Hallucinating.
Oh, no. It’s happening again.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MORNING FOLLOWING my hallucination, my face looks as though I’ve been on a three-day bender. I’d spent the previous evening listening to the radio, refusing to think about the experience. And as a result, I’d spent the night dreaming about it. After doing a quick perimeter check of the house to make sure all the openings are closed and locked, I go to the kitchen. This one room, at least, has begun to feel like home. And I’m feeling more like myself, and less like a disembodied spirit. Maybe the meds are finally out of my system.
Coffee is the only solution to quell the morning monster, and as I fill the press I wish I could inject it directly into a vein. Except that makes me think of drug abuse and Zoe and the Baxter Building, and all the rest of it. So when a knock sounds against the door I startle like a new perp in prison. Someone is trying to break into my solitude before I am ready to breach it myself. This person is using the knocker rather than the doorbell, making a distinct metallic clank.
In seconds my gun is nestled in my hand. I keep it out of sight when I crack open the door. An older white man, heavily built, with silver hair and shrewd blue eyes stands on the porch. His barrel shape, bristling eyebrows and alert expression remind me of a great horned owl. He has a bunch of yellow flowers and a plate covered with a gingham cloth.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m your next-door neighbor.” He gestures to the right with an elbow. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Is he for real? I’m suspicious of strangers and must look doubtful, because he smiles, deepening the creases in his cheeks.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up. You don’t have to invite me in. I just thought you’d like some fresh flowers — these daffodils come from my garden — and my wife sent over some cookies.”
So then of course I feel like an idiot and I open the door a little wider. “No, it’s fine. I’m just a little disorganized now.” Wait, did he say he thought he’d woken me up? I realize I am still in my pajamas. And I have a gun in my hand. I close the door back down to a crack before he can step inside.
He says, “We really liked Sandy, the previous owner. Did you know her at all?”
“I’m her niece. She left this house to me.” Even to my own ears I sound defensive. But I still don’t invite him inside. Because, you know, pajamas. And firearm.
“We saw the van taking away all the furniture.”
“Her own daughter got all the contents. I got the building.” And that’s all you’re going to get, Mr. Nosy.
“Interesting.” He squats to place the plate on the porch, and lays the flowers next to it. “Come on over when you’ve got a little time on your hands. We’d love to make your acquaintance.” He stands. “I’m Judge Lincoln Rutherford — retired, so you can call me Link. My wife is Dr. Phoebe Rutherford. She still does the occasional therapy session at home, so she might not be available for a casual drop-in, but I’m usually pottering around. We’ll be seeing you.” He smiles again and walks off up the concrete stairs to the street.
I shut the door and rest my head against it, until the anxiety fluttering in my belly subsides.
Nice going, Lake. Barely here any time at all and you’ve already advertised your weirdness to the neighbors. And a judge to boot. You don’t do things by halves.
The voice in my head is sardonic and strident; it sounds like it belongs to somebody else. But it’s right — I shudder to think I’d almost threatened him with a weapon. And I realize I didn’t tell him my name.
No one is in sight, so I step out onto the porch and retrieve the cookies and flowers. I put both on the card table. I’m obviously not ready to meet people yet, not socially. Certainly not a shrink. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, and none of them had been able to help me.
Plus, there’s too much to think about. The house and all it needs. The vision of yesterday evening. My static bank account. The money won’t last forever. And I don’t think it's enough to replace a foundation, or completely rebuild a roof. My aunt’s legacy, which seemed like such a godsend, is now revealed to be less of a sanctuary and more of a trap. With big leg-snapping teeth.
Like it or not, I need to look for a job, and there's only one thing I know how to do. But. That means going back into the underbelly, seeing the worst the world has to offer, and depending on people to have your back. And then maybe discovering that they don’t.
Yeah, I’m probably not ready to be a full-time detective again. But maybe I can be a consultant. Breeze in, offer expertise, breeze out. That seems less stressful. Perhaps an informal visit to the Astoria Police Department is in order. Meet the local cops, develop some relationships to help me when a position opens up for real, or when they need some extra help. You know, network. Like an actual professional person.
The APD shares a bunker-like concrete building with the fire department, and the two departments share a lobby with a single plastic chair and fake tropical plant. When I walk in at 1:13 and ask to talk to a detective, the woman at the front desk looks at me as though I have an eyestalk growing out of my head. But she eventually calls someone on the phone, and I find myself in a drab conference room with the senior detective, who introduces himself as Steven Olafson.
I intend this to be an informational interview only, so I can find out about the local law enforcement and get the lay of the land. Present my bona fides. Tell some war stories. Let them know I’m available to help. Except, I’ve never actually done this before — gone fishing for a job. I’d gone from the Denver Police Academy straight to the Denver Police Department and stayed there. Hopefully, I can learn something about the local process; find out who makes the big picture decisions.
I decide the best approach is straight-up cop-to-cop honesty, and so I tell Detective Olafson about my twenty years of work in the Denver Police Department, and my rise as a successful homicide detective within that jurisdiction. It sounds good — I’m feeling hopeful, and closer to normal than I have in days, here in a place I know the ropes. Plus, wouldn’t it be nice to have colleagues again, people to shoot the breeze with who know what it’s like to be in law enforcement.
