“You think there’s anything to it? Seems like a long time out for a revenge killing.”
“Had to check it out. So I called the Montpelier house, and asked to talk to Henri. The woman who answered identified herself as Monica Montpelier, and then told me I’d have to wait another week to talk to Henri. He’s been in Oregon for the last three weeks doing a silent retreat. At a Buddhist monastery.”
Ivy laughed. “Seriously? So, did you get the number at the monastery?”
“I did. They’re next on my list. But, I don’t think anything is going to come of this. Unless he could sneak in and out of the monastery, drive five hours, kill Drummond, and drive back, with no one noticing.”
“So, if they are under a vow of silence, do the calls go to voicemail?”
So there was a sense of humor in there somewhere. “Good one, Langston. I’ll call the monastery to complete the circle, but I think it’s not going to take us anywhere.”
She stood up and stretched, her t-shirt lifting enough to give him a peek of her stomach. Deep, angry silver lines ran up and down on either side of her belly button, testaments to her children who thought she was the best mom in the world. Women put up with a lot of shit when it came to their bodies. Ivy rolled her chair back around to her own desk. “I think we can write Drummond’s kids off as suspects, too.” She shrugged into her coat. “I’m out of here. My husband was more than a little pissed about me missing the ballet last night. He kept the sitter and went without me. Took someone from his office with him instead. A woman. Oy.” She spun back around to grab her mug, actually smiling at him as she left.
When he called the monastery, the person answering the phone identified himself as a resident monk. He verified that Montpelier had been part of a ritualistic seventy-two-hour, Buddhist sitting-thing between Tuesday morning and Friday morning with another dozen people. He would have been noticed leaving. Court crossed Montpelier off the list.
Court finished the requests for the toll-bridge records for Wednesday evening. Staff at the Washington State Department of Transportation didn’t work weekends, and Court didn’t have access to their website the way he did the DMV's. By the time the briefing was over the next morning, he’d have confirmation of Drummond’s bridge crossing time. He guessed it would be close to six thirty. Given there were several eyewitnesses who saw him minutes before he used his card key to enter Hunter’s office at six fifty-five, it was more a formality, but Court wanted all the pieces in the timeline to be as accurate as possible.
He whipped out a bunch of warrant requests for the following day. He didn’t want to hit Haubek or Colchuck Down unprepared. The judge on duty today was known for being signature-happy. They’d walk in with warrants in hand for both places. He drew a broad warrant for Colchuck. Given this was Drummond’s business, it was a no-brainer. Almost any scrap of paper in the building would be up for grabs.
Getting a warrant for “everything” at the security company, on the other hand, might be a bit trickier, even with Judge Rollins wielding the pen. He asked for all records pertaining to the system at Hunter’s office, a list of all clients using the same system, personnel records for all Haubek employees, and the physical components and software records of the system removed eight weeks ago. Maybe they kept the broken pieces.
The fact that Drummond’s card key was used didn’t mean he was the one to do the actual swiping. But, surely, one of the teens would have told him if Drummond hadn’t been alone.
While he’d been on the phone, Drummond’s personal assistant had left a voicemail. She was on her way back to Seattle and would meet them at Colchuck tomorrow morning. Any time after seven would be fine.
Court texted Mary Coleridge to see how things were going with the train derailment. She texted back giving him a tentative time of Tuesday morning for the autopsy. Court doubted it would give them any major surprises. He’d seen enough dead bodies to have a pretty good idea how Drummond had died. It would be nice to confirm he’d not been drugged and to set aside any doubt that Drummond had willingly allowed himself to be tied up. It wasn’t like television, where magical forensic evidence would pop up with miracle answers. This case was going to take regular, normal detective work.
28
Court purchased the tickets for all three movies and leaned against the granite wall of the theater, letting the narrow burgundy tarp overhead shield him from the drizzle. Madeline appeared around the corner wearing jeans tucked neatly into leather boots and a Gore-Tex raincoat covering everything but the roundness of her face. He checked the sky, but it didn’t look like it was going to start pouring any moment. She slowed her pace as she scanned the crowd outside the theater. When she finally found him, her lips whipped upward into a warm grin as she dodged around people to get to him.
He pushed away from the wall and held up the tickets.
“Oh, I’m glad I didn’t buy them online after all. What do I owe you?”
Why did dating have to be such a minefield? If he offered to buy, was she going to be pissed or pleased? “Maybe you could get dinner.” Her eyebrow popped up, so he added hastily, “Or popcorn.”
She laughed. Court’s heart leapt in his chest, feeling as though it stopped cold for three full beats. The harmonic cadence of her laugh was identical to Amanda’s. The rhythm and key of it was different than Amanda’s, but the intervals of her laugh moved up and down the same way.
“Popcorn it is.” She turned toward the theater doors, assuming Court would follow.
He had to stop thinking of people in terms of how they related to Amanda. Stop comparing everyone he met to her. He caught up to Madeline in line, suddenly unable to think of anything coherent to say. He couldn’t ask about her daughter because he couldn’t remember the kid’s name. With her braided pigtails and kaleidoscopic dress, she was a veritable Pippi Longstocking. Even though they had been introduced the night before, he couldn’t dislodge “Pippi” from his brain.
