North by Northeast

by Cherime MacFarlane

  Hamish turned to glance at Lurch. "Lurch, if ye please, let's drop Glen at tha hotel. Then get me tae tha polis station if ye would. We'll see if I can get through it without ending up in tha slammer."

  Glen and Lurch both laughed. As far as Hamish was concerned, he wasn't making a joke.

  When they dropped Glen at the hotel, he took Hamish's small duffel bag with him. Hamish kept his passport and address book in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

  Rounding the corner of the street where the station sat, Lurch checked his watch and turned to Hamish. "Is it okay if I go pick up Thud while you're here?"

  "Aye. Ye may as well. No sayin how long the bloody' shites are goin tae fool around. Soon as I get out if ye're nae here, I'll walk tae the end of tha block, one side or tha other."

  "Got it. Later, man and good luck with the cops," Lurch said as he found a place to stop long enough to allow Hamish to exit the car.

  Anxiety caused his palms to sweat when Hamish pushed open the door of the police station. Thanks to Warren, he had the name of the detective supposedly in charge of the investigation. Lurch had already written it down for him. With the paper safely tucked away in his pants pocket, he asked for Detective R. Edwards.

  After explaining to the desk copper who he was, Hamish found a seat as directed. As expected, he was kept waiting for at least twenty minutes. Aggravation threatened to engulf him, making it difficult to sit still. Hands between his knees, Hamish forced himself to wait quietly.

  The detective walked down the hall and greeted him. Edwards was a fresh-faced man about Hamish's age. The man in the suit wasn't quite as tall as Hamish. Edward's medium brown hair was extremely short. The feeling he got from the detective was not reassuring. Edwards guided Hamish to what he recognized as an interrogation room. The other man motioned him to a seat.

  The inspector leaned back in his chair as he stared at Hamish. Edwards' brown eyes held the flat cop look Hamish suspected they all practiced. "How much insurance do you carry on your wife?"

  Hamish wondered if the top of his head would explode with the anger that spiked through his blood. He ground his back teeth together to keep from doing what Warren had warned him about. Hamish bit his good Scots tongue to avoid saying something which would cause him to land in the copper's bad book. Hamish rammed his fingers into his right thigh and squeezed hard.

  After taking a deep breath, he fought for control. "Are ye suggestin what I believe ye're implying?"

  "What do you believe I might be "implying" Mr. MacGrough?" Edwards injected just a bit of sarcasm into his pronunciation of the word "implying".

  Think! Go easy here! H.M. told himself. "I've tha feelin ye might be lookin at tha possibility I caused me wife harm."

  The urge to wrap his hands around the detective's neck was causing his fingers to twitch. Hamish laced his hands together in his lap. He tried to remain objective by telling himself Edwards' accusation was normal for the polis. Investigating all angles was necessary.

  He needed to tone down his brogue. Usually, he did not need to be around Americans for too long before he stopped being so Glaswegian. As angry and scared as he was, Hamish could hardly speak at all. The brogue only conveyed his bad case of nerves to the detective, it didn't communicate innocence. Hamish took a deep breath and spoke slower.

  "The mere hint that I might seek tae hurt my wife infuriates me. I happen tae love my wife and sincerely hope ye are investigating all possible avenues regarding her abduction. I will be happy tae give ye tha number of my personal solicitor in Glasgow. Ye may contact him an get any information ye desire. I hope ye are quite thorough. My wife is an internationally known artist. As such, she has had communications from nutters before, as have I."

  The chair came forward. "Why did you receive communications from "nutters"?" The detective looked at him questioningly.

  Hamish decided he hated cops more than he had previously. In the time this cop had to investigate, Hamish would already know everything about Lori and himself if he was a cop. Did the filth even care that a woman was kidnapped out of a posh hotel in his swamp of a city?

  The big question was, just how intelligent was this copper? Not everyone graduated at the top of the class. As he wondered just how far down in the pack this one had been, Hamish took out his wallet. Willing his fingers to be still, he drew out a business card and carefully handed it to Edwards.

  "WarLoch Productions. This is my company and that of Warren Hale, my partner. Tell me, detective, what sort of music do ye listen tae?"

