, the tears flowed no more. Her face was a certain wreck but she didn’t care. She fumbled in a pocket and retrieved a damp tissue. It would have to do. She wiped her face, focusing on her nose and eyes. She sniffled a few more times and then slowly pushed away from her own mess. Her back ached as she strained to stand up straight for the first time in what must’ve been ten minutes.
“You okay?” a voice said behind her.
She turned to see Detective Urbina standing there, an ID badge dangling from his neck.
“She’s not here!” she cried. “It’s a mess in there.”
“Don’t worry, I’m on it.” Urbina grabbed a radio from his pocket. “We’ve got a ten thirty-one here at five four five eight Chinook. We need backups, and forensics, now!”
“The door was hit and they just waltzed in,” Sabrina added.
He nodded toward the grass. “Is that from you?”
“My emotions got the best of me,” she responded sheepishly. The sound of braking cars spun her around.
Urbina turned and whistled with his teeth. “Francona. Over here.”
Sabrina followed his gaze. Barging through the shrubs was a tall, skinny-looking guy, wearing narrow glasses, and fine brownish hair bouncing every which way. Behind him was a team of officers. And behind them was Brieman.
“We got a crime scene,” Urbina announced to Francona
Francona whistled to his team. “I need everybody to move through the house as quickly as possible. And don’t touch a damn thing. I want the evidence preserved.”
When Brieman walked up, Sabrina pushed herself into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
His expression seemed haunted.
She pulled back. “What? What is it?”
“It’s Mona,” he stated solemnly. “They found her off of Route 130, about a quarter mile in the woods.”
Sabrina covered her mouth as the nauseating feeling returned. “How?”
“I don’t want to get into that.”
“Tell me!” she shrieked.
Hesitation. “Her throat … it was slashed,” he finally replied.
She shook as the shock of what he said rippled through her.
Chapter 38
Gregory eyed the bourbon resting on the seat next to him, his mouth salivating for the taste, his brain craving the alcohol. He was parked across the street from Gina’s home. He had been there for hours, waiting to see her beautiful smile and he didn’t give a damn if anybody noticed. He moved a hand toward the bottle before swatting it onto the floor. No, he thought. He had promised Blair. No more. He stared at the drawn window shades showing no sign of life. C’mon ‘Gin, he thought. Where are you? He slammed the steering wheel. Damn it.
For so many years, sh
e had been the rock, and he desperately needed her intuition and advice now. She always knew what to do. But then the alcohol would always get in the way of them having the relationship they both wanted.
Always.
She’d smell the booze on his breath and that would be it—she’d refuse any interaction with him. If it meant slamming the door in his face, she’d do it. And she had every right to. He abused her. He knew that. When he was drinking, something just raged inside that he couldn’t stop.
His childhood was where it all started.
His father would come home after a day’s work as a public defender, smelling of his favorite gin from the local watering hole. It wouldn’t take him long to find a family member to take the day’s anger out on. The weird thing was he never touched his sister no matter how angry he became. But if Gregory was the first one his father spotted, it usually started with a couple of slaps across the face and then the belt came out, with fifteen or twenty lashings across his bottom. His mom tried desperately to intervene but it only made him angrier—he would slap her until her cheeks were cherry red. Gregory would cry hysterically as he knew there was nothing he could do … at least until he was old enough.
When he was a seventeen, he caught his dad abusing his mom and he just snapped. He jumped on his dad, and at even his age, was able to slam his dad to the floor and beat him until his face gushed blood. Gregory took out a life’s worth of beatings in those fifteen minutes. After he was too tired to hit him any more, his dad just got up, wiped himself off and left. He never returned.
His mom didn’t fare much better. For a year, she tried keeping her composure and the family together—but it was just too much. She ended up admitting herself to a psychiatric hospital. With both parents gone, Gregory became a surrogate father to his sister, teaching her everything he had learned to survive. He loved every minute of it. It gave him purpose in life that he didn’t get his first eighteen years. But to know Blair was on the brink of dying, it tore at his heart. He needed help—admittedly most of it financial—if she was going to make it. If she was to die, his life would … be over.
