“Well, shouldn’t you be telling that to the police?” he asked.
“You’re right,” I said.
I turned to go back towards the crime scene, trying to figure out who was in charge. Maybe the older guy in the dark uniform. He had grey hair and a couple of extra shiny badges on his broad chest.
Just then a black sedan pulled up in front of the house. One of the other policeman held up the crime scene tape so it could roll on through. It parked behind the coroner’s van and three men in dark suits got out. They approached the guy I had identified as the chief and showed him some kind of identification.
The news reporter turned to the camera man who was breaking down his equipment. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Those guys are not from around here. Get a shot of them.”
The cameraman hoisted his camera back on top of his shoulder and aimed it at the knot of men.
“Who do you think they are?” the reporter said, more to herself than to anyone. “They look like FBI to me.”
One of them had a small face with almost mouse-like features: beady eyes and a pointy nose. Nothing remarkable about him. Except that I had seen him before. He was the man who was sitting at the counter at the Greek restaurant while I was eating dinner with Joel.
Chapter 27
I hiked back to my car but I didn’t get far, just clung to the steering wheel, sobbing and trying to catch my breath. Was it my fault? Was I the one who set this whole tragedy in motion? Why did I head down to Astoria after Joel told me not to? Had the man with the mouse-like face seen me? I didn’t think so, but I lifted my head from the steering wheel and peered around. And where was Ellie? Was she hiding somewhere, as scared as I was? Or was she on the run?
I knew I had to get out of there. I turned on the ignition and rumbled down the street, driving aimlessly at first through the streets of Astoria, hoping I would see Ellie, emerging from a bar, stepping out of the shadows of a front yard. Where would she go? It didn’t sound like she had a lot of friends in town. And once Smitty’s death hit the news, she would be encouraged to turn herself in. What about me? Would one of the neighbors report seeing a red Jeep in the driveway just before Smitty was killed? That spurred me into action. I headed back into Washington.
Because the Columbia River cuts such a deep channel along the border between Oregon and Washington, I needed to cross the river. And, unless I wanted to drive all the way back to Portland, on that winding highway, my only choice was the bridge on Highway 101.
It’s the longest continuous truss bridge in the United States. You approach the bridge via a curving freeway entrance that doesn’t allow you to see what you’re facing until it’s too late to turn around. Two big steel towers frame a road that seems to go straight up into the sky. I slowed down instinctively as I neared the top, sure I was going to fall off the edge of the world. And then when you get to the top of that hill, the highway falls away and practically lies on the dark waters of the river for mile after mile after mile. You can easily believe you are never going to get off that bridge and there’s no way to turn around and there’s no place to pull over. By the time I reached the other side—about an hour by my emotional clock, perhaps fifteen minutes in real time—I was drenched with sweat and shaking.
It did not make sense to drive in that condition. I decided to find the nearest town and have a meal. I realized I hadn’t eaten, except for that biscotti, since my breakfast with Boo. I should call Boo. Yes, I needed to call Boo and tell him what had happened to Smitty. Tell him to tell Matt.
I was about ten minutes away from Long Beach, Washington, so-named because it has eleven miles of beach. It’s a quaint little tourist town where my parents occasionally took me and my sister on vacation. We would stay in a funky old cabin with a wood-burning fireplace and a bookshelf full of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. During the day, we would trek down through the dunes to reach the beach where we could make sand castles and dig for clams.
I drove to our favorite restaurant, the one where we always ate breakfast as we headed out of town: a small building with just about fifteen tables in the dining area and windows that looked out on the main drag. They were just about to close, but they gave me a table anyway since a few other diners were lingering and let me order the special pasta. While the food was being cooked, I went back out to the parking lot and called Boo on my cell phone.
He picked up on the third ring.
“Rachel’s pad,” he said.
“I told you not to answer my phone,” I said.
“So why are you calling it?” he asked.
“Look, something terrible happened,” I said.
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, yes, I’m fine physically. But emotionally I’m a wreck.”
“What is it?”
“Smitty’s dead.”
“They got Smitty?”
“Yeah. I mean I talked to him about—” I suddenly remembered that my dad had warned me that my phone might be tapped. “You know, about the possibility someone was killing his old platoon members. And then later I went back—” I realized this part wouldn’t make sense if I didn’t mention Ellie but I couldn’t—”to check to see if he had left town like he promised. And he was dead!”
I kind of broke down at that point.
“Hey, hey,” said Boo, over the phone. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry to hear that. Smitty was a good guy.’”
“They said it was suicide,” I said, “but a Hendrix song was playing on his stereo.”
“Not good,” said Boo.
“No. Have you found Matt?”
“I don’t know where to look for him,” Boo said.
“He has a girlfriend he stayed with the first night after his houseboat was bombed. Her name’s Jessica Ito. She lives downtown somewhere. Do you want me to find her phone number? I could probably do that.”
“What we really need to do is find the sadistic bastard who’s killing our friends,” said Boo. His voice was full of menace.
“You’re right. You’re right. I’m going to work on that as soon as I get some food in my belly.”
