Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Disclaimer
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
A Memory of Murder
By
Nichelle Seely
Copyright © 2021 Nichelle Seely
All rights reserved.
For Aaron, the love of my life.
Just so you know
Many of the places described in this novel are real. None of the people are. And just to be clear, the officers and staff of the Astoria Police Department have always been courteous and professional when I’ve encountered them; not at all like the detectives in this story. In addition, the allegations made against officers in the Denver Police Department are entirely fictional, as is the Baxter Building.
With all that said, enjoy the story.
CHAPTER ONE
MY GUN IS in my right hand, the butt gripped securely and the safety off as I turn the key in the lock to my inheritance. It’s been a forty-eight hour, thousand-mile journey on featureless highways, the Glock and the meds sharing the passenger seat, and I’ve finally reached my destination — Astoria, Oregon; the place where I can begin a new life.
The house on Rhododendron Street smells stale. All the furniture has been taken away, the pictures removed from the walls, and the carpet pulled off the floor. My boot heels clack against the bare painted wood. Windows along the south wall admit a spill of late afternoon light. The single-hung sashes have been left open a smidge, and I intend to shut them, but instead I push the sash as high as it will go, admitting a gust of fresh cold air and a faint fishy odor I associate with the exposed mudflats along the shore. The ebb tide has sucked the water from the shallows of the Columbia River to the depths of the Pacific Ocean. The view is stunning. So much water.
The damp breeze caresses my cheeks and hair with invisible clammy hands. I shiver. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Oregon. The last time, my aunt’s house was filled to bursting with books and pictures and rugs and seashells. It’s mine now, an unexpected legacy — the house, but not the contents. Clean and clear of memories and the relics of someone else’s life.
A great blue heron soars over the roof with coiled grace, scooping wingfuls of wind from the thickening air. I’ve seen the same birds in Colorado, hunting for prey in lakes and park ponds and roadside swales, when I could take a few precious hours away from the murder and mayhem that characterized my career as a detective with the Denver Police Department.
A wave of anxiety descends. My heart rate spikes and muscles clench. I shouldn’t have opened that door to memory. I look over my shoulder, check that I’ve locked the door, and do a sweep of each floor, clearing the rooms with weapon drawn. The upper story with its slanted ceiling and two tiny bedrooms is secure; ditto the concrete cave of the basement with its naked wall studs and single finished room in the corner. There’s no one here; it’s safe.
Breathe in, breathe out. Calm.
I make sure my gun is secure in the shoulder holster before returning to my car to unload a suitcase, a fold-up camp cot and chair, card table, and two grocery bags of food. The table and chair I leave in the empty room next to the kitchen. The cot and suitcase I manhandle upstairs. Food goes to the kitchen and into the refrigerator and open shelves; soap and toothpaste into the bathroom, along with my medication.
I look into the mirror of the medicine cabinet for a long time, charting the new lines across my forehead and the padding beneath my chin and cheekbones; the shadows under my eyes that echo the shadows in my mind. My body aches with a fatigue that scrapes against my skeleton. I never seem to get enough sleep. It’s the pills, of course. Their fault also that I’ve gained upwards of twenty pounds in the last six months. I’m so done with all this — the worrying, the lying, the general feeling of malaise and fuzziness.
With savage abruptness, I open the medicine cabinet and glare at the single orange plastic bottle with its white child-proof lid and cleanly lettered label.
Rx: 25428040
Patient Name: LAKE, AUDREY
ZYPREXA/Olanzapine
1 tablet per day or as needed to suppress hallucinations
I’m supposed to take these until my psychiatrist tells me to stop. Or until the symptoms cease of their own accord. But I don’t know when that will be. How can I, with the pills pulling a blanket between me and the rest of the world? Meanwhile, I’m always sleepy and soft, and getting softer, and I’ve left my doctor back in Denver.
Rubbing my eyes, I try to dislodge the shadows. I’m used to walking the razor’s edge of danger, riding the rocket of focused adrenalin. I hate feeling muddled and cottoned away from the world. It’s been months — surely the visions are gone. I only had a couple, under extremely stressful circumstances. I’m better now, I’m sure of it. The bad place is just a memory. It’s over. And I’m far away from anyone who will be keeping tabs on my medical condition, or laying down rules as to how I should live my life. Better to make a clean break to match the new beginning.
I take down the bottle. The contents rattle. With grave deliberation, knowing that it’s probably wrong, I twist off the top and spill the small white pills into the toilet. They float in the bowl, seemingly inert, and I press the flusher hard. Again. Again. Until nothing remains, not one errant dose.
The empty bottle goes back into the cabinet and I shut the door firmly. I avoid looking into the mirror again, but I feel lighter and more buoyant already. Like I’ve taken one step closer to The Way Things Were Before. Before the hospital, before the incident in Denver, before Zoe. Back when I knew who and what I was.
