by Nenny May
One that went unanswered.
“Come on, Olson, can’t be tired already? Short walk by the shore got you beat?”
“That’s not it,” She wasn’t lazy. Nor was she tired. Yes, her day had put her through the ringer, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have it in her for an evening hike.
She was afraid.
Unprepared to face what another step in Cape Lookout would do to her.
He surveyed his surroundings. People still dotted the shores, in the distance, a family of three had been taking a stroll. The mother had been on the phone while the man had his sons’ hand in his.
“At her funeral,” He turned to her. She hadn’t been looking at him. No, her head had been ducked, her bare feet buried in the sand. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. “They claimed she loved her daughter the most. She did… she love me, so much…but not compared to this place…Cecilia loved Cape Lookout. That, I can guarantee…” Rachel Olson’s voice had been scratchy, trailed off in a dry, bitter laugh.
The sand was gentle between her toes, the feeling was euphoric against her famished feet that yearned for it. She kicked off her flip-flops, taking them in her hand. “I was never a fan but, for her, I’d grown to hate it a little less growing up,” She peeked up from where she’d been tracing shapes in the sand with her big toe. “There was a way she would smile when she was here, running into the waves like a little kid. There was a way her eyes would glimmer…” She pointed to her eyes as she spoke of her mother. If there was one thing Rachel had picked up from Cecilia aside from her skin, it had been her eyes. She couldn’t forget looking in the mirror with a fresh wound of grief throbbing in her chest and seeing a reflection of Cecilia. “She was killed in a robbery, right here in Tillamook.” She whirled with a hand stretched towards the parking lot, “Not too far down the street in our home in the area.”
She cracked open the door of recollections, letting everything tumble out into the open. “I wasn’t there. I wasn’t home. I was with my father, Donovan Olson at the time…”
Beneath the night’s glare and in the brine-stained glacial arms of the gust wafting from the ocean, Rachel Olson remembered her mother in the presence of the forbidden man she was falling hard and fast for. His skin had shone, a dull enticing glow in the moonlight. His toned chiseled torso had called to her and she’d for a moment deliberated what it would be like to be in his firm embrace, to have the seductive woody incense-like aroma he was known for, cloak her in a mist.
“Stroke of luck, huh?”
She’d heard it. Time and time again. Everyone that knew her story pegged her as lucky, she wasn’t there when it happened. Was dealing with the untimely death of her mother lucky? Having the image of her mother’s empty eyes glaring up at her considered lucky?
She’d never once counted herself lucky.
Especially after Cecilia Jackson-Brown’s case had gone cold for a lack of evidence and witnesses.
Detective Dawson when she hadn’t responded had let out a breath and remained there, close enough for her to reach out a hand and run it over his mischievous chest, and far enough that she could exercise the thread of control she had left.
This wasn’t the time for sinful thoughts to cloud her reasoning. This wasn’t right.
Her first time back to Cape Lookout in years and she was contemplating deliciously wicked things to do to her co-Detective.
She shook her head. “I joined the force because of her. I treat every case like the one she deserved. I have my reasons and my pace.” Her mood turned sour and all she could bring to mind were all the times he’d told her not to handle her cases in the best way she knew how.
The times he’d shoved in her face that she’d only handled two murder cases. Yes, she’d only handled two, one of which she was yet to conclude. These were two cases she’d taken her time to handle with as much precision as she would have her mother’s case.
He and Lieutenant Wilson could go to hell. She had her method when it came to murder cases. They meant more to her than any other case that could be slapped on her table. They meant more to her than anyone on the force in her opinion.
She worked with a diligence and seething determination. She was yet to meet someone that paralleled that.
She’d been deceived, led to assume that she’d seen snippets of a passion in Detective Dawson… it was a smoke screen. He didn’t care about the cases he was faced with, he cared about the money, the bonuses, his debt.
This was good, anger was good, anger wasn’t unrequited feelings, anger wasn’t an alluring lust for a man she couldn’t have.
“I care about the victims, Dawson. I care about the families, because we don’t see it but they’re hurting when we don’t go the extra mile.”
He took a step closer, and her breath got caught in her throat. “I know that.”
No, he didn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have let countless cases go cold because he couldn’t go take that extra step. He wouldn’t treat his cases like the big men in the black jackets that had let her mother’s killer flee. She’d sworn to Cecilia that even if she couldn’t find and catch the man that did that to her, she would prevent other men like him from getting away with their evil deeds, their crimes against humanity. She would be the difference Tillamook so desperately needed.
“Then why don’t you care, Dawson. Why the hell don’t you give a shit about, Blake Campbell.” Rachel forced a strength into her voice that she knew she didn’t have.
He closed the distance with a single step. With her head tipped upwards, she’d met his deep brown eyes, in the night, they’d seemed almost black. They didn’t just compete with hers, they won, they were much darker and harder to read.
“I can’t tell you I care, Olson. That would be lying, and I respect you too much to lie to you.” Her lips drew back in a snarl. “But and because we’ve had this conversation before, I will confess that you’ve shown me a different outlook on her case.”
“Not just her case,” She whined. He chuckled his chest rumbling softly with the retreating sound.
