A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  “Stealing what?” I remember the missing tools Jason talked about when I interviewed him last time.

  “Don’t know. He was caught breaking into the tool shed.”

  “This is separate from the other incident, right?”

  The manager nods, shrugs again, looks bored. He glances over the busy floor of the warehouse. Boats up on blocks.

  I persevere. “Can you tell me where he lives?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he was stealing?”

  “Doesn’t matter much what I think.”

  “But really. You’re the guy who’s out here, who really knows what’s going on.” Just a bit of butter. “What do you think?”

  Finally he takes the toothpick out of his mouth and spits on the ground. “I think Jason’s a dumb fuck who can’t control his impulses. I don’t think he’s dishonest, but I wouldn’t put it past him to just ‘borrow’ some tools. Company has lots of money. They can always buy more, right?”

  “Right.”

  Nothing more of value from the foreman. I go back to my car, find an unsecured wifi channel. It takes me a while on various search engines, but eventually I find Jason’s digs, an old apartment building on Bond Street a few blocks from the shelter. There’s no buzzer system, but the front door of the building is propped open and a wall of mailboxes is visible with names and numbers. I shake my head. Bad security. Anyone could just walk in. Jason’s name is on box 224, so I head upstairs and knock on his door. He actually answers, looking somewhat the worse for wear. A patchy beard stubbles his jaws, and his hair looks like he slept on it wet. The place is a sty, with dirty dishes and beer cans and soiled laundry everywhere. It smells like hamburger grease and unwashed dude.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “I heard you got canned,” I say.

  He mumbles something and looks away, wandering into the kitchen. I follow him. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Nah, not really. Assholes. I was putting something back, not taking something away.”

  “Oh. So, anti-stealing, you mean.”

  He looks at me blearily, unwilling or unable to follow my verbal repartee. He just shakes his head. “I didn’t take nothing.”

  “What were you putting back?”

  “Welding torch.” His voice has taken on a sullen note.

  “Wasn’t that missing when I talked to you last?”

  He cracks his neck from side to side, not answering.

  “Did you maybe borrow it, for a project or something, and then need to return it when you were done?”

  He looks suspicious, but his brow clears. “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “What did you need a welding torch for?”

  “Art project.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Wasn’t mine.”

  “Whose then?”

  “Friend.”

  “So, you borrowed a welding torch for a friend to use in an art project. She gave it back to you, and you snuck it back in to the toolshed. Is that how it went down?”

  “He.”

  “What?”

  “My friend is a he.”

  Ye gods. “Okay, then, he. Is that how it went?”

  Not the brightest tool in the shed, is he? Maybe that’s why he needs a torch. To light the way.

  Jason nods, digging his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and scratching as though beset by fleas.

  “That was nice of you. But did your friend know you could get in trouble for doing what you did?”

  Jason shrugs.

  “Why can’t your friend buy his own welding torch?”

  Jason shrugs again.

  I sigh. “Listen. Jason. You’ve already gotten fired for this little stunt. It sounds to me like your friend hasn’t been much of a friend at all. Suppose you tell me who put you up to this?”

  Morganstern’s face settles into the stubborn mask that I know all too well from past perps who didn’t want to cooperate, whatever was in their best interests. I’d gone after him like ‘the Man’ and that’s how he was reacting.

  Smarten up, Lake. Let me take over, why dontcha?

  In your dreams, Zoe.

  C’mon. At the end of the day we’re one and the same. Get used to it.

  I turn away from Jason for a moment, stomach roiling. But she — I — she is right. Zoe is part of me, an aspect of my psyche that I’d called into being when I’d accepted the undercover assignment. I can’t just dismiss her as a figment of my imagination. Her traits are my own, seamy side up.

  When I turn back to face Jason, Zoe looks out of my eyes.

  “Listen, fuckhead,” she begins.

  He glares and pops his knuckles. “It’s Jason.”

  “Whatever. Listen up. I’m not a cop, get it? I’m not bound by their rules. So don’t mess with me.” She flips the edge of my blazer back to reveal the but of my gun. “I’m looking for who killed Victoria. You care about that, don’t you?” Zoe steamrolls over his stammered reply. “Forget about what you think you owe your fake friend. He’s hanging you out to dry, unless you roll on him first. So, give. Who wanted the welding torch?”

  He hems and haws, but in the end he gives Zoe what she wants.

  A name: Eric North.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CLICKETY-CLACK. I finally put it together.

  Welding torch. Arson. Disgruntled artist. Eric North.

  My memory of murder.

  I know he killed Victoria, but what about Daniel?

  Do people really burn buildings down, or kill someone, because that someone had sold their painting without asking? That seems like over the top narcissism, or just plain craziness. All these are the acts of someone in the throes of a deep and corrosive rage. A person who has to resort to destruction because they feel so threatened, or so disrespected, or so angry they have to lash out like an avenging angel. Is that North?

  The only way I know to figure that out is to confront him directly. Confront him, and goad him, and see if that destructive tendency reveals itself. Not a great idea — certainly not a safe idea, but I don’t know what else to do. The police think Victoria’s death was an accident; they aren’t going to pursue any leads I give them. So I go by his studio, hoping to find him there. Upon arrival, I start recording with my phone nestled in the breast pocket of my blazer.

