A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  “That’ll be all, Jane. I’m taking over.”

  Face white, Detective Candide gathers her things and stalks out the door without a backward glance.

  Ouch. It may be SOP to change out interrogators, keeping them fresh as the perp gets worn down, but it seems a little soon for that. I don’t blame Jane for being annoyed.

  Olafson takes Candide’s place at the table. “Ms. Lake, you are in some trouble.”

  I lean forward and interlace my fingers. “Detective, I’m on a job, hired by the Church of the Spirit. If I find anything out I think you can use, I’ll share it with you. If you’re afraid I’ll mess up some angle of yours, all you’ve got to do is share your plans with me.”

  He takes a long time looking at me, tapping his fingers on the table. “You got a P. I. license?”

  My anxiety goes up a notch, but I keep it under wraps. “I’m not a private investigator. I’m a consultant.”

  “Don’t split hairs with me, Ms. Lake. I’ve got my own investigation going on. On you. I’ve got some feelers out, and soon I’ll know just why you left Denver. But what I do know doesn’t make you look good.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.” But I could hear the hollowness is my own voice, and I know he hears it too.

  “Nice try. But your reputation precedes you, Lake. See, I’ve already been warned about you.” He drops his voice, until it’s so low I can barely hear it, but the venom is there in spades. “There’s nothing I hate worse than a dirty cop.”

  “What?” It’s so not what I expect him to say. I’m shocked. And furious. I jump to my feet. “I’ve never been dirty. Not ever. And if anyone says different, it’s a lie.”

  “You may have squirmed away from Denver just in time, but if you think your big city corruption is going to fly here, think again.” He sits back and resumes his normal voice. “I know all about how you alerted your criminal friends to a police raid, and good men were hurt because of you. I’ll be watching you, Lake. Now get out, before I lose my temper.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WHEN I LEAVE the police station, I feel both shaken and stirred. I try to talk myself down as I set off on the long walk home. At least the station is only a couple of blocks from the Riverwalk, so my journey will at least be scenic. This portion of the trail is paved with asphalt. An occasional thorn-studded blackberry branch reaches out to snag my trousers, so I’m distracted for a bit from the thoughts and fears hammering behind my eyes.

  How much do you think Olafson knows?

  Whatever it is, it isn’t true. I’ve never been dirty.

  Gotten close to the edge a time or two, though, yeah?

  I was undercover, dammit!

  Olafson said he’d been warned. That means someone in Denver told him about me. I clench my fists, uselessly. Who was it, and what did they say? Not my handler, no way. Someone on the strike team? But my undercover identity shouldn’t’ve been known to anyone. Still, office gossip. War stories. Word gets around, even when it shouldn’t.

  Worst case scenario, what if Olafson discovered that I was in a psych hospital? I could certainly kiss any work opportunity with the police department goodbye. But really, I’ve already done that. And it’s not like he can arrest me for anything. Whatever he says, I’m still a good cop. I am.

  But he accused me of being dirty, of leaking information. The implication being: for money. He must be referring to the raid on the Baxter Building. But I didn’t say anything to anyone.

  Sonny knew you were a cop.

  Yeah, he did — I thought I’d given myself away somehow. Gangsters have a nose for law enforcement.

  What if someone at the department squealed?

  It’s true that three officers were hurt. That the element of surprise hadn’t been as decisive as they’d planned. That the leader of the Black Dogs — Sonny’s gang — had been missing, when we thought — when I’d thought — that all the main players would be present. But if Sonny knew ahead of time, why did he stick around?

  To kill me?

  I’m spinning. Thoughts and what-if’s are ricocheting around my head like a pinball. I try to get a grip, bring some order to the chaos. That was all in the past and a thousand miles away. It can’t affect me here. Olafson is just trying to intimidate me.

  Sounds like it’s working.

  I stop to look out over the river. Half a dozen freighters are anchored in the channel, waiting for berth openings in Portland or further upstream. The shiny black head of a sea lion bobs out among the waves. It looks at me for a long time before dipping back beneath the surface and arching away like a sleek brown torpedo.

