Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  "That's all right," she replied. "I think I'll manage."

  She looked at her watch. It was approaching eight-thirty. A decision was about to be made, one way or the other. Either she got up soon and went out to the docks, or it would be entirely too late to do so and she would have missed her opportunity.

  "So, have you eaten already?" Iain looked around for a waiter. "We could grab a bite here or—"

  "Look," Maggie interrupted. "I can't really do this right now. I have to go."

  Iain was surprised. "Go? Where?"

  "Out," was the curt reply.

  "Out?" Iain's brow creased as he looked out the darkened window. "But it's dark out now. You shouldn't be out alone in the dark. Not with that madman on the loose. Did you hear, another girl was killed Wednesday night?"

  Maggie looked him right in the face and tried not to smack him across it. "Yes," she said flatly, "I know."

  "Well, then," Iain stood up. "Let me come with you."

  Maggie smiled. A weak, tired smile. "No. That's all right, Iain. Thanks anyway. I'll be all right."

  It was one thing to drag Iain to Glenninver and the stone circles. A little local interest. Doing the tourist thing. Easy enough to explain.

  "No, really. I'll come along."

  "No, really, Iain. Thank you anyway."

  It's entirely different to be slinking around back alleyways and seedy nightclubs looking for fragments of some dead girl's hair or clothes. And anyway, if I do find something, I'll need privacy to do the divining spell.

  "I insist." Iain crossed his arms.

  "No, Iain." Her tone was flat but firm. She was really just too stressed out for this. He need to back off.

  "I'm coming with you." It was a challenge as much as a statement.

  Maggie had had it. She had tried to be nice. She had tried to spare his feelings. But there was no way in hell Iain was coming along with her while she tried to track down the body and belongings of a girl murdered at the Aberdeen docks.

  "No!" she barked back.

  Iain's brows raised and his eyes shot around to see whether anyone else had noticed Maggie's shout. They had.

  "Look, here, Iain Grant! You are not coming with me! I am my own person, and I don't need you to chaperone my every move!"

  Iain raised his hands gently in an effort to get her to lower her voice, but it was too late.

  "And you don't own me just because of one stupid kiss! Now, just back off, okay?!"

  Iain just stared at her, dumbstruck.

  "Okay?!" she demanded.

  "Okay."

  "Good!" She was angry, and now she was angry at herself for yelling like that. And angry at Iain again for making her have to. Why couldn't he have just left her alone that night? Why couldn't he have just taken no for an answer? She just needed to get out of there. Without a further word, she stormed out the door into the cold black Aberdeen night.

  Iain Grant stared after her, wondering what exactly had just happened. Then he looked around the pub. He noticed some of the lads in the back pointing at him and having a good laugh. He could feel the blood rush to face in embarrassment. And anger. He hadn't deserved that. He was just trying to be nice. To protect her. And she went off and embarrassed him like that? She ought not to have done that.

  "I could use a pint over here," he called out to the bartender.

  "I expect you could, mate," chuckled the bartender and he turned to pour Iain his beer, stopping to say something to one of the busboys who then laughed and looked over at Iain.

  She really ought not to have done that.

  47. Action

  "Are you sure this will work?" Willis' voice was hushed, but not quite enough so.

  "Yes," was Warwick's one word reply.

  They sat in an unmarked car just a few hundred feet up the road from the tree where she had found the key. The sun had set several hours ago but still no one had come by. Warwick was beginning to wonder whether maybe she had been wrong again about the day. Kelly Anderson's body had been discovered around seven o'clock. But it was already past 9:45 and no one—no one at all—had even so much as passed the tree. She was starting to get worried.

  Willis, on the other hand, was clearly excited. The stake-out was an opportunity to do something other than the paperwork Cameron constantly shoveled his way. Willis was a nice enough fellow, just not terribly bright, and irritating in large doses. Warwick had often wondered how he'd made sergeant.

