During the past several weeks, Marie had worked through shock and moved into denial. Tim was a good man, he would never behave in the horrible, debasing way her imagination suggested to her. He was simply too busy with work, under too much stress. That explained why he stayed on his computer all night and had no time for her. But the denial was starting to crack, giving way to anger.
Marie was starting to accept that she’d married a louse.
CHAPTER 23
NATE WATCHED THE SILVERY CREATURE approach, aware that several sets of eyes were following her sinuous movements. She captured his hand and spoke in a low, husky voice.
“We haven’t properly met. Call me Jess,” she said, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, her gray-flecked eyes appraising him with open approval.
“Happy to meet you, Jess. I’m Detective Quentin. Perhaps we could talk later?” He reclaimed his hand and offered her an apologetic smile, making his way to where Riley sat watching him with amused eyes.
“Well and wisely done,” she said as he sank beside her on the sofa. “I suppose you must go now? There will be lots of folks needing help.”
“Never a truer word, but I’m afraid I’ll be sticking here for a bit. Would you mind introducing me around?”
“I hardly know you, myself. Nate, the cop. Is that how you’d like me to put it?”
He shook his head. “Let’s get a little more formal. How about Detective Quentin, Bellevue Police Department. Say I happened to be in the neighborhood when Rainier erupted and now I think I should stay for a while, make sure everyone’s alright. The aftermath could get pretty ugly.”
Riley regarded him, a quizzical light in her eye.
“Alright, detective, I can do that.” She looked pointedly at his left hand. No ring, but a slightly whitened stripe where one used to reside. “Is there a Mrs. Quentin?”
“Aye, that would be my sainted mother,” he said, in an Irish brogue.
Riley’s eyebrows rose, her lips twitching with the hint of a smile.
“My ex-wife also carries the name,” he admitted. “I have a daughter, too, named Samantha.”
“And your mother’s maiden name was…?”
“O’Malley.”
“Ah, that would explain the leprechaun.” She stood.“Let’s get started.”
She took him on a tour through the room. He met Tim and Marie Strauss, the attractive couple on the couch, and nodded hello to Cappy Johanson. Cappy introduced him to an elderly woman with heavily penciled eyebrows named Brenda Marsh, with the wily intent of trading him partners. He latched onto Riley, drawing her aside and speaking to her in a voice so low Nate couldn’t distinguish the words, but his body language made it clear he was attracted to her. Nate studied Riley’s response while he chatted with Brenda, and decided the appeal was not mutual. He gave it five minutes, then detached himself from Brenda and reclaimed Riley’s arm.
She steered him toward a white-haired man with a striking, triangular head and wrinkles which formed amiable lines around vibrant blue eyes and his wife, a well put together woman with smooth mocha skin and a serene smile. They were Harper and Myrna Mayhew. He was a retired geologist and she, an avid gardener—an occupation, she vowed, from which she would never retire.
He shook hands with the fine-boned man in lavender, whom Riley introduced as Skillet.
“He’s the best chef in the county,” Riley assured him, and Nate watched the man preen under her gaze, smoothing his eyebrows with a delicately curled middle finger. “He put our little neighborhood bistro on the map and people come all the way from Seattle, sometimes, to eat his cooking.”
Skillet dropped a sly wink Nate’s way and pulled Riley in for a kiss on the cheek, burying his face in her hair.
“Sweeter than sugar, isn’t she? Mmmmm.”
The man held her, humming as if they were slow dancing in an empty room. The skin of his closed eyelids was nearly translucent, like the membrane over a baby chick. As Nate watched, the eyes opened and met his with something like a warning. Riley pulled away. “Let me go, Skillet. I want to introduce Nate to the Dawsons.”
In one corner of the room, a woman sat knitting, a long banner of yarn stretching out before her in zig-zags of green and gold.
“They’re chevrons,” she explained when Nate commented on the pattern. “It’s an afghan for when the weather turns cold.” A girl of about fourteen sat at the woman’s feet, playing with a rag doll.
“Mama made it,” she said. Her features were those of a child with Down’s Syndrome and she repeated the phrase any time someone looked her way.
Riley knelt and smiled into the girl’s face. “Nate, this is Annette Dawson and her daughter, Wynn. The doll is named Annie.”
“I’m happy to meet you ladies.”
“Annie’s not a lady. She’s a doll,” Wynn informed him.
Nate stooped and looked closely at the doll. “My goodness, you’re right.”
Wynn regarded him with wide brown eyes and said, “Mama made it.”
Riley waved a hand toward two men, locked in debate, near the fireplace. They tried to keep their voices low, but each clearly had a dog in the race and meant to flog it to the finish. As far as Nate could determine, the dispute concerned the role of government in school curriculum.
“That’s Sandford Dawson, a red-blooded conservative, facing off against Hal Jeffries, a bit of a left-wing radical. That’s their favorite pastime.”
Mrs. Dawson continued her placid knitting. “I know it looks heated, but they’ve never come to blows. Sandy claims it’s the best cardio-vascular workout he knows.”
“Honestly,” said Riley, “I don’t think they could be any fonder of each other and neither will budge an inch.”