“I’m glad I made it. Parking is a bitch around here. I don’t know how you can stand it.”
“I don’t have a car. Parking is no problem.”
“Well, I wouldn’t either if I didn’t have to schlep Lucy around to things. Metro would add a couple of hours onto everything we do. At least Boston had a decent subway.”
Lucy. Pippi’s real name was Lucy. Court thanked the god of small things Madeline used her name before it got awkward. “Boston … explains the socks on your necklace.”
She reached for the chain around her neck, sliding the charms and ring back and forth. “Originally, yes. I moved here after Jake died. I wanted to make a clean start. Away from … places.”
Court totally got that. He had moved from San Francisco for the same reason. Melancholy reared its ugly head, and he shoved it back down. Court decided to go for the deep conversation. Might as well figure out the extent of baggage they had going on between them. “So, how did Jake die?”
Madeline spun around to face him, but instead of shock or anger, she was smiling, looking bemused. “No one asks me about Jake like that. Most people usually pussyfoot around, hoping I’ll tell them so they don’t have to.”
“Believe me, I am well-schooled in Avoidance 101. I’d have a master’s degree by now if they offered one.”
Her features settled into soft compassion. “I bet it’s even harder for you.”
Did she feel sorry for him? “Is any death easy to get over?” His words had come out harsher, more bitter than he had meant them. He dropped his gaze to his feet, trying to get a grip on the conversation, to prevent it from spiraling into the ground. “I’m getting the idea Britt has told you a lot about me. She hasn’t been quite so forthcoming about you.”
They made it to the head of the line and their conversation was interrupted by the kid behind the counter. When Madeline asked for extra butter and a box of Junior Mints, his dream combination, he felt a little weak in the knees. Hitchcock, buttery popcorn, Junior Mints. The triple crown of a perfect movie date.
A fifteen-minute break allowed them to hit the restrooms, buy more food and stretch. By the time the second movie came on, the theater was filled to capacity.
As Grace Kelly first filled the screen in Rear Window, he heard Madeline sigh next to him as she leaned in close. Her lips buzzed gently against his ear. “I have always crushed hard on her. She was so gorgeous, and her clothes totally slay me. I wish we could dress like her, such class.”
“You can dress like her any time you like. I know I wouldn’t mind.”
She laughed again, this time quietly against his ear. She nuzzled him with her nose before kissing his neck. The warmth of her lips on his skin sent an instant shiver of desire through him.
Was the kiss an introduction or an invitation? He turned in his seat to look at her, but she was already focusing back on the film. He settled into watching the rest of the movie.
During the next break he embraced her lightly as they stood to stretch. “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Pick up some Chinese takeout and go back to your place. My sitter is spending the night at mine.”
“Still want to stay for the third movie?” The promise of an overnighter was more than a little distracting.
Her eyes flashed with mock indignation. “What? Skip my favorite?”
He leaned in close, tilted his head to one side and paused with his lips an inch from hers, grazing her nose with his. “May I kiss you?”
“Oh, a gentleman who asks. Yes, I would like that.”
He brought a hand up to her cheek, running his thumb across her lower lip. He kissed her tentatively, making sure of the angle before pressing in further, gauging her response. The kiss was short, lacking the awkwardness so often found in first times. They parted with matching smiles, their noses circling around each other.
As Psycho rolled onto the screen, Court put his arm around Madeline’s shoulders inviting her to lean into him. Her head fell into the crook between his shoulder and neck. Court lowered his cheek to the top of her head, the warm lavender scent of her hair a refreshing and relaxing newness.
Amanda hated lavender.
Court convinced Madeline to leave her car overnight where she’d parked it. They picked up takeout and walked arm-in-arm to his house. He talked her into the little Lebanese place that would serve up better food than anything Chinese in the area. She promised she would eat anything he ordered, so he ordered things previous dates had refused to touch. He wouldn’t make it long-term with someone who refused highly spiced eggplant and kibbeh.
She leaned over the kibbeh, her eyes sliding over him suspiciously. “This is raw, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It is. It’s the national Lebanese dish. Highly prized, and this is the best in Seattle.”
She took a tentative bite. “Lamb? Mint.” She took more, closed her eyes. “Oh. Allspice, too.” She swallowed and sipped at her wine. “So, do I pass?”
“Was it that obvious?” He wiped a crumb of bulgur from her lips.
She shrugged. “You picked the weirdest thing on the menu? Had to be either because you wanted to impress me or test me.”
“Maybe you should be the detective.”
She laughed. “No, thank you. I’m happy with my crayons. But, since you brought it up. What got you into police work? Isn’t it an odd choice for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” Court asked.
She colored. “I would expect you to be super liberal. Like your sister.”
Nice save. “I am super liberal. Not every LEO is a gun-crazed Republican, you know?”
“Leo?”
“What we call ourselves. Law Enforcement Officer. Cops, FBI, SS, ATF, we’re all LEOs.”
“Oh. Okay. So what got you into it?”
Court wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Well, I used to watch a lot of TV. You know-- Columbo, Cagney & Lacey, In the Heat of the Night.”