March arrives. Springtime. I’ve forgotten the date. I spend the days walking, reading, and cooking complicated meals that require a lot of chopping. Without the meds my precision has improved. More carrot and less finger. Bonus. Today, when I look through the window, morning sun is gleaming on the wide blueness of the Columbia River. The fog has burned off, and a big red and white freighter with a long extended bow skirts the line of buoys that mark the main channel. Closer in, a few cars move down on Marine Drive, and further up the hill a ginger cat suns itself on the macadam of Alameda Street.
I haven’t been to Astoria in years. The last time, my mother and my twenty-something self stayed with Aunt Sandy for a week in thi
s very house. Mother dragged me around a walking tour of the neighborhoods while she identified all the historic architectural styles and took what must have been thousands of pictures of houses with closeups of fascia trim and railing details. I remember thinking: ye gods, do we have to, as Mother insisted on ‘just one more block,’ and me wondering why couldn’t she have been a cop like my father, instead of an architect?
I turn from the view and survey my immediate surroundings. Spring sunlight brightens the great room, illuminating the fine layer of dust which fuzzes the windowsills. The canvas camp chair and card table are set up near the windows that overlook the river; a book lies open on the tabletop. Watching the motes that swirl in the sunbeam, it’s easy to slip into a daydream of warmth and serenity.
The heavy tramp of boots sounds on the basement stairs. I glance down at my hand and see my gun. I don’t remember grabbing it, and fear needles through my earlier complacency. The door creaks open on painted-over hinges as the furnace roars to life, gusting warm air through the wrought iron wall vents. I stuff the weapon down the back of my pants under my shirttail before he sees it.
The building inspector — because of course, that’s who it is, since I let him in earlier — strides into the main room. Here by appointment; it’s the normal thing to have someone check the condition of the house. He begins to write notes on his clipboard, talking.
“Okay Ms. Lake, here’s what I’ve discovered. You’ve probably noticed that the building has a low corner.”
I nod, still trying to get my head around my unpremeditated gun-grab. Try to take in what he’s saying. A low point. Yes. Greatest in the kitchen, where I often lose my balance bending over the thirty-inch counters, built at a time when people were shorter.
He continues. “That’s because the foundation is cracked, and so is the basement slab. You’ve probably had some ground recession — I see an old stump right next to the house. Being on a hill doesn’t help.” He licks his pencil. “But you’d be hard put to find a house in Astoria that isn’t on a hillside, or that doesn’t have foundation problems.”
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“I’ve seen worse. I’m guessing six inches of sag. Bad enough that you should get it fixed, or at least stabilized. Not necessarily today, but soon.”
“What else?”
“Some of the siding is rotten. Stands to reason, the house is over 100 years old, and even old cedar heartwood can only stand so much rain. You’ll need to replace it, and check to make sure the underlying structure isn’t also rotten.”
My inheritance is apparently not without problems. Sigh.
“The asphalt roof shingles are starting to curl. I don’t see any signs of water intrusion, but you’ll want to re-roof.”
I tune out the additional issues with the roof and porch. What I thought was going to be a safe haven is suddenly a money pit. I just want a safe place to live without issues to deal with. Is that too much to ask?
“Make sure the contractor uses some waterproofing. It rains occasionally here.” The inspector chortles, and assures me he’ll send a complete report with items of concern listed.
Waterproofing. When this house was built, back in 1917, such things probably hadn’t been invented.
I heard something funny the other day, while shopping at the grocery store. Two people were talking in the checkout line, and one was complaining about the weather. The other said, “Stop exaggerating. You know it only rains a couple of times a year. The first time for four months, and the second time for six months.”
On my drive home from the store, I noticed the moss growing on the shoulder of the asphalt; the mildew on the shady side of a weatherbeaten Colonial Revival. So, I’m a little worried about rot. I have visions of the place collapsing like a house of cards while I sleep. But. I just can’t deal with it now. There’s too many other broken things to get my head around.
It’s easier to cope with the inspector than I feared. He doen’t seem to expect friendliness or warmth, just an email address for his report and a credit card to swipe on his phone. The bare minimum of exchange. I wonder what he concludes about the emptiness, the few pieces of temporary furniture, the scattering of dishes on the open shelves of the kitchen. But perhaps he doesn’t think of it. His job is to glean and process information about things, not about people, and he walks away without a backward glance.
When I was working undercover, constant evaluation of the volatile individuals around me was the order of the day. Balancing situational awareness without acting like a cop. Pimps and dealers, prostitutes and users, addicts and runaways; every one ready to lash out or pull an unexpected weapon.
