*****
Sean’s eyes snapped open in the gray light of morning. He looked at the time. Barely after six, damn it. Well, he hadn’t been sleeping well anyway, and might as well get up.
He brooded for a minute, thinking about his day. Frank Lowe had been murdered Sunday night, five days ago. Making an arrest became less likely with each passing day. Phone calls today, he decided; he’d work over the weekend, but some people would be harder to reach then
He wasn’t going anywhere, though, until he’d met with the rep from the home security company at Emily’s house.
Since he was decent in the flannel pajama bottoms and T-shirt he wore to bed in the winter, he’d check on her before he took a shower. The moment he stepped into the hall, he saw her hovering in her doorway, her eyes huge in a face even paler than usual.
“I heard something.”
“Just me getting up.”
“Do you have to go in this early?” She was trying to sound calm, but she had a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry I woke you. I had a restless night.”
She relaxed visibly. “Oh.”
“You must be freezing. If you’re not going to go back to bed, why don’t you put on something warmer and join me in the kitchen?”
She nodded, and he gave the thermostat a nudge before taking a quick shower and getting dressed. On his way to the kitchen, he smelled coffee. She’d already started it, bless her.
Rather than a robe, she’d thrown a Portland Trailblazers sweatshirt on over the thin tee she’d worn with pajama pants. He recognized it as the same one she’d put on the other night, then realized something else. It hung below her hips and the sleeves were long enough she had them rolled up several times. He’d be willing to bet it had been her husband’s. The knowledge felt like a kick to his gut.
I’m jealous, he realized with some incredulity. Stupid. It wasn’t as if they had anything going. He might wish they did, but that didn’t give him any rights.
He wondered if she wore that shirt frequently, or reached for it this time because she especially needed comfort.
From her dead husband.
Hoping she hadn’t read his thoughts, he went to the refrigerator. “It’s early, but I’m hungry.”
“Me, too,” she said. “No wonder, after I ruined dinner for both of us.”
He gave himself a minute before turning around. “Emily, we talked about something upsetting to you. You didn’t sabotage the meal.”
A tiny smile rewarded him. “It was pretty spicy.”
Damn, he wanted to touch her. But he only smiled in response. “It was fabulous. I’m hoping there’s enough left for dinner tonight.”
“Of course there is. And I promise, we can talk about, I don’t know, the weather.”
His smile faded. “No, Emily. Let’s…not censor ourselves.”
Her eyes searched his. “Okay,” she said at last, softly.
The sting he still felt because she was wearing her husband’s shirt faded. She’d heard him and understood. She’d agreed to…he didn’t know yet, but something important. Honesty, maybe. A willingness to share, even anger or anguish or accusation.
It felt important.
He nodded. “How about waffles? I make good ones.”
“That sounds wonderful if it isn’t too much trouble.”
She pulled up a bar stool and teased him about his domestic skill as he heated the waffle iron and mixed the batter from scratch. He knew she was faking it, but admired her for making the effort.
He could do as much. “Hey, what’s wrong with a man learning to cook?”
This chuckle sounded more genuine. “Absolutely nothing. I just have the impression most don’t.”
“I’m better at breakfasts than any other meal,” he admitted. “Cereal is boring, and during the day I have to grab meals on the fly often enough, I try not to with breakfast.”
“That makes sense. I’m ashamed to admit I have cereal almost every morning.”
“Then I’m enriching your life,” he said with exaggerated gallantry, and loved the sight of this smile, too.
He wondered if she ever wore makeup. She didn’t need it, not with those long, thick, dark eyelashes, lips just lush enough to kick-start a man’s imagination, and that luminous skin.
He made himself concentrate on getting a couple of plates down from the cupboard. It was lucky she was wearing the damn sweatshirt that swallowed her curves.
They discussed her plans for the day. She had decided to spend most of it at The Sandpiper, which he approved. There were enough tourists in Cape Trouble even at this season, she was unlikely ever to be alone in her store. He offered to drive her. She refused, not wanting to be stuck there if he was held up. He couldn’t deny that was always a possibility, but he didn’t like the idea of her arriving home alone, either.
Conversation wandered over breakfast, with her talking about favorite local artisans. Her store carried a range of crafts including ceramics, jewelry, stone carving and woodwork, but specialized in textiles. It happened all were from women artists, although she said there were male quilters and weavers. When he raised his eyebrows, she laughed at him.
“Probably not many who are cops.”
“If any are, they keep it a deep, dark secret.”
When she asked, he told her a little about how he reasoned during a major investigation and crushed the expectations she’d learned from TV shows like NCIS.
“They make it look so damn easy,” he grumbled.
Eventually she went off to shower, then sat down in his living room, stretched part of a lap-size quilt in a large wood hoop, threaded the tiniest damn needle he’d ever seen, and bent over her work. One hand disappeared underneath, while she wore a leather thimble on the finger that pushed the needle through. He watched in fascination as she gathered multiple stitches on that miniscule needle before pulling the thread through.
