Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3)

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Anger flashed in her eyes, but that was all. “It would be one thing if you wanted to look at records pertaining to a single suspect individual, but to allow you open access? Impossible. I cannot help you.”

  “Can you at least tell me if any clients have the initials BCD?”

  She looked curious, no wonder since the letters written in blood were a detail they hadn’t released. Finally she nodded. “I’ll check and let you know.”

  The initials – or was it an acronym? – were frustrating Sean. Online, he’d discovered BCD could be short for anything from Binary-Coded Decimal to Behind Completion Date. Not surprisingly, there were at least a couple military applications besides the one Jason has mentioned, including Brigade, Corps, Division and Sean’s personal favorite, Bad Conduct Discharge. He’d checked, though, and Frank had never served. He’d also never been a mathematician and hadn’t worked in construction, another field where BCD had several meanings.

  Shaking off that question, he moved onto another. “May I ask how many active cases he had?”

  “I’ve…barely begun reviewing those.” She actually sounded hesitant. That might be grief on her face, but, if so, it was gone before Sean could be sure. “Twenty or thirty,” she said. “Many of his clients, of course, had been accused of relatively minor offenses. We don’t have a lot of spectacular trials here in Burris County.”

  “We don’t,” he conceded. “But I’m assuming the two of you represented clients in courts in other counties.”

  “Certainly, but only neighboring ones. Given that there are no cities of significant size in this part of western Oregon, I’m sure you understand that people accused of a DWI, drug offense or burglary make up the largest part of our practice.”

  He knew for a fact that Frank had in the last year also represented clients who’d committed child sexual abuse, rape, and assault.

  “Anyone whose life was seriously impacted by a conviction could be moved to violence,” he said. “This guy could have lost his job because of a DWI. His family might have cut him off if he was convicted of child sexual molestation. We can’t assume he had previously been accused of a violent crime.”

  Nothing he said moved her, which wasn’t unexpected. Realistically, she couldn’t say, sure, take a look. He’d hoped she might drop a hint. But maybe she and Frank hadn’t discussed anyone in the recent past that made him nervous. People could appear completely normal until they cracked. And this particular murder struck Sean as so cold-blooded, the man who committed it might have given off no aberrant signals in advance.

  He was taking a leap even to assume the killer was male, but Sean couldn’t see a woman overpowering Frank so easily, even if he was stumbling sleepily into a dark bathroom.

  Fortunately, they had backdoor ways of looking into the cases he’d handled. The district attorney had set some people to combing records for any obvious red flags – or the initials BCD. Cases Frank had handled that actually went to trial or were plea-bargained were matters of public record. Sean wasn’t optimistic, though. Unless someone remembered an unusual outburst or threat, they were running out of avenues to pursue. If this had been a rape/murder, they could expect the offender to repeat what had been a successful experience for him. Domestics were usually a one-time deal. But this kind of killing? All Sean knew for sure was that this guy had killed before. He was too good at it to be a newbie.

  In the intervening two days, none of their inquiries had borne fruit. Not a single neighbor had noticed a person or vehicle that didn’t belong. It turned out that neither of the nearest neighbors were home. Both wintered in Arizona. He’d wondered why lights hadn’t come on in other houses that night. Police activity was usually guaranteed to draw a crowd.

  Mrs. Lowe insisted her husband hadn’t seemed unusually concerned about anything or anyone. She was quite certain he’d have told her if he had been threatened.

  The ME hadn’t had been able to offer anything useful. How Frank was killed hadn’t exactly been a mystery. What was more frustrating was that the CAU folks hadn’t found anything, either. The no fingerprints, Sean had expected. But every hair and flake of skin in the bathroom and bedroom came from the victim or his wife. Sean had learned they didn’t employ even a weekly housecleaner, and Rita made a habit of shutting their bedroom door when they entertained to discourage guests from using that bathroom. Outside, the investigators had found depressions left by footprints, but the ground was too wet for any detail to remain. Man’s shoe size ten or eleven had been their best guess.

