Crisis Shot

by Janice Cantore

  Duncan Peabody was the only son of Delia and Ellis Peabody. Tess had met the Peabodys at her swearing in. The parents were cordial people. Ellis Peabody was a bigwig in Silicon Valley, Google or Yahoo! or something. He flew to work Monday morning and was back Thursday night, only actually at home for the weekends. His wife, Delia, was a horsewoman; she owned several beautiful horses and gave lessons. From what Tess had heard, she was highly regarded and very pleasant. On the other hand, Duncan was a sulky, spoiled kid who, she’d been told, had tested the PD on more than one occasion with typical teenage stunts.

  She’d seen enough to classify the boy as a smart mouth with a penchant for traveling too fast everywhere. Plus, he acted as if he owned the town. He was seventeen and thought he was untouchable, most likely because of his father.

  Tess had already had one run-in with the son over his riding a skateboard in town where it was dangerous and forbidden, and she knew he was going to give her headaches because of how that contact had gone.

  “You need to respect the sign: no skateboards allowed here,” Tess admonished, her tone light and amiable. “It’s a blind corner; you might knock someone down.”

  Duncan had stared at her in mock panic, holding his skateboard up over his head in both hands. “Oh no, what are you going to do, shoot me?”

  His friends broke into guffaws and the group jogged away, but the remark cut Tess like a straight razor.

  She remembered that encounter as she looked at the clock. It was after noon and she had paperwork regarding Bubba to write and review, no time to confront Duncan and his folks over the early morning drive-by. Tess continued to her parking spot behind the station. She made a mental note to contact the Peabodys as soon as she had time to spare.

  Sighing, putting the teenager out of her mind, Tess lamented the fact that the growers’ market was over, no recharging until next week. Bubba was on his way to Jackson County Jail with Logan, and for that she was grateful. If Bender had taken the guy, he would have been tied up for the rest of the shift and she would have had to ask Sergeant Pounder to come in early. Now, Bender would be staying in town and filing the report for the roofer who’d interrupted Tess’s day.

  Thoughts returned to Bubba as she climbed the steps to the station, AK-47 in hand. She’d already seen Bender enter with his arms full of confiscated weaponry. They’d recovered two handguns, the AK-47, a hunting rifle, and a bunch of reloads from Bubba’s house, and all would be placed into evidence/found property. In Long Beach evidence was a huge secure storage facility. Here, since most evidence went to the state crime lab in Salem, or to the county, the only storage at RHPD was a small back room with a couple of lockers. She dropped the AK off at the table where Bender was checking serial numbers.

  At first Tess had cringed at the lack of resources. Only one small holding cell. Even Mayberry had a couple. But once it settled in her mind that there wasn’t the volume of crime here she was used to contending with, a back room with lockers made sense. Her whole thought process was still undergoing a period of adjustment. Four hundred thousand people created a need for a lot more stuff than five thousand did.

  Technical and procedural adaptation was so much easier than the personal adaptation. People issues were the hardest for Tess to navigate. Not everyone was as blatantly hostile as Gabe Bender. But except for the local pastor, Oliver Macpherson, and his wife, Anna, who’d become good friends; the local auto mechanic; and the couple who owned the hotel where she currently lived, Tess had not felt overwhelmingly welcomed. Even the mayor, who told her she had his full support, was not really friendly.

  Anna Macpherson was one woman Tess counted firmly as a friend. They’d had lunch a couple of times and Tess had even been to the Macpherson house for dinner. Though grateful for her friendship, Tess had not taken up the woman’s invitation to attend church. She wanted to fit into her department and to feel like she was a part of the community she served, and she hoped it wouldn’t take going to church to do that.

  Her phone beeped with a message and she saw it was Mayor Dixon; obviously he’d been listening to his scanner. He wanted an update on Bubba.

  Tess pinched the bridge of her nose. She served at the discretion of the city council—she knew that. Mayor Dixon had bent her ear with the tale of how hard he’d fought for her hire. But he was an annoying man who treated her like a brand-new rookie. It might have been okay with Tess if he were retired law enforcement—after all, she had a whole new set of state laws and regulations to learn—but Dixon was the furthest thing from a former cop. His suggestions were never practical and his criticisms were beyond picky. She was supposed to notify him every time she responded to a call.

