by Nancy Bush
“Are we talking abortion?” he demanded.
“Not according to your sister-in-law,” Scott stated, flushing.
“Well, it’s not going to happen.” Carter was firm. “Where’s Mimi? You said you’d bring her.”
“She didn’t want to come. You people scare her.”
“Maybe you didn’t bring her because she’s not pregnant.”
“Ask her.” He pointed to Andi. “She went and intimidated her and now all Mimi can do is cry!”
“That’s not true,” Andi sputtered.
Carter said, “All you want is money. Well, you came to the wrong place. When Mimi delivers, get that DNA test you were screaming about last time you were here. If it’s Greg’s, we’ll deal with it then.”
Scott opened his mouth and closed it again. “You don’t know what I want,” he growled, and then he headed back to the elevator, slamming the button with his palm. It had been called away and so he had to stand in fury, staring at the door, waiting.
Luke said calmly, “The Exit sign for the stairs is to your left and down the hall.”
Scott whipped around and stared at Luke, then at Carter. “You can’t intimidate me anymore.”
The elevator opened once more and Emma stood inside, next to Ben. Her hair was disheveled and her face pale. She said, “Oh God, Quade. Is this why you wanted me here?”
“You were supposed to be at the lodge,” Carter snapped. To Scott, he said, “You’re the one trying to intimidate my family.”
He angrily brushed past Emma and Ben as they exited the elevator car and stabbed the button several times. “I’ll bring Mimi next time,” he declared.
The doors closed on him, but Carter didn’t wait. He headed toward his office without another word.
“Carter?” Emma asked, following after him, confused.
Ben grabbed her arm and dragged her after him, saying, “I picked her up at home. Figured she needed to be here.”
Andi looked at Emma’s unfocused stare and turned to Luke. “I’m done here.”
He said, “Where’s the note?”
“On my desk.”
He walked over and picked it up carefully by the edges and slipped it into his pocket. Then he came back to Andi and put his hand to the small of her back again. “I’m following you home and making sure you’re safe and secure.”
“Okay,” she said softly.
* * *
Alvin Bromward had more cats than September remembered. She counted five in sight and suspected there might be a whole lot more. From the smell of the apartment, she guessed there was a litter box somewhere nearby that needed cleaning.
Gretchen stood beside her, her face screwed up in distaste. Her partner could easily hide her feelings behind a professional façade when she chose to, but this was not the occasion.
“Sit down.” Alvin waved at them with a liver-spotted hand. He was seated in a wheelchair with a blanket over his legs. His hair was gray and greased to his head, patches of pink scalp showing through the wisps.
They’d already been through this routine. Like last time, there wasn’t a seat available that wasn’t rife with cat fur. “Thank you,” September said, “but we prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, push Tigger out of the way,” he said, making shooing motions to the huge orange tabby that was lounging on its back on the couch, softly snoring. The little beast didn’t care one iota that strangers were in the house.
Gretchen suddenly sneezed and shot September a baleful look.
September had already explained that they’d met with Kitsy Hasseldorn, and now she asked for the second time, “Do you remember Tommy Burkey?”
“Sure,” he said. “A brat. Treated my cats bad, I can tell you. Caught him throwing rocks at ’em and threw one back at him. Hit him in the arm. He howled like a banshee and ran home to his mommy.”
“You threw a rock at a child?” Gretchen asked.
He swatted the air in her direction. “He weren’t no child. He was hangin’ with those smokers. One of ’em threw a rock through my window, just to let me know they were watchin’. Lookin’ out for Tommy, who wasn’t too bright, you know.”
“Did he mow your lawn for you?” September asked.
“No. He didn’t do nothin’ for me. And those boys . . . those smokers. They were bad news.” His mouth worked and he added in a rasp, “They left Little Lillian in my mailbox for me to find. Skinned her, they did. I called you people, but nobody did nothin’.”
September recoiled. “Lillian was one of your cats . . . ?”
“Yep.”
