Between a stick family portrait and a ripped page from a coloring book, Will found it. He laid the small scrap before JB, smug.
JB squinted at it, his face a blank. “A Christmas tree? A marijuana leaf? Is this like that ink blot test?”
Will bit his tongue and pulled up the image of the note they’d found in Bonnie’s car. The ripped edges lined up perfectly. “Oaktown Boys. Ever heard of them?”
“Damn, I’m good. I told you the husband had guilt written all over him.” JB gave a self-satisfied smile while Will drove them the block back to the station. Though their pace amounted to more of a crawl. His partner had been correct on one thing; every reporter within a three-hundred-mile radius had shown up here with a news van and an attitude. Brake lights in front, blaring horns behind, they’d moved about ten feet in the last five minutes.
“Were you even listening?” Will asked. As promised, he’d told JB the whole story. Every sordid detail. James’ embezzlement of Drake’s book money. Drake’s theft of the rolling pins. The mysterious bookie. The cell phones. “Setting aside his airtight alibi, what makes you think James killed Bonnie?”
“I never said he killed her. I said he looked guilty. Two totally different things. He’s covering one lie with another. I know Lyle Adams. The guy’s a local deadbeat for sure. Dumb as a box of rocks. Ain’t no way Lyle murdered Bonnie McMillan without leaving something behind.”
“I agree.” Will couldn’t believe it when the words left his mouth. But there’s a first time for everything. “You want to know how I know?”
“Not particularly.”
“Lyle’s in jail in Brookings, Oregon. Has been since Thanksgiving. Apparently, he pummeled the Sheriff’s son in a bar fight.”
“Like I said, box of rocks.”
“Alright. So that leaves us with the Oaktown Boys, the Vulture, and our theater mystery man.”
JB chuckled. “Don’t forget about the Easter Bunny.”
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia chose the lesser of two evils; a booth in the back, as far from the bar as she could manage. Even if that table happened to be adjacent to Hickory Pit’s Lovers’ Lane, a length of the redwood wall carved floor to ceiling with the initials of high school sweethearts hell-bent on forever.
Olivia found the wormhole in the wood that marked the spot where she and Erik had immortalized their ill-fated love affair. She should’ve known better. Because that very same day he’d driven her up to Willow Wood, the abandoned psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of town, and told her he wanted to be her first. When your boyfriend asks you to lose your virginity in a rat-infested nuthouse, odds are he might not be your soul mate. Every time she’d returned to the Pit, she’d thought of taking a knife to his carving, replacing it with a big, fat X, but the past had a life of its own. Who was she to snuff it out? Besides, it reminded her of how far she’d come. How much she had to lose.
She ran her hand across it like a touchstone, wishing she’d ordered whiskey with her Coke. Something to appease the butterflies in her stomach that had only multiplied when Emily had shown her Chief Flack’s press release. They’d sat dumbfounded in the prison parking lot, replaying the four o’clock press conference on Emily’s phone. Laura and Bonnie, both dead by the same hand. A shadowy person of interest outside the theater. Olivia’s plan to shake down Em about their dad—Recent contact? Debriefing?—dissipated in the horror of it all. It would have to wait.
Eerie, isn’t it? Bartender Jane had said, gesturing to the empty restaurant as she retrieved Olivia’s drink. Usually, by five o’clock, the place was stacked wall to wall with customers. Tonight, only a few regulars filled the booths, but the bar seemed as crowded as ever with out-of-town reporters and local folks who counted alcohol as the best medicine.
Olivia fidgeted with the loose button on her sweater. Despite her sister’s best efforts to convince her otherwise, she hadn’t bothered to change out of her work clothes, but Deck wouldn’t notice. Deck wouldn’t care. Deck had his own problems. Like the two murders he had to solve. She’d started calling him Deck in her head now, but not in front of Emily or Leah. They’d try to twist it into something else. Like a date, or a crush, or a prospect. Something it most definitely wasn’t.
