by Bush, Nancy
“Do you remember any of her friends? Who she hung out with?” September asked.
“Well, she was always with the Schmidt boy . . . Ben . . . Benny. I remember because their last names were similar: she was Schenk and he was Schmidt.”
September wrote that down. “Anything else?”
“He played soccer and went on to be a star in high school.”
“At Rutherford High?” September asked, though she knew that’s where he meant. “Ben Schmidt . . . I think I remember the name.”
Gretchen gave September a look. “You went to Valley Sunset.”
She nodded. “Rutherford was our crosstown rival. I never met Ben, but I knew the name.”
“Sheila’s family moved at the end of that school year,” Abernathy said.
Gretchen eyed the man cautiously. “Do you remember all your students as well as Sheila?”
He bristled. “Not necessarily.”
“Who should we talk to who might know Glenda Tripp?” Gretchen asked.
“Ask Amy,” he said again, and his tone suggested the interview was over.
He left a few minutes later and when Amy Lazenby returned she gave them a list of teachers who were part of the summer school staff. “Maybe one of them can help you more with Ms. Tripp,” she said, and they thanked her and headed out.
As Gretchen drove them back to the station, she said, “We’ll put George on this list.”
September, who’d been squinting out the window against the bright sun reflecting light off oncoming traffic, said, “I told you Jake Westerly’s father worked for mine for a while. What I didn’t go into was that he was a classmate of mine at Valley Sunset.”
Gretchen shot her a look. “Okay . . .”
“He also went to Sunset Elementary and junior high with me. We were friends, sort of.”
Gretchen digested that, and said, “Anything else you’re keeping from me?”
“We were in second grade together. I’ve been thinking it through. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions just because I’ve known him so long.”
“You mean you don’t want it to be Jake,” she corrected her.
“I don’t want it to be Jake, and I don’t think it is,” she agreed. “I talked this all over with Auggie yesterday and he knows Jake, too, and he said he didn’t believe Jake was a sociopath, either.”
“Sociopath . . .” she repeated as if trying out the word. “They’re the guys who almost make sense when you’re talking to them, but then it goes awry. You know something’s off, but you just can’t put your finger on it.”
“That’s not Jake.”
“You’re a little quick to defend him,” she pointed out.
“It’s just that Jake’s the guy every girl wanted. When I saw him the other day, I still got that hit,” September admitted. “Sheila invited him to The Barn Door because he’s . . .”
“Mr. Perfect,” Gretchen filled in.
“Yeah. If we’re going to concentrate on Sheila, it’s more likely it’s the guy this Ray saw hassling her.”
“I’ll go with that,” she allowed after a moment and September relaxed a bit as she went on, “He picks them up at bars. He carves Do Unto Others As She Did To Me into Emmy Decatur, and probably would’ve done the same for Glenda Tripp if he’d had time. He sends you the same message on your second grade artwork.”
“So, you do believe the killer sent that to me?”
Her gaze narrowed through the windshield. “I’m leaning that way. But the words ‘As She Did To Me’ . . . he’s mad at a woman.”
“He feels he’s been abused by her and he’s getting revenge.”
“Something like that.”
“Auggie suggested that maybe he knew them. That it wasn’t just a physical type that drew him to Sheila, and Emmy and Glenda.” A bit hesitantly, she told Gretchen her theory about the killer beginning his spree after reading the newspaper article about her, finishing, with, “. . . you’ve been saying it all along. It started when I joined the Laurelton PD.”
“So, he knows you, as well as the three victims.”
“Well . . . yeah, maybe.” September’s thoughts flew right back to Jake and she suspected Gretchen was thinking the same thing.
They’d reached the station and now they climbed out of the car and walked through the front doors. Guy Urlacher looked up as they entered and Gretchen growled, “Ask me for my ID, I swear to God I’ll turn you over to medical, have them check you for OCD and get you put on permanent leave.”
“It’s protocol,” Guy squeaked, alarmed.
“Don’t ask me again. Don’t do it,” she warned.
They made it past him though his Adam’s apple was jumping up and down as if pulled by a string and his eyes were wide. In the back hallway, September said, “Everyone says you’re a bitch, no offense.”
“I am. None taken.”
There was a note with a phone number on September’s desk from the front desk: Jake Westerly called.
Gretchen saw September freeze and glanced over her shoulder to view the message. “Just how good a friend is he?”
“Was he,” September corrected her.
“Okay, how good a friend was he?”
“Good,” September answered, after a telling moment.
“Don’t meet him alone,” she advised and then headed to her own desk.
Don’t meet him at all, her conscience told her, even while she dug out her cell phone.
Chapter 9
September glanced across the squad room to where George was following up on the list of names and numbers of the instructors from the summer school program. Her gaze moved to the board that held the three victims’ photos and bullet points on where they’d been located and whatever else was found at the scene. The women had similar appearances and they all lived in the Laurelton area. Emmy and Sheila were about the same age and had both attended school in the Laurelton School District, and though Glenda Tripp, who was also in the same age range, hadn’t gone to school in Laurelton, she’d worked, briefly, for the school district.
