My Sister, Myself

by Alice Sharpe

  The first few notes of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” broke the uneasy silence. Irene glanced at Tess’s purse. “Isn’t that your phone?”

  Tess had never heard it ring. She dug it out of her bag, terrified her attacker was calling earlier than planned. The Caller ID didn’t help because she didn’t know anyone’s number here. It did seem to be local so that ruled out her mother.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Irene asked.

  Tess stared at it a moment longer, scared to press a button, afraid she’d hear her attacker’s low, guttural voice, afraid she’d throw up if she did. At last she relented and, holding her breath, clicked on the phone.

  “Hey,” Ryan said.

  Gripping the corner of the table to keep from sagging from relief, she said, “Hi.”

  “I spent the last hour bar hopping, no easy feat this early in the morning. There’s something fishy about the Kinsey/Doyle alibi.”

  “That’s encouraging, right?”

  “Could be. I’m on my way to see Doyle now.”

  “I should be with you,” Tess said.

  “You stay where you are, nice and safe.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to protest this comment despite how precisely it reflected how she felt. She wanted to ask about Vince Desota but couldn’t think of how to do it with Irene standing nearby. Instead she said, “What about the…um, key?”

  “You have the key, remember? You also look just like your sister plus you hold her identification, so we’ll do that together when I pick you up.”

  “I see. Well, it sounds like you’ve been lucky.”

  “I started my day lucky,” he said with enough tease in his voice to make Tess smile shyly at the memory.

  How could she leave him?

  How could she stay?

  She clicked off the phone, dropped it in her bag and met Irene’s gaze.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “My cousin locked himself out of his car,” she said. “He has an extra key so it’s no big deal.”

  Irene nodded. She looked preoccupied with the photos. “I’m going upstairs to hunt for that box of missing pictures,” she said.

  “I’ll just go use the bathroom,” Tess said, laying her purse aside.

  If Irene was busy upstairs and Nelson and Madeline were away from the house, what better time to take a look in that big desk in Nelson’s den?

  CLINT DOYLE HAD LANDED on his size twelve-and-a-half feet by taking a job as a bodyguard for New Harbor’s most famous female impersonator, a guy by the name of Marcel. Ryan had never actually been inside his club, as a good set of bouncers tended to keep this club—like the local strip joints—relatively crime free.

  Ryan found Doyle right inside the door of Marcel’s which, on this late Friday morning, was empty of patrons and bouncers. A full dress rehearsal was underway, however, complete with music.

  Doyle himself was a redwood tree of a man, almost as broad as he was tall, hard as a rock, head shaved clean, facial features accented with a nose about the size and hue of a red potato. He wore a black T-shirt tucked into black jeans, a black jacket stretched tight over his shoulders, the bulge of a shoulder holster obvious.

  Ryan had spent the morning hunting down and talking to a half-dozen bartenders who had corroborated the Kinsey/Doyle alibi, and gradually he’d developed a funny feeling about it all. The idea was beginning to float around in the back of Ryan’s mind that Doyle and Kinsey were in cahoots. Maybe Kinsey was the torch and maybe he drove the car that almost killed Katie while Doyle searched her apartment. Maybe Doyle was trying to double-cross Kinsey by finding Tess’s father’s stash without telling Kinsey.

  “I ain’t leaving this spot,” Doyle said, his gaze glued to the stage where Marcel himself, dressed in enough glitter and rhinestones to adorn a whole Las Vegas act, belted out a medley of Broadway tunes. Three other men sporting cleavage, curls and heels backed him up, but there was no mistaking the true star and that was Marcel. Well over six feet tall and wearing a dozen shades of purple feathers, his hair was styled in a pinkish beehive. He strutted and sang and looked more feminine, and thus less feminine, than any woman Ryan had ever seen.

  “Marcel pays me damn good money to watch his back, and that’s what I’m going to do,” Doyle added. “Lots of freaks in this town just waiting to get at him, but they won’t, not when Clint Doyle is on the clock. Ask me whatever you want, detective, but I ain’t leaving this spot.”

