by Nancy Bush
“RVers,” he said.
“That’s right. RVers. They could possibly be named Kirkendall, Wright, Patten, or Brannigan.” She had the four renters’ names she was focused on down pat.
“Kirkendall,” he spat. And then, “Or Patten. One of ’em.”
“I know I’ve asked you this. But did any of them own a horse, or horses?”
“Look, ma’am,” he said in a warning tone. He never would call her detective. “I already told you, they brought horses in, took horses out, never paid me a dime. That land stretched back to the creek and there’s a gate, then you can go all the way to Schultz Lake on Flinders farmland. You know the Flinders? Owned everything around here, and that big piece of land is just waiting for some greedy developer to chop it up.”
This was more information than she’d gotten in all her phone calls to him. He seemed to like to gripe, so maybe that was a way of cracking open his resistance. “Do you remember the names of any of those horsey people?” She inflicted just a touch of sarcasm on horsey.
He jumped in eagerly this time. “One of ’em, the missus, was a horse nut for sure.” He snorted. “Husband was a beer drinker. Watched lots of sports. Big Raiders fan. He was a plumber, but mostly he was out of work. By choice, ’cause he didn’t much like work, that’s for sure. But the missus had her nose in the air. Thought she was all that and more, but she wasn’t nothin’ much. He knew it and made faces about her behind her back.”
Lovely couple, September thought as she climbed from her Jeep and headed for the department’s front doors. “Did they have a teenaged son?”
“How the hell should I know?” he groused. “They lied to me about the horses. Probably lied about kids, too. All of ’em.”
“Were these horsey people any of the four names I gave you?”
He sighed heavily, as if she’d really put him out. “All of ’em coulda had horses. Probably did. Nobody was honest. That’s the trouble with renters. Maybe it was the Brannigans who snuck in an old piece of dog meat for a while. Had little kids that liked to ride. Thing was so wide you couldn’t get a saddle cinched around it.” He wheezed out a short laugh.
“And the Brannigans aren’t the RV people?”
“Nope, those were . . . the Kirkendalls . . . or the Pattens. I told you.”
“Yes, thanks. But the horsey people could be the Brannigans, or any of the other three families?”
“That’s what I’m tellin’ ya.” He was annoyed.
She pushed through the glass double doors and saw that Guy wasn’t at the reception desk. Hallelujah. It was Saturday, and a young woman named Claudia was at his post, so September wouldn’t be subjected to all Guy’s rigmarole. “Do you remember anything about the Wrights?” she asked Mamet. “The other name on the list?”
“Nope.” He was shutting down.
“Why did you evict the RVers?”
“Didn’t much like ’em.”
That didn’t sound like legal grounds for eviction, but maybe he just hadn’t renewed their lease. Before she could formulate another question, he put in, “Now I’ve told you all I’m gonna tell you. You have more questions you keep ’em to yourself. And I don’t care if you’re the police, the Pope, or God, I’m through talkin’. You got that, missy?”
“Loud and clear,” September responded.
Her answer was a click in her ear.
Claudia buzzed September right through with a quick nod of recognition. Thank God for small favors.
September set her messenger bag down at her desk and pulled her notebook out of it. She shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the back of her chair, then sat down and wrote down her conversations with Tommy, Grace, and Elias Mamet, as close to her recollection as she could come. Then she looked up the phone numbers and addresses for the four names she’d zeroed in on. The Pattens’ current phone number and address were in Hood River, about an hour and a half from Laurelton in good traffic. The Wrights had moved to Tacoma, south of Seattle, and the Brannigans now lived in Portland, on the east side of the river. They were the closest, except for the Kirkendalls, who were still in the Laurelton area but apparently had no phone. Or none that September could discover. But she had their address, so it was just a matter of catching them at home.
No time like the present, she decided. She was stuffing her notebook back in her bag and was about to leave the near empty squad room when her cell phone buzzed. Seeing it was Wes Pelligree, George’s partner and one of September’s favorite people, she answered with a smile. “You caught me. I’m working. For free, so don’t tell anyone.”
“I just got a call to come in, but I’m with my mother, who’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“Oh, Wes, I’m sorry.” Wes’s mother had been in the hospital for several weeks with an internal infection that wouldn’t clear up.
“George is on another case, but dispatch called me. The Sheriff’s Department found a body in the Quarry quarry. Her ID was with her. She’s Tracy Farmgren, twenty-five, and it looks like she was dumped there. She lived in Laurelton, so we’re going to be working with Winslow.”
Quarry, Oregon, was serviced by the Winslow County Sheriff ’s Department. “You want me to call them?”
“Yes. Thanks. The deputy’s name is Barb Gillette.” He gave September the number.
“I hope your mother’s going to be all right.”
“Me too.”
September phoned the Sheriff’s Department and was put through to Detective Gillette. When she explained who she was, Gillette said, “The body’s at the morgue and it looks like it was thrown over the lip of the quarry. We’re working the ridge above, hoping someone saw the doer. It’s kind of a lover’s lane, but so far we’ve drawn blanks. We’re also short-staffed, so we thought maybe you guys could check with her place of work? It’s in Laurelton.
