I scanned the names, the dates, pulling out the pages. On the last page, Jack had written one name. It wasn’t just highlighted, it was circled in red ink. “What about this one—Ezra Sugarman?”
“You’ll need to check him out.”
I read the name again. Then flipped back through the pages, checking his stays at both places. “The dates…”
“Right. Sugarman is the only guest who stayed at both places, annually. But then he stopped.”
I read the dates of his stays. “Couldn’t be.”
“It is. Sugarman’s first stay at the Eiderdown coincides with the birth of Esther Heller. He shows up annually. Five years later, with the birth of Annicka Engels, he starts staying at the Waterhaus. Annually.”
“A relative—of both families?”
“He appears every six months. He’s the only name with that schedule.”
I flipped the pages. “But he stops going to the Eiderdown …”
“Right.”
I looked up.
Jack’s eyes were green as a forest. “He stopped staying at the Eiderdown after Esther’s murder.”
I scanned the pages.
“And his last stay at the Waterhaus,” Jack answered, before I could even ask. “Was August of this year.”
That cold sensation was back. I stared at the man’s name. “Nothing came up on his background check?”
“Nothing workable. He’s a successful accountant in Los Angeles. Keeps a perfect credit rating. I mean, perfect. One wife. Two grown kids, both of whom work in his accounting firm.”
“Could he be a hotel accountant?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
I nodded. “Thank you for—”
“No big deal.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “I had time to kill, since I wasn’t flying to Leavenworth today.”
My heart sank. I felt a hot flush of shame rising in my throat. This list just saved me hours upon hours of work. And how did I return the favor? By not showing up for the flight. By ignoring his voice mails. Real nice.
“How was your undercover assignment?” I asked, trying to make up for bad behavior.
“Sugarman keeps an apartment in Redmond. Right near Microsoft.”
I stared at him. My mouth fell open. “You didn’t.”
“One bedroom. Nice area.”
“Jack, you didn’t just—”
“He only stays there twice a year, usually just a couple days. The stays coincide with his trips to Leavenworth.”
“Jack—”
He held up a hand, stopping me. I stared at his open palm. The callused fingers. Callused from rowing. And before I could stop it, I saw us that night in the boat. Stroking across the dark water, beads of sweat trickling down his muscular back. “I need to apologize, about this morning.”
“Management says Sugarman’s the perfect tenant,” he said. “So I think he’s safe enough for you to take it from here.”
A sensation like water washed over me. Water made of wonder, and sadness. I couldn’t breathe. “Jack, please let me—”
“What’s all this?” He tapped his wet shoe on the floor, next to the picture of the shovel. “Her grave?”
I took a deep breath. He was right; I really wanted to talk about this morning either.
Setting the guest lists on my desk, I described the elephant hair, about Annicka working at Preston Baer’s petting zoo, and how I’d spoken to Mason Leming. And how I found him later at the river. “He took off as soon as he saw me. Drove straight to the church. Father Anthony wouldn’t let me near him.”
Jack squatted by the recreated scene. He had one of those great guy-squats, one haunch resting on the back of his heel, elbows bent and resting on his knees. At any second he could spring from that position and take off. I swallowed. Never to be seen again.
I walked over, slowly, and tried not to stare at the muscles cabling his forearms.
“See this mark?” I knelt beside him and pointed to the vertical line cutting through the soil. “It shows up at regular intervals. Too regular for it to be random. I’m pretty sure it was made by the digging tool. So I took a couple shovels from Johann—”
“Took?” He turned toward me. His eyes were blue. “Took, how?”
“I didn’t steal the shovels, Jack.”
“Good. Continue.”
“Those shovels didn’t match that mark. But after chasing Mason to Our Lady of Snows, I was passing his truck.” I lifted the close-up photo of the shovel’s iron face. “That’s why I hung up so abruptly.”
“Why?”
I laid the photo on top of the photo showing the soil from Annicka’s grave. “Look at his shovel. It’s got a v-shaped defect. Right there.”
I pushed the photos until they were perfectly superimposed.
“Harmon.”
I nodded.
He looked at me. Inches from my face, his eyes were green. Alive. Full of passion. “That has to be the shovel that dug her grave.”
“I know. Plus, the elephant hair was found in the soil.”
“Harmon—you did it.” His brilliant green eyes gazed into mine.
His breath smelled of coffee. But it smelled good. Because I knew why he’d had to drink it this late … because he was on surveillance. For my case. Watching Ezra Sugarman. My heart turned into a fist. I stood up, controlling my voice.
“Annicka was sneaking into Baer’s place to visit the elephant. But her email made it clear that she was going to visit after her run. Meanwhile, Mason was taking care of the elephant.”
Jack kept looking up at me. He was grinning. Happy. And proud.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “When the Heller girl was murdered, Mason Leming would’ve been about thirteen years old. And the sheriff believes his alibi for when Annicka was killed. He was working—at Baer’s place, taking care of the elephant.”