  The lumpy spine of hills on the Washington side of the river has square brown patches where clearcutting has shaved away the trees. The landscape here is so different from Colorado. Back there, I’d never seen a river the size of the Columbia, big enough to accommodate ocean-going ships. And the air is so much more humid. Even now, the clouds bellying up at the mouth of the river promise more rain, a soft spring shower to gift the ever-present greenery with moisture.

  I like this little town at the confluence of river and sea. It’s authentic and real, and I want to be a part of it. I want to stay. I won’t let Olafson or anyone else push me out.

  I don’t want to be part of a hierarchical organization any more. Toe the line, take orders, worry about how my colleagues will see me, or how some reporter will portray my actions to a condemning public. But most of all, I don’t want my actions to endanger someone else, again. By working alone, I can mitigate that danger. If I am going insane, at least I won’t take anyone else down with me.

  Whatever happens, I have to follow my own certainties. Even when I’d been a detective I’d been prone to the odd hunch, just like any good cop. Sometimes impressions and instinct are all you have. That, and perseverance. Just keep digging until something turns up.

  Or until you pop out on the other side of the planet.

  By this time, I’ve reached the Maritime Museum, with its curving roof reminiscent of an ocean wave. The asphalt path gives way to boardwalk, thick wood planks like the ones on the docks and wharfs. The trolley tracks become inset, the grooves ready to turn an unwary ankle. In the process of watching my step, my subconscious, left alone, relaxes. There’s nothing I can do about what people say in Denver. There’s nothing I can do about Olafson’s suspicions, or Candide’s attitude. I’ve done nothing wrong. So what if they say I’m crazy? There are worse things to be known for.

  Yeah, like being dirty. Don’t forget that.

  I’ve never been dirty!

  Okay, deep breaths. Stop talking back to the voice in your head. Think about the present.

  I’m still no closer to determining who killed Victoria Harkness. I think of the men I’ve interviewed: Jason Morganstern, Eric North, and Seth Takahashi. Takahashi is on the APD radar already — I wish I could have gleaned something at the station. Is he the one? He has the best — the only — motivation I can determine, but it’s a big step to take for a man of God, crusades and terrorism notwithstanding.

  In my experience, the worst criminals have egos to gratify and a basic selfishness that allows them to cross the line into taking someone else’s life to better their own. And they aren’t necessarily all that smart, or imaginative. Usually they just can’t think of a better way to solve their problems other than the short-term method of killing whoever stands in their path.

  But Victoria isn’t a typical murder victim. There doesn’t seem to be anything for anyone to gain. Her trust fund reverts to her cousins. Takahashi might gain some new parishioners, and quash a dangerous religious offshoot. Morganstern I’m not sure of. He’d been attracted to her, no doubt about that, but had that attraction morphed into obsession? Takahashi told me Jason had inappropriate attitudes toward women, but he didn’t sound obsessed when I talked to him yesterday. He didn’t seem smart enough, or controlled enough, to conceal his feelings to such an extent. I suppose he might have killed her in a fit of jealousy or frust
ration.

  And Eric North? He has the ego, but what’s the motive? He’s a successful artist, a local celebrity in some ways. Still, he’s the only one who’d known her before — is there something in that I can follow up on? She’d been a child, thirteen or so when they moved away. Maybe one of her teachers would remember her. I make a mental note to check the local school district. Dig, dig, dig.

  I also can’t forget Daniel Chandler. He’s known Victoria for a long time. He’s paying my bills, but he seems slick to me. More like a salesman than a bookkeeper. Plus, there’s a big wad of insurance money coming to the church, and he’s got the keys to the checking account.

  Claire Chandler, on the other hand, seems honest. No facade, nothing that trips any alarms. Except for the fact that she’s married to Daniel and lets him call the shots. Doesn’t show very good judgment on her part. Still, she wouldn’t be the first woman to let some guy delude her.

