Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  A rap on the door. She dropped the hanger and took a deep breath to center herself. She opened the door, expecting to find the blue uniform of the Seattle Police standing there. Instead, she found herself staring into the face of a young man whose razor had played havoc with his acne. A second man, with a phone to his ear, stood back on the dock staring at her.

  “Hi, I’m Matthew,” the first man started, “and this is Nathan. We’re with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we were wondering if we might talk with you about—”

  “No.” Martha slammed the door shut.

  She grabbed the wire hanger on her way back to the hole in the wall. She bent the end and fished out a small bundle. It was something wrapped around one of Hewitt’s pill containers, tied there with a piece of fishing line. Martha had only enough time to drop it into her pocket and toss the hanger before she heard a new rapping on the door, this one followed by the announcement, “Police.”

  THREE

  Eyes closed, her breathing slow like someone in a deep sleep, Martha continued to wait. Hour after agonizing hour had dragged on with nothing to hold her attention except the tick tick tick of the clock on the blank gray wall of the interrogation room. She had no idea what was going on. Hewitt was missing, and she was trapped here like an animal in the zoo. Every hour she had pounded on the door; three times, she had been informed she would have to wait. The last time, no one responded.

  Finally, she took off her wet boots and shook out her black hair, curling to damp ringlets on her shoulders. She tried to meditate herself into a trance. It didn’t work. The clock kept ticking.

  She was trapped. Helpless. “You’re never helpless,” Jonesy had told her long ago. And, in time, she believed him. Marcus Jones, retired Marine sergeant in Okinawa, had also taught her that you rarely had time to prepare. So you always had to be prepared. Others had taught her to respect her ability, to control and limit it. They carried her training to levels Jonesy never could. But Jonesy understood she wasn’t in it to win a competition. She had her reasons, even back then. Watching her fight, he knew. He instinctively knew.

  “I don’t know who hurt you so bad, honey, but you know bad guys won’t approach the tatami and bow before an assault,” he told her. And taught her. From the moment she locked her bike until she began the ride home, he’d attack without warning. It didn’t matter that she was only fourteen and he was six-four, lean and sinewy as a feral cat. Her youth and size just made her more vulnerable, he said, more attractive to the scumbags and lowlifes who preyed on the weak.

  She wasn’t about to be weak. Not ever again. When she thought she couldn’t make another move, strike another blow, ward off another attack, he would increase the intensity. “Pain’s just on the surface,” he’d shout. “Breathe through it, in and out, like me now, follow me. In and out, in and out. You’re stronger than pain. Falter and you lose to him again.”

  She would never lose to him or anyone again. She breathed through the pain and attacked. When they were done, he ignored her tears, as he had her pain. “It’s the way life works, honey. Bad guys don’t play by the rules. Neither should you.”

  It was a lesson she’d learned all too well before she ever met Jonesy.

  But she wasn’t under physical attack now. Still, caged in the interrogation room, the old demons rose up. Let them go. Breathe them out. Let them escape, she told herself. Far more difficult than fending off a physical attack. But just as critical to survival.

  Eventually, a dark-haired man in a tailored suit entered the interrogation room. He set some files on the table and shuffled through them. She glanced up at the clock and smiled at him, a smile that carried neither warmth nor impatience. After he looked into her eyes, he glanced away and reshuffled his papers. He massaged his temples. All the while, she kept a solemn, unblinking stare focused on him. The styling gel he used on his hair glistened. Two little cowlicks like imp horns stood in defiance on his crown. Finally, he introduced himself as Detective Eric Metcalf.

  “It’s called heterochromia iridium,” she said. “It’s benign.”

  His lips parted in an attempt to speak, but when she arched a dark eyebrow, all he could say was, “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s a fancy medical term for having one blue eye and one hazel.”

  Metcalf nodded but otherwise didn’t respond.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on,” she said. “I probably know Hewitt better than anyone, and I’ve been stuck here for hours. I can help.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Metcalf said. “But first, I just want to talk, clear up a few things you told my colleagues earlier.” He leaned forward and spoke into the recorder, giving his name and the date and time. He looked straight at her. “State your name, please.”