  What it meant was, the killer had come and gone as if he had no substance whatsoever. Which put weight behind Sean’s belief that he’d had practice.

  Somewhere else, presumably. This kind of murder was virtually unknown anywhere closer than Portland. If the guy was a hired hitman who’d already gone home to Chicago or Miami or wherever he came from, they were shit out of luck. In the back of Sean’s mind, though, was the knowledge that a significant percentage of Americans had been trained to kill by their own government. The average artillery grunt probably wouldn’t have had a lot of opportunity to slit throats over in Iraq or Afghanistan, but Special Ops guys were another story. He didn’t even want to think about how many residents of Burris County had served in the military.

  Yeah, but then why Frank, who hadn’t served?

  Damn, Sean thought, still sitting outside the law firm. He was spinning his wheels. It was time to call it a day. Maybe going to the gym or for a run would help. Shake something loose.

  It seemed fortuitous when, about a mile before he reached the Cape Trouble city limits, he spotted a man dressed in camouflage plodding along the shoulder, humping a huge pack. Larry was a Vietnam War veteran who’d never reintegrated into society. His braided gray hair hung to his belt. A certain smell clung to him, but he wasn’t filthy. Worried about him, Sean had asked around awhile back and found a woman who let him take showers at the old motel and campground she managed in exchange for the aluminum cans Larry picked up beside the road.

  “Saves him his dignity,” she had explained. “I tell him if the weather’s bad, he can stay the night, too, but he hardly ever does. I don’t know if he’s found a cave or has built a shelter or what, but he must be able to get out of the rain somehow.”

  Sean suspected there were people in town who found a way to feed Larry, too. Whenever he happened to see the old guy, he’d slip him some bucks, and he probably wasn’t the only one who did.

  He put on his blinker and pulled to the side of the road, waiting until Larry had reached his open window.

  “Hey. Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you keeping?”

  Larry’s faded blue eyes looked clear. Whatever his problems, he wasn’t much of a drinker. He scowled. “Enemy’s sent a scout ahead. He thinks I’m a problem, and he’s trying to run me out.”

  Paranoia being Larry’s middle name, his conversation was frequently studded with vague warnings of enemy incursions. Given Sean’s earlier speculations, though, he asked, “A scout? What can you tell me about him?”

  “Young guy.” Larry mulled that over. “Well, younger’n me. Wearing clothes like me, trying to blend in. Could be one of Saddam’s boys, or even that new crowd.”

  “ISIS?”

  “Scary thought. Them guys chop the heads off anyone they don’t like, you know.”

  Sean stiffened then made himself relax. The killer he was hunting hadn’t beheaded Frank Lowe, although he’d come close. He sure as hell wasn’t some Islamic terrorist. What would any of them want with Frank, a small time lawyer in smaller-time Burris County?

  “This scout look Arabic?” he asked, out of mild curiosity.

  Larry leaned in, his breath wafting under Sean’s nose. “Haven’t gotten a good enough look yet to say for sure. Got black hair, though.”

  “How’s he trying to run you out?”

  “I got a couple places,” Larry said vaguely. “He’s moved right into one of them. He pointed his rifle at me and warned me away. Don�
�t know why he didn’t take me out right then.”

  “I appreciate the warning.” Sean poked a twenty dollar bill into one of the multiple chest pockets on Larry’s camo jacket. “Can I give you a ride anywhere?”

  Larry pondered. Every once in a while, he accepted, but today he shook his head and stepped back. “Don’t have that far to go.”

  “You take care, then,” Sean told him, putting the Subaru into gear and pulling away. He cast a couple glances at the rearview mirror, seeing that Larry had resumed his plod toward whatever destination he had in mind. Sean worried about him, but also believed he was happier with his peculiar lifestyle than he would be if social services got their hands on him. What’s more, he was a hell of a lot better off than his counterparts in downtown Portland and Seattle, and probably every other major city. Winters here were wet and miserable, but not bitterly cold. Enough people watched out for him. He did all right.

