The Lovely Wicked Rain: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series)

by Scott William Carter

"Buddy," Brisbane warned, "you're in no position to make demands."

  "I got this," Quinn admonished his detective. Then, to Gage, he continued in a low, flat voice: "When we went to MacDonald's house, we found them murdered in the living room—stabbed to death. We also found that MacDonald had a security camera mounted on the side of his house and pointed at his drive. The tape clearly shows that you were the last person to show up at his house. The only person that day, in fact."

  "That doesn't mean I killed them! I already told you I was there! Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?"

  "We also found a knife on the road by your van. It has blood on it. I'm guessing forensics will match that blood to the victims."

  Now it was immediately clear to Gage what was happening. He was being framed. He was so out of it after the van crashed that he must not have heard the Hummer returning and dropping the knife.

  "The security footage," he said. "Did it show anyone earlier? Maybe not the same day, but earlier in the week?"

  "There was only one day's tape there. The rest were gone."

  "Gone? You mean someone stole them?"

  "Or maybe MacDonald only keeps one day's worth, who knows. Come on, let's go. Meloy, make sure you get his cane." He raised a stern finger toward Karen. "We're not done with you either. Still sorting out whether you were part of this or not."

  Quinn took Gage by the arm and guided him toward the door. Gage, over his shoulder, told Karen not to worry, this would be sorted out soon, and he was out of the room before she mustered a response. The clerk behind the counter, a black man with graying hair, gaped at them, as did the nurse and the old man she was helping into a wheelchair. To Gage, it felt like more people than that. It felt as if the whole town was gaping at him, thinking, Good riddance, we didn't want you here anyway. In that moment, it didn't just feel like the driver of the Hummer was out to get him. It felt as if the whole city of Barnacle Bluffs had turned against him.

  "This is crazy," Gage said. "Think about this. Why would I kill them and then tell you to go back and talk to them?"

  "I haven't thought that far ahead," Quinn said.

  "The killer never expected me to send you back there," Gage said. "And why take the earlier tapes but leave the one that incriminates me?"

  "We also had a complaint on you," Quinn said.

  "What? From who?"

  "Security at the college called in. They said you two were prowling around the campus earlier tonight. When they told you that you had to leave, they said that you displayed aggressive behavior."

  "Like hell!"

  "Yeah, it was totally out of character for you."

  "This is insanity."

  "It is what it is," Quinn said.

  They left the hospital and walked into the dark parking lot, Quinn guiding him by the elbow, Brisbane and the young cop behind them. The air felt even heavier than earlier, hitting his face like a damp paintbrush. He could sense a storm coming, a big one. Quinn directed him to an unmarked police car, no lights on top but still a rabbit cage in the back. A regular police cruiser was parked next to it. Quinn took off the handcuffs, then refastened them so that Gage could wear them with his hands in his lap rather than behind him. He opened the back door, and Brisbane, obviously enjoying himself immensely, was a bit rough as he positioned Gage into the backseat.

  "You ride back with Officer Reginald," Quinn said to Brisbane.

  "Sir?" Brisbane said.

  "Do as I say. I'll be behind you shortly."

  Brisbane shrugged and slammed the door, then went with the young cop. Gage, still handcuffed, locked in the back of a police cruiser that didn't even have door handles, didn't think escape was an option even if he was so inclined—which he wasn't. This was all going to get sorted out, the evidence was too flimsy to keep him, but knowing how slowly the wheels of justice turned, that might be weeks or even months. By then, whoever had killed Connor Fleicher—as well as MacDonald and his friend—would be long gone. Quinn climbed in the police cruiser, glancing over his shoulder at Gage. His face, through the thick metal mesh, was inscrutable. Still, Gage took hope from the fact that Quinn had specifically asked to ride with Gage alone.

  "No funny stuff," he said.

  "Listen to me," Gage said. "You know I didn't do this. You know this is a mistake."

  "What I know," Quinn said, "and what the law compels me to do are not always the same thing."

  "Come on. You've got to admit, this looks like a frame job."

