Water's Edge: A totally gripping crime thriller (Detective Megan Carpenter Book 2)

by Gregg Olsen

  “Poulsbo, right?”

  Another connection. I’m on a roll. This is good.

  “That’s right,” he says. “I can call them if you need anything—records, whatever. I have the doctor’s name that delivered the baby and all of that.”

  I wonder what the chances are that Leann and Dina had the same doctor. It may be risky talking to that doctor until I have to. Who knows what Leann told him? Maybe Jim Truitt paid for the delivery. Maybe they’re golf or sailing buddies.

  “That would be great, Detective Osborne. I have something in mind. Can you meet me there?” I ask.

  “Now?”

  “I’m in Port Hadlock.” I look at the clock on my computer. “Can you make it in an hour?”

  “See you there,” he says.

  Thirty-Seven

  I leave a note on my desk for Ronnie in case she gets back before I do. Not likely. I am in my Taurus, heading south on State Road 19, when my phone buzzes.

  It’s Captain Marvel.

  “Detective, this is Captain Martin.”

  I imagine him standing on the prow of a boat, one hand on his hip, strong chin jutting forward, cape flowing behind him.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “I went back and scoured the scene again. Didn’t find anything. If you need anything from me on this case, just call.”

  I want to ask why he went back to the scene, but think better of it. It might sound as if I were harping on him doing a good job. He went out of his way and I appreciate it, and yet, at the same time, it bothers me a little.

  “Detective?”

  “Thank you, Captain. I will let you know.”

  “How’s it going with the case? Any leads yet?”

  “Nothing much. Yet.”

  “I’ve heard some stories about you. You always get your man.”

  And I’ve heard you always get your woman.

  “Anyway,” he says, “while I’ve got you on the line, I want to ask you something.”

  I hope he’s not going to ask me out. I mean, I doubt that’s what he wants to ask. But if he does, it would crush Ronnie. When she talks about him, she gets this dreamy look in her eyes. I feel a little guilty for pushing her on Marley. And here I am talking to the man she adores.

  “What I want to ask, Detective, is if that poor girl had been sexually molested.”

  His question surprises me. I wasn’t expecting him to still be thinking about this case. He must have other things to occupy his time. But then I remember his wife drowned. They had been skinny-dipping. Seeing Leann the way she was might have been a shock to him. I can relate to how things get all mixed up in your mind, how things are triggered.

  When I see something red, I associate it with Rolland, dead on the kitchen floor in our place in Port Orchard. A big knife buried in his chest and a pool of blood around him.

  “I can’t really go into details, Captain.”

  I can almost hear him wince on the line.

  “I understand,” he says. “Sorry. I just want to do anything I can to help.”

  “Captain Martin, I appreciate your effort. I can tell you that a rape kit was turned over to the crime lab.”

  He goes quiet. I think I’ve hurt his feelings. Despite my belief that he is an arrogant, swaggering show-off, I feel a little sorry for him.

  He finally speaks up. “I heard from a deputy in Clallam that you might have another murder associated with this one.”

  “Who did you hear that from?” I ask, although I know it was Larry Gray. Captain Marvel had recovered Margie’s body. Larry probably couldn’t keep it to himself. He has been more of a hindrance than a help so far.

  “Just a deputy I know,” he says. “Anyway, I hope you catch this guy.”

  “Thanks, Captain. I will.” I’m starting to sound like a boss. Or my mother.

  I am sure Nan has read the note I left for Ronnie. It just says that I’ll meet her back in the office after lunch. She will be so disappointed. I didn’t tell Ronnie where I was going because I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. She seems excited to have something important to do.

  As I drive south to Poulsbo, I can see thickening clouds far across the bay. Clouds that are heavy, churning. The water is black and roiling as it makes its way to shore.

  Yes, I think, a storm is coming.

  Thirty-Eight

  I circle the hospital parking lot, wondering where people in need of medical assistance are supposed to park. There’s nothing. Finally, I see Clay sitting on a Harley. He waves to me to pull into the half space next to him. He’s going to get drowned when that storm hits. I meet him at the entrance.

  “So what do you expect to find in Dina’s records?” he asks as we make our way to the entrance.