  The enemy scout might be entirely in his mind, although Sean guessed it was also possible that another homeless man was passing through or even settling down here. Could even be another vet; there were enough guys back from Iraq or Afghanistan suffering from PTSD, no different from the Vietnam veterans.

  Frowning, he decided to keep a better eye out for Larry. He might struggle if he’d been pushed out of whatever shelter he had found.

  At home, Sean changed quickly, hearing Emily Drake’s car pulling out of her driveway just as he reached for his own keys. Damn. He’d have liked an excuse to try to start a conversation.

  Because that usually worked so well, he mocked himself. Apparently, looking pathetic was his best shot at catching her attention, but shock and pity weren’t exactly what he was going for from her.

  He frowned as he backed out of his own driveway. He couldn’t say what he did want with her, but a friendly conversation would be a good start. Honesty compelled him to admit that sex would be even better. It had been awhile since any other woman had caught his eye. He didn’t like to admit that he hadn’t so much as looked since his first glimpse of the woman who lived next door to the house on which he’d just made an offer.

  And why was he brooding about her again? He was supposed to be clearing his mind.

  He decided to cross Mist River to the old resort, soon to be in the hands of a nature conservancy, and run on the sandy beach that stretched for miles. He’d only done that a few times, because he’d been living in North Fork, the county seat, until he decided to put down roots and bought the house here in Cape Trouble just a couple months ago. It had been a wet late winter and early spring; he’d stuck to the gym more often than not since his move. But he liked the extra burn he got from running on sand.

  He liked the idea even better when he bumped along the deteriorating track past the tumbledown cabins, and saw a car he recognized beside the head of the trail that cut between dunes to the beach. Emily’s Prius. No sign of her, but he parked right behind it, locked and jogged along the trail until it opened onto the beach. And there she was, dressed in form-fitting running clothes, doing stretches.

  And, God, she looked good. He stopped for a minute so he could study her hungrily before she realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

  This was why he was obsessed with his reclusive neighbor and worried that she might be married, despite the non-appearance of a husband.

  Tall for a woman, maybe five foot ten, she had generous breasts and well-rounded hips, plus long, long legs with enough muscle to let him know she either ran or worked out on a regular basis.

  Hair so dark it was almost black was captured in a braid that hung nearly to the ground as she bent and grabbed the back of her legs, pulling on those hamstrings. Unlike most dark-haired people, she had the kind of ivory skin that likely refused to tan. And her eyes were as green as any he’d ever seen, even though her driver’s license probably called them hazel.

  “Emily,” he said, walking toward her.

  She straightened, alarm flashing on her face. “Detective.”

  “Make it Sean. We are neighbors.” He nodded toward the beach, empty as far as he could see. “Didn’t know you ran over here.”

  “Yes, quite often.” She sounded grudging; she didn’t want to admit to any part of her routine, he guessed. “I prefer it to a treadmill when it isn’t absolutely pouring, and I appreciate the solitude.”

  He gave a crooked smile at that. Way to tell him.

  “If you’d rather run alone, that’s okay. Although I won’t promise not to pass you if I’m faster.”

  “I doubt we’re well matched.” She eyed him as he started to stretch. “You’d probably leave me in your dust.”

  “Except for the lack of dust.”

  A tiny smile rewarded him. “Except.” Her forehead puckered as the silence extended. “You’re welcome to start with me if you’d like.”

  He knew half-hearted when he heard it, but wasn’t going to let her off the hook. Nor would he warn her that any speed she ran was sure to be fine by him.

  She walked in circles while he stretched, and then they broke into a trot together, away from the river that separated this old resort from town. He couldn’t forget the graves they’d discovered last summer in the gritty soil behind the lodge, where the resort owner’s nephew had buried his prey, all pretty blonde women. They had barely been in time to save Sophie Thomsen, the fiancé of Cape Trouble’s current police chief, a guy Sean liked and had worked with on half a dozen investigations now. In fact, Sean had stopped by the police station just a couple days ago to let him in on everything they knew about Frank Lowe’s murder. The investigation might well lead them to Cape Trouble.