Yep, a little splash of Jack would’ve hit the spot. But she needed a clear head to handle Deck with his mussed hair and his clever comebacks and his serial-killer questions. Chief Flack hadn’t said those words, but she saw them shifting between the lines like a shadow at the dark end of an alley.
“Hey, Liv.” Olivia stared at her hands on the table, wishing he would disappear. Wishing he hadn’t co-opted the nickname reserved for Em and her mother. Just Em now. “Why are you hidin’ out back here, beautiful?”
She focused on the curve of Graham’s biceps—her favorite part of him—on display beneath his obnoxious one-size-too-small T-shirt. If only she liked the rest of him as much.
“Hi, Graham.”
The front door opened, and half of FHPD’s day watch filed in, joining Graham’s rookie partner, Jessica Milner, at the bar. Jessie caught her looking and gave her a knowing smile that said she’d read her mind. Waterboarding would’ve been preferable to being stuck with Graham in a patrol car all day. “I’m meeting someone.”
He sat across from her anyway. “You hear the news?”
“Yeah. It’s awful.” She chose as few words as possible so as not to encourage him.
“I was there, you know. This morning. Good thing I was, too. They needed an ID on the body.” Like a heat-seeking missile, his hand moved toward her own. Panicked, she snatched it back into her lap before he could grab ahold. “You need to be careful, Liv. There’s a sicko running around here. Why don’t you stay with me tonight?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I can sleep over at your house. As long as Emily doesn’t mind.”
Olivia shook her head. “Definitely not.”
“Definitely not, she doesn’t mind. Or definitely not—”
“Definitely not a good idea.”
Graham frowned, thumbing his ridiculous mustache. It makes me look French, am I right? Sophistiqué. That’s what he’d told her the day after he’d shaved the small rectangular patch above his lip. “Am I missing something here? I thought you and me, we had a thing.”
Olivia often wondered about timing. The way life came down to split seconds, missed stoplights, forgotten keys. A moment too late or a moment too soon. It didn’t seem fair she’d been the one sent home early from school that day with a stomachache. The one to open the door of their dumpy one-bedroom at the Double Rock. The one to see her father standing over a dead woman, a knife in his hand. To see he hadn’t been alone.
But as Deck approached the booth, she said a silent prayer of gratitude to the universe. Because sometimes bad timing could ride in like a knight in a light blue button-down to save you when you needed it most.
“Doctor Rockwell…” Deck cleared his throat, announcing himself. “I don’t want to interrupt, but—”
“Then don’t, buddy.” Graham bristled, his fists clenched. He didn’t bother to look behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on Olivia. “My lady and I are having an AB conversation, and you can C your way out.”
With a wry smile, Deck raised his brows at Olivia.
“I’m sorry, Graham,” she said. “Detective Decker and I—”
“Detective Decker?” Graham hopped up and extended his hand. “Sorry, man. I didn’t see you there. We were just talking about you. How you needed my help making that ID this morning. This is my girlfriend, Olivia Rockwell. She’s the chief psychologist over at Crescent Bay.”
“Lucky man.” Deck still hadn’t stopped grinning. When Olivia caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror behind the bar, it confirmed what she already knew. Her cheeks flamed redder than the checkered tablecloths.
“The luckiest. Beauty and brains. It’s a rare—”
“Graham.” She smacked her palm against th
e table, and several heads at the bar turned. “Can you give us a minute, Detective?”
“Sure. Take all the time you need.” He pointed at the register up front. “I’ll go ahead and order. Can I get you anything?”
She’d intended to have a salad. With her luck, she’d leave with a sweater stained with pit grease and barbecue sauce, but, if she couldn’t drown her butterflies with alcohol, maybe she could ply them with comfort food.
“Number five, please. The spareribs with the coleslaw and cornbread. And a side of mac and cheese.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Olivia heard him laughing as he walked away.
Chapter Seventeen
Will chuckled, watching Olivia wipe at a spot of barbecue sauce on her sweater. They’d cleaned ten spareribs between them, the bones stacked in a neat pile in the center basket. Smarty Pants took her food seriously. Will could respect that.
