Wicked Game

by Lisa Jackson

  “Glenn got a note from Jessie?” Mac’s pulse leapt but he frowned at Pascal, not wanting to give too much away. “When?”

  “Don’t know, a couple of days ago, I guess. It was that nursery rhyme Jessie used to say.” Scott singsonged the message to Mac in a high, girlish voice that sent icy fingers sliding down his spine. That was the second imaginative thought he’d had this evening and he wondered if he was losing it, just a little.

  “Where is this note?”

  “Maybe his office. Maybe it’s burned up with him.”

  “Don’t suppose it had a return address on it? Postmark?”

  “Portland. I caught a glimpse of it. The zip code was somewhere near Sellwood—yeah, I checked.”

  This was making no sense whatsoever and Sellwood was across the Willamette River, in southeast Portland.

  “Why did Glenn get it?”

  “You tell me. He always kind of lusted after Jessie, but he was kinda like that anyway. His tongue hanging out over every pretty girl. It never changed over the years. Jessie had nothing to do with him, though. She wanted Hudson. She’d use a guy to get to Hudson, but that was all it was.”

  “You’re talking from experience?”

  Scott sighed and looked toward the sky. The rain had ceased completely but the wind was picking up, shaking water from the soot-laden leaves of a nearby tree. “She liked the dark, mysterious ones.”

  “Like Jarrett Erikson or maybe Zeke St. John?”

  “Zeke was Hudson’s best friend,” he said, as if the thought had just come to him again. “That might have appealed to her. Jessie was”—he looked away, as if searching for the right word—“a little twisted, I guess.”

  “Why Glenn, then?” Mac repeated. And how would a dead girl send a note? He was damned near certain Jessie had been dead for twenty years, and no way could she have sent anyone a note.

  “She was a tease. It’s what she did.”

  “Who else did she sing the rhyme to?”

  “Every one of us.” He got to his feet and dusted off the seat of his pants, which were wet and looked cold. As if reading his mind, Pascal shuddered and turned away, toward his vehicle.

  “You know, the body we found. We’re pretty sure it’s Jessie Brentwood, so unless she’s a ghost with her own stationery, I don’t think she’s sending anyone any mail, not from Sellwood or anywhere else.”

  “I’m just saying Glenn got a note, anonymously, okay? And inside were Jessie’s words.” His gaze was steady. “Maybe someone played a sick prank on him.”

  “Someone who knew about the nursery rhyme.”

  “We all knew.”

  “You think anyone else got notes?” Mac asked, wondering if the jerk was bullshitting him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Ask ’em,” Scott said, then jogged away through the trees to a parking lot in a strip mall. Once there, he climbed into a dark gray truck and drove off.

  “I will,” he said to himself. “I’ll ask every damned one of you.”

  “Let’s start over,” Hudson said to Becca. “You saw an image of this note burning and you think it was sent to Glenn.” He was still holding the damning piece of paper in his fist and he was confused as all get-out. So far, it had been one helluva night. First the fire, then Glenn’s death, and now Becca’s visions or whatever you want to call them about a note he’d received just today.

  “No, Hudson,” she said, her voice taking on an edge. “I don’t think it. I know it.”

  “Fine. Then there were two of them.”

  “At least.”

  “Yeah, at least.” He wanted to know what this meant. Needed to know.

  She’d examined the message and then placed it on her coffee table, shrinking away from it as if it were poisonous. He felt a little repelled himself. Who had sent the note? Jessie? He couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She shook her head and walked into the kitchen.

  He followed her as she heated some water for decaf herbal tea or something equally innocuous in her microwave. Her dog had decided Hudson wasn’t worth the fuss and had settled into a round little bed in the living room. Ringo was now snoring softly.

  “There has to be a reason I got one and…Glenn got one.”

  “Maybe Jessie wants some of us to know she’s alive,” Becca said.

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  “I know, but—” The microwave dinged and she retrieved her cup, then dunked the bag of aromatic non-tea into it. “There has to be a reason. This isn’t just happening all of a sudden, after twenty years. Everything has to hinge on Jessie and those bones at St. Elizabeth’s.”

