Killer On The Train

by Bruce Alan Jensen

  Hank noticed the tasteful decor of the living area. Utilitarian, yet stylish. Photos of California landscapes and monuments adorned the walls, and several were Ansel Adams black and white prints of Yosemite and the Sierras. A few other scenes, which he couldn’t identify, were throughout the room. The furniture comprised a black leather sofa, an easy chair, two white linen draped arm chairs, and chrome and glass coffee and end tables. A zebra-striped shag rug covered the sitting area floor of whitewashed pine boards. The walls and ceiling were a pristine white semi-gloss, except for the wall behind the sofa, painted a striking red enamel. His masculine sense found the decor comfortable but not what he believed Alicia designed for herself.

  She set down the vase of roses on a side table, then went to the kitchen. Alicia returned and placed a chrome tray on the coffee table, which comprised a carafe of kir, two fluted wine glasses, a plate of country-style paté, cornichon pickles, cheeses, and a basket of sliced baguette. She sat facing him, smiled and sipped her drink. He noticed that her dress climbed her thigh as she crossed her legs.

  “This is a real treat. Thank you. I love what you have done with this place.”

  “I’m not surprised you like it since there are similarities with your motorhome. The bachelor friend of mine who moved to D.C. for a few years to work with our congressman rents me the place. It was a good deal getting fully furnished, but I will have to move at some point,” she confided. She leaned forward to reach for a piece of cheese, exposing more of her ample cleavage.

  “Good for you. Thanks for your hospitality and this kir,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. They touched glasses and shared extended eye contact.

  “Don’t thank me yet. The night is still young. Few men are familiar with kir. Have you traveled a lot?” She asked. Again she leaned to the tray and applied pâté to a baguette slice then offered it to him. “You mentioned Italy and France. I loved France, even though it was a short trip. What about you?”

  Hank summarized his travels in Europe that lasted two years. They sipped the kir and snacked on the cheese and pâté while sharing experiences.

  Alicia described traveling in France as a student in college. She fell in love with the food, wine, art, and people. “Where in France? Did you get to Aix?”

  “I enjoyed Aix en Provence. I spent a week there with friends. We stayed at a house facing Mont Sainte-Victoire, strolled the museums, and dined at the quaint cafes. Once you get to know the people and are polite and respectful to them, they reciprocate in kind.”

  “I agree. The countryside scenery and people are a treat to experience.” She sipped her drink and looked at Hank, with a twinkle in her eyes. “Speaking of experiences, how was your Thanksgiving?”

  He told her about staying with his friends and their studio the last two days. “On Thanksgiving morning, we drove to Bodega Bay to do Geoduck clamming.”

  “Geoduck? That sounds... well, tell me.”

  He described the clams, also known as Horseneck Clams. “These bivalves have a long neck for sucking in water filled with nutrients and expel the indigestible elements, such as sand. The clams burrow into the sand three feet below the water or the length of the neck.”

  “Interesting... I guess?” She smiled.

  “We arrived at low tide, around eleven-thirty. Brian and his son showed me how to spot the clams. We walked along the exposed sand and stomped our feet. That startled the clams causing them to retract their neck, thus forcing water to gush out from their nesting spot. We would rush to the spot and dig feverishly to get to them.”

  “Seems weird. How big are these things?”

  “The mature shell is at least seven inches across.”

  “That’s big. So, you dig down and shovel out the clam?”

  “No. That’s the weird part. We dig down about three feet then reach in and grab the neck and pull it out which is easier said than done. That was the fun part. Brian had Mikey reach into the hole we dug. Brian held Mikey by his ankles and lowered him down to grab the clam. Mikey was screaming with laughter and when he yelled ‘I got em’ his father pulled him out. The funniest experience I’ve ever had.”

  “Sounds like great fun! Maybe, I would like to do this someday. Only not hung by my ankles. What do you do with the clams?”

  “Eat them.”

  “Is one enough to make a meal?”