  "Yep. I won't argue with you there."

  "But you're still going to throw me in jail?"

  "Got to," he said.

  He started the car. While they sat there, the engine idling, Gage raced through some way to persuade Quinn to let him go. He felt as if all the puzzle pieces were on the table in front of him; he just didn't know what the puzzle was supposed to be, so he didn't even know where to begin.

  Quinn gestured for Brisbane and the other cop to leave. They did, and yet still Quinn waited in the parking lot with the engine idling.

  "What are you doing?" Gage said.

  "Waiting," Quinn said.

  "Waiting for what?"

  "Waiting for them to leave."

  "Why?

  After the cruiser finally left, Quinn put his car in gear and slowly eased out of the spot. He took his time about it. The odd behavior made Gage uneasy. For a moment, he was struck with the wild possibility that somehow Quinn himself was behind the murders. Certainly being the chief of police gave him all sorts of power and leverage that ordinary people didn't have. When they reached the road, instead of turning right, which would have led straight to the police station, Quinn turned left, which was the long way around the lake, back to Highway 17, the road that led back to the Willamette Valley.

  "You're going the wrong way," Gage said.

  "I'm going the long way. We'll double back along the highway and come into town that way."

  "Why?"

  "Maybe I just like the scenic route."

  Gage felt a prickle of fear along his spine. He envisioned the chief pulling into an empty lot behind the lake and putting a bullet in Gage's head. This nutty theory lasted only for a few seconds before Gage, realizing the absurdity of it all, discarded the idea. What could the motive possibly be? The idea of a cop being involved, though, stirred something in the recesses of his mind. There was something he was missing. It was staring him in the face.

  "I know you didn't do it," Quinn said.

  "What?"

  "Might seem funny, me taking you in, but the law's the law. I just wanted to have you alone for a few minutes. You know some things you're not telling me. Maybe you don't want them officially out in the open, but I figured I'd give you the ride to the station to let me in on what you know. You might not be my favorite person in the world, Gage, but I have no desire to throw you in prison. At least not yet."

  "Believe me," Gage said, "if I had any critical information that could convince you I'm not in on this, I'd tell you."

  "Well, let's start with any information. I figure you have about five minutes, and that's if I drive slow."

  "And if I say I want to talk to my lawyer first?"

  "Then I drive a lot faster," Quinn said.

  "That's what I figured. "

  "Why were you prowling around the college earlier tonight?"

  "I wasn't prowling," Gage said.

  "Why were you there at all?"

  "I was thinking about taking a philosophy class."

  "Gage, this is serious."

  "So is philosophy. Especially Immanuel Kant. Very serious guy."

  "I'm rethinking my generosity of spirit here."

  "How do I know you're not involved? A minute ago, I thought you were going to drive me out to the woods and shoot me in the head. That's just as crazy an idea."

  "We're going to be at the station in two minutes."

  Gage sighed. "Someone at the college was involved with Connor and Jeremiah in some way. They corresponded on a science-ficti
on message board online. They used a handle, so I don't know who they are, but they sent the message from the college. We got a message earlier tonight, and since there's not a lot of people on campus right now, that really narrows it down. So it would have to be someone … have to be …"

  There it was, what he'd been missing. Maybe it was giving voice to the crazy idea that Quinn was involved, but his mind finally made the link.

  "Campus security," he said.

  Chapter 20

  They were nearly to Highway 17 when Gage made his realization. Through the gaps in the firs, Gage saw the lights on the far side of Big Dipper Lake shining like low-lying stars.

  "Campus security?" Quinn said. "What are you talking about?"

  "Jantz," Gage said. "You said campus security called in a complaint on me. Was it this guy Jantz?"

  "Patrick Jantz, yeah," Quinn said. "He grew up in town, been here forever. He's the head of—"

  "I know who he is. What time did he call it in?"

  "What difference would that make?"

  "Was it before or after the Hummer tried to push me off the road?"

  "I suppose it must have been after. Not long after, though."

  "But definitely after?"

