Shallow Waters
Page 19
No time for a run on the beach this morning, Matt decided. Shame, as it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. Weather-wise, that is, certainly not activity-wise.
Matt cracked open a side window to let in the early morning. Aside from the waves, all he could hear were the calls of the seagulls.
There he was! Roger, bobbing along about fifty yards out. It cracked up Matt how it truly did look like the seal was grinning at him. He lifted his coffee cup toward the window in a salute to him.
How goes it today, Chief?
Hey, Rog, thanks for asking. It could be better. How are you?
Oh, you know, same old, same old. Did you catch the girl’s killer yet?
No, maybe today. Got any tips for me?
It’s always someone in the family.
Right. I’ll remember that. Know who you’re named after, Roger?
Haven’t a clue.
Roger Staubach, the Cowboys quarterback, and one of my idols.
Oh, yeah?
Yep. Staubach was steadfast and loyal, and that’s what I see in you.
Well, I am here every day. There’s that. And I seem to like you.
OK then, Roger it is.
I hate to break this up, Chief, but shouldn’t you be on your way?
Roger that.
He quickly showered. The bathroom in his cottage was the one room that had been modernized. The former bathtub and pedestal sink had been replaced in favor of a walk-in porcelain-tiled shower with a rain showerhead, for which Matt was grateful this morning. His shaving kit still sat unpacked on the antique blue vanity between the two white sinks. He recognized the Home Depot vanity, and briefly wondered if he’d ever have anyone to share a second sink with again.
No time for that thinking today either.
* * *
Matt swiped his key card in the side door of City Hall, and made his way in semi-darkness to his office. In the peace of the early morning, he turned on his computer, and found the sticky note on his desk that Mary Lou had given him yesterday with his new City of Port Stirling email address. He logged on and found two emails, one from Dr. Ryder with the formal autopsy report on Emily’s body, and one from Bill Abbott, his boss. The ‘subject’ line of Abbott’s message read ‘I’m giving you an order’. The body of the message read:
“Matt, I have one request. Actually, it’s…more like an order. I want you to keep charge of this investigation. Don’t let that asshole Dalrymple take over. Or the state police fucks either. Got it? This is our territory and our investigation. Just because you’re new on the job, don’t let them railroad you. You’ve got what it takes to get the job done—both the smarts and the experience. I hired you for this situation, just didn’t expect it to ever come. See you Monday.”
Matt understood all too well. A crime like this can really do damage to a community. He, and he alone, needed to control the outcome if he hoped to stay in Port Stirling. He so appreciated Abbott’s support, and had told him so when they met briefly yesterday morning in Matt’s office.
“Nasty business, this,” Abbott said to Matt in greeting, extending his right hand in handshake mode. Matt grabbed it, and nodded his agreement.
“Maybe trouble followed me, Bill,” Matt said. Somber, he had let down his guard.
“Bullshit, nothing of the sort,” Abbott huffed. “Some creep killed this little girl in our town—got nothing to do with your arrival.
We’ll get him, and you will make me look like a genius for hiring you. Read me?”
“Yes, boss.” The older man made Matt smile, and he would make him look like a genius when this thing was resolved. He would have eventually made his former boss, Plano Police Chief Billy Bob Grant, look good, too, but Grant couldn’t wait out Horton and Clare Johnson, who badgered the Plano PD on a daily basis after their daughter’s death. About two months after the incident, on one Friday morning in late November, Grant called Matt into his office and said “I’m sorry, but we’re done here, Matt.”
He wasn’t telling Matt anything he already didn’t know. He was done. In more ways than one. The horror and shock of taking a young woman’s life, even under the circumstances, had been almost more than Matt could emotionally bear. He had joined the police force to protect and serve, not to kill unstable young women.
Alicia might have killed him if his gun hadn’t gone off when she lunged at him. But still. She was only 19 years old, and had the promise of a bright life ahead of her. Maybe she was a druggie, but she could have been helped with that illness.
Instead, because of him, Alicia Johnson was now another young, dead, African-American statistic. Matt didn’t blame Billy Bob for showing him the door, but it did make him all the more thankful for Abbott’s support now. He would gently explain to the older man why it wasn’t such a terrific idea to call their DA an asshole on a city email account.
* * *
Monday, 7:30 a.m.
After a quick rap on Matt’s door and without waiting for a response, the DA himself came bursting into the office.
“You’re up early, Mr. Dalrymple,” Matt said calmly.
“I’m here to save you from making any more mistakes.” The DA was wearing a sharp black wool suit, crisp white shirt, and a patterned red tie. As he did at yesterday’s crime team meeting, he seemed overdressed for Port Stirling, but he made Matt feel a little too casual in his sweater and slacks.
“Oh? I wasn’t aware I’d made any so soon.”
“What were you thinking bringing Marjorie Bushnell’s affair into this case? All it does is embarrass the mayor,” said Dalrymple, his voice firm but without rancor.
“You don’t think it might have bearing on Emily’s death? What if Emily knew about her mother’s secret and Marjorie worried she would spill the beans? There aren’t many reasons why someone would kill a 4-year-old. I think we have to explore every possibility.”