He could see that she hadn’t used a traditional pattern to make this quilt top. It was too…not abstract, but definitely modern. Circles of varying sizes formed from half a dozen shades of teal green stood out against a blue backdrop. On the blue…she was quilting ripples.
“Waves,” she said, without looking up. “I’ll call this ‘Japanese Floats’. See, I’ve quilted netting on some of the floats, and tiny bubbles on others. And a couple of fish, swirling around the floats.”
Sean looked more closely. Being only quilted, the fish were mere shadows, as if he was seeing a flick of movement in deep water. “It’s beautiful,” he said honestly. “Will you sell it?”
“Yes, of course.” She tied a knot, took a small stitch then cut the thread. A moment later, she’d re-threaded and started elsewhere.
Figuring his stare would make her uncomfortable, he booted his laptop and pretended to work while sneaking looks at Emily. The day might be overcast, but the warm light from the lamp illuminating her work made her hair shimmer when she moved the smallest amount. Her back stayed straight, but the bow of her neck and the way she held her arms made him think of the graceful pose of a ballerina.
He wanted to toss the quilt and hoop aside, sweep her up into his arms and carry her down the hall to his bedroom.
Not happening.
It was an enormous relief when he was able to say, “We should probably get over to your house.”
*****
Daniel Colburn sat with his chair tipped back and his feet stacked on his desk. He’d printed off the resumes of the half dozen candidates for police officer he’d received in response to his listings on law enforcement websites, Craig’s List - yes, he was desperate - and the Portland Oregonian newspaper. He was paging through the very short stack yet again when his receptionist slash dispatcher, Ellie Fitzpatrick, called from the front desk. “Chief, Mrs. Grove is on line one for you.”
“Thanks,” he called back, and swung his feet to the floor. He dropped the resumes to his desktop with a sense of relief. Repetition wasn’t
making any of them look any more promising.
On the down side, Linda Grove was the principal of the high school, so a phone call from her most often meant he or one of his officers were being summoned to arrest a juvenile delinquent masquerading as a student.
“Linda,” he said. “Daniel here.”
She didn’t beat around the bush. “You’re allowed to break into someone’s house if you have reason to be concerned for their health, right?”
“Sure, we sometimes do that kind of check for a concerned family member. What’s up?”
“Our biology teacher didn’t show for class this morning. Darryl didn’t call in sick, either, which isn’t like him. I sent Terry Geller over to his house. She rang the doorbell and even walked around back to look in his sliding glass door, but got no response. He probably thought he’d requested a personal day for some reason and is off doing who knows what, but I’m concerned. He lives alone, so if he’s really sick or injured himself too severely to call for help, there’s no one to find him.”
“Could she tell if his car was there?”
“A shade covered the only window into the garage.”
His inner alarms jangled, but he kept his voice casual. “Okay, I’ll run over there myself. What’s his last name?”
“Roff.”
“I don’t know that I’ve met him. Is he of an age where a heart attack or stroke are at all likely?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so.” She sounded doubtful and also stressed. “He’s...let me think. Early forties? I’d have to look up his personnel info to tell you for sure.”
“No need yet.” While talking to her, he’d looked up Roff’s address. “I’ll call you when I know more. Did you find a sub to fill in okay?”
“No,” she groused, “or I might have let this go until tomorrow. I’m having to turn his classes into study periods today, and diverting other staff to supervise them.”
“I’d be a little peeved if I were you, too,” he admitted. In fact, he was already peeved after one of his pitifully few officers had quit without giving notice, leaving him so short-handed he was pulling double shifts himself when he could be in bed with Sophie.
After getting Linda off the phone, he told Ellie where he was going and went out to the patrol car he reserved for himself.
Roff’s house turned out to be a small rambler that probably dated to the 1960s or 70s. Cape Trouble had had a modest economic boom around then and some developments had sprung up on the east side of the coast highway. As tourism became the principal industry, utilitarian businesses like the dry cleaner and the hardware store had relocated over here, too, leaving downtown to the art galleries and restaurants that catered to tourists. Even farther west was what Daniel thought of as the industrial sector: a sheet metal business, auto repair and body shops, a sprawling storage facility.
He parked in the driveway and first rang the doorbell and then knocked, just to cover his ass if Roff was annoyed to come home and find a door splintered or some glass broken. Daniel anticipated being able to get in without breaking anything, though; people were rarely as careful as they thought they were about locking, or the locks were so damn flimsy, anyone could pop them.
He walked around the house, starting on the garage side, and saw that the school secretary was right; a roller shade was drawn, blocking any glimpse inside. But when he reached the back of the house, his eyes went right to a window that caught the light wrong. He had a bad feeling he knew what he’d find even before he got close enough to see that a small square of glass had been cut out of the larger sheet.
Glad he hadn’t sent one of his baby officers to check on the missing teacher, Daniel hurried back to his patrol car to grab some gloves before he so much as touched a door knob.
*****
Sean stayed in the bathroom doorway so as not to inadvertently screw up the scene. He could see plenty from here. For some reason, Darryl Roff’s naked body looked even more obscene than Frank’s had. Maybe it was just the angle, with Sean directly behind him. Sometimes he could be entirely clinical, but every so often he had this all-too human urge to grab a blanket and cover the body. He cringed at the idea of a bunch of law enforcement people seeing him like that, nothing hidden.