“Not just her case.” He echoed. His features closed up again. His scent drifted across her nostrils and for the first time in a long time, since Mathew, she craved for a man’s touch, to be in Detective Dawson’s strong hands, to let her plights melt away as his skin danced with hers.
Brown eyes found his lips and she could feel her pulse quicken. They were a blush pink cupids’ arrow that she longed to feel against hers. “You have to understand my standpoint as well.” He’d spoken to her with the tenderness of a loved one. He didn’t love her. He didn’t even replicate the desires she had. Her shoulders fell. “I don’t feel the ache you’ve nurtured for years… I have my own motive. And that’s gotta count for something.”
She didn’t know what to think. He was driven by a desire to pay off a debt. That wasn’t enough, that wasn’t nearly enough to count was it? It couldn’t be enough. And yet, as a sturdy arm wrapped her waist, and lips brushed against hers she was inclined to reconsider.
◆◆◆
Criminal Law Professor Claire Fisher was getting nowhere with Melissa Slater. The woman was as stubborn as nails.
Claire had encountered stubborn before, she had students that were twice Melissa Slater. Stubborn as mules, her students, especially the ones that refused to turn in their assignments and made her job that much harder.
She was ready for what the night had in store with Melissa Slater, and she wasn’t going to leave until she’d gotten substantive proof of the woman’s involvement in the Campbell murder case.
In the hour and half, she’d spent in the Campbell woman’s living room, she’d learned more about the late Christopher Campbell than she had Blake. She’d learned of his Timber exporting company, and how not too long into his marriage with Blake competitors had gained an upper hand of what was once a multi-million-dollar company. They’d begun to lose clients and Christopher had fallen into a depression that later caused his stroke.
He’d died in the Campbell home on Miller Avenue. On the same bed Blake Campbell had been found.
This was more than a coincidence. This woman’s knowledge of this meant something.
And just when Claire thought she was making progress with Melissa Campbell, she’d withdrawn. Changed the topic and mumbled on and on about how much Christopher loved foot massages.
She didn’t want to hear about how Christopher liked his feet rubbed before bed. She’d hunted this woman down to discuss Blake Campbell who’d moved in with a man who was still legally married to a woman who’d stepped out of the way despite the unofficial divorce.
Even in her years studying case after case in law school she’d never stumbled upon anything like this. Blake had as well been a victim of a deceptive husband who claimed to wed her under the claim that he was a divorcee. He’d never concluded the process and the poor old woman hadn’t looked into it.
To her, she was legally married. And her killer had taunted her by assaulting her in the very dress she’d supposedly gotten married in.
“I know about the divorce, Melissa.” Claire spat. The patient dog would die of an ulcer at this pace. “I want to know why you let your husband’s mistress live with him under the pretense of a valid marriage.”
The woman seemed unphased by this. She’d shrugged a shoulder and returned her attention to the book. Sometime during the hour, she’d turned on the small television in the corner and gotten up to handle the mug on the coffee table. She’d had her leg up on it now, stretched out on the armchair and the book between her hands.
Claire had been on her feet for as long as she could remember. She didn’t know how much more she could take before she would lead herself to the door. In the meantime, she was persistent, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, taking time to jut out her hip and recite a shiva mantra to calm her restless mind.
“I’m not a killer, Detective. I am a woman who wants to finish a goddamn book in peace.”
“I am not accusing you, Miss. Campbell.”
“And stop calling me that, the dead woman is the real, Miss Campbell.”
“His mistress,”
“If that’s what you want to call her, be my guest.” The woman was irritable. And it took everything in Claire not to up and leave. To dart into the night and into her ever-growing concerns for the whereabouts of her fiancé.
She didn’t want to give in to the anxiety that gurgled in the depths of her stomach, the questions that nearly had her toppling over, gasping for a breath as she shook them out of her head. Paul was safe and that was all she wanted to tell herself. He was fine. Wherever he was. He would get back to her when he could and he would explain where he’d vanished to, her best bet, the scene of the crime and he hadn’t been able to bring himself from his old home.
“Why didn’t you conclude the divorce process?”
“Because I live for the drama,” The woman flipped a page in her book.
“Your husband is dead, and his mistress mysteriously dies years later in the home she lived in with your husband, she was attacked with a kitchen knife.”
“The bitch deserved it, I heard she was strangled too.” The cackle that came from Melissa was agitating to Claire’s ears.
“She took over your company and ran it to the ground.” Claire was grasping at straws. This woman wasn’t giving her anything. She was getting nowhere.
“You think I did it.” Melissa Campbell shut her book, placed her legs down and rose to her feet.
“You’ve overstayed your welcome, Detective. And next time, call me in for questioning at your precinct, don’t barge into my home and accuse me of a murder I couldn’t for the life of me carry out.” She stopped at her door, undid the bolts and drew it open.
“Sure, I hated the whore, but when I learned that she’d become nothing more than a prostitute I let her be.”
Blake Campbell had been a call-girl?
◆◆◆
Was there ever a good time to be a dead woman in Tillamook? Regan Sinclair didn’t have an answer to that. But Blake Campbell sure as hell picked the wrong time to be subject of an ongoing investigation while her killer had a four-year tenure.
