by Gregg Olsen
“I’m not saying you don’t empathize with me and my husband. I know you do, but let’s face it. We’re stuck in a limbo from which we cannot escape. If Spirit Hunters does anything with Pandora and Wyatt’s help, then maybe we’re a step closer to getting a little freedom from what’s holding us down.”
“You mean closure?” Kendall asked.
Brit shook her head. “No such thing. We both know that. But one thing I know and you don’t is that every night I go to bed and wonder what’s become of Katy. I wake up with the same thought. I’m stuck in a time warp. It’s ruining my relationship with my husband and Katy’s sister.”
A teen with blue and orange hair came over to the table.
“Ms. Frazier, I finished cleaning the kitchen. Can I work in Katy’s Place for a while?”
“Go ahead, Melissa. And thanks for asking,” she said.
“Katy’s Place?”
Brit indicated the corner with the big flat screen and the teen artwork.
“My daughter was good at just about everything. Classes. Tennis. She was also quite an artist. We put in the creative space for teens in her memory.”
“That’s lovely,” Kendall said. “You said her memory. So you think—”
Kendall’s words trailed off a little and Brit cut in.
“Yes, she’s dead.”
“But there isn’t any evidence.”
“My daughter would never have left us. She was happy. She was well-adjusted. An achiever.”
“Maybe she felt pressure to be the best,” Kendall said, echoing a note Nick Mayberry had made in the file.
“I’ve heard that theory before, Detective. And I don’t buy it. That kind of theory comes from someone on the outside looking in. Katy was never pressured to be the best. She wanted to be the best because it made her happy. Not because Roger and I wanted it. We’re not like that. In fact, I find beauty in all kinds of imperfection. Imperfection is not a weakness.”
“But this show . . . you know it’s fake, don’t you?”
Brit shrugged. Her eyes lingered on Melissa before she looked back at Kendall.
“Maybe. Probably. I don’t really know. I know only one thing that’s good about it and that cannot be disputed by anyone.”
“And what’s that?”
Brit got up. “You’re here, aren’t you? You are working this case now, aren’t you? I begged the sheriff to put you on the show. No one else. I figured that just maybe a woman with a child of her own would dig in a little deeper to find out what happened to my daughter.”
“Nick Mayberry did a very thorough job,” Kendall said. “I don’t know that I could have done better. Not with what he had to work with at the time. There really wasn’t much to go on.”
“You can do better. I have faith in you, Detective. I have hope that you will find something that everyone else missed. Maybe with Pandora and Wyatt’s help you’ll do what should have been done four years ago.”
Kendall didn’t know what to say. It was a challenge and, in a weird way, a threat at the same time.
Brit made her way over to Katy’s Place, turning to look in Kendall’s direction one last time.
“Find out who killed my daughter. Find out. Let her rest. Let all of us rest.”
Kendall gulped down the rest of her coffee, got behind the wheel of her SUV, and drove up the steep incline that was Division Street to the complex that housed most of the county’s law enforcement agencies, including the sheriff’s department, the jail, and the courthouse. She knew why she’d been tapped to do the show and no one else. Brit Frazier and the sheriff had a history. It was a long time ago, before either was married. When she called for help, he had only one choice and like it or not Kendall had been drafted. That pip-squeak PIO Brad James probably didn’t even know about any of that.
Why would he? He was all about proving himself on his own terms. He wanted to put Port Orchard and Kitsap County on the map. It was going to be a feather in his cap, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the remake of Walking Tall was filmed up north in the county.
Kendall dialed Birdy as she went inside the sheriff’s office. “You want to do lunch today?” she asked.
“Sure,” Birdy said. “You might be too big a star for that soon enough.”
Kendall took a breath. How did everyone know what troubled her? “It’s about that,” she said, finally.
“I figured. Puerto Vallarta?”
“Sounds good. See you there at noon.”