  The detective put the card on top of his legal pad, glanced at it and looked back at Hamish. "Blues and country mostly, why?"

  He forced a smile. "Might ye have any knowledge of the band 'Bushmaster'?"

  "Yeah, they were a big deal in 1988. The band did a show here when I was still in uniform."

  "Heavy Metal MacGrough was tha keyboard player for Bushmaster. Heavy Metal is ah nickname. It's my nickname. Hamish and Heavy Metal MacGrough are one and tha same. I am also ah solo artist. I've ah platinum album of my own out. My yearly income is double that of my wife.

  "I've nae need of her insurance money. Point of fact, as I recall, I am tha only one insured at tha moment. As I travel for business ah great deal, should anything happen tae me, she is assured of being able tae maintain tha life style she presently enjoys."

  "Okay. All of this is verifiable, I assume?"

  "Aye, it assuredly is." Reaching into his jacket, he tugged out the address book. His other hand took the card back. A quick search produced the number which Hamish wrote on the back of the card.

  "Call my solicitor an verify tae yur heart’s content. So long as ye do so while continuing tae investigate Lori's disappearance. While yu're sitting here trying tae pin this on me, some nutter has my wife. Worse yet, he has made no demand for money. That fact, Detective, has me terrified."

  "It is odd. In fact, it's what was bothering me about the disappearance in the first place," Edwards nodded in agreement.

  "Tell me, what steps have ye taken so far tae investigate her disappearance?"

  When Edwards tried to protest his asking for information, Hamish held up a hand to silence him. "She is my whole world, detective. I demand tae know what ye know. If ye dinnae give me tha information, I guarantee I'll make life quite difficult for ye, down tae tha very last penny I possess."

  The other man glared at him. Eyes narrowed, Detective Edwards tapped on the pad. "So, you must think you're a real smart guy."

  "Nae, I dinnae think I'm ah smart guy. I'm ah distraught husband who's prayin ye know what ye're doing."

  "I wouldn't be a detective if I didn't know what I was doing."

  Hamish clamped his mouth shut. The thought crossed his mind that even a dead clock is right once a day. The detective was already irritated enough. If he wanted information, it was necessary to be civil.

  In the end, he found out Edwards suspected Lori had let the intruders in. There was no sign of forced entry. That supposition didn't surprise Hamish, having lectured her about being too trusting several times.

  With a sigh, Hamish ran one hand over his face. "Aye, well. She is often nae as careful as she should be. She doesnae see herself as ah target, or didnae believe herself such, until now."

  For some reason, Edwards relented and gave him what little facts they had. Hamish noted they were not aware of the disappearance of the other two artists. Reluctantly, he gave Edwards the information.

  Any hope H.M. might have held regarding Edwards' ability to conduct an investigation quickly enough to rescue Lori, had already died. He was ahead of them. Hamish meant to keep ahead of Edwards by whatever means necessary.

  Edwards was surprised by the other disappearances. As Hamish didn't have the paperwork from Warren with him, he kept the details he remembered to himself. They had more resources than he did. Let Edwards use them. The detective who had investigated Vincent's death was several cuts above Edwards. Hamish found he wished Fredrick were the detective in
charge, instead of Edwards.

  When he finished with the police, Hamish gratefully left the building. The rain had stopped as the copilot as anticipated. A hurried look down the sidewalk to his left revealed a parked car idling there. The rental car with Lurch in the driver's seat waited at the far end of the block. Head down and hands in his jeans pockets, he walked to the far corner of the street, where his friend waited. After getting into the car, Hamish leaned back into the seat with a sigh.

  Lurch launched right in. "Since I don't have to bail you out, things must have gone half-way decent. You and Thud are bunking together. Glen says to tell you he has something. The fridge is stocked with beer and ginger, and the scotch is waiting. Thud says he'll handle the food."

  Hamish grunted. "I'll fill ye all in together."

  Lurch fell silent after a quick look at his friend. With his head leaning back against the upholstery, Hamish used his right hand to lower the seat back. One thing Hamish always appreciated about Lurch was the man's ability to keep silent. The big man didn't need to be chattering.

  Someone put Thud in the same room with him. Hamish saw Warren's hand in the placement of room-mates. From North Ireland, Thud would understand the fury and desperation boiling through him better than either Lurch or Glen. Warren had chosen his babysitters well.