I could see through the lighted windows of the restaurant that the server had brought out my plate and was now looking around to see where I had gone.
“I think I’m going to get a room down here in Long Beach,” I said. “I’ll do some research and call you back in a few hours.”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“Stay put. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”
“Hey, no one’s going to get Boo.”
The food was delicious. I had ordered the vegetarian pasta dish: Butternut Squash and Gorgonzola Cheese Stuffed Ravioli with Apples. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I looked down at my plate and saw it was empty. The last of the other diners were just leaving, so I hurried up to the cash register to pay my bill and went out into the night to seek a place to stay. Naturally, I headed for the old familiar place. All of the old cabins were occupied, but the new owners had built some condos out, closer to the water. When I drove up to ask if they had any vacancies—unlikely on a summer night—they did have a last-minute cancellation, and I ended up in a one-bedroom unit on the second floor, with a tiny rooftop deck, overlooking a sea of dune grass. A bank of nasty-looking clouds had rolled in and the grass was tossing and turning like a restless beast. The ocean was just a line of white surf in the distance but I could hear the waves crashing on the shore.
I turned on the fake fireplace and it lit the living room with a cheery orange glow. I made a cup of tea in the microwave. Not recommended, but good when you’re in a hurry. Then I pulled out my laptop, set it up on the small dining room table and plugged into the WiFi network.
At first I read the news reports about the shooting in Oakland. They were calling it an attempted assassination, I guess because, Luther Brown was a City Councilman. The speculation was that he had been shot by a gang member who was angry about the aggressive sta
nd Brown had taken against gang violence. The only thing that contradicted that theory was the evidence suggesting the shooter had been poised on a building rooftop and armed with a sniper rifle. Not the kind of weapon usually employed by gang members who preferred the rapid and deadly fire of an AK-47.
I thought of the bullets that whizzed overhead when I was at Boo’s and his comment that they came from a Makarov. A pistol, not a sniper rifle. Perhaps not the same shooter at all. Also no mention of Jimi Hendrix in Oakland.
Then I turned my attention to the news about Smitty’s death. There was a brief story on the local news channel. The primary concern was his missing wife. Was she in danger? Or was she somehow involved? The photo of their wedding day was used to illustrate the story. Apparently that was the only photo of Ellie found in the house which should have been a clue that something was wrong. A reporter had talked to the pale-faced woman in the cardigan who rolled her eyes and said that probably the wife had taken a lover and the two of them had decided to kill her husband and take off. I knew better. The Jimi Hendrix music gave it away.
I thought about calling in an anonymous tip—the TV station had flashed the police department’s number on the screen—but I knew it wouldn’t be anonymous. And if I went in to talk to the police, I didn’t think I could conceal what I knew about Ellie’s identity. And if someone was tracking her, like that guy with the mouse-like face who was so friendly with the police, well, I would be responsible for whatever happened to her.
Was he FBI as the reporter thought? And if so, how had they found her? Had I somehow given her away in something I said or did? Had he followed me to Astoria? To Smitty’s? If so, maybe there was a tracking device on my car, which would lead them right to me.
I shivered, looking at the double-locked front door to the unit, listening to the wind rattling the sliding glass door which led out to the tiny patio. Suddenly it was easy to see why my dad and Joel had been so paranoid.
I turned my attention away from my fears and back to the Jimi Hendrix murders. I couldn’t do much to help Ellie. But I could do something to help Matt and maybe protect him and his other platoon members from this crazy serial killer.
There was only one name on the platoon list that I hadn’t found and it was beginning to look more and more like he might be the guy committing the crimes: the Corporal: Michael Maloney, who Matt had said was almost as sadistic as his Sergeant.
Unfortunately there was no easy way to find Maloney. He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth, just like Sergeant Rivers. So I went looking for relatives. Could I figure out where he had grown up? Could I find someone who knew him?
The guy was nowhere. I tried all my usual databases. Nothing. No credit history. No work history. No death record. No driver’s license. I even searched the names on the Vietnam War Memorial. All 59,185 of them.
The fireplace clicked off—it was on a timer—and I got up and turned it back on. The flames reappeared with a little whooshing sound. My tea was cold and I heated it up in the microwave and settled down again.
I checked in on the platoon list serve. The buzz was all about the attempted assassination of Luther Brown. I guess no one knew about Smitty yet. People were tossing back and forth memories of crazy things Magic had done while in Nam.
I dug back into the archives and finally found a mention of Maloney. Someone ran into Maloney at the VA in Everett. “Looked like a zombie. Said he was living out in the woods near Sultan.” That was all I had. Would it be enough for Matt to find him?
I called Boo back and gave him the information about Maloney. He said he’d pass it along to Matt. Then I went to bed and tried to sleep. That didn’t happen.
All night I kept jumping up, thinking I heard things outside my door. Voices whispering on the patio. Someone trying the doorknob. As soon as it was dawn, I got in my Jeep and headed back to Seattle and safety. Or so I thought.