“And they skinned her?”
Gretchen grimaced, this time from the image, September believed.
“Sure did,” Bromward said, his jaw working. “I was careful after that, but they moved on.”
“Tommy Burkey was one of them?” September asked.
“Mmm . . . no . . . not really.” He made a face. “They just kinda tolerated him, I think. The older boys. He was a freckle-faced goon who was too stupid to know they used him for their enjoyment. Kinda like a mascot, you know? He was throwin’ rocks to impress them. Didn’t realize it when I threw the rock at him. Thought he’d thought it up all on his own, but it was them older boys.”
“Do you have a name for any of those older boys?”
“One was the renter’s boy. Gimme a minute. I’ll think of it.”
They waited patiently, or at least September did. Gretchen kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“Those renters were the ones with the RV. They took off in it after their kid disappeared. The mom was pretty tore up. The dad . . . his name was Pauly, I think. He was a piece of work, too. Never worked, far as I could tell. The mom was a cashier down at the Shop and Save grocery.”
“Did they have any other children?”
“Just the drug addict. He was a decent enough sort. It was really that friend of his that was so . . . what’s the word you use these days? Hmmm. Entitled. That’s it. He was entitled. Wouldn’t surprise me if’n he wasn’t the one to kill Little Lillian.”
September paraphrased, “You’re saying that Tommy hung out with a couple of older boys, seeking acceptance, but that the older boys were really the ones making the bad choices.”
“Tart it up all you like, it boils down to the older boys goading Tommy, but the really bad stuff, yeah. That was them.”
“Would you call them scruffy?” Gretchen asked.
“Sure. Looked like every other boy does then and now. Ripped jeans. T-shirts. Facial hair, if they can grow it.”
“Do you remember Davinia Singleton?” Gretchen questioned further.
“Oh-ho. Now I know where you’re goin’.” His smile was sly. “Shoulda asked me the last time you were here. Yeah, she was a hot pants for the young ones. Ripped out Nathan’s heart, but nobody thought he had the gumption to kill her and him. That’s when Jan and Phil went around the bend. After the ‘accident.’ Weren’t no accident, but then, people’ll try to make things seem better than they are. They raised that little girl all right, though.”
“Frances,” September put in.
“Yep.” He nodded sharply. “After she was all grown up and out of the house, I think that’s what did ’em in. They looked around at each other and thought, I don’t like you. That’s my guess anyway.”
“As I said before, we’re trying to identify a set of bones that belongs to an eighteen-year-old male that was found in the basement of the Singletons’ home,” September said.
The old man scowled. “You think it’s Davinia’s lover, the marijuana smoker?”
“Marijuana. You’re talking about the RV owners’ son?” September asked. Everyone called him a drug addict, and she’d just assumed they meant he’d used something stronger.
“I know it’s legal now, but it weren’t then. He was smokin’ all the time. Smelled like a skunk.”
“With another friend and Tommy?”
He shrugged. “And some others. Now wait a minute..
..” He pinched his nose. “Maybe the druggie was that other kid.”
“Which other kid?” Gretchen asked, sounding annoyed.
“The one with the horse. That wasn’t the same time, though, was it?” He screwed up his face in thought.
“From what I can tell, the Burkeys left about eleven years ago,” September prompted. “Can you remember any name, of either the druggie kid or the one with the horse?”
“Or their parents?” Gretchen put in.
“One of ’em was kind of a common name, it seems. Escapes me for the moment. That’s the problem with old age. It’ll come back to you when you don’t need it no more.”
“You can call me,” September said, pulling out a business card and handing it to him. “That’s my cell number on the bottom. If you think of any names, just let me know.”
“Any time? Day or night?”
She smiled. “I might not answer in the middle of the night, but yeah.”
“Can you think of anyone else who could fit the age description of the person we’re looking for?” Gretchen asked, edging toward the door. “An eighteen-year-old male, give or take a year.”