My heart speeds up, sending a pulse of pain through the scarce-healed knife wound on my upper right chest. Sweat breaks out, and I rub my hands on my pants legs. Enough. That’s over. Time to move on. That’s why I chose not to sell this house, but to live in it. A safe space to heal, physically and mentally. Change my life. Focus on the future.
Maybe that’s the problem. Time, as in: too much of it. I’m not used to unemployment. I need more structure to my days, not to mention an income stream so I can afford to repair my house. Cash from the inheritance won’t last forever. I need a job, some meaningful work. As soon as I can face the unpredictability of other people. As soon as I can trust that I’ll be fully aware the next time I draw my gun.
I walk everywhere. Miles every day. On the beach. On the forest- and fern-lined trails of Fort Stevens State Park. On the winding streets of Astoria with their blind corners and secret stairways and sagging historic architecture. I’m trying to lose the weight, and get tired enough to ward off the insomnia that plagues me every night. Over two weeks have passed since I ditched the drugs and withdrawal symptoms are hitting hard. I cry for no reason. Or for too many reasons to count. I’m anxious and often bathed in sweat. It’s difficult to separate the synthetic chemical symptoms from the PTSD. So I don’t even try.
Walking helps — a change in my surroundings, something else to focus on besides tumultuous memories and a constant headache that feels like being lobotomized without anesthesia. But it also makes my chest hurt beneath the knobby pink scar.
If I hadn’t flushed the pills, I’d be so tempted to swallow just one. Just to take the edge off. Except I’ve seen too much of the ugliness of addiction. A homicide detective sees the end of that downward spiral all too often. So I tell myself I can get through this. Just take one step after another, and one day I’ll be back to normal.
The Riverwalk is less crowded in the evenings. Dog-walkers and bicyclists have gone home to make dinner, or swell the sparse off-season clientele of bars and restaurants. I like the industrial feel of the west end of the trail, the weed-choked railroad siding, the metal-sided warehouses rusting in the rain. Today I keep going, past the fish processing plant and the brewery and under the complicated framework of the Megler Bridge soaring two hundred feet above the Columbia. The damp wind sprinkles tiny drops of condensing mist against my cheeks. The deep bawl of a foghorn comes from downriver, beyond the giant concrete bridge abutments. Heavy fog lies over the water. To my left is a tiny beach scuffed with footprints and driftwood. Wavelets slosh against the shore, created by the rising tide or maybe a passing freighter, unseen beyond the gray curtain of mist.
I’m still getting used to how much moisture permeates the air and how green growing things spring from every cranny. Sprawling rosemary hedges line the shore and fill the air with an aroma that makes me think of my mother’s roast chicken. The steel girders of the bridge arch over my head, barely visible. I can hear the muffled rumble of traffic on the concrete deck, far away, just like the life I left in Colorado.
I walk down to the beach. Moisture oozes around the rubber soles of my boots as I add my prints to the palimpsest of sand. A seagull cries. I close my eyes. The isolation, the dank damp cold, the scent of rosemary and car exhaust and water — it cleanses my soul as I concentrate on simply breathing and being and belonging. Not thinking,
and above all, not remembering.
Footsteps, running. Indistinct voices. I have to squinch my eyes tight to stop myself from investigating and cataloguing the sounds, letting the noise wash over me instead of becoming a point of distraction.
You’re not a detective now, Audrey. No need to get involved.
The footsteps come closer. Voices, arguing. Right on top of me. A blow strikes my temple. I stagger, head ringing with pain. I catch my balance and run, looking over my shoulder at a looming figure. Why is it so dark? I trip on a piece of driftwood. Hands seize the shoulders of my coat, arresting my fall.
“It was just a game! You see that, don’t you?” The voice is jagged, harsh, thick with rage. So dark — I can’t see my attacker. Terror claws at me. I try to pull away. A distant part of me screams to resist, to fight. But I don’t know how.
Hands tighten around my neck. Shaking, twisting. Pushing. There’s a chemical smell, sharp and familiar but I can’t place it. I fall on something hard and cold. Lights explode in my vision and pain beats against my temple.
The voice, hissing anger. “You won’t wreck my life with your lies.”
Stunned, I can’t fight back as someone picks me up and thrusts me into the river. The water is an icy shock. Can’t move my arms and legs. Can’t turn over. Water gushes into my mouth, flooding my chest, turning my body into a dead weight as I sink down, deeper and deeper. I seem to hover outside my body, watching myself descend. Long dark hair twists in the current. I don’t recognize my face. It recedes into blackness like a dream.
Then I’m on my knees, coughing, gasping for air. The river laps at the fabric of my jeans and covers my hands with insistent cold. The darkness of my vision gives way to the filtered, foggy light of late afternoon. It’s just me; there’s no one else here. And I’m alive. Not falling. Not drowning. Not dying.
A Memory of Murder: An Audrey Lake Investigation (Audrey Lake Investigations Book 1) Page 1