“Be glad to.”
“She was a receptionist at Sirocco Realty on Third and Londale.”
September had been writing down the name in her notebook but now froze in mid pen stroke.
Gillette went on, “Tracy worked there about two years. I spoke with one of the principal brokers, Kitsy Hasseldorn, who’s at the office today. That’s Kitsy with an s, not Kitty. She’s the one who’ll be expecting you.” There was a pause. “You got that?” she asked a bit impatiently, when September didn’t immediately say anything.
“I recently met Kitsy Hasseldorn.”
“You did?”
“Not related to this.” At least it didn’t seem to be . . . “What’s the cause of death?”
“Strangulation. Killer wore gloves. Okay, then, call me back after the interview.”
September’s mind was whirling. It was an odd coincidence that she’d just seen Tracy and now the girl was dead. Killed.
She put a call in to Gretchen, who didn’t pick up, so she didn’t leave a message. Her partner was known for late nights when she wasn’t on duty, so she’d probably turned her cell off.
Sliding her jacket off her chair again, September headed for the door. What the hell. She’d check things out by herself.
And it looked like she might be getting that overtime after all.
* * *
Luke said a quick good-bye to Andi at his office and drove to the Laurelton Police Department, about a mile away. He’d already called them and asked for Detective George Thompkins but had been informed the detective would call him back. Maybe Thompkins was still on-site. Or maybe he was screening his calls. Whatever the case, Luke wanted to talk to him sooner rather than later.
He smiled at the young female officer manning the desk as he let himself into the station.
“I’m Luke Denton. Here to see Detective Thompkins.”
She gave him the once-over but made no move to buzz him through to the squad room. Luke considered trying to charm her. It sometimes worked, but her dark, suspicious eyes told him it would be a no-go here. She had that everyone’s-guilty-until-proven-innocent attitude that came with inexperience. He was force
d to cool his heels and wait.
But waiting brought back images of how he and Andi had spent the afternoon, and as pleasurable as that had been, he didn’t want to think about it too much. It felt like a problem in the making. Not that he wasn’t interested. God no. But it was too soon after the debacle that had been his relationship with Iris.
As if her radar were attuned to him and she knew what he was up to, his cell phone dinged, and he looked down to see Iris was texting him. She wanted to meet him.
He shook his head. Getting involved with her had been a mistake from the get-go. He’d known it but had let himself fall into a relationship that, if he was completely honest with himself, was more about her working for the district attorney’s office and his need to clear his ex-partner than any real feeling on his part for her.
You knew better, he thought with a grimace.
Thinking of lawyers reminded him of his delay in calling his brother back. A lot had happened in a very few hours, he consoled himself. Dallas would understand. Still, he texted his brother: Wrapped up in a lot of unexpected stuff. Okay to check in next week?
A few minutes later Dallas wrote back: OK. Call when you can.
And then his cell rang and he saw it was Andi.
“Hey,” he started, but her panicked voice cut him off.
“I just got a call from Jarrett. It was his wallet at Trini’s! He went back to her apartment to get it and saw the police and left!”
“Your brother,” Luke clarified.
“She knows him. They dated.”
He stepped back outside and lowered his voice. “He didn’t talk to the police?”
“No. Oh God. That was his wallet. What does it mean?”
“Did he have an explanation?”
“I didn’t really talk to him. He was stunned and shocked, and then he just got off the phone. What should I do? I can’t just sit here!”
Luke saw headlights from an approaching vehicle, then a black Jeep with the Laurelton Police Department stenciled on it appeared. “Wait for me. I’ll be there soon. I think Detective Thompkins just arrived.”
“Do they think it’s a homicide? Do they think . . . Jarrett’s involved?”
“Andi, hang tight. Let me get some information.”
“I wish I’d come with you.”
“It’s better that you didn’t. Where is Jarrett now?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded about to break down and he could hardly blame her.
He was right about it being Thompkins. He saw his bulk move from the driver’s seat and then he was walking toward Luke. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll call back.” He clicked off and waited for the detective, who wheezed from the effort of walking.
“What are you doing here?” the detective asked him with a weary frown.
“I wanted to talk to you about Trini Finch’s death.”
“I got nothin’ to say.”
“I know the wallet you found belongs to Jarrett Sellers and that he dated Trini once upon a time.”
That earned Luke a long stare, then he said, “Marjorie said you’re ex-Portland PD.”
“I am. Quit over the Bolchoy case.”
He grunted, then motioned Luke to precede him inside. This time the girl at the desk hit the buzzer without hesitation. Luke followed Thompkins down a short hallway that opened into the squad room, which was about thirty feet square and held a number of desks. An attractive woman in plainclothes was just slipping on her coat and Luke realized he knew her. Rafferty. Named for one of the months like her brother, Detective August “Auggie” Rafferty. “Detective Rafferty?” Luke asked.
She was preoccupied, but he caught her attention. “Yes?”
Thompkins said, “He’s ex-Portland PD.”
Luke added, “I’ve worked with your brother. I’m Luke Denton.” He thrust out his hand.