  “That depends. Some people clean them and chop up the body and neck to make a chowder. One clam will feed two as chowder. We collected five. Brian said it was the legal limit. Then we returned to their house. Marie showed me how to clean the clams. As I inspected the neck, I realized that this white meat was similar to Abalone, very dense. I suggested we cook them like Abalone. She liked the idea. So, we trimmed the neck meat and pounded it to tenderize, and sautéed several pieces, according to an Abalone recipe. It was great!”

  “I love Abalone. Was that your Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “No, Marie had a turkey in the oven plus all the fixings for a traditional meal. We prepared most of the clams as Calamari Fritté for a first course. It was a fabulous meal.”

  “My mouth is watering. Are you hungry yet?”

  “You bet! The aroma is so tantalizing, how can I resist?”

  Alicia escorted Hank to an elegant table, set for two, placed near the glass doors to the balcony, with a commanding view of the city. She handed him a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau. “Would you open this, please? I should have opened this sooner to let it breathe.”

  “Not with the Nouveau wines, since they are so young,” he said placing the open bottle on the table and looking out the sliding glass window. “I love the view from here. Can I help you?”

  “Please light the candles and sit. The city at night is so peaceful, it pleases me, especially with the rain. A perfect change of pace from my daily duties.”

  She set a Le Creuset casserole pan in the center of the table, along with another heated bowl containing roasted fingerling potatoes, sprinkled with parmesan cheese and fresh chopped tarragon. There was a basket containing a fresh baguette. She returned with small plates of assorted, leafy greens, mixed with radicchio and, topped with shaved parmesan cheese and toasted croutons. A miniature carafe was part of the place setting.

  “My special balsamic vinaigrette is in the carafe. I hope you like it,” she said as she lowered the lights for a romantic candlelit scene. She sat and leaned toward him as she poured the wine.

  Hank realized he was staring at her cleavage. He refocused and poured the dressing on his salad, tasted and commented, “Exquisite!”

  The meal continued with quiet conversation, each sharing tidbits of their history. “What foods got served on the train?” She asked, her eyes staring into his.

  He saw what he hoped was a desire in her eyes.

  “The dining room offered a few entrees, including Coquilles Saint-Jacques, roasted beef tenderloin with a Beaujolais reduction with truffles, poached salmon on polenta, and Coq Au Vin. I didn't get to taste any, but I doubt they would have measured up to this meal. This chicken is wonderful.”

  “Thanks, that’s kind of you to say, but I'm no gourmet cook. The dish isn't original; many people call it Chicken Franciscan. I used the Beaujolais to simmer the chicken pieces. I only have a few dishes that I feel comfortable serving to guests. What did you eat on the train?”

  “I sampled a few of the hors d'oeuvres. The pâté didn't surpass what you served tonight. There was an assortment of cheese. The stuffed mushrooms, the gougères, and the herb de Provence palmiers tasted great.”

  “I'm clueless here. What are gougères and palmiers?” She asked adding wine to his glass.

  Hank patted her hand, laughing. “Don't feel bad, I had to ask, too. The gougères are small, bite-sized, baked cheese puffs. Quite tasty. The palmiers are also bite-sized, but a puff pastry, filled with a mix of garlic, herbs de Provence, and shredded Camembert cheese, rolled scroll-like, sliced and flattened, then baked. A chef described the flavor as pastry crackers, and d
elicious.”

  “How do you know about these foods?”

  “I asked about cooking. I was raised by a mother and grandmother who could cook a variety of ethnic dishes. Living in California gives one many opportunities to taste and enjoy a multitude of foods, especially in LA.”

  “Where did you live?”

  “I grew up in the Bay Area, in Fremont, a suburb community. My father was a carpenter, mother a secretary. I liked swimming and competed in high school for a while. Bored with the small town, I traveled and had affairs with a few women. I continued a bunch more but missed my family, so I went back home, school, and the tenth grade.”

  “Seriously?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in disbelief.

  “Just kidding. I developed a real appreciation for good food when I traveled in Europe and around the U.S. I like to cook and experiment with a variety of recipes. Most people will share their recipes with me. And I’d love to have this recipe.”

  She promised to share it. They continued talking about food and noteworthy restaurants they had experienced.