  “So, why me? Why Glenn?”

  “Maybe there are more,” she said and stared at him.

  He felt it, too. That they were being manipulated. “Someone’s got a sick sense of humor.”

  She tossed her tea bag into the trash. “Who?”

  He thought of everyone connected even vaguely to Jessie and couldn’t think of a soul. “And why? I’m just not buying that someone’s getting his rocks off by trying to freak us out.”

  “Maybe we should go to the police,” she said, testing the hot brew in her cup.

  “And tell them what? I got a note and you ‘saw’ one that was meant for Glenn? If the police get involved, they’re not going to accept that you just ‘saw it.’”

  “They’ll think I wrote the note,” Becca concluded. She walked back to the couch and sank into the cushions.

  Hudson shook his head. “I don’t know what they’ll conclude, but calling McNally now might create more problems than it’s worth. Becca…” He trailed off, sounding uncomfortable.

  She glanced up at him.

  “Could you have seen that note to Glenn? Somehow. And then just recalled it?”

  There it was. His disbelief. She felt a flicker of anger and frustration even though she knew he would feel this way. What did he know of her really? How could he just go on trust? “No.”

  “Then you need to make up a story before we go to the police, if we decide to go to the police. Say you saw it on his desk or something.”

  “Great. Lie to the police. Like I’ve got something to hide.” Becca clasped her hands together so hard her knuckles hurt. Why had she said anything to Hudson? Trusted him? “Maybe Scott knows about it.”

  “You think Glenn showed it to him? Wait. Maybe Scott got one, too. Why should Glenn and I be the only ones?” Hudson was instantly in motion, yanking his cell phone from his pocket and scrolling through numbers. “What about The Third, or Zeke?”

  “It’s three in the morning, Hudson.”

  He snapped his cell shut, almost in anticipation of her words. “You’re right. I’ll check with them tomorrow.” He gave her a studied look. “Maybe we should go to bed.”

  She nodded her head and couldn’t help but grin. “That’s the first good idea you’ve had all night.”

  “All morning,” he corrected. “Come on.”

  The first thing Becca noticed when she awoke was the smell of smoke. She sat bolt upright but it was only the lingering aroma from the night before. Though she’d changed out of her hastily donned clothes and made love to Hudson until nearly four in the morning, the scent was in her hair and clung to her skin. Ringo had given up his vigil enough to lay his head on his paws, but as soon as Becca stirred he was on his feet. Hudson snorted and rolled over, never even opening his eyes.

  She glanced at him, his face unlined and relaxed in sleep, dark lashes lying on his cheeks. God, she loved him. She wondered if she’d ever stopped.

  “Quit staring at me.”

  “What?” she said, startled. “You’re awake?”

  A smile stretched across his stubbled jaw. “I am now.” He reached for her and before she could protest, he’d drawn her close again and began kissing her as if they hadn’t made love all night already.

  But she didn’t protest.

  Couldn’t.

&
nbsp; She was too caught up in the thrill of it all.

  Later, once she’d caught her breath again, Becca rolled off the bed, hurried through her shower, and blew her hair dry in record time. She touched on makeup and yanked on her jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt and, in less than twenty minutes, was hurrying down the stairs, trying not to trip over the dog in his haste to be first. “It’s not a race, you know,” she scolded gently, but Ringo was already at the door, waiting to be walked.

  “Okay, okay, a short one.” She snapped on his leash, slipped into mules, and tossed on a jacket, taking him for his morning constitutional as the gray light of dawn cut through the streets and alleys and cars whipped by, tossing up water from standing puddles. High clouds blocked the sun, and it was cold enough that Becca’s breath fogged, but at least, thank the weather gods, it wasn’t raining.

  They returned, opened the door to the warm scent of coffee and Hudson walking out of the downstairs bath. His hair was wet from the shower, his jaw still dark with beard shadow, jeans from the night before hanging low on his hips. He was tossing on his shirt as Becca closed the door and hung up Ringo’s leash. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he drawled as she slid out of her jacket.

