Fields gave her that look again. “Like I said, not my first rodeo. I checked her out. She said Andrea confided in her that the husband had admitted to the girlfriend and that he’d physically abused her.”
“She said he physically abused Andrea?” Tracy asked.
“That’s what she said, but before you get too excited that it was Chambers who helped Strickland, I can tell you that the weekend of the climb, Devin Chambers was at the coast. She produced a credit card receipt for the hotel and restaurants.”
“Were you able to verify those?”
Fields scoffed again and Tracy was starting to tire of it. “Like what, that she walked into the restaurant, ordered a meal to go, drove six hours to Mount Rainier, helped the wife disappear, and drove back? I had the receipts saying she was there.”
Kins jumped in. “Okay, so regardless of who helped her, now what? He figures out she played him, goes after the money, and kills her? Since she’s already dead, nobody will miss her, so long as they don’t find the body—which explains the crab pot.”
“He’d still be my primary suspect,” Fields said. “And I’d work him hard, but you got a body now, so I guess it’s gonna become your rodeo.”
“Does he have a lawyer?” Kins asked.
Fields nodded. “A good one in Portland.”
“How long were they married?” Tracy asked.
“Right around a year. They got married within weeks of meeting. So now you’re wondering if he chose her on purpose, someone with money and without any relatives. Am I right?”
“So you suspected it?” Tracy said.
“Absolutely I suspected it, but I didn’t find anything in his past to indicate that was the case—first marriage for both of them. Plus, I don’t think she’s the innocent little girl she portrayed herself to be. These kinds of people tend to find one another, know what I mean?”
“So no other suspects?” Tracy asked.
Fields finished the last of his beer. “No need. It was like after the OJ trial when the press asked Gil Garcetti if they were going to pursue the real killer, and Garcetti said, ‘The killer just walked out the door.’ I was convinced that was the case here. Still am.”
“Any indication he owned a boat or fished?” Tracy asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. He didn’t strike me as that type.”
“What type?” Kins asked.
“Someone who’d bait his own hook.”
“But you think he’s capable of killing?”
Fields slid the empty plate away from the edge of the table. “I have no doubt he had the intent. Maybe now you can prove the act to go with that intent.”
CHAPTER 10
Genesis made a profit our first month in business and Graham’s mood was sky high, but that just made the fall that much farther and the landing that much harder. Business steadily declined as the novelty of legalized marijuana wore off. Then the laws changed, as the article I had read suggested, allowing medical dispensaries to sell retail. That was the kiss of death, that and Graham had insisted on a Pearl District address and tenant improvements that would have made King Louis XIV blush. Turns out our “high-end” clientele really didn’t care about things like Brazilian floors or display-case lighting. They cared about price.
I wanted to say I told you so, but I suspected—no, by this time I knew—where that would lead.
The minute the business started to tank, so did our relationship. Graham’s mood swings had become more frequent and more dramatic, sometimes violent. He seemed to always be on edge, stressed out, and it didn’t take much to set him off. We were deep in debt and I didn’t know how we were going to pay the rent on the dispensary or the loft. Even using the interest payments I received from the trust, we were going to be significantly short.
The sex had become nonexistent, but now we didn’t even talk. Graham had been bringing home edibles—marijuana in dried fruit, cookies, even things like gummy bears. He said it helped him to relax and fall asleep. It definitely did that. Most nights he passed out on the couch, which was a blessing, because if he’d also been drinking, which was not infrequent, he quickly became incoherent—or belligerent. Half the time his speech was so slurred, I couldn’t even understand what he was saying. And the one time we’d tried to make love, he hadn’t been able to get a hard-on, and that had just made him angry and spiteful.
“I’m tired, Andrea,” he’d said, quickly getting out of bed. “I’m under a lot of stress at work. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I was hoping it would help you relax,” I’d said.
“You want to help me relax? Talk to your trustee and see about using the funds to help us pay some of these bills. I’m killing myself at the store. The hours are killing me.” Then he’d stormed out of our bedroom and slept on the couch.
I was walking home from the dispensary with a massive headache, the kind that makes you squint because the light hurts your eyes. My stomach churned as though I’d been standing on the deck of a boat in high seas trying to read a book. My lunch was in a knotted plastic bag, and my inability to eat it, again, had left me feeling weak. I had an appointment later in the week to see the doctor for what I was sure was an ulcer.
As I stepped from the elevator onto our landing, I just wanted to change into my sweats, curl up on the couch with my latest novel, and lose myself in some fictional world.
I punched in the four-digit code to our keyless door lock. The lights were off, but the pale-blue light of a streetlamp filtered through the blinds. I noticed this because I never lowered the blinds. The window looked toward the Willamette River, and the view was the best part of my now-pricey loft that I doubted we’d continue to be able to afford.
Graham sat on the couch with his back to the door, so still it was like looking at the back of the head of a mannequin in a department-store display. His suit coat, the black-and-white checked pattern he’d recently bought, hung haphazardly over the back of the sofa, as if tossed, which was not like him. He was meticulous when it came to his clothes.
