A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  “None of the above.”

  “Probably murder in the second degree, then. What’s your angle?”

  At least he seems to know his law. “As I said, I’m a private investigator. I was working for her at the time, and the circumstances don’t add up.”

  He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “What were you doing? Investigating the husband for infidelity before he died?” Glances at his watch.

  I wince at his summation. “No — I was looking into the death of Victoria Harkness.”

  “Huh. She hired you to investigate another murder? Then killed someone herself, while you were still on the job? That sounds unlikely.”

  “I’m saying she didn’t kill anyone. I know who the real killer is.”

  Both eyebrows go up. “You should tell the police.”

  “I tried. They weren’t interested.”

  Biswas stands. “I’ve got to leave now, but it sounds like we should definitely talk. Make an appointment with Juanita before you go.” He bustles out of the room, straightening his tie as he goes.

  “Wait! Mr. Biswas!” I run after him. “Please, go talk to her. Soon. I’m afraid —“

  “What, Ms. Lake? I really have to go.”

  I swallow hard. “I’m afraid she may try to take her own life.”

  He closes his eyes briefly and grabs his briefcase. “Juanita, set up a consultation with Claire Chandler at the jail. And an appointment for Ms. Lake.” And he’s gone, practically leaving a dust cloud behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THINGS ARE MOVING. Claire’s lawyer is engaged. Now I need to follow Zoe’s advice and get Eric to confess. And for that I’ll need assistance.

  The ring tone sounds three times before someone answers.

  “Candide.”

  “Jane. I need your help.”

  She sighs with gusto. “Hello, Audrey. Are you having a nice day? Me, not so much.”

  “Listen, Jane, I’ve got a witness.”

  “A witness to what?”

  “To Victoria Harkness’s murder.”

  A pause, where I can hear background noise of people talking and phones ringing.

  “What? Who? Why hasn’t that person come forward?”

  “He’s...got some issues.”

  “What does that mean? He’s crazy? A criminal? An alien abductee?”

  “Listen, Jane. He has details that no one could know. I believe he was there, that he saw what he says.”

  “Details that no one knows. Maybe he made them up.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  And what am I supposed to say? That Travis’s story tallied with my vision of Victoria’s murder? Jane’s question is reasonable. I would have asked it myself, if I was in her shoes. And if someone said they had psychic powers, I would probably hang up on them. And then make a little whirlybird symbol at my temple.

  “Audrey? How do you know?”

  “Sources.” Like a damn journalist. I rub my forehead.

  More background noise. I can hear a regular clicking, which I realize must be Jane drumming her fingers on her desk.

  “Sources. A mystery witness who has issues. Jesus, Audrey.”

  “Jane, I know. I wouldn’t blame you if you hang up now. But please. I think we can prove this. I think we can put this to bed. But I need your help. I need backup.”

  “Backup. For what?”

  “I want to bring the killer back to the scene of the crime. Get him to admit his guilt. Get him to crack.”

  “Jesus, Audrey. That’s dangerous. And you’re not even a cop. Not any more.”

  “I know it’s dangerous. That’s why I need you for backup. To corroborate. And — for protection.”

  There. I’d said it. And deliberately asked for backup, one cop to another, even though I was technically a civilian now. Admitting my vulnerability. Phoebe would be proud. Or she will be when I tell her.

  “You know I can’t condone this. Leave it to us. Tell your witness to come forward. Or you come forward yourself. Divulge your sources. You know better than this.” Whack. She must have smacked her desktop.

  “I can’t explain. You wouldn’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me. And there’s no direct evidence. I have to do it this way. Are you in, or out?”

  “I can’t help you. You know that. I could lose my job.”

  “Jane, an innocent person is in jail. Is your job more important than justice? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. When I have this all set up, I’ll send you the details. Regardless of whether or not you choose to sit on the sidelines, I’m going in.”

  “Audrey —”

  “Oh, and Jane? One more thing.” I tell her about the flash drives, that they will be arriving soon by US Mail.

  And I hang up the phone.

  My hands are shaking. I’m panting like I’ve just run a marathon. And for once Zoe is silent. She hasn’t intruded into my conversation with Jane at all. I don’t know if I should be relieved or terrified.

  I write a note to Eric and tape it to the door of his studio. It reads:

  “Eric. I know you killed Victoria Harkness. I have a witness. And I’ve read the book. Meet me at the scene, tonight at midnight. You know where, if you want to make a deal.”

  Then I send a text to Jane: The beach behind the Holiday Inn at midnight tonight.

  Then I talk to Seth, and tell him what I have planned, and what I want him and Travis to do. As expected, he tries to talk me out of it. As expected, he tries to shield Travis.

  “Let it be his choice,” I say. “It isn’t up to either of us to coerce him either way.”

  “He isn’t in a fit state to make meaningful choices.”

  “Sez who? You? I know you mean it for the best, but who are you to decide?”

  In the end, he agrees to put my request to Travis.

  Would he come? Would she come? Would they come? Would this turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life? But so be it. One way or another, I have to know. And it’s all I can do to save my friend from a lifetime of prison.