“But the shovel,” Jack said. “With that tool mark, his alibi doesn’t mean as much. Maybe he killed her earlier, or later, or somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else is what I’m thinking.” I stared at the photos of the soil. “I didn’t find blood in that grave. He slit her throat, but not there.”
Jack stood, stiffly. It made me wonder if he’d sat in that car all day, running those guest lists and watching Ezra Sugarman.
“I’ll check out Sugarman,” I said. “Thank you.”
“He didn’t leave his apartment all day.”
I held his gaze. Those eyes. Turquoise. Blue and green and… “Why did you run that list for me?”
“Because you’re working on my hate crime.”
“Right. The hate crime.” I walked over to the desk, trying to disguise my disappointment. How many signals could I misinterpret—a thousand? “I’ve got something for you.”
I leaned into the computer and clicked open Lani’s email. Jack stood behind me, reading over my shoulder. I wanted to pretend his body heat didn’t affect me. But my palm immediately started sweating on the mouse. I scrolled through her long note, skipping right over the part where she suggests a get-together with my significant other. And if you don’t have one, Mike wants to set you up with somebody.
“What’s this?” Jack asked.
“Nothing.” I scrolled faster.
Near the bottom, I found an attached copy of her findings. I clicked that open and read over the technical details. Nitrogen spikes. But that was normal because it was in lawn fertilizers. Some other bits of calcium and lime. Lani said the most interesting element was a powerful antibiotic. I read the name out loud, and explained its medical use.
“Why would an antibiotic be there?” he asked.
“Because the flame accelerant,” I said, reading over her notes, “is dung.”
“Dung,” he said. “As in …”
“Crapola.” I pointed to the screen, reading Lani’s words aloud: “ ‘I am not yet an expert in wildlife excrement, but it’s presence here might also explain the hay which you saw in your cursory soil exam. I
suspect this particular dung comes from an ailing animal, because it would explain the presence of the antibiotic. My advice right now is that you find a sick African elephant. Because that animal’s excrement is your flame accelerant. Hey, you know what they say, ‘dung happens.’ ”
I turned my head to look him. He was gazing at her note.
“I found hay in Annicka’s boots,” I said. “And mud. But I’m guessing there’s dung, too.”
He shifted his gaze, fixing it on me. I felt a flutter of adrenaline. Or hope. Or was it fear. I forced myself back into work mode. “You’ll be interested to know that the elephant Mason’s taking care of is sick. Stomach problem, he told me.”
“You want to fly up there tomorrow?” he asked.
I stepped back and brushed my clammy palms on my jeans. I wondered how ragged I looked right now after hiking the trail, laying in the dirt, running after Mason, driving six hours, and going to the asylum to get my butt kicked. And that wasn’t even taking into account my lovely body scent of eau de loneliness. “Thanks, but I’ll just drive up.”
He held my gaze. Then stepped back, nodding as though he’d heard something I didn’t say. He walked for the door.
“Jack?”
He stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“I want to thank you,” I said. “Really. I mean it. I just can’t …”
“Harmon.” He stayed put, his back to me. “You know what the real problem is?”
“No,” I said.
“We’re two of a kind,” he said.
And left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The next morning, I drove away from Eleanor’s at 3:00 a.m. Rain was still falling and Madame once again sat in the passenger seat. I wasn’t taking any chances, since wet roads slowed me down.
By 5:30 a.m., I was driving up Ski Hill Road. The last fraction of the darkness was breaking and I found Detective Culliton’s cruiser parked a hundred yards below Our Lady of Snows. A county cruiser was parked behind him and a vehicle I recognized as the white wagon marked Animal Control. Seiler?
I parked behind his wagon, yanked up my rain hood, and told Madame, “I’ll be right back.”
Rain was falling loud and thunderous, like some spigot had burst wide open in heaven. I was soaked within seconds. I rapped on Culliton’s window and jumped inside. His car smelled just like the office: cheap coffee. I yanked back my hood.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, with a smirk.
“Glad you got backup. But are we taking Mason into the pound?”
“I didn’t get clearance until after midnight. These two were available.”
“I understand.” Maybe Wilcove would show up. “So you got the search warrant?”
“Only because of your shovel information. The judge gave us permission to search his truck and his mother’s house. But not the church and not the petting zoo.”
“It’s a start,” I said.
“And his mother’s threatening to sue us.”
“You found something?”
“We took their computer. Some clothing. He kept a handwritten journal. And because you asked, we took his shoes, boots, and sheets from his bed.” The detective picked up a folder on the seat between us. “Here’s the property list.”
Rain pounded the roof as I glanced down at the collection. Culliton had done a thorough job, and I was grateful he had moved so quickly.
“Thanks for telling us about the shovel,” he said.
I looked up. The sawed-off shotgun gaze was gone. “Like I said, you can take full credit. I just want to catch the killer.”
He took a stainless steel thermos from the cupholder and pointed it toward the white-winged church. “I kept a deputy posted out here all night. Mason’s truck hasn’t moved. And he never came out. So although the judge refused our search warrant for the church, we do have permission to take Mason into custody.”
