Fatal Fall

by Diane Capri

  She considered asking Charlene what she was so interested in but decided against it.

  Charlene made one last note on her clipboard, her writing slow and deliberate. Peter David Whiting’s birth date. Charlene drew a line across the page. Separating the date from the rest of the page. Clarifying the most important detail.

  Jess clicked her phone off. Charlene stared at the screen. Jess placed her phone in the tub.

  Charlene nodded slowly. She looked at the clipboard. “I’d better go.” She didn’t move.

  Jess leaned forward. “You okay?”

  Charlene tucked the clipboard under her arm, picked up the tub, and cleared her throat. “I’ll be back. Couple of minutes.”

  But she didn’t come back. It was Officer Gardner who returned a few minutes later to escort Jess to her cell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The police station had two cells. Neither of them looked heavily used. Gardner placed Jess in the first one.

  Someone had etched a stylized CK into the polished sheet of metal that did duty as an unbreakable mirror above the sink. Jess doubted Calvin Klein had ever heard of Randolph, let alone stopped by the police station to leave his famous initials.

  The bedclothes were freshly laundered and left folded on the mattress. She took exaggerated care unfolding them and making the bed.

  In a metal cup by the sink, she found a plastic-wrapped toothbrush and toothpaste. Through the thick glass of a narrow window, she could see it was twilight outside. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes to think.

  An hour later, Gardner returned with her dinner. A sandwich, a bag of plain chips and a bottle of water on a tray. She ate the sandwich and chips and drank half of the water, keeping the rest for later.

  She slept poorly and woke early, the questions she had wanted to ask Nelson rolled around the edge of consciousness. She visualized her trip from Randolph to Bamford to Vashon.

  Nelson said three pieces of evidence had led him to arrest her. Her visit to the Whiting house in the morning, the hotel key, and the green jacket.

  She sat up in bed, leaning against the wall, and pulled the bedclothes up around her knees. She had visited the Whitings’ place. She’d talked to Urso. She’d dropped her bag twice when the buckle came loose. The key must have fallen out at the house.

  The green jacket had been seen at the fire. But the jacket wasn’t unique. There had been several on the rack when she’d bought it, and with mass production, there had to be thousands across the country. Miller would make short work of that issue.

  But the timing was tight. That’s what bothered her. She rubbed her forehead. She’d bought the jacket in the morning, and by the afternoon, it was already being used as evidence against her.

  Officer Gardner knocked on the door and entered the cell, holding another tray. Two breakfast burritos wrapped in silver foil and a paper cup of coffee. She took the tray.

  “More coffee if you want,” he said.

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  He stared at her, his eyes a fraction wider than normal. She realized she had just said her first words in twelve hours.

  “You know, if you’ll take some advice, you may not have burned down the Whiting place, but you don’t need to be here. We’ll figure out what’s happened, but it might be better for you if you left town. No need to tempt fate. You know?”

  She said nothing, and Gardner locked the door as he left.

  She breathed in the steam from the coffee. Her senses tingled at the smell, like an addict craving a caffeine fix. The fast food place must have been close by because the coffee was piping hot. She ate one of the burritos. The coffee was still too hot to drink, so she finished her second burrito, and licked her lips. The burritos were surprisingly good.

  The coffee had finally reached drinking temperature. She huddled on the bed, her back against the wall, and sipped on the restorative black liquid.

  The green coat. The last straw that had led to her arrest. She’d bought it in the resale shop, and promptly driven to Bamford. She’d worn the coat at the Whitings’ place. Urso saw it and her. There was only one more person who might have seen her wearing the coat. She couldn’t be sure, but Gardner looked awfully similar to the officer who had tailed her into Bamford.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Randolph, Washington

  Wednesday, September 28

  8:00 a.m. Pacific Time

  Officer Gardner returned with another paper cup of coffee. Jess didn’t speak. She sipped her way through it. An hour had passed before she heard another knock.

  When the door opened this time, Nelson stood there. Behind him, she recognized Roger Miller, Taboo Magazine’s outside legal counsel. Nelson opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Miss Kimball, you’re free to go.”

  She looked at Miller and raised her eyebrows. He nodded.

  She turned to Nelson. “So, I’m a free citizen again?”

  Nelson nodded.

  She leveled a steely gaze in his direction. “What did you find out?”

  Nelson crossed his arms. “You drove to Point Defiance, took the ferry to Vashon, and talked to Mr. Joseph Sandler. After that, you drove, by my estimation, directly back here.”

  “No time for a spot of arson somewhere in all of that?”

  “Arson is no joking matter.”

  She sighed. “Of course it’s not. I’m sure you’ll find the arsonist. I’m sorry for the Whitings. As you’ve said, they’ve been through enough.”

  Nelson nodded.

  “What about the dates I showed you?” she said. “The Whitings are not Peter’s biological parents. There’s no question about it.”

  “You might have stumbled onto something.” He shook his head. “There is an inconsistency that we can’t yet explain. But we don’t have the whole picture.”

  “We can definitely agree on that.”