“Marjorie did not kill her daughter, neither did Fred,” said Dalrymple.
“Then who did?”
“Obviously, I don’t know the answer to that question yet. But putting Marjorie’s affair into her official statement and, therefore, making it part of the record on this case is unnecessary and inflammatory. Frankly, Chief, it’s not very smart of you.”
Matt blanched at that remark but stayed outwardly composed. “Frankly, Mr. DA, it appears to me that you care more about not ruffling the mayor’s feathers than you do about finding Emily’s killer. A potential suspect in this horrific crime lied to me about her activities in the days before her child’s murder. Her husband needed to be aware of that fact. I’m sorry if you don’t feel it was the smart thing to do, but I stand by my actions.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a vendetta against politicians because of your last work in Plano?” Dalrymple countered. “It’s my understanding that the parents of the girl you killed were politically important and got you fired. Is that correct?”
“Yes, you’ve got my story right,” Matt admitted. “But that case has absolutely nothing to do with Emily’s case.”
“How can you be confident that what are surely bitter feelings toward Alicia Johnson’s parents aren’t being projected onto Marjorie and the mayor?”
Matt was shocked to hear Alicia’s name coming out of the
DA’s mouth.
“You’re certainly up to speed on my life,” was all he could manage.
“I just want to make sure that you aren’t acting irresponsibly here because of an emotional hangover.”
“That’s not the case, David. I can assure you that I am conducting this investigation by the book, and bringing to it my years of experience with violent crime. Whether you like it or not, Marjorie and Fred are prime suspects in their daughter’s homicide. I will tread as carefully as I can on the mayor’s family, but you need to know that I will stop at nothing to resolve this case.”
&nbs
p; “And you need to know that I am watching your every move, Chief. I will not—NOT—have this investigation blow up in our faces. Is that clear?”
“Clear. You have to do what you have to do, and I will continue leading this case as I see fit.”
“Are we having another team meeting today?”
“Yes. I want to follow up on some alibis this morning, and check in with my local team. Then, we’ll update everyone this afternoon. Regular time, 4:00 p.m. How does that sound?”
“I’m headed to my office in Twisty River shortly, but I’ll be back here by 4 o’clock. I’ve got something to do first in Port Stirling, and then I’ll be in my office if you need anything.” The DA stood up to leave.
“You’re not going to the Bushnell house, are you?” asked Matt, pushing back his chair and also standing. “I’d rather you didn’t until we verify the kids’ alibis today.”
“I don’t think it’s up to you to tell me where I can or cannot go, but, no, I’m not going to Fred’s home.” He turned his back to Matt and strode out of the room.
Alrighty then. Our erstwhile DA was living up to Abbott’s nickname for him.
* * *
Matt found an old football on the shelf in his office’s small coat closet when he hung up his jacket this morning. George Simonson must have overlooked it when he cleaned out his office, and Matt made a mental note to return it to him once things settled down. But for now, he tossed it back and forth as he looked out his window to the sea on this sparkling day.
Was there any truth to Dalrymple’s assertion? Am I trying too hard to pin this on the mayor or his wife because I don’t like politicians?
He put the football down on his desk and pulled out his phone, calling Sheriff Johnson.
“Anything turn up in your investigation yesterday? Anything I should know? I wanted to check in with you before our meeting later.”
“Maybe, is my answer,” replied the sheriff. “There were 14 golfers staying at Port Stirling Links on Friday night, and we’re in the process of talking to them all. It looks like five of them checked out late yesterday afternoon before we had a chance to quiz them, and I’m currently in the process of tracking them down. I’m going to find the guys that left—and they’re all guys—and then go out there to interrupt some golf games. As of this morning, there are only nine golfers registered at the resort. It’s the slowest month, they tell me.”
“I can’t believe there’s anyone playing golf in this weather,” Matt said.
“You’d be surprised. I’m particularly focused on one oddball, a guest named Clay Sherwin.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He arrived at Port Stirling Links last Wednesday and registered for a one week’s stay. He arrived with no golf clubs, which rarely happens here. Most of the people who pay big money to come here want their own clubs, and think nothing of shelling out the bucks to ship them.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah, and he’s suspicious. He’s from La Jolla. Says he’s up here looking for peace and quiet, and to relax and think about his life. Wife just divorced him because she fell for another woman—get that!”
“Ooh, that’s a rough one.”
“Yeah. He’s a good-looking guy, and probably never figured he’d be divorced because of something like that.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“Maybe. He’s not a golfer, and wouldn’t tell me what he does for a living. His whereabouts since he’s been here are vague. Says he was in the bar at the resort Friday night, and then went to eat at The Crab Shack. Then back to his cottage and to bed early. He’s a reader, and there was a stack of books on his bedside table.”
“Have you confirmed where Mr. Sherwin said he ate dinner
Friday night?” asked Matt. “Was he at The Crab Shack—is that what you called it?”