Olafson leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. He’s a bulky man, but I doubt much of it is fat. His hair is dark blond, nicked off in a brush cut that ends at the top of his ears. He's clean-shaven, but his tie is at half-mast. The overhead fluorescents don’t do his complexion any favors.
“Sounds like you’ve seen some action in Denver,” he drawls. “We don’t get much in the way of murders here. There’s just a couple of us detectives, and we handle everything that comes our way. Robbery, drug busts, the occasional missing person. We don’t specialize. Can’t.”
I nod. “That’s pretty standard for small towns. I wouldn’t mind having less violence in my life, that’s for sure. One reason I wanted to get away from Denver.”
“Can’t back away from what comes,” he says. “Gotta be willing to take the cases on, regardless.”
“Of course,” I say. “I wasn’t implying —”
“The fact is,” he rolls on, looking at the ceiling tiles, “I find that it’s the relationships I have with the community that are responsible for most of our success in solving crimes. I’ve been here all my life, and I know the people. They trust me.”
“Sometimes an outside perspective, an outside experience, can be valuable. That’s where I could lend a hand.”
“Sometimes. Maybe. Haven’t seemed to need it much, myself.” He places his palms flat on the table. “I appreciate that you’ve had a successful career, maybe a good solve rate, and you’ve probably seen more dead bodies than all of us here at the APD put together. But we know our territory. And that’s not something you can fake. It’s something you need to build, and develop.”
I struggle to control my annoyance at his patronizing tone. “I’m aware of that, thanks.”
“No need to be touchy.” Olafson smiles. His canine teeth
seem overlong. “But you’re not from here,” he continues. “You’ve got no local connections whatsoever. And that matters. Believe me, it matters.”
Before I can say anything more, another detective walks in to the interview room. She’s younger than me, but with a hardness around the eyes and lines that run from her nose to her chin. She walks with a bold aggression that makes the air seem to wrinkle in front of her.
Detective Olafson says, “Ms. Lake, meet my partner, Detective Jane Candide. Jane also started out in the big city — in her case, Portland. So, we have all the urban experience we need.”
We shake hands. Jane’s fingers are cold and hard. I’m trying to be congenial and mask my anger, which I’m aware is out of proportion.
“Jane, Ms. Lake is looking for a job as a consulting detective.”
“Really. I wasn’t aware we needed any help.” She looks at me like a ferret eyeing a Roosevelt elk. Wondering if it has what it takes to bring the bigger prey down.
“We don’t.” Olafson’s voice is decisive. “Ms. Lake, I appreciate your coming in to acquaint me with your qualifications. If we ever need someone with your capabilities, we’ll be in touch. Jane, please show Ms. Lake how to find her way out.”
The plate glass door clicks shut behind us. I’m shaking, surprised at my own reaction but unable to moderate the feelings of humiliation, anger, disappointment — a thousand tiny barbs that make me want to lash out, or get away to some dark hole like a wounded animal.
What the hell is wrong with me? The overcast sky is uniformly bright and I squint against the glare.
Detective Candide has followed me outside. Now she tugs her blazer closed against the chill and says, “Sorry about that, but he’s the big dog. You know how it is.”
So does that make her the bitch?
My inner voice has a warped sense of humor. I struggle not to guffaw and end up making what is probably a strange grimace. “I take it I won’t be getting a call any time soon.”
“‘Fraid not. And it’s true, we don’t really need any help. Why did you come here?”
“To learn about the department. See if I can help you guys out.” My voice shakes, and I have to swallow. I’m hyped on adrenaline, and now that the interview is over I’m jittering down. Candide probably thinks I have a whole host of weird tics.
“I mean, why did you come to our town? To Astoria?” Jane waves a hand, taking in the wide river with its anchored freighters and the hillside covered with pre-World War II houses. “Why would you want to leave Denver?”
I certainly can’t tell her the truth. At least, not all of it. “I got tired of the big city. All the stress.”
“I’m surprised. Tecs like us thrive under pressure and steam. To hear you tell it, you crushed that job.”
Shrug. “You left Portland.” I’ve never been to the Rose City myself, but I’ve heard it’s on a lot of top ten lists.
“I had my reasons. And I’m still wondering what yours are.” Candide’s hands come down to rest on her belt. Although still youngish — I guess early thirties, ten or so years younger than me — permanent cynicism stamps her features. I’ve seen it before, in older cops who’ve spent too much time on the mean streets. “You didn’t have to come here.”
“What division were you in? In Portland?”
Her eyes flicker, and her lids droop momentarily. But she answers: “Narcotics. You want to tell me why you left Denver PD?”
Her reaction to my question is interesting, but I can’t really pursue it now. “My reasons are my own.”
I could tell her about the inheritance — it won’t make any difference to me and might defuse her suspicions — but the younger woman irritates me with her aggression, part of the breed of female cops who think they have to act tougher than their male brethren to be thought half as good. Can’t blame her though. I get it.
“Look, Detective, I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m just trying to scope out the possibilities. Learn things.”
“Like what?”