  “Martha Whitaker.”

  “You are a Seattle resident?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Where do you live?”

  She gave her address in Ballard.

  “Are you married?”

  “Is this relevant?”

  “I don’t know what is or isn’t relevant at this time. You tell me.”

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “Partner? Significant other?”

  “No.”

  “Children?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re alone?”

  “Not at all. I come from a big family. We’re in touch frequently.”

  “Do they live here?”

  “Could you tell me what these personal questions have to do with finding Hewitt Wilcox?” she snapped.

  “Please just answer the question, Ms. Whitaker.”

  Martha rolled her eyes and glanced at the clock. Over four hours this cop had left her sitting here, and all he could think to ask was where she lived? But of course. It was the old trial technique taught to every first-year law student—establish authority by getting the witness to answer simple mundane questions. Get them talking. It was designed to put her at ease and him in charge. Fine, so she would talk. She caught a whiff of his hair gel. She put the detail in an imaginary balloon and let it float away.

  “No, they’re all in the Sault Ste. Marie area in Michigan.”

  “And you have lived in Seattle how long?”

  “Just shy of sixteen years total.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I did four years of undergraduate work at the UDub and then I went back to Michigan for my JD. I moved back here after law school. That was a little over twelve years ago now. I’m thirty-six years old. I’m employed as a junior associate at Carey, Harwell and Niehaus. My boss is Ben Matthews, one of the senior partners. It’s the second law firm I’ve worked for in Seattle.”

  “So who is Hewitt Wilcox, then?” he asked.

  For a moment, she thought about answering, A vain, egotistical man who was also compassionate and fun and funny. A college professor who cared about his students and his friends, and who had no qualms about sleeping with any of them as long as they were gay and younger and better looking than him. She looked at the detective, the little horns sticking up from the back of his head, and knew this was a conversation she didn’t want to start. Instead, she said, “A friend. A dear friend.”

  Metcalf shuffled some papers, scanning for something. At one, he paused. “It says here, Mr. Wilcox is eighty-seven years old. And you’re thirty-six?”

  “Both correct,” she said. “Congratulations on—”

  She cut herself off before she said something she regretted.

  Metcalf studied her for a moment, his lips pursed. “How did you know Mr. Wilcox?”

  “I took classes from him as an undergraduate. Cultural anthropology.” When he glanced at her like she had just spoken Klingon, she added, “You know, a historian who studies culture. Hewitt focused mostly on American history, the books and letters and artifacts that make us who we are and define our differences. Civilization is not something absolute, but . . . is relative. It’s why Hewitt believed the America
n West developed in a distinctly different way than the East Coast.”

  “That hardly explains—”

  “We became close when I was in school—he was one of my advisors—but our friendship developed after I returned from law school. He liked to cook—and was really good at it. I like to eat good food. We both liked to fish—though neither of us were particularly good at that.” There was so much more to it, but Martha knew Metcalf neither cared nor had the time to understand the nuances of their relationship. She leaned forward. “Now why don’t you tell me something?”

  “What do you think I should be telling you, Ms. Whitaker?”

  “Whether you’ve found Hewitt’s body or discovered what happened to him?”

  “Maybe you should tell me.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I believe you heard me, Ms. Whitaker.”

  She would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious. She had been ushered out of Hewitt’s ransacked houseboat within minutes of Metcalf arriving on the scene. Then she had been asked to come downtown to make a statement. What had they found since? Hewitt’s body in the Sound? Her voice steady, she said, “Maybe I do need to call an attorney.”

  “No one’s charged you with anything, Ms. Whitaker.”

  “Nor will they, because I’m guilty of nothing, Detective. Hewitt was a close, dear friend of mine. I was concerned about him. I did not murder him.”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words. ‘Was.’ ‘Murder.’ Why do you think he was murdered?”

  “Detective, please. Obviously, Hewitt is missing under suspicious circumstances and very possibly dead. Or did Lieutenant Lolich forget to bring you up to speed on the tides and currents out at Shilshole? Your implication that I know what happened to him, that maybe I’m responsible, is preposterous.”