Olivia looked up at him and back to the stain, no better now than when she’d started dabbing. But she seemed more relaxed here, outside of the prison. More Olivia than Dr. Rockwell. “Those ribs were worth a ruined sweater. I’d forgotten how much I like this place.”
“Because it’s a cop hangout? Or in spite of?”
Her half-smile told him the answer. By the time Will had returned with their food, Olivia had been alone in the booth, but he’d seen Graham at the bar, slapping backs, chugging beers, and flirting way too loudly with the badge bunnies. His jealous eyes never wandered far from the back booth. Like two planets orbiting the sun. Or an idiot making an ass of himself. Still, even Graham hadn’t been stupid enough to bring his weapon into a bar, the way Will and Ben had that night at Aces High.
“So, you and Officer Bauer, huh? When’s the wedding?”
“Very funny, Deck. He’s not my… you know. Not anymore. He’s just a friend.”
“It’s none of my business. But, you and him? How did that happen?”
“You’re right. It’s none of your business.” Her dimple softened the sting. “But let’s just say Fog Harbor isn’t exactly teeming with eligible bachelors. He wasn’t always so…”
“Awful?”
She shook her head. “At the time, he seemed nice enough.”
“For a guy with Hitler’s mustache and hair that doesn’t move.” Will watched Graham settle himself onto a barstool. He spun away from the eager, raven-haired bartender, stopping his turn with a boot to the footrest. He parked himself in that spot, alternately glaring at Will and scrutinizing his cell phone screen.
Will felt sick. He knew that look too. Different from the look women gave him, it rankled no less. A storm cloud glower thick with judgment that meant his past had caught up to him once more. “What exactly did you tell him about me?”
“Nothing. Well, not nothing. Just that we’d planned to meet here to discuss a case, and I’d talk to him later.”
“You didn’t say anything then? About me?”
“I hardly know you.” But she knew the one thing he’d tried to outrun. Sure, JB knew and Lieutenant Wheeler and Chief Flack, but so far he’d managed to avoid the lynch mob of cowboy cops who considered him a traitor and weren’t shy about telling him just that.
“You know about my brother, though. Don’t deny it.”
She took a careful sip of her soda, avoiding his eyes. “I would never tell anyone that. Certainly not Graham. But he’s bound to find out. And if Graham knows, the whole force will soon enough.”
Will glanced over at the bar where Graham’s brooding had reached a crescendo. He tossed back a shot, slammed the glass on the counter, and stormed out in such a hurry he didn’t see the chair in his path. He tripped, stutter-stepped, cursed, then flung the offending chair to the side of the table like a rag doll. Will half expected him to punch its cheap wooden face.
“I still don’t get it. You and him.”
Olivia studied Will with uncertainty, the way that stray cat did sometimes. Like she couldn’t decide whether to bolt or hiss. Then, his knee brushed hers beneath the table and she flinched. “You didn’t ask me here to discuss my dating life, did you, Detective? Because that would be a short and uninteresting conversation.”
The entire meal they’d been Deck and Olivia. Now, he’d been relegated back to Detective. Fine. He could be all business. “You’re right, Doctor. We’re here to talk about Drake. He knew both victims. He interacted with them regularly at the prison. I think there’s a chance he could be involved in these murders.”
“By those criteria, you’ll need to investigate half of the inmates at Crescent Bay. I hope there’s more to your theory than that.”
“Well, you tell me. You were the one reading Bird of Prey and taking notes. Surely it didn’t slip past you that Drake’s main character kills women from death row. It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out the guy’s still got major issues.”
Olivia stiffened. “Drake is a troubled man. At his core, he’s fragile, vulnerable. A little boy, abandoned. He protects that part of himself at all costs. By any means necessary. With a mask of rage and manipulation and a grandiose sense of himself. Yes, he knew both victims, and he wrote a twisted book about murdering women. But Crescent Bay is a fortress even for someone as cunning as him. I’d say the possibility of an inmate getting out of his cell and past the guards and the fences and the security cameras is about as likely as Drake winning the Pulitzer.”