  “Getting that picture is a police matter.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I know you think you could have a personal interest in the boy.” Nelson pressed his lips into a thin line and blew air out of his nose. “But there certainly is a boy clinging to life, and his loved ones are grieving.”

  “And someone burned their house down.” Jess nodded. “Something is going on here, Nelson, and I’m as entitled to know the truth about that boy as anyone.”

  Nelson said nothing.

  “So, you’re not going to tell me anything more?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing to tell you at the moment. Unfortunately.”

  She smiled flatly. “Time to go then.”

  She collected her things at the front desk. Miller shook hands with Nelson.

  Charlene Mackie watched as Miller followed Jess outside.

  Miller gestured to his rental car. She sat in the passenger seat and thumped the door shut. He drove down the road about half a mile, pulled into a gas station, and left the engine running.

  “Carter is worried about you, Jess. He asked me to make sure you’re okay here.” Miller frowned. “This isn’t the kind of case you usually work on. And you’re too emotionally involved. How can I help you?”

  Jess swiped both hands through her hair. She really needed a shower. “I’m not sure what’s going on here. That boy is definitely not John and Barbara Whiting’s biological son if the birth certificate is accurate.”

  Miller said, “Which opens up the possibility he could be yours. DNA testing would help, but given the boy’s status and the information you’ve found, getting consent would not be easy or quick.”

  “I recovered a rock with his blood on it from where he fell. I’ll get the results in a couple of days.”

  “Might give you personal assurance, but it’ll be difficult in court.”

  “So? Even if he’s not my son, there’s still something wrong with this picture.”

  “A couple bringing up a child that is not theirs biologically? Happens all the time. Nothing necessarily illegal.”

  She jerked her
thumb toward the police station. “They just arrested me on the flimsiest of evidence for burning down the parents’ house. That doesn’t happen all the time.”

  Miller nodded. “True, but they did their work and released you. Nelson is a good man. You can trust him.”

  “You think so?”

  Miller took a deep breath. “I looked him up. In case we needed leverage on the guy. He’s an orphan. Left at a fire station when he was a couple of months old. Lived his life in an orphanage until he went into the police academy straight from high school. Philly. Well respected. Took on difficult cases in the worst parts of town. Right up until two of his buddies got killed in a hostage situation.

  “One of my contacts tells me he went to pieces. His wife insisted on the move out here. They left a lot of friends behind, but it probably saved him from himself.”

  “In what way?”

  “His buddies said they were worried he might eat his gun.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “So, he’s protecting the child at all costs,” she said. “I can understand that. But if Peter’s my son? I can’t stop until I know. Surely you understand that?”

  “I do. And I’m sure he does, too.” Miller drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “But stay within the law, Jess. The last thing you want is to discover that boy is yours, only to have a court decide you’re unfit to be his legal guardian.”

  Miller’s advice was solid. Jess would have offered the same advice to anyone else. “I’ll call you if I need anything more, Roger.” She placed a hand on his arm. “And really, I appreciate you coming all the way out here. I’ll do my best not to need rescuing again.”

  “I’ll tell Carter you’re doing fine.” Miller grinned. He drove her back to the Randolph Police Station and dropped her off at her car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Jess drove to The Montpelier Hotel. The big man with the white beard was at the reception desk. He stared at her. She didn’t know if he was just curious about where she had been all night, or if he knew she’d been in jail. Randolph was a small town, and she was a mini-celebrity. The news probably traveled fast.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my key.”

  “You’ll need to find it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Our keys are expensive replicas of the originals, Miss Kimball.”

  “I’m sorry. But I’ve lost it for sure. I’ll pay for a second one. But I need to get into my room, please.”

  “Wait here.” He shook his head. “I’ll be back.”

  A few minutes later he returned with a second key. “I’ll add the cost to your final invoice.”

  She went up to her room and showered. She called for room service, but the kitchen was having problems, and she had to settle for coffee. When it arrived, it was a single cup and just lukewarm. She downed it anyway.

  Nelson might have been doing what he thought was the right thing. The coat might have been a stupid coincidence. There was no denying the fact that someone had burned the Whiting house down. But who and, more importantly, why?

  Nelson didn’t know Jess from Adam. Until he finished thoroughly checking out her movements yesterday, circumstantial evidence would be enough to keep her on the list of suspects. In Jess’s mind, though, the motive for the crime most likely pertained to the Whitings. But she dismissed the Whitings as suspects. If they had been caring for Peter all these years, why burn down their house now? Then again, if Peter wasn’t really theirs, someone could have a definite ax to grind.

  There was only one answer—Peter’s fall. Either it had moved him into the limelight and, perhaps, stirred old grudges. Or what he had been doing was important.

  She gazed across the perfect green lawn.

  What had Peter been doing?

  She checked the map on her phone and found Randolph Path, the trail that ran alongside Meisner’s property. It began on the eastern edge of town and ran for three or four miles, only a mile of which looked to be on Meisner’s land. Still, a mile was an awful lot of land. Randolph Path terminated near a cluster of terraced houses.