  Ryan leaned against the wall. He hadn’t told Doyle he was a cop, the man just knew. “Let’s start with where you were yesterday afternoon between two and three o’clock,” Ryan said.

  “Easy. Here.”

  “Anyone see you?”

  Doyle gestured with his arm. “Everyone.”

  Ryan watched the three backup singers cavort around Marcel for a moment as his mind whirled. This club was two blocks up and six over from Katie’s apartment. Doyle could easily have left here, driven there, torn the place apart, attacked Tess and been back by this door in less than thirty minutes. Dressed in black, standing in shadows, would anyone notice if he left for a few minutes?

  “Did you talk to anyone?” he asked.

  Doyle appeared to be thinking. He finally said, “Trista. Paulie.”

  “Who are Trista and Paulie?”

  With a flip of his wrist and an extended thumb, Doyle gestured at the bar, which ran along the side of the club. “That’s Trista. Paulie ain’t in yet.”

  A young girl stood behind the bar, her gaze darting between the stage and Doyle, polishing and repolishing the same glass with a white cloth.

  “I’ll be back,” Ryan told Doyle, and moseyed over to the bar. Trista, dark hair in pigtails, perky breasts poking at her red Marcel’s T-shirt, looked at him as he approached. Was she old enough to be working in a nightclub?

  “We’re not open,” she said, but the voice was wrong, it was too low, and then Ryan noticed a dark shadow on the clean-shaven jaw. He gave himself a mental slap for slowness and said, “I just want information. Did you talk to Clint Doyle yesterday?”

  The boy behind the bar might look seventeen from a distance, but up close, at least to Ryan, there was a world-weary glint to his eye that pushed his age up a decade. “Sure. I took him iced tea and a sandwich. We ate our lunch together. Then Paulie came by and the two of them stood there for a long time, watching Marcel flit around the stage. Wouldn’t you think Clint would get tired of watching Marcel? I sure do.”

  “What time did you take him the sandwich?”

  “I don’t know, somewhere around two. He and Paulie stood over there a good hour after that.”

  Ryan wandered back to Doyle. The alibi for yesterday sounded pretty airtight but he doubted the D.A. or anyone else downtown would be impressed with the testimony of a cross-dressing bartender and someone named Paulie who spent his afternoons hanging around a nightclub. Ryan wasn’t sure he was. Still, for this moment, he would accept Clint Doyle’s alibi for the afternoon someone attacked Tess. And since Doyle didn’t strike him as the most shrewd man in the room, just the most loyal, he thought of another tack he could try.

  “How old is Trista?” he asked as he stood next to Doyle.

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “He doesn’t look twenty-one.”

  “Ain’t none of my business.”

  “I might make it your business,” Ryan said casually. “Seems if Marcel got it in his head you ratted out an underage employee to the Oregon Liquor Control Commission, he might stop signing those plump paychecks you currently enjoy.”

  For the first time, Doyle’s gaze left the stage and fastened on Ryan. “Why don’t you stop tiptoeing around and just tell me what you want.”

  “I want to know about your alibi for December first of last year. The night the Lingford house burned to the ground.”

  Doyle looked back at the stage as the music stopped and some kind of altercation between the performers ensued. Marcel’s angry screech filled the club. �
�What I heard is that one of your guys torched the place,” Doyle said.

  “Just tell me your alibi.”

  “I was out drinking.”

  “Just you and Jim Kinsey, right?”

  “That’s right. We hit a dozen places down by the river.”

  “I hit those same places this morning. Well, those that were open early. People tend to remember you, Doyle, but the odd thing is not one of them recall Kinsey.”

  “I stand out,” Doyle said with a smirk.

  Onstage, Marcel launched into a new tirade directed at his backup dancers, firing them all on the spot. He left in a huff. More music started, and a pop star impersonator took the stage dressed in tiny pink shorts and a halter top, yellow ponytail flying in time to the music.

  “So, what are two guys who have no history with each other doing out drinking together on a Monday night?”