Chapter 28
Sunday mornings on the top of Capitol Hill means no parking, since everyone flocks to the restaurants that line Fifteenth Avenue for brunch. And my apartment building has no reserved parking spaces. It was built in 1905 when people took the trolley up to the top of the Hill from their offices downtown. I finally found a place for my Jeep about three blocks away from my apartment and strolled back. The air was already warm and carried the musty scent of summer. The privet was blooming in the hedge outside my living room windows.
I went to turn the key in the back door and found to my surprise that the door was unlocked. I blamed it on Boo! He had probably stepped out for a smoke and forgotten to relock the door when he came back in. But as soon as I got into the living room, I saw that wasn’t the case. My desk had been torn apart. My hard drive was gone. My file cabinets, even the locked ones were open, pried open, and the papers scattered all over the floor.
My first thought was Boo! No, he couldn’t have done this. But then where was he? I ran upstairs, afraid I would find him dead, but he wasn’t there. In fact, there wasn’t a sign that he had been there, except that the bed was made with military precision. And there was a gun stashed underneath it. I pulled it out, holding it gingerly, and went back downstairs to check on my ferrets.
The ferrets seemed to be OK. I could even swear that Bandit was trying to do a hula. They were restless, wanting to get out of their cages for their morning romp, but I couldn’t let them out until I surveyed the mess in the living room.
I set the gun on the coffee table, then thought better of that (the ferrets could find it) and stuck it in one of the kitchen cupboards, next to the cereal. Which I realized I needed. I poured myself a bowl of granola and drowned it in half and half (the way I like it!) and let it soak while I surveyed the mess in the living room.
It was clear that whoever had been in my house had focused on my office. Nothing else was out of place. And after doing a preliminary sort, I narrowed down the target to my investigation for Joel Friedman. I didn’t have that many new notes, but they were all gone. The address for Boo. The address for Smitty. Again, I wondered if I been doing research for the Jimi Hendrix killer. This time he didn’t leave a note.
But I did find a note on the refrigerator.
Thanks for sharing your pad.
Hooked up with Matt and we’re out on a mission.
Will call and give you our coordinates once we’ve established a base.
Boo.
I tried calling Matt’s cell phone but he didn’t answer. So I called Matt’s friend on the force, Dale Tanaka, but he wasn’t in the office. And then I called my contact at the Seattle Police Department, Darrell Darnell.
He sounded concerned when I described the break-in at my house, although I couldn’t be completely sure that someone had broken in. Had Boo let them in? Had he left a door unlocked? Darnell promised to send someone to take a report.
“Did you ever check out that King County deputy who harassed me?” I asked.
“Yes, we did,” Darrell said, after a brief hesitation.
“And?”
“Well, I can’t tell you the full results of our investigation,” he said slowly, “but I would advise you to call the Seattle Police Department if you see that individual again.”
“Are you trying to tell me he doesn’t work for the King County Sheriff?”
“I’m not trying to suggest anything. Just to be cautious around him.”
Great! The usual. The cops protecting their own. Something was off about Fred Proctor and I was determined to find out. So after cleaning up the living room so the ferrets could come out and play, I headed over to my friend Thom’s apartment, right across the courtyard. It was odd to be in the middle of such a warm summery day and feel nothing but cold. I felt as if someone was watching my every move.
Thom came to the door in a maroon smoking jacket and a pair of black silk pajama bottoms. He fixed me a nice pot of Earl Grey tea and offered me some of his fresh-baked scones while he listened to my story of woe. And he allowed me to use his computer, once I had wiped
all the butter off my fingertips.
I typed in Fred Proctor and King County Sheriff’s office and soon found several articles about my nemesis. He had been a deputy for twenty years and during those twenty years, he had been accused of excessive force eleven times. In 1990 he had taken an early retirement, or one had been forced on him, by Robb Ross, the current King County Sheriff, my mother’s third husband and our prospective new mayor.
“So he wasn’t acting in an official capacity,” I said, more to myself than to Thom, who was reading the New York Times at the breakfast table, a nice oak table with a vase of pink peonies in the center.
“Who wasn’t?” Thom asked.
“That deputy who harassed me. The Seattle police must have known that.” I searched for a current address for Proctor and found one in Shoreline, a suburb just north of the Seattle city limits.
“So you could have him arrested if he bothers you again?”
“I guess that’s what Darrell was trying to imply,” I said. “I wish they would just come right out and say what they mean instead of pussy footing around.”
“Speaking of policemen,” Thom said, “there’s a very nice looking one at your front door right now.”
“Oh! Got to go,” I said. I gave Thom a kiss on the top of his head and rushed across the courtyard, just as the young officer was about to turn away. He was definitely Thom’s type: dark curly hair, broad shoulders, and a nicely shaped rear end. He took a report from me but without any evidence of who had broken in or when or even if they had broken in, I didn’t get the impression that there was much that could be done.
But there was something I could do. I called Matt. This time he picked up the phone.
“Where are you? Where’s Boo?” I asked.
“He’s with me. We’re up near Sultan, looking for Maloney?” he said.
“Oh, that’s right. Did you find him?”
“Not yet. We’ve got a lead. So what’s up anyway?”
“Ask Boo if he trashed my apartment.”
Hard Rain Page 16