  “Good morning…I guess.” She shuddered. “I’m still sick about Glenn.”

  “Me, too. I’ve already got a couple of calls in to the rest of the guys.”

  “And?”

  “You were right. The Third downplayed it, but he got a note.”

  “He did?” Becca stood still.

  “Zeke didn’t. Not yet, anyway. And I haven’t got a hold of Jarrett or Mitch. Or Scott, for that matter. I was going to see them this morning.”

  “I want to go with you,” she said and poured two cups of coffee from the pot on the counter. “I want to see the other notes.”

  Hudson hesitated as she handed him one of the mugs. “I’d like to know more before we take this to the police.”

  “If Glenn got a note, do you think it might be at his house?”

  “I thought you said it burned.”

  “It did…at least in my vision.”

  He nodded but she sensed he was having some trouble with the whole vision thing. “Do you want to ask his wife? Gia?” he asked.

  Becca grimaced as she tried to imagine what Gia Stafford must be feeling this morning. Last night at the fire, Gia had been sobbing wildly and clinging to everyone within range. She wouldn’t want people descending on her with their own agendas. Then again, she might be interested in anything connected with her husband’s death. “It’s hard to say how she’ll react. If it were me, I’d want to know every scrap of information that might help explain how the person I loved was suddenly taken from me.” There was a pause and Becca asked, “Why Glenn? Was it an accident? Arson? How do these notes fit in?”

  “What if the fire was set on purpose?” Hudson suggested, staring into his coffee mug. “Maybe to get rid of Glenn? He was drinking himself into a stupor and no one was around. It was a perfect opportunity.”

  “Well, they were really lucky to just happen to have their firestarter arsenal with them—the night Glenn decides to tie one on?”

  “Maybe he tied one on a lot.”

  Ringo was dancing at her feet, whining and trying to catch her attention. “Oh, buddy. Sorry.” Opening the pantry door, she found the bag of dog food and measured a ration into his bowl. The dog was on it in an instant.

  “Maybe it was planned in advance,” Hudson said as she closed the pantry door. “By someone who knew Glenn’s habits and waited for the right moment. And last night was it.”

  “Who are you thinking of? Gia?” Becca asked.

  “I can’t picture her planning anything so detailed,” he admitted.

  “And the notes?”

  “We don’t know for certain that Glenn got one,” Hudson said carefully.

  Becca knew he was right, but she was inclined to believe in her vision. “Maybe we should ask Gia.”

  He reached for his cell phone without hesitation. “She might not be up to a visit.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  “Where are you going?” Gretchen demanded as Mac grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and made for the nearest exit of the police station.

  Her hair was pulled back severely, causing pressure at her temples and straining her eyes so she had a Siamese cat appearance. It looked uncomfortable and he figured it wasn’t going to help her temperament. He’d tried to be absent when she arrived at the station this morning, but he’d gotten caught up in the case and suddenly it was eight-thirty and Gretchen was there with a box of doughnuts.

  “Home to bed,” he told her. “Pulled an all-nighter.”

  “Doing what?”

  “There was a fire. Glenn Stafford and Scott Pascal’s restaurant. Looks like Stafford’s dead.”

  “Are you for real?”

  He nodded, slid his sidearm into his shoulder holster, and grabbed his jacket.

  “Why wasn’t I called?”

  “Because the fire investigators haven’t labeled it arson, so there’s no homicide. And it’s outside of our jurisdiction.”

  “Bullshit. It involves our case.” The wheels were turning in her mind, the box of doughnuts dropped unceremoniously onto the corner of his desk.

  Mac headed toward the door, his head full of images from the night before. He intended to do just as he’d told Scott Pascal the night before: he was going to ask the Preppy Pricks about the notes. He’d made a couple of calls already and was on a mission.

  Gretchen was hot on his heels, her footfalls short and angry as she followed him outside. “Your attitude sucks, McNally. I’m this close to reporting you.” She held her hand out, so he could see the index finger and thumb separated by only a hairsbreadth.