Puerto Vallarta has a great big red neon sign that proclaims IMMEDIATE SEATING and it was never—at least as far as anyone in Port Orchard knew—turned off. It wasn’t because the place never filled up, because it was always busy. But it was large enough to get people to a table with scarcely a minute to wait. Birdy and Kendall were seated in the sunken fountain area, next to an automated tortilla maker. A pretty young woman named, quite appropriately, Bonita operated the machine, carefully stacking the corn and flour disks as they rolled off the heated conveyor belt into a wire basket.
“I cannot miss having one of those,” Birdy said.
“Me too.”
“Do you know what you want?”
“Yes, but I can’t have a margarita.”
“That kind of day already?” Birdy asked.
“Yeah. It’s just a little of everything. All coming at me at once. Steven. The show. Mrs. Frazier. Brenda Nevins. It’s like a steady drip of disaster after disaster.”
“More like a deluge,” Birdy said.
“Right. More like that.”
A waiter came and they ordered. Birdy got two soft chicken tacos and Kendall ordered the tortilla soup.
“And a basket of those,” she said, indicating the mountain of corn tortillas that Bonita was putting into small flat containers.
After the waiter left, Birdy asked about Steven.
“That’s got to be what’s really putting you at odds with the world right now.”
Kendall didn’t want to cry, and she knew if she said too much about what she was feeling she’d dissolve into tears.
“I guess I can’t talk about that, Birdy. I want to. I know that it would probably help, but I don’t know much more than what I’m feeling and thinking and suspecting and I don’t like living on assumptions.”
“Of course. You want the facts.”
Kendall looked down at the basket of chips and salsa.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So let’s talk about the Spirit Hunters show. What’s the latest on that? Did you find anything of interest in the file I gave you, such that it was?”
Kendall shook her head. “Not really. I mean, who can be sure that the crime scene—if there was a crime—was actually at the Frazier residence? It could have been anywhere. Those blood drops don’t tell us much—and we don’t even know whose blood it was anyway.”
“Right. It wasn’t Katy’s, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, and according to the report they tested it against other members of the household and they indicated no match to the mom, father, or sister.”
“Right. So I’d say that’s a dead end. Unless we’re going to test everyone in Port Orchard.”
Their food came and they both picked at their plates. Neither felt particularly hungry. Lunch was seldom about eating anyway.
“What are you going to do?” Birdy asked.
“With the show?”
“Yes, the show, but also the case.”
Kendall swallowed. “I’m meeting with the producer tonight. Dinner at Cosmo’s.”
“That should be interesting. When are you going to meet Pandora and Ogilvie?”
“I guess the show protocol is that no one meets Pandora until after their investigation. I’ll go on camera with Ogilvie tomorrow.”
“That should be fun,” Birdy said with full-on sarcasm.
Kendall nodded. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”
“And the case,” Birdy said, “what are you going to do there?”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re going to reinvestigate, aren’t you?”
Kendall smiled. Birdy knew her well now and with Steven gone she felt like there was no one else who really understood who she was, what made her tick. At least anyone who she felt the same way about. Birdy was just like her. She was a puzzle solver. She was the kind of person who liked to pick up a trail and follow it to the very end, no matter how hard, how painful.
How hopeless it might seem.
“I am. I’m going to try to talk to a few of Katy’s friends, her father, her teachers, anyone who might give me a little insight. Her mother is pretty wrapped up in trying to do good for the other troubled kids of Kitsap County that I doubt she will really open up. Nothing probably could be harder than being a guidance counselor and having your kid run away. Or worse.”
Birdy asked that her second taco be wrapped up to go.
“Elan will devour it in one bite,” she said.
“How’s he doing?”
“Great. We’re both doing great. My sister has backed off and things have calmed considerably. I almost don’t want to say it out loud because I’m afraid it will jinx it.”
“Say it, Birdy.”
Birdy smiled. “All right, Kendall. I hope I get to keep him.”