“Wow, I haven’t thought about any of those in years. I used to watch ’em with my dad. Quincy, Murder She Wrote, too.”
“Loved them all. I was always figuring out the answer, sleuthing things out. Knew who did it before they did. Every time. Well, almost.”
Madeline eyed him over her glass. “But, weren’t they designed that way? So the audience had it figured out before the lead on the show?”
“I didn’t know that at the time,” Court said. “Anyway, when I was eighteen, I saw this woman get mugged. I didn’t even think about it, I took off after the guy who’d hit her and snatched her purse. Threw him to the ground. Sat on him until the cops showed up.”
“That’s what got you into it? The chase?”
Court shook his head. “No. It wasn’t the chase. It was the way she thanked me. She’d cashed her latest paycheck. She and her little kid would have been out on the street without the money in her purse.”
She stroked his cheek. “I like that.”
Court turned to kiss the palm of her hand. “That’s what keeps me on the job.”
“Does working homicide do the same thing?”
“When we solve a case, sure. There’s something powerful about giving a survivor answers. When people die, their loved ones want to know why. How. Putting a murder in context helps them get through it.”
“Do you still watch cop shows?”
“Sometimes. There are some good ones out there, but now I know the diff between TV and how things really work, I can’t stand some of the crap that’s out there. Like CSI? That show makes it look like test tubes and microscopes come up with all the answers. But, there are a few that have shitty science but are fun to watch anyway. You know, for the relationship drama. They’re really soap operas with a thin veneer of mystery layered on top.”
They ate in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Does seeing dead people all the time bother you?”
Now that was a loaded question. Court took his time chewing his shwarma before answering, trying to figure out what she was really asking. “It gets to me, sure. Doing my job means someone’s dead. Often, it means they died violently. Would I be happy if I were out of a job? Sure. The world would be a better place without killing.”
There, the nice PC answer was out in the open. Might as well go on with the whole truth of it, show her his warts. “But, another part of me loves what I do. It’s powerful. Finding a killer? Knowing you’ve got him. There’s nothing like catching the bad guy. It sucks someone had to die first.”
“Your world is kinda filled up with guilt, Court,” Madeline said, stroking his cheek.
Court refilled their glasses. “Your turn. I asked you earlier about Jake, but you didn’t tell me what happened to him.”
Madeline’s lips twitched into a partial smile. “He was a Marine. Killed in Iraq.”
There was some competition he wasn’t sure he wanted. “Have you always been drawn to men who have dangerous careers?”
“Yeah. I guess, maybe. I’ve always been attracted to strong, smart guys.” She moved in closer, a finger dancing over his chest.
“Didn’t Britt tell you how fucked over I am mentally?” Court asked, grabbing her hand to pull it against him, stopping her from tickling him further.
“Given what you do, what you’ve been through, the fact you’re not under the table drunk every night shows a kind of strength.”
He drew her into his arms, filling his fingers with her hair, gently pulling her head back into the perfect position for a kiss.
Court’s arm was numb. He’d forgotten what it was like to have the nerves pinched off long enough to deaden the feeling from shoulder to fingertips. He slipped his arm from underneath Madeline’s head, wiggling his fingers and working through the pins and needles.
He sat up so he could see the alarm clock. It was only five thirty, but Court needed to hit the early Krav class before work.
He kissed Madeline’s neck to wake her. Leaving her alone without saying goodbye was not an option. “Hey, you, I gotta get going. Big case and all.”
She stretched her arms over her head. “It’s not even six. Seriously?”
“Work. Six a.m. Krav class. If I run I can make it. You can sleep in, stay as long as you want. Food in fridge is all yours.” They had managed to toss leftovers into the refrigerator before ripping each other’s clothes off on the way to his bedroom.
Madeline sat up on her elbows, tilting her head back, her dark hair falling in luxurious waves onto the pillow. The sheet dropped from her breasts, pooling at her waist.
He reached over to cup her left breast with the palm of his hand. Rolled her nipple into hardness between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re evil.”
“I thought you needed to get to work.”
29
Court ran the two blocks to his bus, waving the driver down to stop and re-open the doors. The driver gave him a fake stern expression as Court swiped his Orca card through the scanner. “If you didn’t look like you were about to run down a bad guy, I might have kept going, Detective.”
“Sorry, Maggie. I slept in.” It was six forty-five, and he had substituted Krav with glorious morning sex. Madeline had been thoughtful and brilliant to make it so she could stay at his house. He wasn’t late, but he had plenty to do before the briefing started.
The bus ride was long enough to help him transition mentally to work. Awesome as it was to start the day with sex, he needed to switch gears and stop grinning like he’d won the lottery.
It was finally Monday, a real workday, and they’d have access to the full departmental resources. The key people they needed to talk to at Colchuck and Haubek would be back at work. The standstill enforced by weekend hours was over. There were six other active homicide cases, a record in recent memory, but Berkeley Drummond would be up as prime. Newness and novelty would make his murder top priority with everyone. And Court was feeling it. For the first time in years he was eager to solve a case and not simply blindly fill his time with work.
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