“Graham?” I said, my voice questioning.
His head moved, but it was more of a flinch, which was a relief because the thought had crossed my mind that he had died seated on that couch.
“Graham?” I said again, stepping farther in.
“Well, it’s over,” he said, voice hoarse and soft.
I set my keys on the kitchen counter and stepped to the side of the couch with the window at my back. I was looking at him in profile. His hair was untamed, as if he’d been tugging on it. Beside him, on the couch, his tie lay balled up. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms in tight bunches. On the table was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a glass. Thankfully, the bottle looked relatively full, but beside it was an open mason jar from the dispensary filled with dried apricots laced with THC, the chemical in marijuana that causes the high.
“What happened? Did you talk to the bank?”
He’d had an appointment that afternoon to speak with the bank about extending the loan payments, or securing an additional loan. Judging from his demeanor, the meeting had not gone well.
He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, his lips pursed. Then he stood so suddenly I flinched. He grabbed the bottle and came around the couch, leaning down into my personal space. The alcohol and smell of the apricots was strong, almost enough to make me puke. My stomach lurched but I looked away and sucked in air.
“I did.” He grinned and stepped past me to the window. He put his fingers between the blades of the blinds, pulling them down so that they crinkled, and peered out like a man in hiding.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he said. “I’m eating the inventory.” He turned and smiled at me, again without any humor.
“How many have you had?” I asked, looking at the mason jar. I had learned that the potency level in the edibles was much higher than smoking a joint, but the real problem was that the level of THC was di
fficult to measure. People made the mistake of eating one edible, feeling nothing, and eating another, not realizing the effect from the first edible had yet to kick in. When it did, it could be debilitating.
“I don’t know,” Graham said, running his hand down the blades as if over harp strings. “And I don’t really give a shit.”
“Do you think you should be drinking?”
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “What would you have me do, Andrea, read a book? Live in a fantasy world?”
“Is it that bad?”
He approached. His grin had now become more sinister, the kind you carved into a jack-o’- lantern to scare trick-or-treaters on Halloween. When he leaned forward, I took a step back.
“Yes, it’s that bad,” he said, voice soft and deliberate. “What did you think the bank was going to say?” He dropped his voice an octave. “‘We’re not only willing to forego your loan, here’s another one. Have a nice day.’” Graham paused as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh, yeah, he also questioned why I had no law-firm income. He said the bank was going to start an inquiry with my former law firm. So, in addition to being bankrupt and losing everything, I may also be going to jail for fraud. How does that grab you?”
He stepped away to our tiny kitchen and set the bottle on the counter.
“We can start over,” I said, trying to find something to hold on to.
He laughed. “You would say that. You’re such a dreamer.”
“We can. We can hire an attorney and work out a payment plan on the loan. The bank won’t prosecute you; they just want their money. You can practice law and I can get my job back and we’ll pay off the loan.”
Graham spun on his heels and raised the bottle. “And live on what?”
“We can move—someplace cheaper, and get rid of the lease on the Porsche and cut other expenses.” I was just thinking quickly and out loud.
“No.” He shook his head. “No way am I going back to practicing law. That is a death sentence. Is that what you want for me?”
“It doesn’t have to be forever,” I said. “Just until we get back on our feet.”
“Really? Really?” He walked back to me. “You want us to get back on our feet?”
“I’m willing to try,” I said, and I was willing.
“No, you’re willing to sentence me to an office for the rest of my life, but you’re not willing to lend me the money to pay our bills so I can make this work. Put your money where your mouth is, Andrea.”
I was so tired of this debate. I tried to remain calm. “We’ve talked about this, Graham. Even if I could, it’s not going to solve our problems. What do we do next month and the month after that?”
“All I need is another month to turn this thing around,” he said.
“You said that last month,” I said before I could stop myself.
He glared at me. “I didn’t know you were keeping score.”
I took a breath. “Look, this wasn’t your fault. The timing was wrong and the location was too expensive.”
“Oh,” he said, voice rising. “So this is all my fault. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I said it wasn’t your fault.”
“I heard what you said and I know what you mean. You think it’s my fault. Well, I don’t, Andrea. I did my homework and I did my research. I had the vision. I put in the time and the sweat equity. What I needed was more capital. What I needed was support. For better or for worse, Andrea. Do you remember those words, ‘for better or for worse’?”
He had no idea how many times I’d heard those words every day in my head, like the beating of tribal drums just before an attack. He moved quickly to the front door, to where I saw he had set his leather satchel. He carried it back to the couch, going through it, and pulled out papers, letting the satchel drop onto the couch. He thrust the papers at me.
“I prepared loan documents, Andrea. You want to help. Put your money where your mouth is. You can loan the business the money.”
“What would be the collateral?”
“Are you kidding me?” he shouted. “Are we really going to go there?”
I was confused and worried. I put the papers down, trying to think. “I can’t loan the business the money, Graham.”