“Yeah, it’s a restaurant slash fish shop down by the wharf. We’re going there today to verify he was there Friday night. I did talk to the bartender, and Sherwin was in the Links Bar early Friday evening like he said.”
“He’s still in town, right?”
“Yes. I told him to stick around, but he’s booked until Wednesday anyway.”
“Good. I’ll want to talk to him,” said Matt. Maybe it was time he looked outside the family to make sure he wasn’t overlooking anyone suspicious. “Was he cooperative?”
“Somewhat. He wasn’t belligerent or aggressive, but he was clearly not happy about being bothered.”
“Well, you’ll want to find out what Mr. Sherwin does in California, and if the story about his divorce checks out. If that happened to me, I’d probably want to escape to the boonies as well, but I will go chat him up.”
“Yeah, it’s not an implausible story. But there was something about him that didn’t register with me.”
CHAPTER 27
Monday, 7:00 a.m.
Fern awoke happy to see the sun coming up through the crack in her east-facing bedroom curtains, but with a sense of trepidation. To her surprise, she slept fairly soundly, and didn’t dream about dead children. Growing up at the coast, she liked snuggling down into her bedcovers during a blustery storm, and found it comforting and not alarming in the least.
But still, pulling open her curtains, it was nice to see that the rain had stopped, and the sky was clearing. Fern’s bungalow was inland from the Pacific—she couldn’t afford those ocean-view prices—but she did have a bucolic view over a gorse-filled meadow to the Twisty River hills, where the sun was rising through the valley fog, producing a watery sunshine.
She wondered if Matt was up yet. She knew that he was a cop with years of experience and would obviously have a background, but for all that, she was shocked by what she’d read last night about his undoing in Texas. She wondered if he had killed anyone else during the line of duty. Deliberately, she’d stopped reading about him online after the few news articles detailing his last case. It seemed important to let Matt tell her his story in his own words.
Fern stood in front of her closet. She was determined to look professional and serious today. Although Emily’s murder was frightful, she had a job to do and teammates to support. And, if she was honest with herself, deep down inside, Fern did feel something other than horror at her current situation. She felt needed. Maybe for the first time in years. Fern had strong, life-long ties to her community, and this child’s murder would not stand. Her training and skills could truly help Chief Horning and the real detectives uncover the truth. In a way, she was a detective, too, and she wanted to do her part.
Let’s say I’m not only a representative of Chinook County, but I’m also a skilled detective . . . what would I wear? she said to her closet. She chose a black blazer, black skinny nicely-fitting pants, and a lime green ribbed turtleneck. The pop of green next to her face was flattering, and contrasted nicely with her red hair which fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. She wore minimal makeup, which allowed her few freckles to show through. A small pair of pearl earrings her father brought her from a business trip to China years ago were a tasteful final touch, and, along with her watch, the only jewelry she wore.
* * *
Monday, 8:45 a.m.
When he and Sheriff Johnson rang off, and he had organized his thoughts, Matt moved to retrieve his jacket; it was time he hit the streets and started nailing down some details. He would spend some time with his department in the squad room first, and make sure everyone was clear on their assignments.
“Knock knock,” said Fern, rapping on his open office door, and poking her head around the corner. The two almost collided.
“Come on in,” Matt smiled at her, and held open the door, as she had her hands full.
“I went to Goodie’s for coffee and I bought an extra one—do you want it?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am, I do.” He took one of the fragrant coffees out of her hand.
“Do all Texans call women ‘ma’am’?” asked Fern. She genuinely wanted to know.
Matt laughed. “’Fraid so. It’s considered respectful, and it’s drummed into us from an early age. Why? Don’t you like it?”
“It makes me feel like my mother,” Fern smiled. “You know—old.”
“Well, we can’t have that. I will make an honest attempt to not call you ‘ma’am’ again. But you might have to cut me some slack.”
“I can do that. You’ll drop that Texas shtick and be an Oregonian any minute now. It will improve your quality of life. Can I have a word with you?”
“What’s up?”
“I did a terrible thing when I got home last night,” she started.
“What?”
“I Googled you.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you want to know what popped up?”
“Pretty sure I know.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened with Alicia Johnson?”
Matt desperately wanted to tell Fern his side of the story, but wasn’t sure she really needed to hear it right now.
“I’m not ducking what happened in Texas, but we have a job to do, Fern.”
“Our killer can wait five minutes.”
He stared at her, and realized that she had made herself comfortable in the chair across from his desk. She drank her coffee, and stared back at him, waiting.
Holding Fern’s gaze, he said in a hushed voice, “The hardest part is having people who don’t know me believe that I’m the kind of cop who kills black teenagers. I’m not that guy.”
“No, I don’t expect that you are. What happened that night?”
“It was a party of kids that was getting out of hand. Music too loud, spilling out into the street, open drinking and drug use, and using the sidewalk for a toilet. Standard Saturday night in Texas,” Matt drawled, and that slow smile started unsurely on his face. “I told the crowd we needed them to tone it down, and think about dispersing before Jessica—my partner—and I started checking IDs.”