  “To who?” Mac asked at his own personal Jeep. He’d parked the prowler around the back since he was going off duty—at least officially.

  “D’Annibal, for starters. The chief if I have to.”

  He’d had it with her. “I don’t know what your gripe is, Sandler. You’ve been to a number of interviews. You think the Jessie Brentwood investigation’s a waste of time, my personal white whale. You hate everything about being my partner. Do whatever the hell you want.”

  “You should have called me when you decided to go to the fire.”

  “Wake you up at two in the morning for something that might not be a crime?”

  “It was Pascal and Stafford’s restaurant! That’s critical to our investigation!”

  “What investigation?” Mac finally snapped back. “You don’t give a damn. All you want is a fresh body, not a twenty-year-old corpse.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Back atcha.” He slammed into his Jeep and drove away, wishing the pavement was gravel so he could peel out and choke her with the dust. He slipped a pair of nearly forgotten sunglasses onto his nose as shafts of rare winter sunbeams slipped through the clouds and bounced off the wet pavement.

  Christ, she was a pain. And he didn’t need the headache. Between his obsession with this case, the other cases he was investigating, and his home life, which was centered around his kid, he didn’t have time for Gretchen Sandler’s histrionics. Not for the first time he wondered who she’d slept with to make detective. Worse yet, she had a way of making him lower himself to her level. The fact that he’d just baldly and gleefully lied to her pleased him in a way that defied explanation. Maturity was highly overrated, he concluded as he turned the Jeep away from the direction of his home and toward the garage where Mitch Bellotti spent his days.

  Hudson had checked on Glenn’s address and found the house without difficulty. It was a white-pillared colonial with an excruciatingly steep driveway and little ceramic gnome-like creatures hiding in an expansive yard. There was a brown older model Chevrolet sedan parked precariously on that slope. Hudson parked Becca’s Jetta on the street below and they walked up a set of steps that switchbacked through sliding mud and bark dust, courtesy of the nearl
y incessant precipitation.

  An older woman with coiffed gray-white hair answered their knock and looked at them with suspicion. “Yes?”

  “We’re high school friends of Glenn’s,” Becca said. “We wondered if we could see Gia.”

  “Well, Gia’s sleeping right now. This isn’t a good time. She’s been medicated.” She was brusque and determined.

  “I understand. Would you tell her Becca Sutcliff and Hudson Walker came to see her?” Becca added.

  “Oh. I think Glenn mentioned you.” She glanced past them to Becca’s car. “I’m Gia’s mother. I don’t think it’s worth your while to stay. She could be out a while and when she’s awake, oh, dear, the medication makes her a little…unclear.”

  Becca half expected Mama Bear to slam the door on them when Gia herself appeared on the stairs beyond. Tousled and red-eyed, clutching a bathrobe closed with one hand, she walked barefoot to the entry. “Who’s here?”

  Mama Bear kept trying to close the door but Hudson put a palm on the panels and pushed it back open. He received a glittered glare for his troubles but Gia gazed at him with shadowed eyes, full of misery.

  “You were there last night…?” she asked, her voice drifting off.

  “I’m Hudson Walker. Glenn and I knew each other in high school.”

  “Oh! Yes! Hudson.” Tears filled her eyes and she came flying forward, throwing herself into his arms, bawling like a baby calf. Mama Bear seemed startled by this turn of events, stepped backward, and Becca used the moment to squeeze in behind Hudson. She felt Gia’s pain like a live wire between them, though they weren’t touching. Her grief filled the room and it made Becca feel like a charlatan, given her reasons for being here.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” Gia was saying over and over as they stood beneath a huge chandelier in the foyer. She was petite and soft, her round body giving her a cherubic look. “We wanted to have a baby. We were planning on it. Now what am I going to do? What am I going to do!” She pulled away from Hudson to the waiting arms of her mother.

  Becca heard the word “baby” and her heart lurched. She hadn’t known the circumstances of the Stafford marriage, but this window into their now-unfulfilled hopes and dreams burrowed deeply into her own heartache.