  I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to but because I’m caught off guard.

  A policeman, not a security guard, sits at a desk with the receptionist. The sight of a police uniform in a hospital makes me shudder. I can control it. It isn’t Alex Rader. Policeman. Serial killer. He is dead. And then the officer looks up and smiles at me. My heart starts thumping. He reminds me of Rader. Same size, same haircut, same smarmy smile.

  “What’s up, bro?” the officer says to Clay.

  He hasn’t been smiling at me after all. Good.

  My pulse starts to normalize.

  “Jimmy, this is Detective Carpenter,” Clay says. “Jimmy’s the friend I talked to about Boyd.”

  Jimmy gets up and comes around the desk, and he and Clay man hug. A little too long. The look that passes between them is not of the brothers-in-arms type. Ronnie would be devastated to learn that Clay isn’t a ladies’ man at all.

  I don’t care.

  He is cute but not my type.

  “Jimmy Polito.” The policeman takes my hand, and despite his hulking size, his handshake is as soft as Ronnie’s.

  “You’re the Jimmy that works at the college?” I say this like I’m not surprised, although I am. Port Townsend has a small police department, and I thought I knew everyone. What’s more, it’s at least an hour to drive from the campus to here. When does he find time to work as a policeman?

  Maybe I never met Jimmy because he’s always working off duty somewhere.

  “The one and only,” Jimmy says, smoothing back his black hair. “Pleased to meet ya.”

  His accent is different.

  He notices me noticing.

  “I’m originally from New York,” he says. “Manhattan. Little Italy. I got my mother’s eyes and my dad’s temper.” He laughs, and the usually reserved Clay laughs along with him.

  “Jimmy worked his way across the US,” Clay says. “He was with Kitsap County Sheriff’s Office before he became a traitor and went to Port Townsend Police.”

  “Traitor, huh,” Jimmy says, getting into what looks like a boxing stance.

  This is like a male mating ritual. I’ve seen it many times before. But that’s not why I’m here, and I haven’t got time for another long, long man hug. I need coffee and I’m cranky.

  “Since you’re here,” I ask, “did you get anything on either of the Boyds?”

  Jimmy shakes his head. “Neither of them. I had the other security guys and gals keep an eye out. The real Boyd hasn’t been seen on campus for a while. His professors said he quit coming to class over a month ago. I checked his dorm. He’s in a room by himself. Nothing. No sign of the skinny white Boyd, either. Or the car you described. You want me to keep looking?”

  “Can you see if the white Boyd is a student there?” I ask. “Maybe under another name? Maybe show the registrar a picture of him, post a picture in the dorms, see if anyone recognizes him? His picture is on his website.”

  “I should have thought of that,” Jimmy says. “Will do, Detective Carpenter.” He gives a little sarcastic salute.

  “Megan, please,” I say. “And I really appreciate it. You can call me or Clay. I’ll give you my cell.” Out of business cards, I find a piece of notepaper on his desk and scratch out my nam
e and number. He supposedly has done all this legwork. Clay asked for all this before. I heard him myself. It kind of pisses me off that he hasn’t done a damn thing.

  “That’s just for business, bro,” Clay says. “Don’t be drunk dialing her.”

  “Hey, I can’t help it if I’m a virile specimen of a man.”

  They both laugh. I let them have their fun. To be in law enforcement, you can’t be offended by every remark or look. It comes with the territory.

  “We need to look at some records, Jimmy.” Clay becomes the serious, no-nonsense Clay again. “Think you can pull up some past patient records for us?”

  Jimmy leads us a few feet further away from the receptionist. “Confidential stuff. I like it.” He takes out a notebook. “Give me the names and dates of birth.”

  I use his notebook and pen and write down all three victims’ information from memory. He and Clay exchange a look and Jimmy grins.

  “Clay said you were sharp, Megan. Maybe some of those smarts will rub off on his ignorant ass.”

  Clay stays silent. He’s in total Clay mode now. It’s good to see he can be both serious and funny. Comes in handy when you’re trying to obtain illicit confidential information that you would otherwise need a court order or a warrant to get. I came prepared to lie and/or promise a fake document. This is so much simpler.