  "What's tha bloody time, Lurch?" His eyes burned from lack of sleep and felt gritty.

  "A little after 10:30 a.m."

  Eyes shut, he put an arm over his face to close out the light. Hamish breathed in a lungful and exhaled slowly to calm himself.

  Slow it down, lad. Easy now, you may have a distance to go. With a sigh, Hamish decided a prayer was in order.

  Ah, God, well here I am again. You know what I'm asking for. I'm not promising anything, I know better, but Sir, if you would see fit to let me have more time with her, I would be grateful.

  Lurch woke him with a slight shake of his arm. "We're at the hotel, man, time to wake up."

  "How long was I out?"

  "About fifteen minutes, just enough for a power nap. How you doing, H.M.?"

  "I've nae exploded yet."

  Lurch pried himself out of the driver's side. After handing the keys to the valet, he walked around the car. On reaching Hamish, he smacked him on the back and put an arm over his shoulder. "Keep up the good work."

  Hamish followed Lurch through the lobby and up to the third floor. When they entered the room, Thud immediately went over to Hamish to give him a one-armed hug. Thin and wiry, Bushmaster's drummer still looked like an escapee from a refugee camp.

  "Aye, boyo, this is an arseways reunion. I planned tae call ye, but no like this."

  With a nod and a mumbled greeting, Hamish disengaged himself from the drummer's hug. He grabbed a chair and pushed it up to the coffee table.

  "Believe me, Thud. If I had ah way tae change tha circumstances in any fashion, we'd be havin ah party instead."

  Glen sat on the couch with a pad of paper on his knee. The blond bass player, younger than the rest of the band by a few years, made notes on the pad. He had three sheets of paper lined up on the table top in front of him.

  A plate piled with different kinds of sandwiches sat on the end of the coffee table. Lurch walked over to the bar and inspected the inside of the fridge. The dark shirt with the picture of the snake and Bushmaster written underneath stretched across Lurch's chest.

  The tall rhythm guitar player glanced over at Hamish. "Beer or scotch?"

  "Beer, please, Lurch. I need tae keep it somewhat together. I'm feelin ah wee bit of tha jet lag."

  Lurch pulled a beer from the fridge, popped the cap and handed the bottle to Hamish.

  Glen looked up from the paperwork spread out in front of him. "What did the cops have to say?"

  Hamish took a long swig of the cold beer before responding. He needed to wash the bile down. Dealing with the polis always roiled his gut. "After tha bletherin detective got over accusing me of settin this up tae collect tha insurance money, well enough."

  Thud took a sandwich from the plate. "Roast beef, H.M.? Tha copper is ah gobshite eejit. Ah man with only one eye can see tha two of ye are besotted. Eat up, laddie."

  One bite of the sandwich helped, and Hamish discovered he was hungry. With a nod to the Irishman, he took another bite of the sandwich before speaking. "Good. Aye, and I had tae tell him about tha two artists who previously disappeared."

  Glen nodded. "I have five people who attended all the gallery openings. I called Warren. He got me addresses for all of them and some background stuff. Three of them are in the Santa Barbara area. One lives in San Francisco in a penthouse downtown. The other is an odd bird."

  "What do ye mean, an "odd bird"?" A slight chill caused the hair on his forearms to lift. Hamish put his beer down on the coffee table, licked his fingers, and reached for a napkin from the stack by the plate of sandwiches.

  "Well, he has a place right on the beach in Santa Monica, but he doesn't stay there much. The guy owns an estate near Cabo San Lucas, not to mention an office here in Seattle. But he mostly hangs out on a big schooner. Summers, he cruises the Pacific Northwest. When winter rolls around, he goes to Baja, California."

  Glen grabbed a sandwich off the pile. With his other hand, he located a sheet of paper which he pushed toward Hamish. A grainy copy of a newspaper picture slid across the table to him.

  After taking putting another chunk of sandwich in his mouth, Glen went on. "Warren's pet reporter found this. It's a picture the newspaper ran a couple of years back of the boat. The guy sent a copy to Warren by messenger. Warren faxed it over to the hotel office. It's a shitty copy, but that's a big vessel."