  “So now you’re a police detective, as well as an attorney.”

  Martha sighed. This idiot was in charge of finding Hewitt?

  “Or could it be you’re the one playing with me, Ms. Whitaker?” For the first time, there was a sharp, menacing tone to his question. Dark eyes flashed at her. “No one has charged you with anything, no one has read you your rights. So, as you well know, nothing we discuss is admissible in court. I’ve read the statement you made to Lieutenant Lolich. I’ve read what you told Officer Crawford at the houseboat, and you know what troubles me?”

  Rhetorical questions were not meant to be answered, so Martha let this one hang in the air until he answered it himself. Silence unnerved most folks, even the best of cops.

  “Here’s what’s troubling me, Ms. Whitaker. You keep showing up at all the wrong times. You just happen to be where the Harbor Patrol fishes a car out of the water. According to the lieutenant, you’re soaking wet because, you say, you’ve been waiting in the rain for some ancient professor to show up on the end of the dock at o-dark thirty in the middle of the fracking winter. Hmm, I ask myself, what doesn’t sound right about this? Then you show up at the houseboat of the man who owns the car in the water. The place is trashed. Hmm, I say.”

  “But we don’t know whether anything’s missing or not. It’s clearly not the typical looting. They didn’t take the television, no collectables, no jewelry, stuff that normally disappears in a robbery. It was old stuff for the most part and maybe the person doing the searching just didn’t find it worth much. Maybe they snatched the better stuff and ran. But we also found a few hundred bucks and a jar full of coins. They weren’t hidden, just out in the open. So, what gives, I keep asking myself? What happened here? They’ve gone through this place floorboard to attic but they leave the money, a diamond ring, some two-hundred-year-old books . . .”

  His voice trailed off into silence. Again, Martha didn’t try to fill it. She suddenly remembered the old barrel-chested Rottweiler with black eyes—Walt Boudreau’s dog—chained to the shed even during the Michigan winters. When the dog went silent, you knew you were in trouble. Those same hard dark eyes surveyed her now. With contempt.

  “We dig a little deeper,” Metcalf continued. “We find a couple of marijuana butts outside, fallen down between the deck planks. We find a hidden compartment behind a fake light switch. Marijuana flakes are pushed back into the corners. And scratch marks inside. Like he’s hiding his pot. Did Mr. Wilcox have a doctor’s prescription for marijuana?”

  “Not that I know of,” Martha said. “But maybe he did.”

  “Well, it’s not on record anywhere, but this was just a preliminary search, I admit. I’ve got someone looking into it more. Pot isn’t legal yet, but looks like that’ll change with the next election. So our missing person hides his pot. Now, it’s gone. Is this a drug deal gone bad?”

  “Hewitt didn’t hide anything, and certainly not his pot smoking. If someone wanted Hewitt’s pot, he would have given it to them.”

  “Not if he’s unconscious. Not if he thinks it well hidden behind a false light switch in the wall. If he didn’t want to hide it, why not just put it in a drawer? One of my forensic techs finds a bent coat hanger with drywall dust on the hook. Like someone used it to pull the stash out of the secret little compartment. None of this is making any sense. So, we poke around some more. Know what we find?”

  Martha was no different from any other attorney—a slave to analyzing every comment, forming a rebuttal, searching for a precedent, trying to remember some arcane law that might apply. But what she wasn’t doing was listening. She forced herself to stop jumping ahead, to slow down and just listen. To hear the searching in his voice. She noticed his damp forehead, the restless fingers, the probing, questioning eyes. He was rambling. The evidence he laid out offered nothing that any judge would find remotely credible. He was flailing at ghosts.

  “Know what we find?”

  Again, she didn’t answer. She knew what they didn’t find: A torn postcard of Pete’s Supermarket and a key, tied up with fish line. She had no idea what it meant, but she sure wasn’t about to tell Metcalf about something that would implicate her further.

  “No? No idea what we located in the mess?”