  She refilled their glasses. Raising her glass, with a twinkle in her eye, she said, “To you.”

  “And, to you too,” Hank replied. He raised his glass taking a sip of wine. I wonder if her lips taste as inviting.

  Many moments had passed before they set their glasses down and continued eating. “This meal is only surpassed by your company, both luscious,” Hank said, warmed by the wine and the closeness to Alicia.

  Hank felt the electric energy Alicia was radiating across the table. She stood, leaned close, and placed her hand on his chest. As she looked straight into his eyes, he sensed uncertainty mixed with her desire. “I want to share time with you without complications.” She kissed his cheek, then began clearing the table.

  Hank’s mind whirled with myriad thoughts as he assisted her. Could she be interested in becoming more intimate with me? Each time she faces me I can see the soft mounds of her breasts causing a surge of adrenaline run through my body with the thought of consuming them.

  When they cleared the table of the last dish, he said, “I enjoy your company and respect you too much to ever put you in a compromising position. Whatever may or may not happen between us is in your hands.”

  She faced him and whispered, “Thank you, Hank. I appreciate that. Why don’t you take a seat in the living room, and I'll bring out the coffee.”

  As he sat on the couch, his mind wandered. Tension ran through his body with the possibilities of what might lie ahead. Taking a deep breath, Hank closed his eyes to bring calm back to his chest and groin, but all he envisioned was Alicia and him in exciting positions. His eyes shot open as he realized where his mind had wandered. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he returned to reality. He heard what sounded like dishes going into the dishwasher, then silence.

  A few minutes passed. Trying to make his voice sound as normal as possible he asked, “Are you sure I can't help?”

  Alicia’s silky response was, “Okay, come here.”

  Hank entered the kitchen to see her standing at the counter wearing only the skimpiest pair of red and black silk panties and a matching lacy black bra. A million passionate thoughts raced through his mind. “Oh, my,” he gasped, his eyes wide taking in the gorgeous vision before him.

  She couldn't contain the blush. She looked into Hank's eyes and offered her hand to him.

  Hank approached her, his blood running hot, his breathing picking up the pace with his beating heart as he joined her. With one hand, he reached forward and touched her cheek. She let out a breathless moan. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

  Hank felt a shiver course through her body as he tilted her head back. He cupped her face as he stared into her radiant eyes. A jolt of lightning ran through him when his lips met her luscious red ones. Their kiss was soft and gentle.

  Hank kissed her as if he were dying of thirst. In response, she drank in his essence with her lips. She pulled him closer. With searching tongues, their desires increased.

  Their kisses became more frantic and intense as she unbuttoned his shirt. Her fingers curled through his chest hair. Her responses exceeded his expectations.

  With nervous hands, Hank unfastened her bra pushing the straps off her shoulders. It dropped to the floor unceremoniously. Alicia arched her back inviting him to visit her plentiful breasts. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps with his touch.

  “I could ravish you,” he said in a husky voice.

  She whispered back, “Please do.”

  Hank palmed her buttocks as she moaned again. Throwing her head back, she let out a guttural moan as his mouth explored each breast and nipple. His teeth nipped at her rose colored nub. She grabbed his hair with one hand, as the other caressed his shoulder and back, moving lower down his torso.

  Wanting their lips to explore each other, she welcomed what Hank was doing to her body. Alicia wanted to revel in his touching her, kissing her, tasting her. She knew she would have her turn to drive him as crazy as he was driving her.

  Swirling his tongue over a taut nipple, he kissed his way back up to her lips. He swept her into his arms, without breaking the hungry kiss. She gasped into his mouth, her arms linked around his neck. He carried her down the hall and placed her down on the bed. He desired to be skin to skin.

  TWENTY Saturday, November 30

  This was how a man and a woman were to be, they spoke. Little, neither mentioned the word “love,” just passionate moans. They shared each other so comfortable that time ceased to exist. Hank felt as if they’d been together for years. As he watched her sleep, he thought he could stay in bed with her forever. Hours had passed before Hank returned to the motorhome.