“I’ll think on it.... There were a whole bunch of littler kids on the street at that time. They’re all growed up now, too.”
“Call me,” September encouraged.
As they turned to leave, Tigger suddenly awoke and stretched, then jumped to the back of the couch, tail switching, watching them depart with sleepy gold eyes. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Gretchen sneezed again.
“Are you allergic?” September asked.
“Probably.” She was dour. “I never want to go back there again. If he doesn’t call you, we need to move on to other sources.”
“At least he gave us something. He didn’t say much of anything the first time we contacted him. He’s getting to know us.”
“Great.” Gretchen looked at the face of her cell phone. “It’s lunchtime. Let’s get something to eat and head back to the station. Wes might be back by now.”
September nodded as Gretchen quickened her footsteps. Obviously, she was over this whole investigation.
* * *
Time to ramp up. Push the game. Maybe tonight I’ll take another little bird. I’ve strung her along long enough. She’s not the endgame. Far from it. The endgame’s still a few moves ahead.
But this one will do in the meantime . . . and it will further boggle them. They’ll look for connections that aren’t there. A little misdirection to keep them from the truth.
Yes . . . tonight.
The pressure’s built and I need a release.
Little bird . . . I’m coming for you. . . .
Chapter Sixteen
Andi followed Luke around her cabin as he checked each room and made certain there was no one lying in wait for her. “It’s intimidation,” he said as he checked out her bathroom and opened her closet door. “Whoever it is had to break in, so they don’t have access. They sent you a note through the mail, so they’re careful. They don’t contact you electronically, where there could be a trace. There may be fingerprints, but I’m guessing that’s unlikely. I’ll check into it. The letter was postmarked in Portland, and I’ll check that, too. But I don’t think it’ll help us much. Anyone from anywhere could drop it into a box.”
“Why are they doing this?” Andi whispered, biting her lip. “Why me?”
“Your association with the Wrens? The bird thing suggests something to do with your name.”
“The Carreras don’t like us, no matter if Carter’s trying to make nice. They’ll burn us in the end.” She exhaled heavily. “But I don’t get why I’m the target.”
“Maybe you’re just the way in. I don’t know. I need to have a powwow with the brothers Carrera.”
“Can we wait on that?” Andi asked. “I just . . . don’t want to poke the hornet’s nest yet.”
He looked at her, and whatever he saw on her face—fear, anxiety, desperation—caused him to nod in reluctant agreement. They walked back to the living room. “I’ve got some work to do, but I’ll be back later.”
She spread her hands. “I need to start paying you. With everything that’s happened, we never really got to that.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. I want to get the Carreras as much or more than you do, so I’m looking at this more as a partnership. That work for you?”
“Yes.” She liked the sound of that.
“Okay, so I’ll go finish up some of my own stuff, then I’ll do some digging into Scott and Mimi Quade, too. When you add up people who feel wronged by the Wrens, they’re high on the list.”
“Okay.”
He came directly to her and put his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her. “I don’t want you to be scared.”
“I don’t want to be either.”
“So, if it seems like the thing to do, I’m going to bunk on your couch tonight.”
Andi shot a glance over to her sofa, which didn’t look like it would come close to fitting his lanky frame.
He saw her glance and added, “Maybe I’ll bring a sleeping bag.”
“Good thinking.”
He gave her shoulders a quick squeeze and said, “See ya later.”
Long after he left, she felt the comforting imprint of his fingers.
* * *
Out of her last Pilates class of the day, Trini jumped into her Mini and drove straight to the grocery store. She shopped like she was a sweepstakes winner, throwing items into her cart. She swiped her credit card and wiggled the toes on her right foot anxiously. She glanced at her Fitbit to see the time. She was late, as always. It was a cosmic wonder that she couldn’t get anywhere on time. She tried. She really did, but her own biorhythms seemed to be on a separate plane, and well, hell, who cared anyway?