  “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

  Metcalf opened one of the file folders on the table. He pulled out a few sheets of yellow legal paper. Chicken tracks ran at odd angles across the top page. He stabbed it a couple of times. “‘The Last Will and Testament of Hewitt Wilcox.’ It was probably in one of the desk drawers that got dumped.” Metcalf began to read. “‘I, Hewitt Wilcox, being of sound mind and failing body do hereby . . .’ Okay, I won’t bore you with all the details, but you probably already know them anyway.”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head and clasped her hands in front of her. Hewitt had a will? He had always run away from that topic whenever she brought it up, like a nun fleeing a navy base. This wasn’t going like she had expected. She stared at him. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen that document.”

  “Really?” He flipped through some papers. “But you told Officer Crawford that you were his attorney, as well as a friend.”

  “Both of which are true,” she said.

  “So you’ve never seen the will of your client, Hewitt Wilcox?”

  “I have not. Sorry.”

  “How convenient.” His sarcasm was amplified by a look of suspicion. “You can imagine my surprise when I notice that Mr. Wilcox’s primary beneficiary is the same woman who keeps showing up at all the wrong places. One Martha Whitaker. That is you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She felt like a trap door had opened beneath her and she was teetering on the brink of falling through.

  “Signed and notarized. Even have two witnesses. Legal will determine if it’s a valid document, of course, but it does make me wonder. I don’t know how much money is in the bank. But that houseboat out on the end of the dock must be worth a round at the bar—I heard the Sleepless in Seattle houseboat sold for a couple mil. Not a bad little inheritance in and of itself. But we’re not done. The old guy also has some property in Utah and a bookstore over in the U District i
n a building he happens to own. All this doesn’t come free, of course. Says you’re to take care of his cat. Hell, you might even like kitty cats.”

  “And you receive all this bounty for what, I ask myself? You’re not family, or so it would seem. I wonder if you’re the mistress of a dying man. You get to change his Depends? Or maybe you’re supplying his dope. I find it puzzling. See, we’re talking about enough money here to get my attention. Which makes me wonder if it was also enough to get yours. So I did a quick profile on you, Ms. Whitaker. No priors, no convictions. But it seems you were acquitted a few years back of doing a number on a guy that put him in the hospital.”

  “He tried to rape me.” At great cost, the words came out. She struggled to find a breath. How dare they try to use that against her? “Self-defense is not a crime.”

  Metcalf shrugged. “Like I say, you were acquitted. Now DOL shows three cars registered to your name. A single woman with three cars? And it appears you own a pretty piece of view property in Ballard. Up there in the high-rent district. How many thirtysomethings own three cars and a million-dollar estate? Maybe it’s not worth a million bucks anymore after the recession. Maybe you’re upside down in the mortgage or maybe the bank’s making noises about repossessing it. You wouldn’t be the first person to face foreclosure in recent years. So I ask myself, maybe you’re in over your head. Maybe you’ve sold your soul to the devil, and now you’re desperate to get your hands on some cash. You find a sugar daddy. Someone old. Only he doesn’t produce enough money to get you out of trouble. How hard can it be to knock off an octogenarian who’s got enough pills in the cupboard to start a pharmacy? So you make it look like someone busts into his place—only we can’t really find anything missing, except his marijuana stash. Odd, don’t you think? You don’t smoke dope by any chance? We might need you to pee in a cup. Or how would you do on a blood test? It may be legal soon, but it's not yet. Then maybe you drive him into the water and open the car door, knowing full well that the tide will wash him and any clues out to sea. And Lieutenant Lolich tells me that with the water temperature this time of year it could be weeks, even months, before it bloats enough to rise to the surface. In the meantime, you create a cockamamie story about secret phone calls and how he doesn’t appear for some hush-hush rendezvous. You walk out of the water, change your clothes, and call the cops. ‘Oh my, what happened to my dear Hewitt?’ Only, there are never any tears. Oh, did I happen to mention that DOL also has a yacht registered to your name? And that Shilshole Marina has you on the books as one of their tenants? You must know the area and the tides pretty well. And, gosh, we take a look at the old man’s phone and his outgoing call register. Guess what, Ms. Whitaker? You’re not there. But you say he phoned you about meeting him this morning.”