  Emily started at a leisurely pace, but once they reached the hard-packed sand at the sea’s edge, she began to stretch those long legs and soon reached a speed that was only a little slower than he’d have gone on his own. Their initial silence felt surprisingly comfortable.

  She was the one to break it. “Have you heard any more about how that girl is doing? Did she really plan to kill herself?”

  “I kind of doubt it,” he said. “I think it was all big drama, except that she got herself lost in the woods and could have died of exposure.”

  She flicked a sidelong glance at him. “You sound…contemptuous.”

  “I’m not. Just…a little angry, I guess.” He had to think about that. “I get that teenagers are self-centered. I probably was, too.”

  Without breaking stride, Emily managed a lifted eyebrow with a tilt of her head that spoke volumes.

  Sean grinned at her expression more than the topic. “Okay. No probably. I was.” Until he hadn’t fulfilled a promise, with such devastating consequences. “But I’d never have knowingly put my parents through anything like that, either. And do you have any idea the resources it took to haul her little ass home? We had upwards of a hundred volunteers searching for her by the end. She sucked up a day and a half of my time alone. And now all her friends are probably cooing over her, poor heartbroken Arianna.”

  Maybe he should have softened what he said, since Emily was obviously more sympathetic than he was, but he wouldn’t lie. That kid had wasted the time of a hell of a lot of people. With all the crap you saw in law enforcement, it hardened you in some ways. How could he do his job if he agonized over every victim, sympathized with every sad story? Nor could he afford to let his worst memories be awakened by every bereaved father, brother, child.

  “You don’t know what her family is like, though,” Emily suggested. “No one ever does from the outside. You can’t assume it’s like yours.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “You are, too, though,” Emily said. She wasn’t even breathing hard yet, although her cheeks were pink. “No matter what her motivation, she probably never thought about all those people who would have to look for her.” A few strides along, she added, “I’ll bet she was really scared, though, by the time she was found.”

  “Yeah.” His mouth twisted. “I hear her parents put her right in counseling, wh
ich is good.”

  “Yes.”

  They ran right through a flock of sandpipers that darted out of their way before returning to their preoccupation – a seemingly never-ending search for food bared by the retreating waves. Emily turned and jogged backwards briefly to watch them, laughing.

  Sean did the same so he could see her face, lit with momentary happiness that made him realize how sad she had looked every other time he’d seen her.

  Turning to go forward again, she said, “They’re ridiculously cute.”

  “My favorite part of running on the beach.”

  “Mine, too.”

  They must have covered another quarter mile before she said, “If I’m holding you up…”

  “You’re not.”

  After another period of silence during which the pace grew faster, he said, “Your quilting. Do you make bed quilts?”

  “Mm? Oh, sometimes, but also crib quilts, throw-sized quilts, wall hangings, runners and placemats.”

  “You sell them?”

  She sounded a little breathless now. “Yes. Gift and quilt shops as well as galleries up and down the coast. Mostly in my own shop.” Her mouth curved. “The Sandpiper. Trite but true.”

  “I’ve seen it, but never gone in.” It was on Schooner Street, which paralleled the beach and was where tourists shopped and the best restaurants in town were. He remembered noticing some beautiful ceramic pieces in the window along with artfully arranged jewelry as well as lace that made him think of fishing nets. Now that he had his own place, he’d been thinking about buying some art, but when he wandered into one gallery, he had winced at the prices. Oils by the best known local artist, Elias Burton, went for $5,000 plus, which wasn’t happening on a cop’s salary. “You seem like you’re home more than you are at the store,” he commented.

  “I have a manager now.” She was quiet for a long time, but Sean sensed she might go on if he kept his mouth shut. “I used to run it myself,” she said slowly, something in her voice he couldn’t quite decipher. “But I’m happier concentrating on my quilting now. I have stayed involved in the decisions about what we carry. We don’t sell tacky souvenir stuff. Everything we do offer, from jewelry and ceramics to weaving, other textiles and paintings, is created by craftspeople up and down the coast.”