  Near the end of my long walk toward home, I look in on the church. The hot spots on my heels and toes are turning into incipient blisters. But the repurposed grocery store gleams in the late afternoon light, at least until a cloud passes in front of the sun. A slate-colored Toyota Highlander is alone in the parking lot. I peer through the window, see leather seats, faux woodgrain dash. Nice. I walk inside the unlocked door. Shake my head. Church people are way too trusting.

  My footsteps scuff in the large carpeted sanctuary, echo against the industrial linoleum in the big fellowship hall. The storefront windows let in a lot of light, and I slow down and have a look at the hanging art. My first tour with Daniel had been a quick pass-through. Now I take my time. The pictures are an eclectic mix of style, size, and media. Photographs. Etchings. String art. Paintings — oil, water color. A paint-by-number of horses grazing in a field. The only thing lacking is a black velvet Elvis. Or dogs playing poker.

  What I mean is, the lot is strictly amateur. Oh, some are better than others. Some are pretty good, still lifes of fruit or flowers rendered with skill. Some pieces are abstract, with splashes of exuberant color and no apparent subject. But Jackson Pollock they aren’t. That’s why the painting by Eric North stood out. Past tense. Where it had been hanging is now an empty space. I remember it as having a muted palette, grays and tans and slate blues and sage greens. Victoria Harkness, standing with the river behind her and the Megler Bridge soaring overhead. When I saw it at the memorial service, I was struck by the similarity to the scene of my vision, and wondered then what the connection might be. But now it’s gone.

  Glancing around, I see other blank spots, places where pictures are missing. Gift rescinders reclaiming their own? For the most part, Chandler is probably happy to see them go. Unless he’s the one harvesting the crop. I ponder that thought for a minute, then shrug and head for the office, intending to ask him.

  Daniel Chandler is seated behind his desk, peering at a spreadsheet. The reflected light from the computer monitor makes him look sallow and unhealthy. I rap on the doorjamb to get his attention. He jerks his head up, then relaxes when he recognizes me, lifting a hand to remove his glasses and rub his eyes.

  “Audrey. I didn’t expect to see you. Are you reporting in?”

  I’m not, but now I feel like I have to. I give him a rundown of who I’ve interviewed. I don’t tell him about my run-in with the cops.

  I wind up with, “Anything more you think I should know?” I clocked the slight emphasis on ‘you’ when he greeted me earlier, and wonder if he’s expecting someone. Plus, the unlocked door.

  “How do I know what’s important?” He cracks his knuckles, proceeds to tell me about how much Victoria inspired people, what a good speaker she was. Her physical beauty. All the stuff I keep hearing.

  “What about her family?”

  “She didn’t have any siblings, and I never heard her mention her father. Her mother is one of those society women, always on the hunt for the next rung in the ladder. Vicky didn’t really get on with her. She said her mother was disappointed in her daughter’s choice of vocation. Not enough lucre in it. Or real religion.”

  He laughs nervously. I’m not sure why. Then I think about the missing pictures in the fellowship hall, and ask him if he’s taken them.

  “Guilty as charged. Right now the church is drowning in bills. Rent on this behemoth. Utilities. Vicky used to supplement with her own money, but now of course that’s impossible. So, I’ve been selling a few of the better ones to raise operational capital.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “They belong to the church. Assets. If we go into receivership, they’ll be seized anyway.”

  “What about her key-person insurance?”

  He looks, very briefly, annoyed. “American Life is dragging their feet. You know what insurance companies are like. In the end, we’ll probably have to close the church.” He shakes his head and rubs his eyes again, rumpling the already-rumpled eyebrows. “That’ll be hard for Claire.”

  “But not for you?”

  “No, it’ll be hard for me too — but there’s been financial hardship for a long time now. It’s not like I haven’t seen it coming — the curse of being the bookkeeper. One of the reasons we came out here was to cut operating expenses. But unfortunately it also lost the church’s most generous members and patrons. I went around and around with Vicky about her decision to come to Astoria, but she was absolutely immovable. Said she had to return to the river. Which is nonsense — Portland has a river, too. Two of them — the Columbia, and the Willamette.”