  “Is there some law—”

  Ryan lowered his voice. “You want me to stop tiptoeing, I’ll stop tiptoeing. I don’t think Kinsey was with you that night. I think he was busy playing with matches. One way or another, I’m going to get him. When I do, I’ll call the D.A. You’ll get to strut your stuff, only then, it’s going to be perjury and that means jail time. You’ll come out a felon and that means you won’t be able to carry a bullet in your pocket let alone a gun. Hard to be a bodyguard when you can’t carry.”

  Doyle stared straight ahead at Marcel who stood offstage berating a beleaguered man who seemed to be the choreographer.

  “How much did Kinsey pay you to cover for him?”

  Doyle didn’t answer. He kept staring at Marcel while Ryan watched the kid in the halter top gyrating to kinky music most twelve-year-old girls knew by heart.

  “You think your boss hasn’t noticed you over here having a quiet little tête-à-tête with a cop?” Ryan said. “If the thought of a grand jury doesn’t get to you, think about how Marcel’s going to interpret seeing you talking to me the day before the OLCC comes a knocking. Suppose he’s thrown any after-hour parties lately? Can’t do that if you have a liquor license, you know. Can’t even drink a beer after closing time. I wonder—”

  “One thousand,” Doyle said with a grunt. “I don’t know nothing about him and the fire. All I know is Kinsey knew I’d been drinking the night before and gave me a big one to tell everyone he was right there by my side. I was between jobs so I took the money. I ain’t seen him since.”

  “A thousand bucks is a lot to spend for an alibi the day after an employer’s house goes up in smoke. It never crossed your mind he might be involved?”

  “I mind my own business,” Doyle said.

  “How did he know you were out drinking?”

  “I ran into him at the last place I visited, right before closing time.”

  “And you recognized him?”

  “I’d seen him around. I knew who he was.”

  “I don’t suppose he smelled like smoke?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” Doyle said.

  “One more thing. Let me see your gun.”

  This earned him another glance from Doyle. “Why?”

  “Just let me see it.”

  Doyle reached beneath his sports jacket and withdrew a Beretta. Walnut grip, 9mm double action, matte-black finish. Lethal, efficient. But not the gun Tess described, not the nickel-plated revolver her attacker ran up and down her face.

  “You better hope I never find out you lied about this,” Ryan said, glancing at his watch as Doyle holstered the gun.

  If Ryan hurried, he had time to tackle Kinsey before picking up Tess.

  TESS FINALLY HAD TO ADMIT the only way she was going to get inside Nelson Lingford’s desk was with a crowbar or a shotgun. As neither implement was close at hand, she settled on sitting back in his swivel chair and furrowing her brow. That’s when she spied the mail on his desk. She shuffled through a few envelopes from banks and other businesses, stopping to linger over a heavily taped small box wrapped in brown paper. No return address, postmarked New Harbor.

  Dare she swipe it or open it?

  No. The maid would remember bringing it in here. Irene would recall her absence. She put the box back with the other mail and looked at the computer with lust, wishing she could get into its files, but there was no way she had that kind of time.

  Why did spying look so easy in a movie?

  Twirling in Nelson’s desk chair, she settled with the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, the only drawer not locked. She found a dozen neat-as-a-pin files and began leafing through them. They all appeared to be related to household expenses which, while truly impressive by her modest standards, didn’t shed much light on anything.

  She checked her watch. She’d been gone almost ten minutes. Time to get back to the dining room before Irene thought she’d locked herself in the bathroom and came looking. But what if Irene saw her leaving the den? She snatched a piece of notepaper. “Sorry to have missed you,” she scribbled. She was halfway across the room when the door opened.

  Nelson paused at the door, his gaze puzzled when it landed on her. Too late she realized her oversize glasses were in her hand while she’d left her crutches propped against the filing cabinet and was actually in the process of placing her weight on her cast-covered foot.

  “I see you’re feeling better,” he said, closing the door behind him. His lips curved into a smile, but his eyes were as empty as a moonscape.