  She brought up a satellite picture on her phone. There were several parallel rows of homes. A paved road ran down the length of each row, with sidewalk spurs leading to each front door. There were no driveways. At the end of the road, she saw a final line of buildings which looked like a separate garage block.

  She stared at the layout. She’d seen it before in New York and other cities where land was scarce and expensive. It was the most efficient packaging. The optimum density that could be achieved without building a high-rise. In New York, it was expected. But in the rolling fields of Washington State, it looked incongruous. A label on the map indicated the area was called Sunshine Estates.

  A few minutes later, she rolled out of the hotel parking lot and headed east, toward the entrance to Randolph Path.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jess stopped on a side road, locked the car, and put on her jacket. There was a bus stop on the main road not far away. If the boy had taken the bus from Bamford, he could have easily found the lane from that stop.

  The entrance to the trail was between two houses. The path was paved for the first fifty feet, and then it progressed into the woods and turned into a country trail. It headed away from the houses and the road, snaking around in a curve. She crossed a modern wooden bridge that ran over a tiny stream. The width and height of the bridge suggested the water became more than a stream at certain times of the year.

  The light through the trees waxed and waned. From time to time, she could see the edge of the woods. After a few minutes, she spotted the manor house. She took pictures with her phone, noting the curve of the hill and the barely visible rooftops of the stables behind the house.

  The trail widened into a clearing, a hole in the uniform woods. There were saplings and long grass, and the trail clearly continued to an exit, fifty feet away on the far side. She stuck to the path, and in a few more minutes arrived at the tree. Exertion made her hot under the jacket. She undid the zipper and flapped the sides to cool off.

  The undergrowth around the tree had retained its trampled look, but the grass and weeds were recovering from the experience. In a few days, there would be no sign left of the tragedy.

  The tall grass slapped at her boots as she worked her way from the path to the tree. The ankles of her jeans grew wet with the dew and the damp.

  She pushed through the trees and undergrowth to the edge of the woods. She pulled back some branches. The Meisner house was there, lit by weak streams of sunlight. Straight up the hill, the front almost facing her. There were no people milling around today and no horses. Only a dark blue Cadillac parked by the side entrance.

  Around the back, she knew there were more buildings. She pulled out her phone and studied the pictures she’d taken. She zoomed in. Two buildings. A large stable and another building further away. She held up her phone and tried to imagine the view from forty feet up. She looked back at the tree. Even from four stories up, the view of the rest of the estate wouldn’t be any better than she’d seen earlier on the trail.

  She put her phone in her pocket. On the top floor of the house, something moved. She stared. A window. The square of glass had flashed white and back to black. As if a curtain had been drawn, or someone had retreated from view. She was too far away to be sure. As she lowered her gaze, she glimpsed a flash. A glint. Light glancing off a hard surface. She stared at the window. Nothing moved. No colors changed. There were no more flashes. There was no one there.

  She walked back to the tree, and surveyed the area of trampled grass. She worked her way through the grass, sweeping it from side to side with her foot.

  The broken tree limb had been pushed into the undergrowth. The branch was thick. The broken end was yellowing with exposure to air. A long strip of bark curled around the yellow gash, pulled away when the limb separated from the tree. She ran her hand around the circumference of the break. It was substantial. Strong. She s
ighed. Peter Whiting couldn’t have been unluckier.

  She turned back to her car. All she had learned were negatives. He had climbed the tree for a reason, but it was hard to believe that reason was to see the Meisners’ land. He could have done that anywhere along the trail without the risks of climbing so high into that particular tree.

  She walked through the clearing and back into the woods on the other side. The ground was soft. It made walking harder than usual. Her calves ached. It was a familiar ache. She liked the feeling of her muscles burning. She never had enough time to become a regular at a gym, so exercise during her day was a good thing.

  She unzipped her waterproof jacket. The morning’s clouds had held their rain in abeyance. She slipped the jacket from her shoulders and wiped her hand across her forehead. Despite the cool air, she was sweating. She sat on a fallen tree trunk. The woods were thick and quiet. Leaves were falling from the deciduous trees, leaving a patchwork of deep greens and bare branches.

  There was something else, too. Her skin tingled. Her heart missed a beat. Forty feet away. Between the tree trunks. She cursed herself for leaving her Glock in the car.

  Staring at her through the thorny undergrowth was a pair of eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The eyes were side by side. Pointing forward. A predator.

  Jess moved slowly. She brought the jacket up in front of her. It would work well as a shield. She flexed her feet in her boots. Checking they were tight. She eased off the tree trunk. The eyes kept up their stare, lit by the thinnest of leaf-filtered light. She took a step along the trail. There was no movement in the bushes. She took a deep breath, her mouth open, and walked on. Slow steps. Putting her weight down deliberately. Avoiding broken branches. Keeping to the quiet of bare earth.

  She walked, and the angles changed. She lost sight of the eyes but kept track of the bushes where they had been. She alternated, looking back and looking forward. Keeping up her breathing, keeping herself oxygenated in case she needed to run. She scanned the trail and the bushes to either side.