  Nighttime. Darkness. Dank tendrils of mist and the mournful hoot of foghorns. The path winds away to my right and left. Three or four windows in the hotel behind me glow with a welcome yellow light. Everyone’s curtains are closed.

  I’m alone, except for Zoe, and she’s not great company.

  Don’t talk about me as though I’m not here.

  Terrific.

  I mean, I haven’t heard back from anyone. Not Jane, or Seth, or Eric.

  Then I hear footsteps. I make sure my sidearm is ready, tucked away in my shoulder holster. I move onto the sand. It’s hard to see, but a dark silhouette walks slowly down the path. The figure also steps onto the beach, and after a pause, heads in my direction.

  A feeling of deja-vu suffuses me. It’s the vision all over again. Is what I’m seeing real? Or is it actually happening?

  The figure is obscured by the thickening fog. I draw my weapon, keep it close to my side. The sound of traffic on Marine is muffled and far away.

  The mist thins, and the figure is only twenty feet away.

  I say, “That’s close enough.” I begin recording on my phone, tucked into my breast pocket.

  He stops. “Audrey? Is that you?”

  “It was a night like this, wasn’t it, Eric? Dark and foggy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You came down the path, just like tonight. She heard your footsteps.”

  “Who?” He takes a couple of steps forward. I back up. The water sloshes against the pilings.

  “You know who. Victoria Harkness.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that? I’m going to complain to the cops. This is harassment.”

  The mist condenses on my cheeks and forehead. “And yet, when you got my note, you knew where to come. This is the crime scene. This is where she died.”

  He stiffens, then visibly relaxes. “You told me.”

  “
No. I didn’t.”

  “You did. When you came to my studio the first time.” He steps closer. “You were ranting about it, how I’d killed her on the beach.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “And who are they going to believe?”

  I feel a chill, like cold water running down my spine. “Stop.” I don’t raise my gun, not yet. I don’t want to escalate the situation. But he’s demonstrated a master stroke. There’s no way I can prove what I had or hadn’t said to him. Even though I recorded our conversation, since I did it without his permission, it’s not admissible in an Oregon court. What I thought would be my trump card, his knowledge of the place Victoria had been killed, is now null.

  He growls, “You said you wanted to make a deal.”

  “Sounds like you think I say a lot of things.” I step back. I feel a wetness at my heels. The river. “What else did I tell you?”

  “You said I ran after her. That I chased her onto the beach. This beach. That I strangled her. And threw her into the river.”

  “I said all that?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “So did you do all that?”

  “No. I did nothing.”

  “You didn’t chase her down?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t put your hands around her neck?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t say, ‘you made me do it?’”

  “I — what?”

  “Did you say, ‘you made me do it’?”

  “No — I didn’t say anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You didn’t apologize for killing her?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t say ‘it was just a game’?”

  “How did — no.”

  “You just pushed her in the river without saying anything?”

  “It wasn’t — I didn’t kill her.”

  I take a step toward him, out of the water. “A witness says otherwise.”

  “There was no witness.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “It was dark, and foggy. No one could have seen.”

  Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha. The fish is on the line.

  “So, in other words, it was a night like this.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Then he starts to tremble, his shoulders and arms and hands, shaking.

  “Why did you do it, Eric? What threat was she to you?”

  “I didn’t — she wasn’t — she wouldn’t listen to me!”

  “What did you try to tell her?” Was that a movement behind the drift log?

  “We were just kids. It didn’t mean anything. And if she didn’t like it she could have said.”

  The words feel ugly, a monster under the surface. “What didn’t mean anything?”

  “She liked it. She liked me. We were just kids. It would have been okay.”

  “Was this before she moved away?”

  “That bitch. She wouldn’t leave it alone.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Her mother.”

  “Whose mother?”

  “Vee’s.” His voice is angry and impatient. “I didn’t hurt her. She liked it.”

  “That’s what you told yourself, wasn’t it? But it did hurt her. I’ve read the book. When she revealed the childhood abuse. And when she talked about reparations, and resolution.” And redemption.

  “We were just kids.”

  “You were seventeen. She was twelve. She trusted you, she thought you were her friend, and you betrayed her in the worst way possible.”

  “We were just kids.”

  “Technically, yes, you were still a juvenile. And maybe that will play for you in court. But you were old enough to know better.” Now my voice is shaking with anger. “When she published her book, the whole world would know what you did. And you had to stop her, didn’t you?”

  “She had it all wrong. You have it all wrong. It was just a game. We were kids! She wanted to reveal it all and ruin my life!”

  “Like you ruined hers?”

  His breathing comes in hoarse pants. His hands clench and unclench.

  Look out!

  He lunges at me. I take an involuntary step back. But Zoe’s voice put me on alert. Water sloshes into my shoes. He keeps coming. I dodge, and splash along the shore. Backwards. Not daring to turn my back on him.

  At least you’re not wearing heels.

  Zoe’s sardonic tone steadies me. “You killed her, Eric. You ruined her life and then you killed her.”