  Dixon hailed from New Hampshire originally, though he’d been in Oregon around twenty years. Tess had been surprised by the number of people she’d met here who were from somewhere else. She wondered if his pickiness was because of his East Coast upbringing.

  Procrastinating, Tess brewed a fresh pot of coffee and sat at her desk, composing her thoughts for the report she needed to file and formulating a response to Dixon. She’d only gotten the first paragraph down when she was interrupted by Sheila Cannan, her secretary, who also doubled as a records clerk.

  “Chief.” Sheila tapped on the doorframe. Tess made it a point to keep her office door open. She wanted people to feel comfortable enough to stop by and say hello. Though that hadn’t happened yet, Tess kept the door open.

  “Yeah, Sheila?”

  “Pastor Macpherson is here. He’d like a minute.”

  Tess peered around Sheila and saw the pastor behind her, looking anxious. Anna wasn’t with him.

  She leaned back, frowning. “Did you make inquiries about that bag of money?”

  “I did. I couldn’t find any thefts, no burglaries, no losses, nothing listing that amount of money or anything close.”

  Macpherson had come in on Saturday with a big bag of money—$50,465 to be exact. Said his wife’s cousin just handed it to them the night before. Tess bet it was drug money and that no one would ever come for it or report it stolen. She’d asked her people to keep an eye out for the cousin, a guy named Glen Elders, but so far he’d not surfaced.

  Macpherson didn’t want to do anything with the cash until he was certain Glen hadn’t ripped someone off. Tess had it locked up in an evidence locker. She was the only one with a key. At first she wondered if that was such a great idea, but in Long Beach the money would have been locked up as found property. It would stay in found property for a period of time and if no one claimed it, the finder could. The law was a little different here in Oregon, Tess had found when she looked it up.

  ORS 98.005 essentially provided that when someone found money, valued at $250 or more, they had to notify the county clerk in writing. Within twenty days the finder had to publish a note in the paper, describing the find and the final date when the money could be claimed. The note would have to run for two weeks. If no one stepped forward and proved ownership of the money within three months, the finder got to keep it. In this case, Pastor Oliver Macpherson would see his church roughly $50,000 richer.

  The newspaper ad would begin its run next week, if Tess remembered right. She knew no one would pop in to say they lost a bag of drug money, and felt the money was safe in their small, but adequate, evidence room.

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “I did. He wants to talk to you about something else, I think.”

  Tess nodded and turned away from her computer, feeling a juvenile delight that this was a great excuse to delay the call to the mayor.

  “Send him in.”

  Sheila stepped aside and waved Macpherson into the office.

  Of all the people Tess had met since she became chief of police, Oliver Macpherson was the most intriguing. In her mind, he looked anything but a pastor. Tess hadn’t been to church since she was a teen and the image of pastor in her mind was that of an old man with a perpetual frown on his face. That wasn’t Macpherson. He was about her age and
handsome in a rugged way, looking more like a rough-hewn cowboy than a preacher. Tess, at five-six, had to look up quite a bit to meet his eyes, which were a stormy green-gray, reminding her of the powerful, smooth Rogue River, very steady and calming. He smiled easily and sincerely. He wore a beard, neatly trimmed close to his chin, the same salt-and-pepper color as the hair on his head. And he kept his hair longer than Tess was used to. In Long Beach all the guys she knew had buzz cuts or bald heads. Her ex had started shaving his head years ago.

  Pastor Mac, as he was called, was well built, solid, and she knew that he worked part-time as a finish carpenter. The third finger on his right hand was missing at the knuckle, probably a result of learning the trade.

  But the most interesting thing about Oliver Macpherson was his accent. He’d told Tess the story, how he’d been born here in Rogue’s Hollow, but when he was small, his parents moved to Scotland to care for his paternal grandparents. Grandma died after a year, but Grandpa lasted ten and by then his parents had decided to stay. But Oliver always wanted to return to Oregon.