  At ten o’clock, while Hank surfed the web, Alicia called. “Hank, I have little time, but I wanted to let you know I enjoyed last night. You are such a gentleman and an excellent, sensitive lover. And, Hank, we may have a break. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “I enjoyed dinner and especially our intimacy last night. So, what’s happening with the case?”

  “Bridge got a call from Ms. deVoe, the Reno gourmet shop owner. A friend of hers, who lives in Napa sent her a newspaper article about the murder that included Caswell’s photo. She said he was in her shop this morning, asking about a job.”

  “That’s great! Will he return to her store?”

  “I hope so. She's one smart woman who recognized Caswell and played ignorant of the train incident. She gave him an application and asked for a resume and references, then told him to come back at ten on Monday morning.”

  “You’re going to Reno?” Hank asked.

  “No. I’m sending Ferguson and Michaels since I have forensic info to digest. The DNA results arrived, and I’m going to the lab Monday morning to get all the details. I’d like to see you again before you head out to San Diego,” she confided.

  “I want to spend more time with you. Do you have time for dinner tonight?”

  “I’d love to, but I promised to go to my other brother’s for dinner this evening. We haven’t seen each other in a while, and my nieces are missing me. Hold on... Sorry Hank, but I’ve gotta go.” Silence.

  Later, in the afternoon, Alicia called back. “Hank. I’m so sorry for cutting you off like that today. I had calls waiting and two agents vying for my attention.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. Any more leads on Scott?”

  “Scott's car is at the Sacramento airport parking garage. The garage has a scanning camera at the entrance and exits. It captures the vehicle, license plate, and the driver. When the APB went out, the system looked for the tag number and found it. Unfortunately, it took four days for them to tell us. Ferguson followed up and learned he made a trip to Portland on Alaska Airlines with a return flight next Friday at five p.m. Hopefully; he will follow his plan. Ferguson has asked the Portland PD to check the airport, Alaska Airlines, TSA, and airport security, and if he's spotted, to notify us when he boards the plane.”

&nb
sp; “Good news! Let's hope they will,” Hank said.

  “I’m hoping the same thing. Ferguson will check it out. There is something else. We got a message from Jackson Crow about a uniform vest. He was sorting items and saw a vest that had a brown stain on the front. He thought it might be blood. I sent Donovan to get it and find out the details and hope to get it to the lab for testing on Monday.”

  “I won't make any assumptions until we know more about it. This could be important for the case. I doubt Stan's involved.”

  “I agree, but you never know. Sorry about dinner tonight.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Hank asked.

  “I know this sounds like a put-off, but I need to get chores done. I use Sunday as my free day to work at home. If I get done early, can I call you?”

  “Please do. Other than playing with Molly, reading the paper, and maybe watching a football game, I have no obligations. You need to eat. How about a simple home cooked meal? Nothing fancy, wear your old jeans and sweatshirt if you like.”

  Alicia chortled. “I don’t have old jeans. I may take you up on that offer. Okay, if I call you later tomorrow afternoon?”

  “That would be great. I look forward to your call. Have fun with your family.”

  “Thanks, Hank. Bye.”

  ~~~~~

  At four o'clock, Stephen Drummond got apprehended at SFO airport and taken to the San Mateo County Jail until the Bureau Agents could interview him. His family returned home.

  Bridge and Ferguson arrived in San Mateo by seven o'clock. They entered the cramped and suffocating interview room after checking in with the Sheriff's deputy in charge. Drummond seated in the room, alone. The Agents identified themselves.

  “Mr. Drummond, what I will do is turn on a tape recorder so I can tape our conversation. I'm not the best note taker in the world, and there are things to go over with you,” said Agent Bridge, activating the recorder. “This is Agent Christopher Bridge of the Bureau of Investigation. Today's date is Saturday, November 30th. The time is at 7:32 P.M. This is a taped conversation with the last name Drummond, D-R-U-M-M-O-N-D, the first name Stephen, S-T-E-P-H-E-N. Date of birth 08-30-72. Mr. Drummond, you were advised of your rights when you were brought in for questioning, is that correct?”