  When I open the door, the first thing I see is his back. But he isn’t alone. A young woman stands in the nude, cradling a large pinkish conch shell, looking out into the middle distance. The artist stands behind an easel, a canvas slashed with color. Although the background is abstract, the image of the woman is emerging.

  He turns at the sound of the door, emitting an audible sigh. “Audrey. What do you want now? I’m busy.”

  “Just a few more questions, Mr. North.”

  I think he’s going to refuse, but he looks back to his model and says, “Take five.” She stretches like a cat, puts down the conch and pulls on a flowered silk robe.

  “I’m going out for a ciggie, Eric. Back in a few.”

  When she’s gone, the artist frowns. “I really can’t take the time to talk with you, so make it quick.”

  “Okay. Why did you kill Victoria Harkness?”

  The tension in the room rises, like the silent twanging of a string, reverberating throughout the sunlit space. He blinks, slowly, his hand tightening on the brush.

  He says, after too much delay, “Why do you think I did?”

  Even if I hadn’t had the vision, even if I hadn’t made the links through Jason, I would have known then. I expected denial, outrage, disbelief, all the reactions of someone falsely accused, or someone seeking to emulate them.

  “Because she made you angry.”

  He actually laughs. He throws back his head, opens his arms as though to embrace the world, widens his stance, and laughs long and loud. Again, a thoroughly fake performance. But not evidence.
<
br />   “Audrey, if I went around killing everyone who pissed me off, there would be a lot fewer people in the world.”

  “Why did you burn down the church?”

  “What church?”

  “Don’t play games.”

  “Are you talking about the Church of the Spirit? I heard about the fire on the radio. Terrible. Someone might have been killed.” And he looks directly at me.

  I feel a frisson of cold horror.

  He says, “I don’t know why you think I was involved. It meant nothing to me. I wasn’t even a member.” He turns away and puts his brush in a jar of mineral spirits, then goes to the window and adjusts the shades to increase the brightness. “I can’t help you with your investigation if all you’re doing is throwing baseless accusations around, hoping something will stick. I thought you were more professional than that. I thought you were some big-city hotshot, but now I see you’re just a failed has-been, trying to bolster your ego by pinning the blame on someone — anyone — who you don’t think will fight back. Well, let me tell you, Detective, I don’t take this kind of thing lightly.”

  His words strike home, and for a moment I’m at a loss for words. I say nothing as he picks up his phone from where it lays on a wooden stool. He punches a number and lifts the phone to his ear, looking at me all the while.

  “Hello, police? There’s a woman here in my place of business, and she’s harassing me.” He pauses, listening to the voice on the other end.

  “She’s accusing me of things. Slanderous things. I think she might be crazy.”

  A high-pitched tone begins to sound. Maybe it’s inside my head. I don’t move.

  “Her name is Audrey Lake.” He puts down the phone. Looks at me with cold, unfriendly eyes. “I suggest you leave. The cops are sending someone.”

  My gut tenses. My face burns. My palms feel cold and I clench them reflexively. I want nothing more than to puncture his bubble of arrogance and self-satisfaction.

  When he moves, it’s too quickly for me to respond. I thought he’d shot his wad, that he’d wait, smiling, for the cops to arrive. But he lunges and bunches the fabric of my jacket in his fists. I feel the heat of his breath, and see the individual stipples of stubble on his jaw. His voice rasps with purpose and barely throttled anger.

  “If you ever come around making accusations like this again, I will do more than call the cops. I. Will. Kill you.” He gives me a single shake, and pushes me away.

  And Zoe, the woman who can’t stand to be pushed around by anyone, bursts through her barriers. She straightens my rumpled jacket, and pulls my pistol from the holster. Aims for the center of his body mass, and her grip is rock steady.

  “Go ahead, asshole. Try it now.” Her anger seethes under my skin like the lava under Yellowstone.

  The sound of an approaching siren wails in through the open window. I back toward the door. “You better watch yourself, Mr. North. Or you’ll be assisting inquiries from inside a prison cell.” With that empty threat uttered, I slam the door behind me hard enough to rattle the glass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I HOLSTER MY weapon and walk down the outside stairs just as a black SUV with the word POLICE emblazoned on the side draws up in the parking lot. The model smirks as she blows out a stream of smoke through ruby lips.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  “You should leave too — he’s not a safe man to know.” I feel like I’ve got a gallon of adrenaline coursing in my veins, like I might have a heart attack any second.

  She smiles like a ferret. “Who wants to be safe?” Then she crushes her cigarette butt under her heel, smiles at the cop car, and walks with a sway and a purpose back up the stairs.

  Get the hell out of Dodge, Lake.

  I’ve done nothing wrong, Zoe.

  Tell it to the marines.

  The door to the SUV opens, and Jane Candide steps out.

  “Do detectives usually answer random citizen calls?” I ask.

  “I came to make sure you leave the premises.”

  See? Told you.

  “Oh, shut up.” Too late I realize I’ve verbalized my comeback to Zoe.