  “We’d vacationed here a couple of summers when I was growing up and I fell in love with the forests.”

  When an opportunity arose for him to intern at a local church, he returned. He completed college here and worked as an assistant pastor until the spot opened up at Rogue’s Hollow Community Church. By then he and Anna were newlyweds and both leaped at the opportunity. His voice still sang with a bit of Scotland. It was deep and resonant, a musical sound, and Tess understood why people came from far away to hear him preach.

  Macpherson entered her office, looking to Tess a little lost without Anna.

  She stood. “Hello, Pastor Macpherson. What can I do for you?”

  “Please, it’s Oliver. I see you’ve already been busy and it’s still early. I saw Officer Bender on the way in and he mentioned a tackle? How’s your shoulder? Not too sore, I hope?”

  Tess resisted being miffed that Bender was already talking about the Bubba call. She should have expected it. One thing cops loved as much as catching bad guys was gossip and storytelling.

  She rolled her shoulders and tried not to wince. He’d asked her to call him Oliver when she’d come to dinner, but for some reason she felt funny doing that.

  “A little stiff. I’ll be fine.” She motioned to the chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat. Are you still worried about that money? I can guarantee you that no one is going to come looking for it.”

  He shook his head and Tess saw conflicting emotions cross his features. As he sat, she noticed how tired he looked. Was this over the money? she wondered. It wasn’t as if he’d stolen it. There was something else going on.

  “No, it’s not the money. It’s . . .” He rubbed the back of his left hand with his right hand.

  “Wait a minute.” Tess got up and shut her door. She came back to her desk but didn’t go behind it. She leaned against the corner. “What is it, Pa—Oliver? You look as if someone died.”

  “You read people well, Chief. I imagine that’s why you’re good at your job. But it’s not a death; it’s . . .” He took a deep breath and seemed to gather himself before he met her gaze. “It’s, uh . . . it’s, well . . . Anna didn’t come home last night.”

  “Anna?” Tess stiffened. “What do you mean, she’s missing?” Was there something she’d missed in Anna, some private pain? Or were pastors just like everyone else, right down to marital troubles?

  “Yesterday she was late for supper. I tried to phone her, and I got a text instead of an answer.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket, tapped on it, and showed the phone to Tess.

  I need space. I’ll call you when I’m ready.

  She read it and frowned. “Sounds as if she needs a break.”

  He hiked one shoulder, a pained expression crossing his face. “This just isn’t like her. She doesn’t often text, doesn’t like it, thinks it’s too impersonal, and, uh . . . well, it’s odd. I’ve not heard a thing since this wee note.”

  Tess noted that stress was bringing out the accent. Her mother was the same way. Svetlana Babkin O’Rourke was of Russian descent, and the accent became thicker and peppered with Russian words and phrases when she was upset. Tess moved back behind her desk.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Yesterday at breakfast. I had a meeting in Medford with some other pastors for most of the day. When I got home last evening, there was no sign of her.”

  “It’s been a day and a little more; is it possible she does just need time?”

  He rubbed his brow. “Maybe. I mean, initially I did want to give her time. But to go this long without calling me?” He shook his head. “We are at a tough spot right now, but Anna is not one to give me the silent treatment.”

  Something clicked with Tess. “Is this about the cancer?”

  The pain was obvious as it rippled across his features. “I wasn’t sure how much she’d told you.”

  “Just that things didn’t look too good right now.” Tess remembered Anna sharing her struggle with cancer but looking so content and peaceful as she talked about it that she’d wondered if it was that serious.

  “The doctor is not optimistic, and Anna’s last conversation with him made her angry. I thought we’d sorted out the issue. She has, on occasion in the past, spent time alone in prayer, but this is something we should be dealing with together.”

  Tess had to think about that for a minute. She’d had one cancer scare in her past, but the mass on her ovary turned out to be benign. Her husband, Paul, wasn’t the one she leaned on. Her girlfriends were more supportive than he was. Paul was a pro at avoidance. It was never a topic of conversation between them. If it had been cancer, would he have been more involved? It surprised her the pain she felt when she thought probably not. Paul was never a shoulder to lean on. Was Oliver Macpherson?