  “What about her book, the one you told me about? Maybe you could publish it posthumously, with some of her talks. As a memorial.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. But I’ve only seen a rough draft. And it’s pretty personal. I’m not sure anyone else could complete it. Or that it would even make much money.” He looks at his watch, glances over my shoulder to the doorway and back at me. “Listen, I’m pretty busy here. Can we talk later?”

  Remembering the laptop in the apartment, I think the book is probably on the hard drive. Wish I’d snagged it when I had a chance. Any amount of information might be hidden there. Too late now. Or is it? Maybe her mother will let me try to access the contents.

  Belatedly, I think he seems a little agitated, but I’m not letting him go just yet. I nail down another item of curiosity. “Did Victoria do any art herself?”

  “Not like the congregants, no. Her offering, she always said, was her heart and soul to her people.”

  Careful. You’re gonna get a cavity from all this sweetness.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Any of those pieces out there yours? Or Claire’s?”

  He shakes his head, cracking his knuckles again and shifting in his chair. “Not me — I don’t tap into the Spirit, or at least not the right one. Claire is doing some sewing thing. Little quilted squares. I think Vicky might have taken them home. She liked them.”

  I remember seeing some fabric pieces hanging in Harkness’s apartment. But his response feels weird to me. I mean, he doesn’t seem, I don’t know, devoted. He seems flippant. And taking down the spirit offerings and selling them feels disrespectful, a betrayal of the original givers’ intent. But probably not illegal.

  “Are you not a believer in the Divinity of Art?” I offer in a tone that is slightly amused, slightly sarcastic, but not so much that he can take offense, in case he is some kind of devotee.

  “Just never had the bent for it. But I loved to hear Vicky talk, and inspire other people to access their creative gifts.”

  Sounds like a racket to me.

  “How’d you wind up as bookkeeper anyway? Answer an ad? Or were you already in the congregation?”

  He sighs. “I’d done some book work for another church, so I knew the ropes. And they needed someone, so I spoke up.”

  “So you were already in the congregation?”

  “Not an official member, no. But I was in the faith community, so I was aware of her, and became a member when she hired me.”


  “I see.” I pause, wondering what is niggling at me. He just feels so networky and insincere. Plus nervous. But. I suppose church workers have to make a living. “What was the other place you worked for?”

  There’s a beat, two, which sets my antennae quivering. How hard is it to reel off your former employers? But then he says, “Beaverton Foursquare.” And glances at his watch again.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Chandler? You seem edgy.”

  “No, no problem. Just—”

  “Busy. I know.” I nod, no wiser. He’s hiding something, but I can’t think of anything more to ask him. And my feet hurt, a headache is starting, and there’s still several blocks to walk home, all uphill. So I tell him goodbye.

  As a parting shot, he says, “We really need some results on this, Audrey. Otherwise I might not be able to pay you.”

  That remark leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Because it’s manipulative. And because his concerns about money seem to override his concerns about Victoria. And justice. And the moral arc of the universe. I’m fuming as I make my way home.

  Could Daniel be the killer? He’d certainly know the victim’s habits, and be trusted by her. He’d definitely have opportunity. But why? There was no benefit that I could see. In fact, her death had hurt him. He had more work in the short term and no job in the long.

  Except, the coming insurance payout. How much access would he have?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IT’S SATURDAY. FIVE a.m. The weekend, for whatever that’s worth. Unable to sleep, I’m lying on my camp cot, looking up at the overhead light and imagining pictures in the ceiling drywall. Guns. Knives. A dog. A bonfire. I think about what I need to do today: follow up on Chandler’s employment history. Call the life insurance company and try to spoof some information about Victoria and Daniel’s policies.

  My cell rings, and I have to roll over and reach for where it lies on the floor with the cord curled around it like a noodle. I lean too far and tip the cot over and bang my nose on the floor.