by Doc Macomber
Time was running out…
Chapter 23
Late into the night, Colefield figured, workers would be disconnecting plumbing and electrical from the now deserted row of houseboats. By noon tomorrow half of them would be moved thirty feet back into the main channel of the river while sand was dredged from beneath their slips – a hell of a project, if you asked him. To uproot an entire community of floating homes just to scoop sand seemed insane.
Colefield checked his mailbox and stepped up onto the creaky dock, spooking a scruffy calico that scurried away toward Montgomery’s kingdom. The cat didn’t belong to Montgomery or anyone else for that matter. He was one of the feral cats that lived on the moorage. Colefield hadn’t even considered what would happen to the animals and waterfowl that also called the moorage home. Seemed nothing was safe from the disruption.
He dumped his mail on the counter, reminding himself to put in an address change with the Post Office first thing tomorrow. Crossing his bedroom, he pulled a huge military duffle down out of the closet. He carried it to the bed and began emptying his drawers. He snapped up the Ziploc with the dismantled shotgun shell and buckshot inside and put it into his side pocket.
Afterwards, he placed the bag by the door, took a long last look around to see if he’d forgotten anything. He felt like an orphan, but then so was the old pirate Montgomery, Penny, and even Calico Jack – the stranded cat he’d name after another famous pirate, Jack Ratham.
Shit, you named the cat?
He knew what he had to do. With all the enthusiasm of a man about to be executed, he rummaged around in his closet until he found his mesh gym bag and headed toward the kitchen. When he was finally ready to go, he closed the door and went to say farewell to his landlord.
Crouched down in a pile of buoys a few feet away, two green eyes watched his every move. “I got something for you buddy.” Colefield squatted down and studied the cat’s face. Jack too had a scar on his grizzled muzzle. He placed an open can of tuna inside the gym bag. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
He knocked on Montgomery’s door. A voice thundered from inside. “Enter!”
Twisting the brass knob, he stepped inside. “It’s Jason!”
“Just the scoundrel I wanted to see.”
He closed the door and entered the galley. The son had built a wheelchair ramp last year after Montgomery took a few spills on his stairs, each time dislocating his bad hip. Colefield marched up the ramp like he was entering his former commanding officer’s chamber and plopped down on a wobbly stool, about as stable as a matchstick.
Montgomery sat across from him at the kitchen table. He had on a pair of greasy reading glasses and before him spread out everywhere were crumpled up, marked up, newspapers. Somewhere under the pile was the holy grail of them all – the Sunday New York Times.
Montgomery put down his pen. “So, you’ve won the heart of my former tart, I hear…”
“She took pity on me, though it will take some getting used to. The place is a bit wussy.”
“Rat pussy?”
“Wussy.”
“We’ll see?”
Colefield held up his hand in defeat. He spied Montgomery’s hearing aid laying on an ad for an upcoming gun show and handed it to him.
Sighing, Montgomery screwed it into his ear.
Colefield tried again. “Where you camping out?”
“I’m heading North. My son Dennis has asked me to bunk in with him in Alaska. I hear once you go Eskimo, you never go back.” Montgomery’s face grew contemplative.
“Would you look in on the place, old boy? Make sure they don’t forget to move the old dame back. I’d hate to find her floating downriver.”
“Will do. Oh, can I borrow your telephone. I destroyed another cell in the drink today.”
“Good place for a cell phone.” Montgomery’s hearing prevented any real conversations via mobile device. Reception on the river was tough on a good day, what with the commercial flights overhead and powerboats roaring by.
“Help yourself. You know where it is.”
Colefield got up from the table and used the landline in Bill’s private office to make a call. He kept it short and then rejoined Montgomery in the galley.
“Need a lift to the airport?”
“I’ve got a cab coming in thirty minutes. Thanks for the offer.”
“You still OK with me using your car?”
“I’ll add it to your rent next month.”
He grinned and then picked up his pen to scribble something down on the newspaper. “So how’s the case coming?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Did the shotgun shell provide you with any leads?”
“I’ve got it in my suitcase. My friend at the FBI has confirmed the pellets found in the dead boy were lead. Thought I’d revisit that piece of evidence later in the week. For now, I’ve got a little redhead I need to track down.”
“Never did trust a redhead. But come to think of it, I never trusted a blonde or brunette either. Stay with your hunches. Hunches always seem to lead us to our victories.”
Colefield held out his hand, offering to shake. “Take care of yourself up North. See you when you get back.”
“If I find a keeper in the tundra, I’ll send a telegram.”
* * *
A couple hours later, Colefield sat back in his new unfamiliar surroundings trying to acclimate. The leather sofa was a little too short for him to stretch out on and the pillows were all too puffy. And the place smelled a little sweet. But he had a killer view, and he enjoyed the house plants scattered about the place, as long as he didn’t have to water them. The big screen TV impressed him the most.