  But at least Willis believed her that the killer would come soon to fetch the key. She hadn't told him the whole story of course—about Maggie Devereaux and her psychic visions. Warwick had a reputation in the office for cool-headedness and intelligence. Basing important investigatory decisions on the imagination of a young American college student would not help to perpetuate that reputation. But when her hand wrapped around that cold, slimy key in that knothole yesterday afternoon, she knew that Maggie Devereaux had been right. The key had to belong to the killer. There was no other reason a bus locker key—number '99' to boot—would be lying hidden away in a tree knothole just outside the bus station. Sherlock Homes had once told Dr. Watson, once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. And however improbable it was that Maggie Devereaux had really seen a vision of the killer tucking the key away in a tree knothole, Warwick was left with the truth of the key's presence there. So apart from Maggie's willfully misleading the police—a serious offense which Warwick didn't believe the girl would attempt—the only explanation that remained was that the killer had in fact hidden it there.

  That was enough for Warwick. And ultimately it had been enough for Cameron.

  Not that convincing him was easy. He had not liked Maggie Devereaux when the girl had first offered to help. He was even less impressed now that Warwick was asking for four men to help follow up on the girl's tip. But he too had had to concede that the coincidence was uncanny. In the end that was what had swayed him. That and the fact that despite all his feet-dragging and posturing to the contrary, he too was desperate to solve the killings. And he'd finally gotten desperate enough to take a chance.

  But Maggie Devereaux had better hope she was right, otherwise she'd find herself in the precinct tomorrow morning answering questions about why she'd planted a key in a tree knothole and wasted the time of six of Aberdeen's finest. 'Tomorrow morning' because it was already getting dark and Cameron wasn't going to let another night pass without following up on the one lead they seemed to have found. And 'six' because Cameron was coming too.

  "So explain to me again how this is going to work," Willis piped up. Ordinarily Warwick might have thought such a question betrayed either the speaker's lack of confidence in the plan, or his desire to engage in pedantic small talk while they waited with luke warm coffee and no food. But this was Willis—he really didn't understand.

  "The Inspector," she sighed, "is inside the bus station, with a few of the boys, all in civilian clothes. Once the killer comes and fetches the key, we radio the Inspector inside with a description. We know it's locker number 99, so they'll wait for him to turn the key, then they'll grab him."

  Willis frowned. "And the murder weapons are in the locker?"

  "That's what we think."

  Willis looked at his hands for a moment. "Why don't we just nab him out here once he's grabbed the key?" he asked.

  Warwick rolled her eyes. "And charge him with what? Unlawful possession of a bus locker key? He'll just claim he was looking for acorns or something and found the key accidentally. And we'll have no proof to the contrary; nothing to connect him to the murders."

  She paused and stared at the tree. "No, we need to wait until he opens that locker and has the murder weapons in his guilty little hand." She smiled. "Then, finally, we'll have him."

  Just then a man walked into their view. Something about him made Warwick's hair stand up on end as he strolled up.

  "Okay, but what—" Willis' mouth was suddenly clamped shut by Warwick's hand. She
pointed at the figure. Willis nodded silently.

  The man walked past the bus station and slowed down as he approached the row of trees. He didn't appear to notice the officers in their darkened car. He looked over his shoulder, but only once. Once was all it would take. There was absolutely no one else about. Apparently inter-city buses were not terribly popular on Saturday nights. Unless you needed to be somewhere first thing on a Sunday morning. Or you wanted to fish a locker key out of a tree knothole.

  The man stopped at the seventh tree. Warwick's heart pounded. She could see he was tall, but that was about it. Dark hair, she thought, but hard to tell in the night. Not surprisingly, the seventh tree was not well illuminated by the streetlamps—undoubtedly why it had been chosen. Warwick's eyes widened as the man quickly stepped over to the tree and in one swift motion reached up into the knothole then whirled and started back toward the bus station.

  Warwick was on her radio immediately.

  "Inspector, the suspect just grabbed the key and is heading your way. Description: he's tall, maybe 6'2'', medium build, dark hair, wearing a long black or dark-colored overcoat."