  THE MAN WHO ANSWERED the door at 306 Sand Dollar Court was fifteen years too old to be Jim Kinsey. He also had a horrible cold, evidenced by watery eyes and nose, hacking cough and the box of tissues clutched to his chest.

  “Some guy moved out last week,” the man said, following the news with a sneeze. He mopped at his nose, looked over Ryan’s shoulder and groaned, “God almighty, it’s raining again. I don’t believe it.”

  “Any idea where he moved to?”

  “No. Never met him. The place had a For Rent sign in the office, and I took it.”

  Ryan left the man to find the manager’s office. A very pregnant woman answered the door, her belly bulging against a shiny red nylon blouse.

  “Jim Kinsey is a no-account liar,” she said. A small boy of about two wrapped an arm around one of her denim-clad legs, and she absently tousled his hair. “He left in the dead of night, didn’t pay his rent, let alone leave a forwarding address.”

  “Do you know if he had a new job?” Ryan asked, smiling at the little kid who had bravely stepped away from his mother toward Ryan.

  “I know he used to drive a fancy car for a lady, but her house burned down and she went to live somewhere else. I read that in the paper. That’s when Jim started acting weird.”

  “Weird? In what way?”

  “He stopped going out for a while. I thought maybe he was depressed on account of losing his job. Me and my husband cut him a break with his rent check that month, but then he started bringing girls home which we don’t approve of, but what can we do, we’re only the managers and he wasn’t violating the lease. He bought himself some fancy clothes and a new car but he still didn’t pay his rent, and just when Dennis, that’s my husband, was going to kick him out of here, he moves out on his own without paying any back rent. We’re going to turn him over to our collection agency. If you find him, let us know, okay?”

  “I will. You have no idea where he went?”

  “Maybe down to Lincoln City. He used to work there, before he was a driver. He was a fireman.”

  Jolted by this news—it hadn’t shown up in the report Ryan had read and reread—he said, “Are you sure? A fireman?” Firemen knew all about setting fires.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. He bragged about it to my fifteen-year-old sister, Laurie, when she came up here last summer. Dennis read Jim the riot act and we shipped Laurie home before she could do something stupid.”

  The little boy was now staring up at Ryan, who suddenly realized his gun was visible in its shoulder holster. He pulled his leather jacket closer around his body, patted the kid, w
ho darted back behind his mother.

  “Did he tell Laurie why he wasn’t a fireman anymore?”

  “Said the chief had it in for him. But he has an awful temper, so I suppose it had something to do with that.”

  “Is he still in contact with Laurie?”

  “Absolutely not. Besides, Laurie moved on when she got back home. Has a new boyfriend and everything.”

  Ryan handed the woman a card and asked her to get in touch with him if Kinsey contacted her.

  Dead end. Plus he was late picking up Tess. But there were sure to be additional contacts in the computer at work linking Kinsey to family and friends. He’d call Donovan and get a list of names and do this the old-fashioned way, by tracking him through the people he cared about, the people whose addresses he’d used at various times.

  Ryan was walking out toward the curb when he heard footsteps behind him and turned suddenly, catching a breathless woman in his hands before she collided with him.

  “I live in the apartment next to where Jim Kinsey used to live,” she said, catching her breath and backing away. “I heard you over there talking to the new guy. You still looking for Jimmy?”

  She was about twenty, slightly built with short curly dark hair spilling over her forehead. She wore a black sweater over a gray dress and looked cold. “Yeah, do you know where he is?”

  “I might. Why do you want to see him?”

  “I have money for him,” Ryan said, attempting to look as un-cop like as possible.

  “Give me the money and I’ll get it to Jimmy,” she said.

  “Sure you will,” Ryan said with a laugh and turning, continued walking to his car.

  By the time he put his hand on the driver’s door handle, she was standing on the sidewalk, arms around herself, her hair now a halo of frizz. She looked at him across the top of the car. “Okay, I’ll tell you where he is but he won’t be there right now cause he works till three-thirty.”