Kendall smiled back and the two women laughed.
“That sounded like he is a puppy or something,” Birdy said. “But you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“I do. And I hope you get to keep him too.”
It was sunny when the detective and the forensic pathologist went through the massive swinging doors after paying for lunch—Kendall’s treat this time. The air felt clean and there was a gentle breeze. Wafting through it was the smell of Bonita’s amazing corn tortillas. The IMMEDIATE SEATING sign blasted away at a now-empty parking lot.
Brenda Nevins scanned the pages of the Mason County Journal. She didn’t care what was going on in the Middle East, in politics, in the state of the world. None of that mattered. Nor did she care about the Kardashians or any other low-wattage celebrity who would come and go. She was above all that. She was beautiful and she knew that her body—however fake her breasts—was a gift to the world. She only cared about one thing, how her little escape from prison was playing in the local paper.
“Janie,” she said, her tone impatient, “please stop gasping over there, I’m trying to read and you are annoying the hell out of me.”
Janie, tied to the bed, winced and tried to stifle the pain that made her gasp and cry.
“Better, babe. Better little prison bitch,” Brenda said, finally finding an article—in an embarrassingly back-of-the-paper section called News Briefs. Her eyes sparked as she read aloud.
“ ‘Nevins is a narcissist,’ Kitsap County sheriff’s detective Kendall Stark said.
‘She craves the spotlight and, like a moth to the flame, she’ll be burned by it. She’s classic and while we don’t know what she will end up doing—predicting human behavior can be as faulty as playing the lottery—you can bet that she’ll do something stupid and get caught.’ ”
She stopped reading and glared over at Janie.
“Damn you! You stupid bitch. Shut up!”
Janie looked away.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t make me burn you again. Because I swear I will. I’ll dip your nose in gasoline and strike a match.”
Janie looked at her. Her eyes were pools of terror. With everything that had happened in the days since they’d left the prison, she’d grown more and more aware what Brenda Nevins was capable of. She knew that to make Brenda mad was to have a hanger shoved inside her. To have a cigarette extinguished on her cheek.
“A second one,” Brenda had said, “because even in disfigurement you need balance.”
Janie tried not to breathe. She tried to will her body in spite of the agony to stop sending her messages that she was going to die.
Brenda looked back down at the paper and seethed.
“Listen to this crap,” she said. “Are you goddamn listening to me?”
Janie nodded again.
“‘Stark and forensic pathologist Waterman got up close and personal with Nevins when investigating the case of a missing Kitsap County teen earlier this year. Dr. Waterman agreed with Stark’s assessment. ‘Nevins will turn up. She’s not nearly as clever as she thinks. In time, I’m confident that she’ll be behind bars where she belongs and this time for good.’”
The switch flipped and Nevins started to laugh.
“Not clever? That’s funny. I can think of a million things to do with a screwdriver and some wire that would make both those two-bit county gals wishing they were never born.”
Her eyes lingered on Janie. Lasered her, really. Her eyes were knives. The prison superintendent weakly nodded.
“Damn right,” Brenda said, dropping the paper and flopping on the bed next to Janie. Janie’s body stiffened like a dead cat rolled over by a line of cars on the freeway and she held her breath. She wasn’t sure what was coming but she knew that it wasn’t going to be good. Not with Brenda. Brenda didn’t know the meaning of kindness. Brenda wanted only what she could get and at the top of the list were money, fame, and revenge.
She ran her fingertips through Janie’s hair. Brenda’s nails used to be her trademark. They were long, lacquered, and usually the kind of brazen red that reminded men of the color of their dream Camaro. But after years in prison without the fawning ladies of the salon, only the negligible talents of a woman who went by the name Cuttlefish to do them, they were less than what she’d wanted. Less than what she deserved. She raked them through Janie’s hair, this time hard enough to scratch.
Like a turtle Janie withdrew even more, but carefully so, not so much that Brenda would hurt her again.