Were they on the right track? she wondered as she slipped her cell into her pocket and headed down the hall to the break room with its his-and-hers locker rooms on either side. Gretchen had decided to check on Emmy Decatur’s school record as long as they were on that track with Sheila and Glenda. Maybe she would find another connection.
September pulled out her cell and punched in the number Jake had given her on her cell but after a few rings it went to his voice mail. She left her name and hung up, kind of deflated. She didn’t care what Gretchen or her conscience decreed, she was going to see him again to satisfy her own need for answers. Maybe he could provide those answers, maybe he couldn’t. But she was going to meet with him, and she did not for one second believe he was the sociopath or psychopath or whatever type of deviant the killer was.
He returned her call as she was walking back to the squad room, so she slowed her steps and answered briskly: “Rafferty.”
“It’s Jake. Sorry, I was down the hall and didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“No problem. What can I do for you?”
“I didn’t really like the way things went the other day,” he said. “I got the feeling you were testing me with those questions.”
“Mr. Dempsey had made some accusations and I was following up.”
“Man, Nine. You’re so damn neutral. Is that you, or is it a ‘cop thing’? It’s annoying as hell.”
That brought her up short. “Sorry.”
“Meet me for lunch,” he said. “Let’s have a real conversation.”
“I . . . don’t . . .” she said reluctantly. Yes, she wanted to see him, but no, she wasn’t sure she wanted to share lunch with him.
“It’s just lunch. I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t have a lot of time,” she demurred.
“I’ll come your way. I’ve got an appointment in Laurelton later anyway, and well, I live there.”
“Your office i
s in Portland?”
“Downtown, yeah. But name a place in Laurelton. I can be there in half an hour.”
She glanced at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. “Okay, how about Xavier’s? They’ve got a rockin’ bar scene at night, but in the day it’s calmer and the food’s good.”
“Xavier’s. See you at noon . . .”
He clicked off and she did the same, returning to the squad room but avoiding Gretchen’s eyes. Luckily Sandler was in an involved conversation over Emmy Decatur’s school records and didn’t notice until September took her gun from her drawer and fitted it to her hip holster, slipping her light gray jacket over it. Then Gretchen started signaling her as she wound up the phone conversation, so September waited.
“You’d think I was asking to break into Fort Knox, the way they lock down those permanent records,” Gretchen grumbled. “Christ, I hate schools. Are you going to lunch?”
“Xavier’s,” she said.
“Oh.” She was surprised. “Meeting someone?”
“Yep.”
She picked up on September’s monosyllabic responses and said, “Jesus, Nine . . . Jake Westerly?”
“It’s a public place. I think I’ll be okay.”
“Didn’t I warn you?” Gretchen shook her head, and added, “Bad idea.”
“Maybe I’ll learn something.”
She snorted. “Say hi to Dom for me, if he’s bartending. And bring me back a sandwich?”
“What kind?”
“Anything.” Her attention was grabbed by the phone again, so September strolled outside into the blasting sun.
By day Xavier’s seemed less slick and glossy; the light streaming through the windows making it appear more like a restaurant, less of a pickup bar. September was early on purpose; she wanted to be seated to scope things out before Jake got there. She looked across the length of the zebrawood bar and noticed a dark-haired, buff male bartender but it wasn’t Gretchen’s Dom.
A young, female maître d’ dressed in a black skirt and a body-hugging black, long-sleeved top stood by with a pile of menus in her slim arms. “Would you like a table?”
“For two,” September said, and followed her to a spot by the windows that looked into a bioswale wetlands—which looked more like dusty weeds than anything—that lay between Xavier’s and the row of commercial buildings beyond. She waited while the busgirl poured her a glass of water from a pitcher, a lemon slice slipping into her glass. She could feel the race of her heart and gave herself a mental tongue-lashing. This wasn’t a date in any real sense. It was a meeting, an interview, an exchange of ideas.
Still . . .
Her thoughts turned to Wes Pelligree again. He was recuperating, which was great, but she missed having him around. In truth, she liked him a lot, though she’d never gotten the hang of calling him by his nickname, Weasel, which he teased her about. She’d quietly fantasized about him despite his longtime girlfriend, Kayleen Jefferson, who’d basically moved in with Wes since the shooting, from all accounts.
Oh, well . . .
Thinking about Wes, however, brought to mind thoughts of Jake Westerly. Maybe because she couldn’t be with Wes and therefore was frustrated in love . . . maybe that was why she was still attracted to Jake. He was the epitome of the kind of guy she was interested in and couldn’t seem to have. Either that, or she simply chose unavailable men.
Peachy.
She was trying to think of how to handle this upcoming interview when Jake himself appeared, wearing cowboy boots, denim jeans, and a collared white shirt with a suede jacket. Again, she got that sense that he could be the poster boy for “today’s cowboy.”
Wes Pelligree, she realized, had a tendency to dress the same way.
“What are you scowling at?” Jake asked with a grin as he seated himself across from her.
“Life in general, I guess.”
“Maybe this job’s getting to you, Nine. I don’t remember you ever being so . . .” She waited while he searched for the word, but he finally just gave up. “You look great though,” he said instead.