I cast my line. “Like, what’s your caseload like?”
“As stated, not so busy that we can’t handle it.”
“Homicides?”
“You heard Steve in there. A little bit of everything.”
“What’s on your plate just now?”
“Nothing I’m prepared to share with you.”
We stand there, staring at one another. It’s not friendly. “So you’ve no murders on the books, then? No suspicious deaths?” The memory of dying, water invading my lungs, is still fresh. The hallucination seemed so real and detailed. So many sense impressions. I find myself asking, “Drownings?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Now, why don’t you go on back to your hotel? Ask the concierge for some sightseeing tips before you go back home.” Her voice softens by about one degree. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.”
For some reason, that tiny peace offering makes the rejection worse. “You don’t understand,” I say through gritted teeth. “I live here now, Detective. I own a house. I’m local. Like it or not, I belong here.” I force myself to walk away with the bitter taste of irony in the back of my throat and feel my thin weave of confidence disintegrate. So much for the brotherhood of the thin blue line. Or sisterhood. Contrary to my last words, I’ve never felt more like an outsider.
CHAPTER THREE
I’M CLENCHING THE steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache; I force myself to loosen my grip as I pull out onto Marine Drive. Candide is still standing outside the station as I pass, watching me leave.
Her attitude is beyond irritating. She’s like a little pit bull, defending her territory. What's her problem, exactly? Is she afraid I’m out for her job? Me with my big city badge, which I’d mailed back to the chief before I’d left Denver, with no forwarding address? Hah. One call to my former employer would send my whole house of cards tumbling down. I’d been an idiot to think I could just waltz in and be buddies. I’ll just have to pray that curiosity doesn’t send either of them to the phone to check too deeply on my bona fides.
Worse, I still don’t know what to make of the experience I’d had on the riverside beach. It’s not the first time I’ve had such a vision. No, I had one in Denver, at the Baxter Building, after months of undercover work and dabbling in street drugs. It’s what landed me in the psych ward with a prescription for anti-hallucinogens.
So, just refill your prescription. No need to go all ballistic. Meds are your friends.
I hate the insinuating voice in my head, poking holes in my resolve. Drugs are a mask for reality. I smack the steering wheel with my hand, accidentally sounding the horn and startling the man in the car in front of me. He spreads his arms, questioning as he looks in his rear-view mirror. If this were Denver, he would’ve given me the finger. I wave, mouthing ‘sorry.’ He shrugs and goes on, and I calm myself enough so I don’t have an accident. To top off my day, it begins to rain, and soon the windshield is splotched with moisture..
When I get back to the little yellow house I now call home, I sit cross-legged on the floor with my back to the wall and activate my laptop. The overhead light throws a warm incandescence into the empty room.
Olafson accused me of not knowing the territory. Fine. The website for the Astoria Police Department has an accessible archive, and I spend the next couple of hours scanning through lists of calls. A few break-ins, speeding tickets, emergency responder calls — one instance where a man came home to find his girlfriend’s mother putting his possessions out on the front lawn. Surprisingly little violence beyond the odd bar fight or domestic disturbance. The only bodies are accountable as suicides.
Another search under the county reveals two murders in the last dozen years, both victims male. The National Missing Persons database indicates only four missing persons, the most recent eight years ago. I sit back. No wonder the detectives didn’t want my help. There isn’t anything in the way of major crime. I should have done my homework before offering my services, and not
taken their rejection so personally. Come up with a plausible transition story to explain why I’m here. Just waited until I was better, more sure of myself. Now I’ve ruined my chance to make a good first impression.
I massage my forehead. ‘Off my game’ doesn’t begin to describe it. I slam down the lid of my computer, tired and hungry, but so not up to cooking. Despite the drizzle, I decide to walk down to the Portway Tavern. It's on Marine Drive at the base of the hill. I’ll go down there and pretend to be normal; enjoy being around other people without actually having to interact with anyone.
The drizzle has become a screen of thin mist which doesn’t do any favors for the neighborhood aesthetic. Not one of the houses along Alameda is newer than the 1940s and most look older. Some have been cared for and sport bright colorful paint and well-tended yards. Some look overcome by the elements, roofs blanketed with shaggy moss and siding smudged with dirt and mildew. It's a mixed neighborhood, trying to be charming and gentrified but stymied by the stubborn residents who don’t embrace maintenance or lawn care or even tidiness.
I like it. It feels authentic. Real people living real lives. I wonder what that’s like. Maybe someday I'll know them as friends and neighbors, but right now I'm alone on the street.
By the time I reach the Portway Tavern, my pants are drenched and my shoes squeak with moisture. The tiny droplets of mist, which seemed so innocuous when I started out, have the penetration power of a diamond drill bit. The bar is empty except for a lone gambler, a young white man feeding twenties into one of the brightly lit video poker games. A corner of the room is dominated by a huge television screen showing a muted basketball game. I drape my dripping coat over the back of a chair at one of the small tables and sit down opposite.
The bartender is a tall Black woman with close-cropped hair. She nods at me and brings over a menu.
A Memory of Murder: An Audrey Lake Investigation (Audrey Lake Investigations Book 1) Page 2