  “This will take a few minutes,” Jimmy says. “The crap-a-teria, and I do mean crap, is down the hall to your left. They have decent coffee and Krispy Kreme donuts, and by the look of you two you’re in serious withdrawal.”

  How can I say no?

  Clay and I head down the hall.

  “I apologize for Jimmy,” he says.

  “Nothing to apologize for. He’s doing a lot for us. I hope he doesn’t get in trouble with the hospital administration.” I really don’t give a crap. I just want the information without going through a lot of paperwork and maybe ending up getting permission denied.

  I looked around the front lobby when we came in and saw no less than three surveillance cameras. Going down the hall now, I turn around and see the cameras could cover the hallway. There are two more here. One in each corner of the cafeteria. Another is behind the counter, pointed at the cash register.

  There should be a sign on the register: Trust no one.

  And an all-seeing eye.

  “There’s a lot of surveillance cameras,” I say as we get our coffee and donuts. “Maybe Jimmy can get us video footage?”

  Clay looks somewhat skeptical. Maybe he doesn’t want Jimmy to take that kind of risk. Maybe I’ll have to find a way to hack into their system. I’ve done it before—not here, and not for a few years, but I’m pretty sure I can figure it out. If not, I can schmooze someone else at the hospital.

  “Forget I asked, Clay. Probably nothing anyway. I’m just crossing i’s and dotting t’s.”

  He chuckles at my little joke that was meant to cover a lie. I am getting better at hiding my true thoughts from him because he nods.

  “I admire that about you.” He takes a bite of a donut and talks with his mouth full. I think he looks disgusting, but I don’t say it. I don’t show it. “You don’t give up. You’re like a hound on a scent.”

  I sip at the coffee while he goes on.

  “What do you smell here? What do you expect to find with these records?”

  I tell him I’m trying to establish that the victims may have crossed paths. That maybe they had the same doctor. Came to the same hospital.

  “Anything that would give us a pattern.”

  I don’t tell him I’m doubly interested in the birth certificates. I don’t tell him that I know for a fact that my own birth certificate didn’t have a father’s name or my own name on it. My mother had thoughts of giving me away. Like Dina did. Maybe like Margie would have done. Neither Larry nor Clay have dug that deep. On my birth certificate I was just Infant, another fatherless child. I wanted to see the birth certificates of Leann’s and Dina’s babies.

  I tell him I want to see the exact dates and times of the births. I want to get the names of the doctors that attended and maybe I will find the nurses that were on duty. Someone has to have seen something. If not, I will have at least tried. Clay seems like a seasoned investigator, but it looks like a lot of Dina’s investigation fell through the cracks. And Larry… Larry hasn’t missed a meal on Margie’s behalf. I feel like both victims were deemed losers. They were promiscuous. They were single mothers. So what? Why were they less deserving of a full-on investigation?

  My mother and several other sixteen-year-olds were victims. She had lied about being kidnapped before the real thing happened. According to my aunt Ginger, Mom had run off to spend time with a boy. Then she got kidnapped for real, tied up and raped. When she tried to tell the police, they demeaned and then ignored her claim. Even her own parents dismissed her story. A cloud of disbelief and suspicion followed her and made her the perfect target for Rader.

  The same seemed to be true for Dina Knowles and Margie Benton. They were dead. They had no one to speak up for them. They couldn’t tell their side of the story. That’s why I’m here.

  It’s taking Jimmy longer than expected to access the records. I hope he didn’t have to get permission. Or maybe the receptionist hindered him?

  In the past, I might have come up with a way to get what I wanted without anyone knowing. But I know someone who can make this easy. I excuse myself, go to the bathroom, and call Sheriff Gray. I ask him to get a court order from his judge friend.

  I return to Jimmy and finish my coffee.

  Within minutes my phone pings. Sheriff Gray sent a copy of the court order and one to the hospital. Within fifteen more minutes I have the records and the video on a thumb drive.

  I have probably burned the Clay Osborne bridge. Clay is unhappy that I went around him, but sorry/not sorry. If I hadn’t, I’d have had to go through him. And Jimmy from Little Italy. No problem.