“Thanks.” She felt tongue-tied and that fueled her self-directed anger; she could feel her scowl deepen. Time to take control. “You called me to talk about something?”
“I wanted to give you a chance to pick my brain about Phil and Carolyn and Drea. I know I shut you down on that before.” He was gazing at her speculatively and she fought hard not to look away. “And, I was thinking about our second grade teachers.”
“What about them?”
He shrugged lightly. “Mrs. McBride came just short of rapping knuckles a time or two. Everybody was afraid of her.”
“She was a little short on warmth,” September agreed. “I was lucky to have Mrs. Walsh.”
“Maybe you should check with them, our old teachers. Ms. Osborne was younger, so I thought she’d be a good start, but I called and she’s no longer at the school.”
“You called the school district and asked if Ms. Osborne was there?” she questioned carefully.
“I called Sunset Elementary this morning,” he said with a nod.
“You want to direct my investigation?”
He held up a hand. “All I did was ask a simple question. I gave them my name and told them I had Mrs. Walsh. Mrs. Peterkin, in the office? She remembered me, and she knew my dad had started the winery. She told me Mrs. Walsh died a few years back, but Mrs. McBride lives at Grandview Senior Care. She doesn’t know what happened to Ms. Osborne after she left.”
September wasn’t sure what to make of him. “You’ve decided I should interview McBride and Osborne?”
“You know I always think of them with a Ms. or Mrs. in front of their names. They were so big when we were kids and had all the power.” Amusement flickered in his eyes. “And you sound so hardass and professional calling them by their last names.”
“Jake . . .”
“Hmmm?”
September could tell she was on slippery footing and she didn’t like the feeling at all. “I suppose you have a list of questions I should ask them, too?”
“Somebody had your artwork. Let’s just see if we can figure out who it is.”
“You’re thinking it’s an old classmate.”
He shrugged. “That’s what you were thinking about me. I’d like to explore the possibility it’s someone else.”
The same idea had been floating around in her brain, and it irked her that he’d suddenly stepped in with the same idea. She realized she was feeling competitive about the ownership of whose idea it was to talk to Sunset Elementary and immediately decided she didn’t care.
“Okay,” she said.
“You’ll go talk to them?” he asked, surprised at her sudden capitulation.
“If I can find them. Sure. Why not? I’ll go see Mrs. Peterkin in the office and see what we can come up with.”
Their waitress walked up and asked, “Have you decided yet?”
Jake’s gaze was on September. “I think we just did,” he said, faintly smiling. “But I haven’t had a chance to look at the menu yet, though. Give us a few minutes.”
The waitress looked confused, but smiled and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
September leaned across the table. “What did we decide on?” she asked tensely.
Jake leaned right back at her. “We’re going to Sunset Elementary. Together.”
“If you think this high-handedness is working for you, you’re wrong.”
He sent her a thousand-watt grin. “Oh, I think it is.”
Sensing she was losing a battle she wasn’t certain she wanted to fight, September pulled back and picked up the menu. She stared at the words but his mocking eyes seemed burned onto her retinas.
Muttering beneath her breath, she heard him ask, “Did I hear the word insufferable?”
Lowering the menu, September said, “I’ll have the Santa Fe salad and a turkey club to go. I promised my partner lunch.”
“We can drop it off on our way,” he
suggested.
“I’ll buy it and I’ll take it to her.”
“I can buy.”
“This is a police investigation. I don’t want you mucking around in it.”
“No mucking. You and I are just going back to our grade school, trying to connect with our old teachers and maybe some old classmates. And Mrs. Peterkin remembers me, so maybe I can learn something before you get all official and cop-like.”
“You’re not an asset in this, Westerly.”
“Westerly. Jesus.” He shook his head. “I want to find the sick bastard who killed Sheila and sent your artwork to you. I want to help.”
If I were smart, I’d shut this down now, September thought to herself, but the words out of her mouth were, “Okay . . . Jake. But if we do this, I’ll do the talking.”
He opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, closed it, and said, “The turkey club sounds like a winner.”
Forty minutes later September and Jake left the restaurant and got into their respective vehicles as September insisted on taking her own car to Sunset Elementary. He told her he’d wait for her, and she drove back to the station with Gretchen’s sandwich, a little boggled by the whole thing.
Handing Gretchen the brown bag from Xavier’s, she tried to head back out, but Gretchen asked, “No Dom?”
“No Dom. Maybe he only works nights.” She edged toward the hallway.
“Where’re you going?” Gretchen demanded.
“My grade school. Sunset Elementary.”
“Good luck with those permanent records.”
“I’d like to see some photographs. Maybe a class picture. I can’t find my own.”
“Whose idea was this?” she asked.
“Jake’s,” she admitted after a long moment. “He and I are going together. He’s meeting me there.” Gretchen looked startled and September added quickly, “Jake called ahead to the school and they’re expecting him.”
“He’s all over this case. Jesus, Nine. What the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m playing this out. He knows I’m bringing you this sandwich, which he bought by the way. He’s not going to kill me in broad daylight when my partner knows I’m meeting him.”