She studied him. Her eyes were a warm hazel and her hair had the faintest of red in its shoulder-length brown tresses. He realized he’d seen her on television, interviewed by Pauline Kirby.
“You were Ray Bolchoy’s partner,” she said, accepting his handshake. “September Rafferty.”
“Look, I’m about to get out of here,” Thompkins said, throwing himself into a desk chair that shrieked under his weight. He motioned Luke to a chair at the end of his desk. “You wanna talk to me, now’s the time.”
September asked, “Is this about a case?”
Thompkins frowned at her. “What’re you doing here?”
“Don’t worry. I’m on my own time.” She returned her attention to Luke, who decided to lay his cards on the table.
“You got a minute or two?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m on my way to an interview.”
“What interview?” Thompkins asked.
“Winslow Sheriff’s Department asked for our help on one of their cases. Wes can’t be here and I already was. What were you on?”
“Five minutes,” Luke cut in before he could answer. “Let me tell you why I’m here.” Both Thompkins and Rafferty looked about to protest, but Luke launched into the story of his working relationship with Andi, her friendship with Trinidad Finch, and, most importantly, that she was Jarrett Sellers’s sister. “I want to know more about the cricket flour,” he finished.
“So do I,” September said regretfully, “but I’m already late. I’ll check in with you later,” she said to Thompkins.
“You want this case?” he said, halfway belligerent. “It’s yours. They’re going to fire me anyway.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” she muttered as she headed for the door.
“What have you got on the victim?” Luke asked Thompkins when they were alone.
He regarded Luke speculatively for a while, checked the time, then seemed to shrug mentally. “Coulda been a mistake. She ate the bar and didn’t look at the label ’til it was too late.”
“What about Jarrett Sellers?”
“Well, if it’s a homicide, he’d be our number one suspect.”
“When are you going to know if it’s a homicide?”
“When we know.” He pressed his lips together, then exhaled heavily. “I have a call in to Sellers that he hasn’t returned. If I thought it was urgent, I’d be chasing him down.”
“Have you checked her cell phone?”
“Haven’t found it yet,” he admitted, and then went a step farther, saying, “and the wallet was clear of fingerprints.”
“No fingerprints? Sellers’s prints would be on it.”
“Yep.”
Luke thought about it. “Maybe someone touched it who didn’t want their fingerprints found at the scene, like the foil.”
“And then left it there for us to find, just in case we decide it’s a homicide?” Thompkins finished the thought.
“Something like that. The piece of foil wrapper left by her hand seemed staged to me. If she ate the bar and left part of the wrapper, where’s the rest of it?”
“Not in the trash,” Thompkins admitted.
“There are just too many little details that don’t quite fit with an accident.”
“If it’s a homicide—and I’m not saying it is—the doer should have taken the whole wrapper and not touched the wallet.”
Luke said slowly, “He wants us to know. Not completely, but sort of. He’s crowing about what he did.”
Thompkins snorted. “So he’s a psycho?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What’s his motive? And where does Sellers fit in?”
Luke shook his head. They were both good questions, but he wasn’t any closer to an answer than he had been earlier. “Sellers might just have been opportunity,” Luke suggested.
It’s too bad when little birds have to die.
He considered mentioning the threat to the detective but decided to wait. Luke wasn’t sure which way Thompkins was going to jump on this, and he had some ideas of his own. “She had a boyfriend other than Sellers,” Luke told him. “I asked Andi about him, but sh
e’s never met him.”
“That’s Andrea Wren, the friend of the victim and sister of Sellers?”
“Yes.”
Thompkins shrugged. “I gotta wrap this up for tonight, Detective.”
Luke felt a certain nostalgia upon hearing Thompkins mistakenly call him detective. He took his cue to leave and headed outside, driving back to his office with thoughts circling his brain.
Instead of pulling into the back lot he drove toward the front of the building and, as he turned the corner, felt a cold jolt of alarm upon seeing a dark-haired man standing outside his office door, rapping sharply on the panels.
Chapter Twenty
Luke whipped into a parking spot and was out of the car in three seconds flat. “What do you want?” he demanded as he stalked toward the door. He got his second jolt when he realized it was Carlos Garcia, Helena’s husband.
“Carlos.”
“You have my wife in there?” Carlos asked flatly. He looked calm, but for the first time Luke saw the cold implacability that Helena had alluded to.
“Hell no. I haven’t seen Helena since I’ve seen you,” Luke said.
“You lying to me?”
“Carlos.” Luke stared at him.
“Who’s in there?” he asked suspiciously.
“A friend.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, a woman friend,” Luke said, starting to get angry.
Carlos lifted his hands, conceding the point. “Helena has taken Emily again.”
“Carlos, you know I’m not involved in this. Now move out of the way. You’ve probably scared her to death.”
Luke shouldered his way past Carlos and into his office. Andi was sitting at his desk in the near dark, her cell phone in her hand. “Luke,” she said.
“Don’t worry. Carlos thought you were someone else.”
Carlos stepped into the room behind Luke, who whipped around to glare at him. He held up his hands again. “I am leaving. If you need anything,” he told Luke as he handed him a card, “you call me.”