“I thought we’d have a little fun, you and me. We’d get dressed up and go out to the casino and maybe find some jerk to roll for his winnings. But now I’m not so sure, babe. I think other things are on the horizon for us. What do you think?”
Janie couldn’t speak, even if she tried.
“Are you listening to me?”
Janie’s eyes, puddled with tears, indicated that she was.
“We’re not going to do any of those things. We’re going to make sure that those haters out there are put in their place. I’m not clever? I’m not? Do you think I’m clever? You should because you’d be home with that dope of a husband right now if I hadn’t been so damn clever.”
Janie winced. It was all she could do.
Brenda nuzzled her like a kitten. A terrified, abused, sad little kitten, but nevertheless, it was better than being tortured again.
Brenda thought about Kendall Stark and Birdy Waterman. She’d met Kendall in prison for an interview about her relationship with a former guard.
“Not impressive, Janie. Not at all. That detective was strictly amateur hour. The pathologist I’d imagine isn’t much to write home about either. If she was a decent doctor she’d be working on people who were still alive now, wouldn’t she?”
Janie blinked.
“Not clever, huh? I don’t want to be narcissistic because I don’t like labels, but I’ve got more than clever in me. I’ve got a touch of the devil.”
Brenda closed her eyes and thought of all the things she could do to Kendall Stark and Birdy Waterman. Some involved flames. Some sharp objects. One an explosive. But as she pondered these things and drifted off to a rage-filled slumber, she knew that the one thing she could do better than anyone was to make someone remember her.
“Night, babe,” she said.
And that was that.
CHAPTER NINE
Brit Frazier’s words haunted Kendall. She sat in her car in the parking lot of the architecture and design firm that bore Roger Frazier’s name. She took a gulp of air and cracked the window. She felt sick, hot. It wasn’t from the salsa at Puerto Vallarta, either. It was the nervousness that found a place to rest in her stomach.
Da
mn, she thought. I don’t like playing clean-up. Not for a partner, not for a departed colleague. It’s disloyal and embarrassing.
It was true that no matter how many cases she’d worked, nor how many grieving mothers she comforted, there was no way she could fully comprehend the disappearance and likely murder of a child. She didn’t blame Brit for wanting something to happen with her daughter’s dead-end case. The skimpiness of the file was proof enough that no matter how nice a guy Nick Mayberry was, he wasn’t the dogged investigator that Katy Frazier’s case required. It appeared that he interviewed all the principals, recorded all the details, and then, well, stopped. It was like he’d hit a roadblock and left the Fraziers adrift without any kind of resolution.
Roger Frazier was expecting her. He stood in the doorway to the conference room that looked out over Gig Harbor.
“If your buildings are as beautiful as your view, Mr. Frazier—and I expect they are—then you probably have designed many of the proverbial ‘dream homes’ for people around here.”
He smiled. “They are and I have.” His tone didn’t suggest smugness or self-satisfaction, but a kind of confidence. Much like his wife’s. “Have a seat,” he said.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she said as she slid herself into a steel-framed leather chair and rolled her lap under the glass-topped conference room table. “You have a lot going on right now.”
He sat across from her. He was in his fifties, but looked younger. His hair receded and his eyes were sharp and laser-focused on her. He wore a bright white pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There was the slightest smudge of graphite on his right cuff, indicating that he probably still wielded a pencil when drawing the dreams of others on paper.
“We all have a lot going on. But for us, the world stops whenever we think of our daughter. Which is pretty much every hour of every day.”
“I’m sorry,” Kendall said.
“Sorry is what you tell a kid when you don’t have enough money for a popsicle. This is well beyond sorry, Detective.”
She understood and nodded.
“Sorry,” he went on, unable to stop himself, “is the state of your office when we were so desperate for some help. Sorry is the four years of not knowing what happened, which I put on the Kitsap County sheriff and those who work for him.”