  She leaned forward. “Was she angry with you for some reason? Is it possible she’s just with friends?”

  He met her gaze and hesitated a minute. “Her closest friends are here in the Hollow. She was angrier with God than she was with me.”

  Tess considered this. She understood “angry at God”—been there, done that. But it always helped to have someone real to vent to. She might come back to this topic, dig deeper, but for now she’d leave it. “I know you don’t have kids. Does she have any relatives in the area she might be with?”

  Tess thought she saw a wince as he shook his head again. “I’ve called her parents, been discreet. But now the worry is growing. The church does own a cabin in Union Creek. It’s possible she’s there . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Tess had been to Union Creek, about thirty minutes away. The cabins there had quite a history, built during the Depression by the conservation corps, rustic and cozy. But the area was a dead zone, no cell service. Would Anna go there for just that reason?

  She rubbed her chin and sat back, thinking. Rule #2: “Be fair, not emotional.” She’d spent more time with Anna than she had with anyone in this town, but did she really know her? Would she leave by herself overnight to pray? For that matter, Tess didn’t really know the pastor at all. Should he have been worried about his wife way before now?

  Bottom line, pastor or no, he could have chopped Anna up into little pieces and tossed her in the Rogue River for all she knew. But he seemed genuinely worried. None of her internal garbage detectors were going off. And really, what would she have told him if he’d come to her late last night or earlier this morning? No foul play. Give her time.

  “Do you have any of the find-a-phone apps on your phone?” She asked the question knowing that such an app wouldn’t matter in a dead zone.

  He sighed. “Afraid I’m not that gadget savvy.”

  “She have any enemies? Do you have any reason to think she’d be in danger?”

  “I don’t know a soul who ever had a cross word to say about Anna. She’s a gentle, well-liked person.”

  Tess considered that. Anna was probably the nicest perso
n she’d ever met in Rogue’s Hollow—or Long Beach, for that matter. “Did she leave on foot?”

  “No, she took her car.”

  “What about belongings?”

  “What?”

  “Belongings—did she take her purse, pack a bag? Are her clothes still home?”

  He looked befuddled for a moment. “Her purse is gone, but I didn’t think to look in the closet.”

  Tess stood. “Why don’t we go back to your house. I’ll take a look around and—”

  She paused when she heard a commotion in the outer office, voices raised, and then there was a rapid knock on the door. It flung open. It was Sheila, with a man behind her, a man Tess recognized but couldn’t place. He reminded her a bit of Deputy Chief Riggs, only older, and he was agitated, sweat glistening on his face.

  Sheila said, “Chief, sorry to interrupt, but we have a situation.”

  “What?”

  She glanced at Macpherson. Tess felt dread pierce her gut. What if Anna had been found and it wasn’t good?

  “Pastor, can you excuse us for a minute?”

  “Sure.” He nodded and got up and left the room.

  “Either I’ll send someone or I’ll be by your house as soon as I can,” Tess called after him as he left. She turned back to Sheila as she and the man stepped in.

  “Chief, I’m Arthur Goding. Not sure if you remember me from your swearing in, but I was fishing with Del Jeffers this morning.” He took a deep breath. Del was Tess’s senior patrol officer; he’d been a cop here the longest, twenty-five years.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve found his wife.” Tess feared the worst regarding Anna.

  Goding frowned. “What? No, I wasn’t looking for her. We were flagged down by some distraught hikers. They stumbled on a body. A dead body. Del is trying to keep the scene secure and the guys there for you to talk to. He sent me here to tell you. A murder, Chief, the first one ever around here from what I can remember. Some guy’s been shot.”

  14

  Tess grabbed the keys that she’d just hung on the peg in her office. The department-issued vehicle, a four-wheel-drive blue-and-white SUV, was getting a workout today. A lot of her territory was rural; in fact, most of the residential streets in Rogue’s Hollow were gravel, and she’d already been thankful for the four-wheel-drive capability. Her personal vehicle was a convertible sports car, a splurge she’d indulged in after her divorce became final. Shopping to ease the pain. The little red number had been fun in California, but it was out of place here, at least as far as her job went.