  Hamish picked up the picture and studied the ship. Taken at a distance, the photo wasn't clear. But it was easy to see the schooner was big enough to host a good sized party. With all sails set and pulling, the picture showed the rail-skimming the water. Something about the look of the schooner told H.M. this vessel was fast for a sailboat.

  After reclaiming the beer bottle from the coffee table, Hamish took another drink as he stared at the photo. Still concentrating on the picture, he addressed Glen. "Tell me of tha others."

  The younger man popped the last of the sandwich in his mouth, wiped his fingers on his jeans and reached for the tablet. "S. Theo Eddington. He's old money from his mother. The old guy is getting up there, late 60's. Warren says he's been collecting for most of his life, but his bag is usually sculpture."

  Hamish laid the picture on his upper thigh. Tilting the beer up, he took another swallow, then tipped the chair back on two legs. The photo sat across his leg. "Management prob'ly invited that one as he has money. They were hopin tae entice him intae makin ah purchase out of his usual scope."

  Glen looked up from his pad. "Yeah. You're probably right. Someone is always trying to interest one of us in something we have no inclination toward." He took a sip from his beer before making a check mark next to Eddington.

  "Now we come to Vera Tallings. I think she is more into collecting men than art. It seems she's had several husbands, and every last one was into some kind of art. I wonder why she even went to any of these things."

  Thud laughed. "Tae see and be seen, boyo. Tae see what sort of boy toys might be on offer."

  Glen looked up at Thud. "Have first-hand experience, do you?"

  With a wink, the Irishman replied, "Unfortunately. I worked ah couple of gigs as ah waiter for ah gatherin of tha rich an privileged in London. Several of those "ladies" would put ah sea eagle tae shame. Predatory as hell."

  Hamish nodded. "Tick that one off."

  Glen checked off Tallings. "That brings us to Mr. Sauave. From what I see here, he is more a male version of Ms. Tallings. There is no mention of any real art collection. Now Mr. Brown here is a different matter entirely."

  The young man tapped the name with the point of his pen. "He is absolutely into collecting. However, it seems he is more into major big-name artists."

  Hamish ran a finger ov
er the schooner in the picture. "That brings us back tae our odd one."

  "Yeah. Jeremiah Alden Day. No one is quite sure where he got his money. He just sort of came on the scene in the 70s. A real loner. Guy's dated a couple of the better-known models, but if he ever married, there's no mention of it Warren can find."

  Hamish finished the beer. In his head the lament overpowered everything else. He leaned forward to put the empty bottle on the table. "Whoever took Lori has been stalkin her for tha last four years. At tha time of the show in Marina Del Rey, Lori wasnae top tier. Tae me, it means we can rule Mr. Brown out. Which leaves the odd duck, Day."

  Lurch stood up and glanced over at Hamish. He stroked his short, dark brown beard for a moment. "I gotta make a phone call. Back in a few."

  The tall man walked out of the sitting room into the bedroom. Hamish's eyes followed him as Lurch shut the door behind him. With another sandwich in hand, Hamish ate as he absently ran one slim finger down the picture of the schooner still balanced on his thigh.

  The bedroom door Lurch had retreated behind held his attention. Hamish's body and mind were in the place he often found himself before performing, his senses were all on alert. Any moment, he expected to hear the cue.

  Then Lurch emerged. He walked over to the couch and took up a position behind Glen. "I called some people. I've got a few contacts who like to keep low profiles. Day made his money down and dirty. He's a bad guy to cross, nasty fucker."

  Lurch's hands gripped the back of the sofa. "Sorry, H.M., but getting Lori away for him and keeping her are two really different matters. I hear you have to put him all the way down. It's either the gray bar hotel forever or six feet under. There's no choice."

  "Jaysus!" Thud murmured.

  As Hamish surged to his feet, the chair slid backward and the picture of Day's schooner floated to the floor. Hamish turned away from his three friends. God knew he did not wish to kill anyone. He tried to keep the dark part of him under control. This time, he must unleash the demon. The knife in his boot proved to him his intuition had been correct. He sensed this would hurt. One could not kill without the act taking a portion of the person performing the deed. Needs must.