  She reflected on the inadequacy of the description. "Sorry. That's the best I can do. But he's got the key."

  * * *

  She had not expected a neon sign. She wasn't sure why, maybe because it was 'the docks,' but Maggie had imagined a weathered, old, painted wood sign, hung perpendicular to the building and swaying heavily in the breeze. Instead her eyes were filled with glowing purple letters that spelled, 'The Rusty Spike.'

  It was late, after ten o'clock. Apparently the city busses switch to a reduced schedule on Saturday evenings. Once an hour. And she had missed the 8:40 bus thanks to Iain. She considered going home to fetch her bike, but she doubted Alex and Lucy would have let her out again, not with the most recent murder so fresh in their memories. They didn't own her, but by the time she got home, spoke with them, waited for them to go to bed, and then sneaked out again, it would have been even later than it already was. This way, she could go ahead and be an idiot with Alex and Lucy tucked safely away in their beds, with no idea where she might be.

  Maybe, Maggie thought as she gazed at the tavern across the street, this isn't such a great idea after all.

  She had expected to be a little scared by the men hanging around a bar down by the docks on a Saturday night. It had not occurred to her that she would be frightened by the women as well. In front of the club's entrance stood four people: a rather large and hairy man dressed in a black leather motorcycle outfit, and three women any one of whom could easily have beaten up Maggie—and probably most of the men Maggie had ever dated. All at the same time. They sported long dirty-looking hair, various items of leather clothing and the tightest jeans Maggie had ever seen. She looked down at her own L.L. Bean vêtements and shook her head.

  Well, I came to Scotland for new experiences, she thought. And I've never been beat up before.

  She looked up at the sky. Not a cloud, and it was freezing cold as a result. The stars were pin-pricks in the blue ink sky, but she couldn't see as many stars as she'd have liked thanks to the light pollution from the city. She instinctively looked for the moon, but it wasn't risen yet. She was not yet an expert on the moon, but if it was going to be new tomorrow night then Maggie expected it would be the thinnest crescent of a waning moon tonight. That would be pretty. She wondered when it would rise.

  She looked across the street again. One of the women had left, only to be replaced by two tall men.

  Okay, Devereaux, she swallowed hard. Time to put up or shut up. And she crossed the street.

  She had expected some type of comments from the patrons hanging near the door, maybe even a confrontation, or, God forbid, something physical. But they let her pass unmolested, just staring at her like she was wearing nothing but a smile and a sombrero. This was a pleasant surprise. She could save her adrenaline for once she got inside. She might need it. She grabbed the ornate metal handle on the wooden door and pushed.

  * * *

  The Aberdeen bus station did in fact bear a striking similarity to a train station. It was large, institutional, and filled with people who wanted to be somewhere else. On one wall hung a mural painted by someone who obviously had not been willing to take the time to obtain any formal art training. Taupe splotches melted behind brightly colored slashes of oil paint. On the opposite wall were the lockers.

  There was just the one wall of them, six lockers high and twenty rows across. 120 lockers total. Some, those not in use, still had their keys sticking out of the locks. Others, whose patrons had deposited the coins necessary to free the key, were locked shut, their contents hidden from prying eyes and dishonest hands. Locker 99 had no key in its lock.

  Inspector Cameron sat on a bench under the mural. He was reading a worn copy of a paperback—he had always felt reading a newspaper was too obvious, particularly at night—and he had a small bag tucked against his side. He looked like any other traveler waiting for a bus at this late hour. In truth, there were not more than a dozen people in the station, not counting staff of course, and of those twelve, four of them were employed by the Aberdeen Police Department. But they were undercover and indistinguishable from the other travelers, save the small radio receiver each wore in one ear. And it was through these radio receivers that each had heard Sgt. Warwick's description. She had been right, her description had been somewhat generic, but the added information that the key was for locker 99 would make it possible for the officers to effectuate an arrest.