  "Yeah. I didn't hear about his call until I was already on my way to see MacDonald."

  "Don't you see?" Gage said. "Once he'd realized that his original plan of running me off the cliff didn't work, he wanted to make me look even more suspicious as a murder suspect. Otherwise, why would he wait so long?"

  "Maybe he just got busy. Maybe he was in the can. I don't know."

  "Let's go to his place," Gage said. "Ask him some questions. He seemed like the sort of guy who might break under pressure, especially after the kind of night he had."

  "Right now?"

  "No, I thought we'd stop at the Dairy Queen for a sundae first. Of course right now!"

  "Are you nuts? You're under arrest! I can't take you anywhere but the station. And anyway, your idea is pretty flimsy. If I didn't know better—scratch that, I do know better—I'd say you're just grasping at straws, hoping to delay the inevitable."

  "It's not flimsy at all," Gage said. "It makes perfect sense. Who else would know that the security camera in the dormitory wasn't working? Or maybe even make sure that it wasn't? Who would have easy access to Connor's room? Who would know just how to get in and out to kill Connor without being seen? And that drawing pad that Berry Fleicher wanted—why was he so resistant to getting it for me? It's not because he knew something was in it that incriminated him. It's because he didn't. It was an unknown. A wild card."

  Quinn was silent. He took the exit off Highway 17, merging onto Highway 101. They passed the Safeway and, a block behind the grocery store but looming like the top of a huge barrel, the Golden Eagle Casino. The strip of lights along the roof glowed like a parade of fireflies in the darkness. Inside, even at this late hour, people were gambling away their life savings. Gage knew from his early years playing poker, as he put himself through college back in Montana, what it felt like to bet big on a small stack, when your back was against the wall and one more loss would mean washing out of the game. He felt the same now.

  As if in answer to this thought, rain began to pelt the windshield. It started as a few drops as big as quarters smacking against the glass, but this only lasted a few seconds before it turned into a deluge. Quinn turned on the windshield wipers, but this barely made a difference. It was like driving through a waterfall. Quinn slowed the car to a crawl. At least it gave Gage a little more time. Maybe his luck wasn't all bad.

  "Five minutes," Gage said.

  "What's that?"

  "Five minutes! That's all I ask."

  From the back, Gage saw Quinn shake his head.

  "You said you knew I was innocent," Gage said, raising his voice to be heard over the roar. "Can't you at least give me this one last chance to prove it?"

  "You're definitely not innocent," Quinn said. "There's nothing innocent about you. But guilty of killing MacDonald and Kelton? No, I don't think so."

  "Then let's go see Jantz."

  "Gage—"

  "Five minutes."

  The rain was so intense, a tsunami coming down on the roof, that Quinn was forced to pull the car over to the side of the highway, parking by the curb in front of a closed coffee shop. No cars passed. A red neon Donuts sign was barely readable through the sheet of water, as if the letters had been warped and bent. They waited out the storm, Quinn tapping the steering wheel. Finally, after an ocean had been dumped on Barnacle Bluffs and little rivers ran alongside the highway, overflowing the gutters and carrying debris under the streetlamps, the rain eased up to only a downpour.

  "Motive," Quinn said. "I need some kind of motive here. Why would he do it?"

  "I can't give it to you yet. I don't know."

  "Then we're going to the station."

  "Chief! I'm telling you everything I know."

  "I don't think so. I think you're still holding something back. You really think this was about some kind of science-fiction message board? What was really going on? Jeremiah and Connor were wrapped up in something, and it got Connor killed. And now Jeremiah won't talk, so he's afraid of something. Exposing somebody."

  "Maybe he's protecting his family," Gage said. "Maybe he's afraid somebody will hurt them if he comes out with the truth."

  "But what truth?"

  "I wish I knew." And then, seeing the light dim in Quinn's eyes, he added, "It's got to be obvious to you that they were both gay, right?"

  "It crossed my mind," Quinn said.