Four-thirty. Well, that wasn’t too bad. Bobby was coming over at five. A little early for him, but he’d told her tonight was something special and she had no idea what that meant, but it could be anything. Good, bad, indifferent. She was really hoping for good. Great. Maybe a weekend away, just the two of them. A spa vacation in the desert, or hell, admit it, wouldn’t it just be marvelous to go somewhere far, far away? Some place stunningly exotic? Like those resort rooms on stilts over cerulean water in Bora Bora. Oh God.
She juggled the grocery bags and nearly dropped one on the way to her car. She did drop her keys but managed to pick them up. Who was she kidding? she thought, as she switched on the ignition. Bobby wasn’t the type for trips to another corner of the world. He was too careful. His idea of a vacation would probably be to the Oregon beaches, or maybe the mountains. Somewhere closer, more intimate. Maybe not sooo extravagant. And that was just fine with her. He was so imperfect, he was perfect.
She pulled into her assigned spot at the apartment complex, then hauled out the bags and carried them up the flight of stairs to her door. She had to crush the bags against the wall to free up one hand and thread the key in the lock. She thought of Bobby making love to her. It had been nearly a week and it was too long. Last time had been a wild ride on her bed that had her screaming so much he’d slapped a hand over her mouth. Jesus. Just thinking about him made her wet. Lord, she had it bad!
She’d decided to make dinner for him, so last night she’d gone to the little market down the way and checked on their poultry products. Nothing had grabbed her, so she’d put off buying what she needed till today, stopping at a supermarket instead. She’d decided on a vegan meal and hoped Bobby would like it as well. She wasn’t completely that way, but she definitely leaned away from meat. Last night, as she was about to leave the little market empty-handed, one of the owners had tried to talk her into the prawns, singing their praises. He’d swept a hand toward the seafood case and there they were, displayed in a pretty row, all plump and pink and lying innocently on a bed of ice, the little killers.
“No, thanks,” Trini had told him. She’d debated on going into her allergies, and Bobby’s, but she hadn�
�t really had the time, and anyway, would he really care? The man was just trying to make some conversation, hoping for a sale, doing his job. He didn’t really want her whole story, and really, did anyone?
So today she’d purchased flour tortillas, planning to make cheddar and cotija cheese enchiladas with verde salsa and pico de gallo. She didn’t think Bobby would squawk too hard about the vegan angle. She’d throw a salad together and make her own dressing with a south of the border flair. He really preferred eating in to going out to restaurants anyway, and though Trini didn’t think of herself as much of a cook, she was certainly learning.
It took her a while to set up and get the meal rolling, and then the oven didn’t seem to want to come up to temperature. When it finally did, she shoved the pan of enchiladas inside and slammed the door, then cleaned up the mess of bowls and pans, although she kind of did a half-assed job. She was hot and sweating when she was finished. Glancing at the oven clock, she saw it was closing in on six. Where the hell was Bobby?
An hour and a half later, when he still hadn’t shown, she was full-blown pissed. How dare he stand her up? And how dare she care? He wasn’t even her type, she reminded herself as she slammed her way out of the apartment and walked in a huff to the nearest neighborhood restaurant, a tiny place with a U-shaped bar adorned with twinkling white lights. As she entered, a bell tinkled overhead, announcing her arrival. There was a smattering of customers. Though the ambience was nice, the food pedestrian, and most people came for a drink and then moved on.
She took a place at the bar, a black cloud of anger hanging over her. To hell with it. She was over abstaining from alcohol. “A mojito,” she said. “Not one of the fancy ones with added mango or pomegranate or any of that shit. Just the usual lime and mint.”
“You got it,” the bartender said. He slid her a look while she tried to remember his name. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.
“Been busy.” Actually, after that debacle at Lacey’s, she’d stayed away from alcohol entirely. It wasn’t good for your body anyway. After a night drinking, she could smell the alcohol-laced sweat when she worked out, and it only added to her embarrassment. What had she been thinking that night? She’d just been so low, and she’d had a momentary blip of really, really bad judgment.