  I drive back to Port Hadlock, the rain pelting my windshield and smearing the scenery. I’m pretty sure now that Jimmy didn’t look for Robbie Boyd all that hard. He claimed he was getting the hospital records, but when I approached him, he was just chatting up the receptionist.

  The last piece in the puzzle is Margie Benton. The hospital had no record of her.

  I’m twenty minutes away from the office when the sheriff calls.

  “Megan, I’ve got bad news.”

  My heart jumps. His tone is uneasy.

  “We’ve located Robbie Boyd.”

  I’m confused. That’s good news.

  “And?” I ask.

  “He’s dead. But that’s not all. There’s another body.”

  Thirty-Nine

  The pelting rain slacks off to a fine marine mist when I find Sheriff Gray waiting for me where South Water Street dead-ends. I survey the area as I park and make my way over to him. A spit of land juts out into the water between Port Hadlock and Skunk Island, creating a barrier. Near the tip of this little sandy, rocky stretch, a jetty runs like a pointing finger toward Lower Hadlock Road. This area is technically part of Port Hadlock.

  Ronnie is there too.

  She’s wearing a white button-down shirt, brown slacks, and sensible shoes. She has her leather basket-weave gun belt hitched around her improbably narrow waist. She must have come with the sheriff because I don’t see her Smart car nearby. She is focusing a pair of binoculars on one of our Marine Patrol boats heading toward us from the southern tip of Skunk Island. I can make out the form of Captain Marvel posing on the bow.

  Actually, he is talking to the sheriff on his cell phone.

  “There’s no need to fear: Captain Marvel’s here,” I say when the sheriff disconnects.

  “Be nice, Megan,” he says. “You and Ronnie are going to need a ride over there.”

  I don’t like boats. I don’t even like ferries. A ferry—any boat, for that matter—is like the color red, a trigger. It brings back best-forgotten memories. The Sheriff’s Office has two boats,
but I don’t know the names, nor have I been on one. Ronnie sits on a rock and pulls on rubber boots. I’m wearing my work boots.

  Sheriff Gray leans in and says in a low voice, “I loaned her my waders. I didn’t want her to get her designer shoes ruined.” He gives me a knowing smile.

  Not for the first time, I wonder what Ronnie is doing in the sheriff reserves. She obviously has enough money to be going to some Ivy League college or live independently. The clothes I’ve seen her in over the last couple of days cost more than everything I own. And Smart cars aren’t cheap.

  The boat makes its way around to the jetty. I grab my phone and a notebook from my car. Ronnie is already on the dock. She looks down at my leather boots but, to her credit, says nothing snarky. Or maybe she thinks I would shove her in the water if she did.

  She’d be right about that.

  The captain carefully backs the big boat close to the dock. He leaves the wheelhouse and tosses some bumpers over the portside. He throws a mooring rope to Ronnie. She giggles as she catches it and ties it to one of the cleats. She expertly hops aboard, and I ease my way across the open space between the deck and the dock.

  Sheriff Gray unties the mooring line and pitches it to me. I miss it but it lands in the boat, so big deal.

  Captain Marvel pulls the bumpers back aboard and turns to Ronnie.

  “You know your knots, sailor.”

  He takes a smiling Ronnie’s hand and leads her to the cabin. I am left to fend for myself. Perfect. Just perfect.

  “You’d better come inside,” he says. “This sleek lady has some powerful moves.”

  I’m not sure if he’s talking about the boat or Ronnie. I move along the side of the cabin, grab one of the handholds and plant my feet as best I can. I find myself slung back against the side of the cabin as the twin 150-horsepower engines power up.

  I’m all but certain he’s just showing off.

  As we get closer to the scene, I can see white-clad Crime Scene techs. The captain drops anchor and lowers a rubber raft over the side. He hangs a ladder on the railing. Ronnie and I are able to make our way into the raft. A pair of plastic oars are in the raft, but Ronnie has picked up a coil of rope that is tied to the front of the raft. She yells for one of the techs and then tosses the line to him. The tech pulls us up onto the beach. Ronnie is off the raft first and comes back with a heavy rock and places it on the coiled rope.