  Their quarry entered the station. Cameron looked up casually and saw a tall man, easily 6'4", with dark brown hair and a long black overcoat buttoned up against the cold. He just looked guilty. And Cameron allowed himself to become just the slightest bit excited at the prospect that maybe they had finally, finally caught up with the killer.

  Quick glances shot discretely among the four officers and they watched as the man, carrying no luggage, walked slowly toward the lockers. He put one hand into a coat pocket and they waited for him to pull it out again, key glinting in his hand. He was walking toward the right half of the lockers, those from 61 to 120. Cameron stood up and tucked his book into a pocket on his bag. The bag was filled with rags and he wasn't even really reading the book. Let somebody steal it. He walked toward the lockers.

  The man stopped before the lockers and looked around quickly. He couldn't see Cameron approaching from behind and the other officers had been smart enough to watch only with peripheral vision as other matters ostensibly held their attentions.

  The man then shrugged slightly and walked straight to locker number 99. Cameron could feel his heart race as the man shoved the key into the lock and turned it. The locker opened. He reached in and pulled out a black leather bag.

  "Stop!" Cameron yelled out. The man turned around, fear in his eyes. "Don't move!"

  Cameron grabbed the man's arm and spun him around.

  "You're under arrest for the murders of Annette Graham, Fionna FitzSimmons, Kelly Anderson and Annie Gwyer!"

  * * *

  The interior of 'The Rusty Spike' was closer to what Maggie had expected. It was loud, dirty and filed with the stench of cigarette smoke and beer. It was packed with all kinds of people, the likes of whom Maggie had hoped never to meet. The waitresses scooted between tables wearing little more than their underwear and an apron. In the back of the dim club was a small stage with three women wearing even less and dancing for the enjoyment of the patrons.

  Maggie walked to the bar.

  She could feel the stares of the customers on her back. She just wanted to get her information and get out of there. The return bus to the college wasn't until 10:45, but she was more than willing to wait at the bus stop if need be.

  The bartender spied her from the other end of the bar and slowly pushed himself up off the counter he was leaning on and trudged his large frame over to her. He had long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, three earrings in his left ear and tattoos that di
sappeared up his dirty shirt sleeves. When he arrived, he didn't say anything. He just looked at her.

  "A beer, please?" she squeaked. If she was going to pump them for information she could at least buy something. Besides, just then the thought of a beer had its appeal.

  The bartender grunted and quickly returned with a pint of something darker than what she was used to drinking.

  "Er, thanks," she stammered.

  The bartender grunted.

  "And, er," Maggie looked at the very drunk old man next to her, then back to the bartender, "can I ask you a question?"

  The bartender didn't respond verbally, but crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. At least he didn't walk away.

  "I was wondering if I could talk to somebody about Annie. Annie Gwyer."

  The bartender's other eyebrow raised at the dead girl's name. He looked at Maggie through narrowed eyes. "Annie?"

  "Yes."

  "Annie Gwyer?"

  Maggie's palms were starting to sweat. "Yes."

  The bartender didn't move. Finally he uncrossed his arms and leaned onto the bar directly in front of Maggie. She leaned back instinctively.

  "And you are?" he asked, his breath stale, from his wares no doubt.

  "Um," Maggie knew enough to be consistent with her earlier story. "I'm a cousin. From America. Distant cousin. And, er, I was over here on holiday when, um, it happened. And the police called me. And told me."

  That was almost coherent, Devereaux.

  "Uh-huh," the bartender said noncommittally. He had very large forearms.

  "And so I was wondering," Maggie continued, "if I could talk to someone who knew about the, um, funeral arrangements. I'd like to attend."

  "Uh-huh."

  "The, um, police said she worked here?" Maggie looked around in demonstration, but then caught view of the 'dancers' in the back and quickly spun back around.

  The bartender rubbed his nose vigorously while he scrutinized the small little American in front of him. Finally he said, "I 'magine you'd want to ask down at the morgue."