She wanted to put him in his place. To win the point with her bleeding heart and her doctorate degree. To convince him of something she didn’t believe herself, not entirely.
“Back at the library, you asked why I had a signed copy of that book. You might know Drake better than anyone, but you don’t know everything. I bet he never told you about the short story he sent to the cops, bragging about those girls he murdered in San Francisco. Or the detective who worked the case for two years before he finally found a way to put that asshole in cuffs. Or the taunting letters he sends that same detective every February third.”
With Olivia sufficiently silenced, Will delivered his own shot across the bow. “That detective is me. In case you were wondering.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Wait up.”
Olivia did the exact opposite. She’d stormed out of the Hickory Pit without knowing why. Well, she knew why, but it pained her to admit it. She hated being wrong. Hated being scolded by Mr. Wise Guy. Mostly, she hated feeling like a professional failure. After all, she had no husband, no kids, no hobbies. No real life to speak of. She was the job. She liked to think she’d gotten damn good at it.
It shouldn’t have bothered her what Deck thought, but it did. Boy, did it ever. Hearing him spout things Drake had never told her left her reeling. What else had she missed? Even the sound of Deck’s boots approaching on the pavement nettled her.
“Jesus, Rockwell. Are you a speed walker?”
“When the situation calls for it.”
“Look, I’m a jackass. I’ll admit it. I don’t blame you for leaving.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” She reached her car just in time and flung open the door. But she didn’t get in. She just stood there, emanating heat.
“And you can tear out of this parking lot like a bat out of hell if you want. You can never speak to me again. But, take this with you. Please.”
He handed her a plain manila folder, unmarked.
“What is it?” she asked, laying it on her hood. She wanted to look inside but he wanted that too. So, she refrained. Left it there, unopened.
“I know I said I asked you here to pick your brain about Drake, and that’s true. But, with what happened this morning, the second body, I thought you might be inclined to help.”
“Help? Help you, you mean?” The nerve of this guy.
“I know. I blew it. But yes, help.”
“Help with what, exactly?”
Will’s eyes darted across the parking lot. He lowered his voice. “I don’t know if you heard but we might have the s word on our hands.”
“The s wo
rd?”
“My partner, JB, says it’s bad karma to say it out loud. The guy’s a nut but sometimes he’s right. I heard you helped out with a couple of those kinds of cases in San Francisco. I read about your special commendation.”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“Why not? It seemed like you were pretty good at it.”
“Until I wasn’t.” She held the folder out to him, imploring him to take it. Her thoughts unfolding like a horizonless highway. It’s scary how fast the mind can travel.
Chapter Nineteen
Will stared at the manila folder in Olivia’s hand. He hadn’t been prepared for that. For a no. Not for this. Will had done his homework. Olivia had profiled the Russian Hill Rapist right down to his occupation—streetcar driver. She had been good at this.
“C’mon, we’re on the same team here. We both work with sickos.”
Olivia looked skeptical. Offended even. Will felt like an oaf again. Who says the word sicko to a psychologist? This guy, apparently. Petey was right. He’d become the job. Just like their dad. He’d forgotten how to talk to anybody who didn’t wear a badge. Which explained why they were standing out here in the freezing cold in the first place. “Okay, okay. It’s a little different. You want to help them. I want to see them rot behind bars. But, still.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” When she returned the folder to the hood of her car, Will took it as a small sign of encouragement. “You want justice. So do I. Sometimes justice means letting a man free, if he’s changed. Sometimes it means helping him change. Why do you work with sickos anyway?”
“Family business. You?”
Behind her eyes, he saw a familiar pain he wished he could soothe. “Same.”
Will pointed to the folder and backed away, while he was still ahead. “Just take a look. Tell me what you think. Off the record. One justice seeker to another.”
Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1) Page 11