  "At first, I thought that was all Jeremiah was trying to keep secret. That he and Connor were having an affair. But to go to jail just to keep that secret, when it's pretty obvious to anyone who knows them what their sexual preference was? I don't think so. It's more than that. Jeremiah found Connor dead. He was so distraught, he picked up the gun, probably in a daze. He decided to kill himself."

  "I'm with you so far," Quinn said. "Not that I buy it, but it's one theory."

  "Why did someone kill Connor? To keep him quiet. There was something going on at the college, something that involved MacDonald and Jantz. Connor found out about it. Maybe Jeremiah doesn't even know. All he knows is that his friend is dead and he wants to die. Maybe he doesn't have anything to tell us at all. Only I don't buy that either."

  "Why is that?" Quinn asked.

  "Because he confessed to a murder he didn't commit. Someone really does have leverage over him. And since he's not protecting Connor, then I have to believe he's protecting someone else—maybe his parents, like I said. Come on, Chief. Let's go see Patrick Jantz. Rattle his cage a little."

  The rain slowed. The rivers pouring into the gutters turned into streams. Quinn, with a deep sigh, tapped the steering wheel three times, as if to a beat, then nodded. The road ahead was drivable, even if nobody would be going out for a pleasure cruise in it.

  "All right, five minutes," he said. He reached for his radio. "I'll have dispatch give me his address."

  "One more thing," Gage said. "You need to take off my handcuffs."

  "What?"

  "And sit up front with you."

  "No. Out of the question."

  "Chief," Gage said, "this isn't going to work if Jantz thinks I'm in custody. It's only going to work if he thinks we're showing up together to ask him questions."

  "No."

  "You know I'm right," Gage said.

  "Just no."

  "Then take me to the station. It won't work otherwise."

  Quinn leveled the kind of menacing stare at Gage that wasn't at all neighborly. This was the real Quinn, the hardened cop underneath, the guy nobody wanted to face in a dark alley. It was in those rare moments when Quinn showed his real self that Gage knew the grandfather act was just a way to get people to lower their defenses so Quinn could get a better read on them. Gage was more than happy to allow Quinn to get a read on him. For once, he really had told Quinn everything he kne
w, so there was nothing to hide.

  Grinning, he raised the handcuffs.

  * * *

  They didn't have far to drive. It turned out that Jantz lived three blocks away, in a shabby little duplex within spitting distance of the casino. A red Ford Ranger, twenty years old with a rusty bumper, was parked in the spot on the left. The spot on the right was empty. Closed curtains hid both duplexes from view, but the main front window of the place on the left was rimmed with light, made hazy by the steady downpour.

  "He rent or own?"

  "Own."

  "He lives in the one on the left? With the Ford Ranger?"

  "Yep."

  "Who's renting the other one?"

  "I have no idea. Does it matter?"

  Gage didn't answer. He found it hard to believe that somebody who had something big to hide would live in a duplex with only a thin wall separating him from a nosy neighbor. The rain pelted the overgrown rhododendron bushes, flattened the tall grass, and drained into the cracks along the sidewalks out front. On the side, in the narrow gap between the chain-link fence and the tall laurel bushes separating the duplex from the white cottage next door, were a couple of mountain bikes without wheels and the kind of exercise machine, with metal wires and weights in strange places, that was probably bought while watching a late-night infomercial.

  "Remember," Quinn said, "I do the talking."

  "You do the talking," Gage said.

  "Don't make me regret I took those cuffs off."

  "What fun would that be?"

  "Gage—"

  "I'll be a perfect Boy Scout. Promise."

  They got out of the car and quick-stepped up the cracked driveway to the little overhang over the stoop on the left, Gage lurching because he didn't have his cane. They were only out in the rain a few seconds, but even so, Gage's hair was flattened and soaked, the water so cold it bit at his ears. It crackled like popcorn against both of their jackets. On their way, he saw the curtains part just a little, not enough to see someone inside but enough to know that someone was inside, looking at them, sizing them up. It was exactly what Gage was hoping would happen—and why it was so important that he not be wearing cuffs.