“In this crazy world, there’s a certain sense of security in that,” Mrs. Dawson said, nodding.
Riley’s gaze moved to the entranceway. “Look, here’s Teren.”
A tall man entered the room and waved greetings to a few people, but made his way directly to Riley’s side. He took her arm, asking if she was okay, smoothing her hair, gentle, solicitous, and a little proprietorial. Nate felt a prickle of irritation.
“Detective Nathaniel Quentin, this is Teren Kirkwood, my neighbor and friend.” She turned to Teren. “Nate almost caught the kid who throws plums at my windows.”
“Really? They sent a detective out here for that?”
Nate ignored the remark and shook hands with the man, noting his firm grip, the healthy-looking skin and hazel eyes, the long nose that curved slightly off-center, saving him from a perfect face. His hair and eyebrows were interwoven with sun-bleached strands, giving him a look of frosted gold. Nate dropped Teren’s hand, gave him a curt nod, and drew Riley out of his grasp.
“You haven’t introduced me to our hosts. I’d like to meet them.”
“Of course, you’ll like Frank and Millie. Come on.”
She smiled at Teren, but left her arm linked with Nate’s as they walked to the wet bar where the homeowners were making more coffee and setting out plates of crackers and cheese.
“Frank, Millie—I’d like you to meet Detective Nate Quentin. He’s offered to stand by and help as needed. Nate, meet the Newcombes.”
Frank Newcombe had the dapper, well-tanned look of a steady golfer, neatly cut and combed graying hair, and light blue eyes tucked behind folds of slightly pouchy skin. He took Nate’s hand in a firm handshake, offering a smile. When Frank released it, Millie took his hand in both of hers and patted it as if soothing a child, jingling a charm bracelet from one delicate wrist.
“Thank you, Detective. You’re very kind to stay on hand.”
She was a well-preserved sixtyish, with hair so dramatically dark it had to be bottle-fed. It was cut in a sleek bob and graced with a single streak of silver. Her heavily mascaraed lashes fluttered at him, bringing to mind a Disney doe. She had that kind of graceful innocence.
“And you’re remarkably generous and welcoming,” Nate said, “sharing your
beautiful home with so many of your neighbors. I know it means a lot for them to have a place to gather under these circumstances.”
“The Newcombes also own the clubhouse down the street,” Riley told him. “They are the quintessential mom and pop of the neighborhood and we owe them a great deal.”
As Millie pulled Riley into a hug, the lights flickered and went out. The television screens went dark and quiet and any semblance of a party atmosphere went out of the room. Plenty of light spilled in through the big picture windows, but the reality of the catastrophe began to dawn. Millie placed candles out on the bar and tables, ready to light when it grew dark, and Frank rummaged up a couple of flashlights. The guests seemed to draw together, glad for each other’s company.
Nate pulled Riley aside.
“Do you have a good flashlight at home?”
“Several, in fact. Shall I get them?”
“Yes, I’ll go with you.”
Riley’s front door was unlocked and as they entered, she hit the light switch by force of habit and laughed at herself. He followed her into the living room, past the piano, to a set of stair-step bureaus made from beautiful burled wood and filled with drawers of differing sizes. She went directly to the bottom row, third from the left, and pulled out three flashlights.
“How did you know they’d be in that drawer?” Nate asked.
She looked mystified. “That’s the flashlight drawer.”
“I mean, how can you keep it straight? There must be a hundred drawers and no labels,” he pointed out.
She shrugged. “Tape drawer,” she said, pulling out a drawer filled with masking tape, scotch tape, duct tape, double-sided sticky tape. “Glue drawer, pencil drawer, stationery drawer.” Each drawer contained what she’d said it would. “Sticker drawer, clip drawer, cookie cutter drawer—”
“Okay, I’m convinced you’re the most organized person I’ve ever met.”
Riley smiled, dropping her eyelashes against her ivory cheeks.
“I like drawers,” she said. Pulling open another, apparently the battery drawer, she fitted the flashlights with fresh batteries. “Ready to go back?”
“No. I want to talk to you.”
He watched her go still. “I should be sitting down for this, shouldn’t I?”
“Let’s both sit.”
They settled at each end of the leather couch. Nate heard the twittering of birds outside the window and watched the tall pines sway, gathering his thoughts.
“It’s possible you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“It’s possible,” she agreed.
“Under the circumstances, I think I should tell you. You could be in danger.”
“You’re not talking about the volcano, are you?”
Her eyes looked wary, and a furrow creased her brow. Nate found himself wanting to reach out and smooth it away.
“Correct,” he said. “I’m investigating the murder of Coby Waters.”
Confusion crossed her face. “You’re looking for the serial killer here?”
“We uncovered a lead that pointed to Mountain Vista and I think my partner verified the suspect’s identity as a resident of your neighborhood.”
“You think?”
“Radio reception was patchy and then we got cut off. I can’t reach anyone by phone or radio.”
“So you didn’t get a name.”