Ignoring his discomfort, he assessed the scene. No bathtub, so the teacher had been forced to either kneel or get on all fours with his front half in the shower stall. He pictured the killer straddling Roff, a hard grip on his face that silenced him. Had he leaned over to whisper in his ear? Taunted his victim before yanking the head back hard and slicing almost from ear to ear?
And then vanishing, but not before using the blood to write BCD on the fiberglass wall of the shower.
Staring at the dripping letters, Sean had no more idea than ever what that meant. And, Jesus, he hated knowing his stalled investigation into Frank Lowe’s murder had left a monster free to kill again.
My fault.
No, it wasn’t, but he wished he could be sure in his own mind he’d done absolutely every single thing that could be done. If he’d missed a clue, shrugged off a possibility, not pursued a lead however nebulous…
He still couldn’t think of anything. Didn’t mean he was off the hook. The sense of responsibility he had cursed himself with after letting his brother down was too unrelenting. This was different. If they couldn’t figure out what the freaking hell was going on, who knew how many more deaths there would be?
Daniel had officers out canvassing the neighborhood, but Sean knew damn well they wouldn’t find a soul who’d seen anything even though here the houses were close together, the yards small. This killer was too smart. Plus, this was the kind of neighborhood where people all held jobs and their kids were in school. Most would be in bed by ten o’clock. A light sleeper might hear a car engine in the middle of the night, but why would he think anything of it?
Sean returned to the small living room to join Daniel Colburn, who was just finishing a call.
“Any significant differences?” he asked.
“Except for the fact the bathroom doesn’t have a tub, no. This is act two, but I don’t get the plot. Unless he was a client of Frank’s at some point, what could a Cape Trouble high school biology teacher have in common with a criminal defense attorney who lived at the other end of the county and practiced in North Fork?”
“You make it sound like Burris County is bigger than it is,” Daniel pointed out. “These were two men of a similar age. You never know what they could have in common. Maybe both belonged to some civic organization or, hell, a group of rock hounds.”
“It’s possible.” Although if Frank had any hobbies besides doing the New York Times crossword puzzle and sipping expensive wine, Sean had yet to learn of it. “I’ll interview the wife and partner again.”
“Pray the victims weren’t random choices,” Daniel growled.
“Age and gender argues against that.” Which wasn’t to say the next victim wouldn’t be a twenty year old woman.
“Yeah.” Daniel’s head turned. “Sounds like the crew from CAU are here.”
Every local jurisdiction in Oregon could count their blessings at being able to draw on the support of specialists from the Oregon State Police Crime Analyst Unit. Daniel had worked homicide for San Francisco P.D. before taking this job, but if no one in the department had been capable, CAU could have taken over managing the entire investigation. The biggest benefit to small police agencies was the evidence assistance. They couldn’t afford CSI units or labs of their own. No matter what, they didn’t need them often enough to justify the expense.
Hadn’t needed them, he thought grimly. Because as of right now, they knew a serial killer was once again working in Burris County and Cape Trouble.
And until they had a clue what linked the two victims, they couldn’t even issue warnings. Everyone had to sleep sometime, get up to use the john in the night. People in these parts were used to feeling safe in their own, locked houses.
Emily hadn’t been any more than
Darryl Roff or Frank Lowe had.
Focus.
“Shit,” Colburn muttered. “We’ll have widespread hysteria if we don’t find answers quick.”
Sean grunted his agreement. The thought had already crossed his mind. “I need to let my lieutenant know,” he said, and Daniel nodded.
“I have to call the school principal back.” He grimaced. “She couldn’t find a substitute today. I’m not looking forward to telling her she has to find permanent one.”
“It would help if she knows who his friends are, whether there’s a girlfriend in the picture.”
“I have a lot of respect for Linda. I think she’ll have a good idea where we can start.”
Sean nodded. “If you don’t need me, I think I’ll see if Lowe’s wife is available. We’ve been concentrating on his practice and clients. Unless it turns out Roff was a client, we’ll need to shift our focus.”
“You think the partner will tell you?”
“She implied that if I had one name, she would. I’ll call her first.”
Daniel nodded. “Keep me informed, and I’ll do the same.”
“Count on it,” Sean said, and walked out to his car, his phone already to his ear, tension all but choking him.
His job was to protect. He hadn’t protected Darryl Roff.
CHAPTER SIX
“There’s nothing.” Sean’s voice was rough with frustration. “I can’t find a single connection. I’d swear those two men never met. And why would they have?” He prowled his living room while Emily watched uneasily.
Her ‘Japanese Floats’ quilt lay loose on her lap. She had been hemming the binding when she asked if he’d made any progress on his investigation. The second murder had happened two – almost three – days ago, and she knew he was worrying now about who else might be killed – and when. Given that there’d only been five days between the first and second murders, Sean must feel as if he could hear a stop watch ticking.
Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3) Page 8