Regan would rather return to her second husband over and over again and walk in on him plowing her sister in her Tillamook home before she would let Governor Bernard Sutter sweep the case of the body on Miller Avenue under his ratchet dusty carpet. She could only wonder how many other women like Blake had already been covered up, their case, cold and closed.
Her baby blue Aquazzura heels clicked and clacked against the wide stone steps of the Oregon State Capitol building in Salem. The ride down from her office had been a moment to collect her rattled thoughts. A moment mule over her decision to fight for a woman who could just as easily be forgotten. She hadn’t been able to pursue Governor Sutter after their brief meeting at the office of the District Attorney in Tillamook.
After he’d voiced his need to shut down investigations on the Campbell case, he’d parted ways with the executive team and Tom had further conveyed his disdain with D.A. Sinclair, giving little consideration to the impression it would have on her peers.
That was just Tom being Tom, as Christian had so put it, he was indeed mad with power. Patient to a fault, she’d given him a listening ear. She should have gone after Bernard Sutter.
She’d known then what had been on the line.
If he were to express his plans to the Attorney General, it would be irreversible.
Too late.
And yet, she hadn’t leaped from her seat at the meeting, darting after Sutter like a lost puppy.
No, she’d dawdled behind. After the meeting had conveniently drawn to an end, she’d returned to her office with Christian Lewis and made multiple attempts of convincing him to handle the contract for Lisa Patterson.
He was more than capable. Having graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School before it was even notable. And being one of her closest confidants in the work place she couldn’t count on anyone else to do her bidding.
She couldn’t depend on anyone to understand why it had been imperative that contract was completed as soon as possible. There was something in that woman’s eyes that reeled her in. She longed to experience tingles of pleasure at the woman’s touch. To listen to her honey laden voice over and over.
It was pitch black overhead, and the night whistled with a pending storm, accompanied by an earthy smell. That didn’t seem too pleasing. It had a thing or two to do with the fact that when it rained in Oregon, it poured.
The smell, and whipping breeze was long gone through the large brass doors, and instead replaced with an almost suffocating stench of air-freshener and the soft caress of multiple air-conditioners.
Regan Sinclair followed the way she knew by memory. This wasn’t her first time in the Capitol Building. She hadn’t been stopped or questioned by the woman with the bright yellow tie behind the front desk, or the men by the door in uniforms. How hadn’t she noticed them when she walked in?
That didn’t matter.
However, being the District Attorney of Tillamook County had its perks.
No one could approach her unless they had good reason.
She continued on, bearing no mind to the murmurs and mumbles carried by the walls.
She took a left by the blown-up image of Attorney General Johnson Delaney. Her tongue was a desert. Footstep against the polished marble floors, the only noise in the spacious corridor. Closer, the knots in her stomach tightened. The corridor was lined by hardwood doors half the size of the one main entrance, doors beneath a bronze plaque title. She’d walked passed the office of the Treasurer and three other doors marked senate when she stopped by the polished silver elevator doors at the end of hall. There was no guarantee that Sutter would still be at his office.
She clicked the buttons on the wall.
She was hours late.
She clicked it again.
He could be in his home, doing G
od knows what.
She glanced at the number above the metal doors, her ears subtly ringing.
Hell, there was no reason why he wouldn’t have already relayed his agenda to Delaney hours before she’d even left her office in Tillamook, no reason why he wouldn’t have already set his plans in stone.
She was restless. One glance over her left shoulder and her finger was back on the button. She would convince the entire Capitol Building if she had to, but she wasn’t going to let Sutter walk away with another body. Not this time. No, the last time, she hadn’t been the District Attorney. This time, she had wings and boy was she going to spread them.
The doors parted and two, very drunk men strode out, their chuckles simmering at the sight of a disgruntled Regan Sinclair.
She pulled like a veil, a blank expression over her features.
“Sinclair…what are you doing in… Salem?” Delaney slurred. She’d worked with him only twice since she’d been appointed District Attorney. And only once had she been brought to Salem because of it.
Her jaw clenched; this was her chance. She squared her shoulders and peered at the men through narrowed eyes.
“We need to have a talk,” She paused gesturing to the space between them. “The three of us.”
Sutter huffed.
“Not… possible, Sinclair, we were just heading out.” Sutter attempted to push past her. She didn’t budge and soaked in liquor, he didn’t have as much strength in arms that were no more than fast-food and beer.
“I wouldn’t drive all the way down to Salem if it wasn’t important,” She tilted her head and took a good look at him. He could barely meet her eyes.
This was the Governor of Tillamook, Mr. Hydes drunk.
Pathetic.
“Schedule it with my assistant like a good-girl,” Bernard Sutter made another move to leave, a move to squeeze past her.
That too was ineffective when she called out; “I wouldn’t leave if I were you, Sutter.”
He was motionless for the longest time and returned to her. “And why the hell not?” He was getting agitated with her presence. “You’re forgetting who the hell I am, Sinclair, you are where you are because of me,” He jabbed a hand out, poking her chest.