“You see my problem. I’m concerned about the safety of everyone here, but I’m particularly worried about anyone with wealth or status. All the victims have been high-profile. You downplayed yourself, but several of your neighbors filled in the blanks for me. As a concert pianist—”
A harsh laugh ripped through the air between them. “You needn’t worry about me,” Riley assured him. “Any chance of wealth or status I might once have had is officially on the wane.”
“I won’t debate you on that now, but I will urge you to be on guard and stay with a group.”
She grunted. Folding her arms across her chest, she turned to the window, looking out at something he couldn’t see. He was impressed by her equanimity. She hadn’t melted into histrionics, quailed or screamed, and didn’t seem aghast at the possibility that she’d been socializing with a murderer. She half-turned, tucking one foot beneath her, and rested her arm along the back of the couch. If he mirrored her position, their hands would touch.
“Tell me about the case,” she said.
Nate shook his head. She was a civilian, a classical musician with no expertise and no need to involve herself with the sordid details. She examined him coolly, the emerald brilliance of her eyes deepening, drawing him in, and Nate felt some of the stiff resistance inside him melt. He had a problem. He was isolated from his support system, with no clear idea of the situation he faced, and without a partner. Who knew how long till Rick would arrive, or if he’d arrive at all?
He broke their gaze, dropping his chin to his chest, counting the stitches in the cuff of his sleeve, and fighting his compulsion to open up to this woman he’d known for approximately three and a half hours. He counted sixteen stitches before throwing in the towel.
“I’m going to catch hell for this, but I could sure use some help and you know your neighbors.”
She flinched and Nate wished he’d used more diplomacy. “I mean, you can help—”
She cut him off, her eyes glinting green. “I know what you mean. You believe someone in this neighborhood committed a string of murders and may be preparing to claim another victim.”
He shifted, returning her even stare. “I’m moving forward with that possibility in mind.”
“Then let me help.”
He gave her all the relevant details, disclosing how the first victim, a high-ranking Boeing Executive, had been tasered and sliced through the throat. He told her about the altar-like structures made from sticks and stones and how they’d managed to keep that specific knowledge from the media, saying only that there were possible occult connections. He described the swabbing of blood from the victim’s wound, as if the killer wanted to absorb the life force and take it with him. He told her about the second victim, Senator Brown, and how the details of the two cases were nearly identical. He explained how the Coby Waters death had followed suit, except that the sticks and stones hadn’t been in the same meticulous arrangement. He told her about the plastic raincoats and the dearth of DNA evidence, the absence of fingerprints except for the Mountain Vista scorecard.
He told her more than he’d ever believed he could tell a civilian and he knew—like the comfort of settling into bed after a long and trying day—he knew that it was okay. She was quiet when he’d finished, but he could see that she was busy behind the eyes, her fingers tapping the leather of the couch.
At length, she said, “What criteria does he use to select his victims?”
“We haven’t been able to determine that, but as he chooses high-visibility targets, it may be he’s simply looking for the limelight.”
Nate watched her sifting, thinking, tapping. She grew still once more.
“I don’t think that’s it,” she said.
CHAPTER 24
RILEY WAS ASTONISHED AT WHAT Nate was telling her. The idea that she might personally know the person responsible for the brutal killings was so incredible that she felt it slide to the far side of her consciousness, to be dealt with later. What remained in focus, at the top of her thoughts, was not who, but why. And as Nate laid out the details, a theory began to form.
She saw that Nate was peering at her with surprised intensity and felt a flush creep into her face. She looked down, studying the leather grain, stilling her mind. Nate shifted position, his hand reaching hers. He grabbed her fingers and gave two raps against the top of the couch, as if to shake loose her thoughts where he could see them.
“You’ve got an idea. I can tell.”
“Sure, I thought of something, but what’s it worth? I’m not an investigator. I have no experience or training in your field. Anything I come up with is probabl
y unfounded and off-base.”
“True,” he said, letting go of her hand and leaning back. “It’s not likely your untrained mind has come up with anything we haven’t already considered.”
“I never said I had an untrained mind. On the contrary.”
“Oh? Right. But music is a far cry from detective work.”
“You’ve heard of football players taking ballet lessons to develop balance and muscle control? Same principle applies to music training. Learning and performing music develops brain skills like no other. Plenty of studies have identified links between music training and high-level cognitive abilities, such as processing and retaining information, solving problems, making decisions, thinking on your feet. A lot of mathematicians and scientists study music because they know how it can make the brain blossom like a rose, forming synaptic connections, stretching mental capacity. My training goes way beyond flexing my fingers over a keyboard.”
“So prove it. What did you come up with?”
She’d walked right into that one. “Oh, I get it. Nice ploy.”
“Just spill it, Riley. I told you all this because I recognize you’ve got a fine set of mental skills. I’m short a partner and I’m asking for your help.”
“I thought you were concerned about my safety, me being a big celebrity and all.”
“I am concerned about your safety and I intend to keep you at my side, to protect you and also to pick your brain. Fair enough?”
Again, she’d somehow climbed to that cliff-top where retreat was an ugly and dangerous choice. It seemed there was nothing for it but to jump.
“Fine.”
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