  Candide glowers, putting her hands on her hips. “What did you say?”

  Great. “Not you, Detective. I was talking to myself.”

  That’ll go over well.

  “Ms. Lake, I really am in no mood for your antics. I don’t care if you’ve been hired by someone. You are harassing citizens and hampering our investigation at every turn.” She sounds exhausted, and it’s no wonder. After last night’s fire, she was probably up until the wee hours filling out paperwork.

  I take a deep breath. “Listen, I’m following up on a lead. I have to ask questions that sometimes make people uncomfortable. You know that.”

  “What does this artist have to do with anything?”

  I can’t tell her about the vision. She’ll think I’m loony. “He has connections with Victoria Harkness. He knew her when they were younger. He painted a suggestive picture which he donated to the church.”

  “And you didn’t see fit to show me this picture when we were there?”

  “It isn’t there anymore.”

  “Where’s the picture now?”

  “I think Daniel Chandler sold it.”

  She nods, pursing her lips.

  “It showed her with wings in a beam of light, floating over the water.”

  “Sounds like an alien abduction to me.”

  “Given that she ended up in the river, I think there’s a connection. It showed a specific place, piling fields with the bridge in the background. That painting was hanging in the fellowship hall where everyone could see it.”

  “You’re grasping at straws.”

  “Jane, listen —”

  “No, you listen, Audrey. Steve wants you out of the picture. He’s tired of running into you, and this call from a citizen complaining about you is just the icing on the cake. I’ve seen your file. I know you had a meltdown back in Colorado.”

  Speaking through gritted teeth. “I’m not having a meltdown.”

  “Audrey, look. I know what it’s like to have to start all over again. I know what it’s like to make mistakes, okay? I pretty much wrecked my career in Portland. I was just lucky that Steve and the APD were willing to give me a second chance. I’m telling you, acting like a rogue agent is not the way to rebuild your credibility.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

  Oh, really?

  “Well, good. Because it isn’t working. What are you trying to do, then?”

  “I’m trying to solve the murder of Victoria Harkness, since no one else seems to be doing that.”

  Jane’s face darkens, and I think maybe I’ve gone too far. But my frustration level is just below critical. It doesn’t help that it’s mostly my own fault.

  “Jane, I’m sorry. But maybe it’s time to pool our resources. What have you got?”

  She doesn’t answer, tapping her fingers against the hood of the car. Then she motions sharply. “Get in.”

  I get in.

  I think she’s going to take me to the station, but we pull out of the parking lot and head south instead of north. She circles the roundabout and follows the highway along the north shore of Youngs Bay.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You want to know how the investigation is going. Well, I can tell you, it’s not.”

  “Oh?”

  Detective Candide gives me a fierce glance. “If you ever say anything to Steve, if you mention to anyone that I told you about an ongoing investigation, I will break you in this town.”

  “Got it.” So tired of threats.

  She heaves a sigh. “When North’s call came in, Steve told me to follow it up. He wanted me to deliver a message. He wants you to stop your investigation. If you don’t, he’ll make sure that everyone knows about your breakdown. Your mental state. He’ll do it, too. You know what gossip is like in a small town.”

  I’ve had a taste of
it already. “So, you’re delivering his message.”

  Jane nods. “Yes. But frankly, I’m concerned that we didn’t get further in the investigation. I talked to church members, all Harkness’s known associates, and got nothing. Her mother is breathing down our necks, and she’s a real piece of work. But there’s no evidence, no motive. I’ve heard more about petty jealousies and squabbles in the congregation than you would believe. I’ve heard about Daniel’s philandering. But I can’t identify any motive, any reason to kill the pastor.”

  “What about forensics?”

  “Nothing conclusive. We don’t know where she went into the water. Someone left a tip about the Holiday Inn, but that didn’t pan out. There was nothing on her body — the water destroyed anything there might have been. Her apartment was clean, nothing missing or that shouldn’t have been there.”

  Except the money.

  I’m not bringing that up.

  “Harkness’s death has been ruled an accident. I can’t continue investigating a non-case. And neither should you.”

  We ride in silence for a little while. The road unspools before us, houses and commercial properties on the left, the ruffled waters of Youngs Bay on the right.

  Finally, I say, “You don’t think it was an accident.” That’s been the subtext to everything she’s said.

  “Audrey, Steve would kill me if he knew I was asking you for help. But I am. We’ve got nothing — and honestly, we’re not very experienced when it comes to investigating homicides. If it’s not the result of a bar brawl or domestic violence, some close associate that can’t keep their mouth shut, we don’t have the expertise or the manpower to get much further. So if you know something, if there’s something we’ve overlooked, please tell me. Help us get to the bottom of this crime.”

  She talks a good game, don’t you think?

  Zoe’s right. I’m moved by Detective Candide’s plea. It can’t have been easy for her to ask for help, to go behind her boss’s back and admit that they were stumped, but I respect her more for it. She’s been more open with me than I have been with her. I feel the imbalance of obligation between us. But there’s no way she’ll believe I had a psychic vision of the murder, or if she did, there’s no way she’ll treat it seriously.