He sunk back into the cushions, scrolling through the channels, with the mute button on. It’d been an emotionally and physically exhausting day. He’d found himself in deep water, literally. And he managed to climb to safety. And it was causing him frustration that he couldn’t drive out to the island, knock down Scarbough Senior’s door, and haul them both off. But he’d promised Tam he would wait it out until morning. And he had to admit he was in no condition to even get undressed, much less track down and arrest a serial killer.
His stomach growled, signaling the fact he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He got up, went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He had packed up the perishable goods from the houseboat. He took a quick inventory: an unopened cube of Tillamook butter, a half-gallon of Almond milk, a couple containers of Greek Yogurt, a jar of Jiffy’s peanut butter, a small bottle of Tabasco sauce, several brown eggs, an open package of maple bacon and a welcoming bottle of champagne, courtesy of Sally Ashley.
He closed the right side door and opened the left side freezer compartment. It was an even sorrier sight. A half-eaten carton of Ben & Jerry's sat on the top shelf. Underneath that sat a package of frozen hamburger, a box of frozen spinach, and a package of chicken thighs. The other three shelves sat empty.
He opened the cupboards and took in all the fancy plates and glassware. Everything matched. The silverware drawer was the same. Every matching fork, spoon and knife appeared to be brand new. The pots and pans showed no hint of use. No greasy smudge marks, no stains, no scratches. The walls, the pottery, the throw rugs and furniture seemed to exactly match, color for color. Everything in the room had a proper place. The orderliness was getting to him.
About then, someone knocked at the door. Wondering if he could “rise to the occasion” he walked over and opened it.
Tonight Costa had followed his lead and dressed down. The tight dress had been replaced by an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt. Instead of stiletto heels, scuffed cowboy boots peeked from beneath her boot cut jeans. Why did this woman look good in everything she wore? Her ebony eyes shone. When she smiled at him, even her teeth sparkled. She held out a bottle of chilled champagne in one hand and a large bag of rice in the other.
“Happy housewarming.” she said.
“Champagne. I’m flattered,” he said and actually m
eant it.
“Don’t be,” Costa laughed. “It was on sale, and it was lighter to carry than a six-pack.”
“I understand the champagne, but what’s the rice for?”
“Do you want your new cell phone to suffer an untimely death by apathy?”
“What?”
She ignored the question and wandered through the loft, checking out the bathroom, the king-size bed, marble counters and expensive furniture and shaking her head in amazement. She immediately wandered over and gazed out the large windows at the terrific view of the city. “This is an awesome place. But it must be driving you insane. It’s got a woman’s touch.”
Colefield deadpanned. “It’ll do.”
“I know about a dozen people that would kill for a place like this. How’s the bed?”
Before he could answer, Costa had flopped down on the mattress and ran her hand over the silk comforter. “Not bad. I could certainly curl up here for the night.”
“You want champagne first?”
“Sure, why not.”
She hopped up and wandered back toward the kitchen counter and eventually sat down on a barstool. “Hell, I even like the way this cushion feels.”
“They came from a place called ‘Design within Reach’, if you’re interested. The store is in the Pearl. My new landlady told me all about this place before she handed over the keys.”
“And how long will you be here?”
“If it’s more than three weeks, I’ll probably feel a need to buy a new wardrobe.”
“Nice.”
She glanced around once more and then began to nervously tap her heel on the barstool. As if appearing on cue, Jack wound between her legs, purring up a storm and putting on a show.
“Where’d you come from?” She absently scratched his head.
“He’s just another castaway I am providing safe harbor for.”
“It must be your day to save people.” She tore open the top of the rice sack. “Where’s your cell phone?”
Colefield reached into a cardboard box containing the shell, his baggie of phone parts from the tavern and his water soaked cell. She grabbed it and shoved it deeply into the bag.
“They teach you that in the FBI?”
“Should be good as new by tomorrow.” She smiled at Colefield and then stared at her empty glass. “Can we talk about the case first?”
She frowned. “When I’m properly lubricated.”
“It’s a good thing my landlady left another bottle for us.” He handed her a glass of champagne and toasted. “Well … here’s to lubrication.”
Costa threw back the champagne and held her empty glass out wanting a refill. Colefield detected something. An unsettled look maybe.
“I signed my divorce papers today.”
Colefield gulped from his glass, then hopped up and poured her a refill. “Here’s to two displaced orphans adrift on the sea of life.” They clanked glasses.
“Got anything to munch on?”
“Just a stick of butter.”
“I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“My appetizer selection is limited.”
“Let’s order in a pizza from downstairs. They have a yummy Hawaiian pizza that is gluten free and vegan.”
“How good can it be without pepperoni?”
“You’ll see, you old carnivore.”
“We’ll have to use your phone.”
Costa’s eyes softened. “You saved a child today and nearly died doing it.”
Colefield tried to shrug it off but even that slight movement caused him to wince in pain.
“Let’s run you a hot bath. It does wonders for aches and pains.” She headed toward the bathroom. “Besides this tub is big enough for both of us to swim in.
Colefield picked up Costa’s cell phone. “How hungry are you?”
“Famished.”
* * *
An hour later, soaking in steaming water up to his shoulders, Colefield passed the last piece of pizza to Costa who opened wide and bit it off straight from his outstretched hand. An empty champagne bottle bobbed on the water, having been replaced by Sally’s bottle.