  “She ruined her own life! She could have gotten over it, but no, she turned it all into a sympathy shit-show at that godawful excuse for a church.”

  “Maybe she wanted you to apologize.”

  “I gave her the painting. What more did she want?”

  “A painting isn’t an apology.”

  “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

  “Oh, please. That painting was for your own glorification.”

  “Not for me. For her.”

  Zoe’s strident sarcasm emerges from my mouth. “She didn’t want you, did she, you pathetic fuck? She told you to stop bothering her as a child. And as an adult, you tried to make her love you by giving her that painting. But she put it in the church — not what you had in mind, was it? And then Daniel Chandler sold it to cover church expenses. It wasn’t a religious icon — it was just another painting. Not any more remarkable than dogs playing poker.”

  “You’re wrong. It was a masterpiece.”

  “So not only was Victoria going to bring your ‘youthful misdeeds’ home to roost, neither she nor Daniel appreciated your genius. I guess that’s why you had to kill them both.”

  North’s face goes white. His mouth curls in a snarl. “They had no right.”

  “Poor baby. So misunderstood.”

  He lunges at me, once again faster than I would have believed. I fire my gun, but the shot goes wide. He’s too close. His hands close around my neck. His momentum carries us both down, and I land on my back in the water. It covers my face, my nose. I thrash, kick, try to force his hands apart, losing my grip on the weapon.

  He’s too strong. Far stronger than I.

  Wake up! Find a weak spot! Fingers, eyes!

  A weak spot. I stop trying to pull his hands away, and grab for his pinky fingers. His skin is slick with moisture, and slips beneath my hands. My sinuses sting as water enters my nose. At last I have one small finger in my grasp. I yank it down and out, away from his clamping hand, and feel the thin bone snap.

  He screams and stumbles back, clutching his hand. I sit up, coughing and retching. I hear the sound of pounding feet, and Jane’s strident voice.

  “Don’t move! You’re under arrest!”

  A warm arm circles my shoulders and I blink the water out of my eyes. Seth Takahashi kneels beside me.

  “Audrey, are you all right?”

  I gasp for air, coughing. “Yeah, yes — I’m good, I’m okay.” I let him help me to my feet, and then unwind his arm and go to where Jane is holding her gun on a kneeling Eric. His rage ripples off him like heat waves.

  “Got cuffs?” I ask.

  She nods. “On my belt. Want to do the honors?”

  I unhook them, and walk to where the artist crouches on the sand. He doesn’t struggle as I put the handcuffs on, only wincing as I brush his broken finger. Accidentally on purpose.

  “My hand — I can’t paint — what have you done to me? This is police brutality.”

  What a princess. It’s always all about him.

  You said it, Zoe. You said it.

  Straightening, I say, “What took you guys so long?”

  Jane beckons to another officer that has materialized on the beach. Through the fog, red and blue lights strobe. As the officer begins to read Eric his rights, she says, “He had to confess. I had to hear him. The further he went, the more damning the evidence.” She shrugs. “You chose the risk. I figured you could handle yourself. Although I didn’t
expect him to attack you like that.”

  “The man’s a sociopath. Of course he was going to attack me.”

  “We’ve got him now.”

  “Well.” I’m still annoyed — but I did choose the risk. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You’re welcome.” She nods, and joins the other officers surrounding Eric North.

  I am absurdly grateful that Jane had come, despite all the reasons not to, and brought the cavalry with her. At the very least, they can charge him with assault or even attempted murder for his attack on me, and second degree murder for Victoria.

  My feelings about Takahashi are mixed. He’d helped me out of the water at the end, but where had he been before that? Watching? How much had he seen? If he saw the assault, why didn’t he help me sooner?

  Jane, I could understand. She’d been waiting till the last second to get evidence to charge him. Plus she almost thought I was a criminal myself. But Seth? The man is standing nearby, and I ask him why he decided to come, and whether Travis was with him.

  “Travis wouldn’t come. He didn’t want to see the place again, or identify the man he saw. As for me, I thought you wanted a witness. That’s what I thought you meant when we last talked. When I got here, I saw you struggling in the water, and Detective Candide pointing her gun.”

  I guess I can’t expect him to be a hero. I don’t even know what I want from him. So I walk over to Jane. She’s talking to another officer but nods him away when she sees me.

  “Thanks Jane,” I say. “I think you saved my life.”

  She nodded. “I’d say so. That guy was serious.”

  “Did you hear what he was saying?”

  “Some. But I need to get a statement from you.”

  “Okay.” I repeat what Eric had said, and what I suspect. That he sexually abused Victoria when they were younger. That he killed her because she was talking about it in her book, and he thought she might incriminate him. Or maybe he just couldn’t bear to hear about it. Either way, he was responsible for her death. And also for Daniel Chandler.

  Jane nods. “You put everything together. How? Eric North wasn’t even on our radar.”

  I look at her. The woman isn’t my friend. But she did listen to me when her partner hadn’t, and she had just saved my life. But.