“No. You won’t loan me the money!” He closed the distance between us and shoved the papers into my chest hard enough to make me step backward. “Well, guess what, Andrea? In addition to that little letter from the law firm that I forged, I also forged your name on the personal guarantees to the bank and on the lease.”
I felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach. “You did what?”
He gave me a sardonic smile. “How does that grab you? So, you can either give me the money so I can get this to work, or you can just sign it over to the bank.”
“You bastard.”
He laughed. “Doesn’t feel so good when your ass is on the line, does it?”
“I’m not giving you the money,” I said, now defiant. “Let the bank come after it. My parents’ attorney says the trust can’t be broken.”
Graham closed the distance, backing me up until I was at the kitchen counter. I had nowhere to go. “I’m through playing around, Andrea. I need that money. I am not going to jail.”
“I’m leaving.” I tried to step around him to the front door but he blocked my escape.
“I need that money, Andrea!”
“No.” I bumped him out of the way and started toward the door.
He grabbed my wrist hard and spun me. I shot out my foot, kicking him hard in the shin. He winced and moaned but did not release his grip. He shook me, bending my wrist. “I need that Goddamn money!”
“No!” I yelled. “You’re hurting me.”
And then he slapped me, hard, across the face.
The blow knocked me to the ground.
It happened so fast I wasn’t really even sure he’d hit me, but then my face stung and burst into flames.
The room fell silent, the air so still I could hear the clock on the stove ticking. I had my head down, my hand pressed to my cheek, which was warm to the touch. Above me, I heard the faint sound of Graham breathing. I sat there, my gaze on the floor, hair covering my face, tasting the metallic tinge of my own blood. Then, slowly, I looked up at him. I looked up at the man I’d married.
His hand remained balled in a fist.
CHAPTER 11
Late on a weekday afternoon, Faz and Del stepped through the doors of the Department of Licensing on Spring Street in downtown Seattle. A mass of bored humanity sat in uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, which was just what Faz had expected to find. An automated female voice identified the next customer and directed the person to the proper window, everyone moving like robots.
“It’s like something out of an apocalyptic movie in which machines have taken over and humans are drones,” Faz said. “I think I watched this on TV last night.”
“How many you think are here for the air-conditioning?” Del said.
“What do you want to bet the library’s a madhouse too?” Faz said.
Seattle had spent millions on a one-of-a-kind glass-and-steel eleven-story library in downtown, but a public building is open to the public—all the public. The library had become a safe haven for the homeless, the mentally disturbed, and those seeking to use one of the facility’s four hundred public computers to search the Internet for porn and do unspeakable things right there in the public domain. Those numbers swelled in the winter when the temperature dropped near or below freezing, and again in the summer when Seattle baked.
“If you build it, they will cum,” Del said, laughing.
“Wouldn’t touch those computers with your hands,” Faz said.
Television and computer screens indicated the numbers the clerks in the booths were serving, but the numbers everyone intently watched were on the digital clock: 4:18.
“The office closes at four thirty,” Del said.
“Good thing we ain’t waiting,
” Faz said.
“You wanna bet?” Del asked.
“Early dinner?” Faz said.
“Loser buys sandwiches at Salumi,” Del said.
“I like that bet. I win either way. I can also pick up some pasta for Vera and be twice blessed.”
“Happy wife, happy Faz,” Del said.
At the counter, Faz showed his badge and ID to a woman behind the partition. She didn’t look impressed.
“We have an appointment with Henrik . . .”
When he fumbled over the last name the woman said, “Engvaldson.”
“That’s it,” Faz said. “Tongue twister.”
She didn’t smile, pointing to the chairs, then picking up the phone. “Take a seat.” Del smiled as they turned for the white plastic chairs. “I can taste the grilled lamb sandwich already, and you know what is going to make it especially good?”
“It’s free,” Faz said.
“Bingo,” Del said.
Del wasn’t cheap; he’d bought his share of meals. He just liked a good bet. He couldn’t watch a game or a fight without placing a bet of some kind. It was never much, just a couple bucks, and Faz admitted it did make things more interesting.
Faz hoped Engvaldson could provide a little detail on what Andrea Strickland had used to obtain a driver’s license in Lynn Hoff’s name. At this point, any information would be welcome.
They didn’t wait long. A very tall man in khakis and a light-blue button-down greeted them in the lobby. “Detectives,” he said, extending a hand as if it were on the end of a crane. “I’m Henrik Engvaldson. Which of you did I speak with on the phone?”
“That would be me,” Faz said, feeling small, and that was saying something. Faz stood six foot four and, as of that morning, he weighed 268 pounds, butt naked. Del was an inch taller and ten to fifteen pounds heavier, though he would never admit it. The gut, however, didn’t lie.
They followed Engvaldson to a door at the back of the room. He had to duck to pass under the header, which confirmed he was taller than six foot eight. Faz gave Del a look as they continued down a narrow hallway.
“What nationality is ‘Engvaldson’?” Faz said.
The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4) Page 10