It was Costa who broke the mood and began discussing the case. “I did some research on the outings and both Timmy and Jeb were there. Still no link to the girl scout.”
“It’s funny,” Colefield added, “but I went to the marina to investigate the Scout Master and left there convinced Jeb is our killer.”
“It is too early to tell,” Costa said. “It could still be an older father figure.” She set her glass down. “I always said the last killing was out of synch … maybe because somebody else did it.”
“Like who?” Colefield asked. “You think Timmy killed them all, and then Jeb or Scarbough killed him?”
“I’m not ready to discount any combination.”
“I don’t believe Timmy was a killer.” Colefield was emphatic in his defense of the child. “And his body was marked with a symbol so he has to be part of the package.”
“Nothing completely lines up on this case,” Costa admitted.
“How you coming on the letters?”
“These letters are a signature of some kind. I’ve tried every word that starts with CUL in every language.”
“Or maybe they were initials for a name, maybe something to do with his mother’s death. But what does the infinity symbol have to do with it?” Colefield asked. “What if the letters and symbol are a code for an entirely new alphabet?”
“I’ve thought of that too,” Costa said. “That’s why I’m bringing in an expert to run different programs to decipher what it could mean.”
“Find the message; find the killer?”
Costa nodded. “It’s some of our only tangible evidence.”
“Surviving my trip into the drink gave me a new look at the Scarbough kid up close. I saw him deliberately try to kill a child right in front of me, but then after hearing his explanation, I disbelieved what I saw and knew to be true.”
Costa changed gears. “The media’s run with the Sea Scout rescue. It’s all over the news. And commentators are remarking on the striking physical resemblance between you two.”
“Cop as Batman, boy killer as Robin?” Colefield mused.
“Whatever the reason, it’s not good to see you connected with a potential suspect.” Costa’s face turned serious. “This is going to put some pressure on us.”
“What’s new about that? What worries me is his sister. She’s still off the radar.”
Costa thought a moment. “If Timmy confided in Penny about his suspicion regarding the hiker who fell, Jeb would have every reason to eliminate her as a witness as well.
Chapter 24
Sunlight and sirens poured in the large windows shortly after sunrise the next morning. Since he hadn’t thought to close the blinds the previous night, Colefield was now paying the price. He rolled over and through bloodshot eyes searched for something to cover his face. He grabbed a decorative bolster by the bed and laid it across his forehead. He would later learn that the sirens were due to a pile up on I-405 during the morning commute.
As Colefield lay in bed making an assessment of his aches and pains, Tam moaned under the covers beside him. Tam! How often had he dreamed of waking up with her in a soft bed after a romantic evening? He hadn’t factored into his naïve scenario the encroachment of reality.
“How much did we drink last night?” Her eyes scrunched down as she shielded them from the light.
“A bottle of champagne apiece.”
“It’s so bright in here I feel like I’m under a police spotlight,” Costa grumbled, grabbed a pillow and covered her face. “And it sounds like we’re in the middle of the freeway.”
The half-a-million dollar loft-in-the-sky was alive with sound. Colefield laid back and soon identified garbage trucks banging around, tractor-trailers grinding gears as they left the main post office on Hoyt, commingling with the general rumble of traffic on Glisan – a cacophony uncondu
cive to easing into a conscious state.
Costa threw back the covers and sat up. “Time to catch us a child killer.”
Colefield climbed out of bed and headed for the coffee pot, which wasn’t there. Seems Ms. Ashley didn’t have the caffeine vice. He pulled on some jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers and then headed for the door.
“I’m hitting Starbucks. What would you like?”
“A double latte with four raw sugars, please.”
By the time he made it back with two large containers of coffee and bagels, Costa had made it out of bed and dressed. Her eyes were bloodshot but there was life coming back into them.
He sat the coffees on the counter next to the sack of rice. “There’re bagels in the sack and butter in the fridge. I’m gonna hit the head.”
She let out a moan and rose to her feet just as his water-soaked phone sprang back to life.
* * *
They decided to drive separate cars out to the Island. Colefield stopped by the office to pick up Bart, but the younger officer was tied up with Deputy Weaver at a boating accident. Budget cuts had furloughed Tony until the end of the month. That left just the Lieutenant who had his weekly Wednesday morning meeting with the City Commissioner scheduled in an hour.
“By the book, Colefield!” the Lieutenant said, as he headed out of the office carrying his Kevlar vest. “By the way, you look like shit today. Let’s hope your FBI agent is in better shape.”
Tam was at least sharp enough to hand him his phone as he left the loft this morning, something he’d completed spaced on. The thought no sooner entered his mind than his phone chirped that he’s missed a message. He climbed into the patrol car and punched buttons. He had three phone messages and a text. He listened to the phone messages first.
“Red? It’s Jill. I just saw the news. Are you all right? I went by your houseboat and left a note, but looks like you might already be gone. And I don’t know where to find you. Look I’m sorry about the other night. Please call me, OK?”