“Which means we go in.” I watched the gray rain pelting Mason’s white truck and felt a deep relief for seeing that shovel yesterday. The rain was washing away any soil matches, or elephant hair, but I had photos of the gouges in the shovel’s face. That was enough evidence. A match like that was statistically almost as good as DNA. In court, we could bring in hundred shovels and none of them would match that gouge the way Mason’s shovel did. I thought again of him standing in the river, arms lifted to the sky like a man begging for forgiveness. Or washing himself of sin.
“You ready?” Culliton held his radio and clicked it.
Two “ready” clicks came back.
I tucked the evidence collection list under my rain jacket and sprinted back to the Ghost.
Madame wagged her tail as I got in.
“Sorry,” I told her. “You can’t come to this next part either.”
CHAPTER FORTY
I’d done a lot of things with the Bureau, but busting into a church with guns was a first.
“Probably considered some kind of mortal sin,” Culliton said, prying a crowbar between the Our Lady’s wood doors. “But that’s what confession is for.”
The wood splintered, the lock burst, and Culliton yanked the door. The foyer was dark. And smelled of rain.
“Mason,” he called out. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
I followed Culliton, shielded by his size and bulletproof vest.
“Where’s the light?” Culliton muttered.
A split second later, the lights flashed on. Culliton and I both turned to see the deputy behind Seiler, standing by the light switch. He was young, blond, and scared. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod.
We moved into the sanctuary. That fake floral scent still hung in the air. Culliton raised one hand and signaled the deputies to split up and comb the pews. Seiler went up one side, weapon poised. The younger deputy took the other side, hand on his gun. I wondered why Culliton had picked him if everybody wanted in on this case.
“He’s not here,” Seiler said.
Culliton tapped his radio and told Dispatch to renew the APB for Mason Leming. He gave a description of height and weight—five-eleven, 150, hair color black.
As he spoke, I moved across the back of the sanctuary. The door that the cleaning crane had knocked was closed. Silently, I pressed my ear against the wood. Silence. I moved to the side of the frame, and tried the door knob. It was unlocked. I held the knob, without opening the door, and signaled to Culliton.
The door burst open.
Five-eleven and one-hundred-and-fifty pounds hit me so hard I flew. Mason jumped right over me. I flipped over. He could run alright. He reached the foyer before I scrambled to my feet. Seiler came running down the far aisle, his body notched low like a defensive tight end.
“Mason!” Culliton yelled. “Freeze!”
Mason cleared the foyer. Seiler passed Culliton.
“Stay on him!” Culliton yelled. “Don’t let him go!”
Seiler was out door before Culliton finished his order. I ran into the foyer and saw the busted door thunk as Seiler exited behind Mason. The wood shuddered. I pushed it open and the next sound was rain. The sound after that punched my gut.
A gun fired.
And a man screamed.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
At 7:21 a.m. Father Anthony strode into Leavenworth’s only emergency room. He wore a flannel pajama top with his jeans, and an expression that said all his work on behalf of God could do nothing for people like us.
“You shot him?” he asked.
Detective Culliton was standing next to me. I waited for him to respond. But when I looked over, he seemed to expect me to say something. Oh, sure, now I’m in charge.
“Father,” I said, “Mason chose to run.”
“So you shot him?” His raised voice caused everyone in the lobby to turn and stare. Leavenworth’s sole medical center, located behind the commercial district, appeared to serve mostly elderly people and tourists who looked like they’d been up all night with alcohol poisoning.
I lowered my voic
e. “The doctors said he’d make it.”
“I was wrong about you,” Father Anthony said. “When you came to the church with Jack, you seemed like an honorable person.”
A petty piece of my heart demanded to tell the priest I didn’t shoot Mason. Deputy Seiler shot Mason—after Culliton had given several warnings. Mason Leming was a murder suspect. And a fugitive. He was dangerous.
But all of that sounded defensive, like we’d done something wrong. I was convinced we didn’t. Mason was guilty. His shovel proved it.
“Speaking of Jack,” I said, “I’ve got the results on that six-pointed star burned into your grass. We know the accelerant. Would you like to hear it?”
“Oh, switching subjects.” Father Anthony shook his head in disgust. “How mature.”
“We’re still on the same subject, Father.”
“How so?”
“The fire on your lawn was fueled by animal dung. More than likely elephant dung.” I thought of Lani’s report. Finding that antibiotic remnant was pure gold. Buster with his stomach ailment. “You do know where Mason works, don’t you?”
I watched the fog clear. Just as it had cleared for me more times than I wanted to admit. I’d climbed onto the high horse before, only to realize I facing the animal’s rear end.
“Not Mason.” The priest glanced at the detective. “Mason?”
Culliton’s sigh sounded as sibilant as tires in the rain. “There’s even more, Father. I can’t explain everything to you right now. But trust me. We got the right guy.”
The priest reached up, absently touching the collar of his flannel pajamas. I watched another fog evaporate, as another realization swept over him. It made me wonder what Mason had confessed. And what Mason would confess to us. Father Anthony’s face softened.
“You understand my position?” he asked.
The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Page 17
