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

by Gregg Olsen

  You cleared the case?

  “I’m happy for you, Larry.”

  But we’re not quite done yet.

  “What are you here for?”

  Larry thinks he has solved the biggest case in his county, but he doesn’t have a clue why we’re here. Typical. He got a new car and I’m still driving the Taurus. Actually, I prefer the Taurus because I don’t have to worry about wrecking it. It’s already a wreck.

  “I haven’t told Clay we’re coming yet,” I say. I only called Larry because I knew it would take him longer to get there.

  “Is this a surprise celebration? Well, now, I guess we deserve it for closing all these murders. You little gals did one hell of a job. Of course, us old timers helped.”

  Us little gals did everything.

  I am a little ticked off that Larry got a new car for what Ronnie and I went through. But Larry is the kind of guy who can fall in a pile of manure and come up smelling like roses.

  “Can I talk to you for a second, Megan?” Larry says.

  Ronnie goes inside ahead of us and Larry speaks to me in a confidential tone.

  “I heard you talked to Bonnie out at the Alibi.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Now that you know who did all this, there’s no reason for her name to come up.”

  “No reason I can think of, Larry.”

  “Does Tony know?”

  “I didn’t tell him and it’s not in the police reports.”

  Yet.

  He’s all smiles again and puts a big paw out.

  “You’re okay. Darned okay in my book. If you ever need anything in Clallam —and I mean any little thing—you can count me in.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I like being owed favors, but I’m not sure if Larry will deliver.

  “So,” he says, putting a hand beside his mouth, hiding his words, “what are we here for?”

  “Let’s go inside. I have some news you’re both going to want to hear.”

  “Okay. Surprise it is.”

  Larry, being the gentleman he sometimes is, holds the door for me as I enter. Clay and Ronnie are sitting in chairs that he arranged for our meeting. Ronnie is clutching her ever-present cell phone. Larry tries to hold my chair for me, but I beat him to it.

  “I can do it, but thank you. I’m not as sore now.”

  It hurts like hell, but my mother taught me never to show weakness.

  “Oh. Okay. I didn’t know you got so banged up. I should have been there. I’da never let anything happen to you little gals.”

  “I know, Larry. I appreciate you saying so.”

  Even if it’s just lip service.

  I sit on the front edge of the chair trying not to show my agony.

  Clay looks more relaxed than usual. He sits with one arm over the back of the chair, the Colt Model 1912 prominently displayed under his arm. Unlike Larry, he doesn’t ask why we’re here.

  “I’m sorry about Jimmy,” I say.

  Clay doesn’t move. His expression stays the same. “He got what he deserved. I’m glad it was him and not you. Either of you.”

  Me too. But I expected him to be a little more broken up over his chum’s brains being turned into, well, chum.

  “Did you ever meet Jimmy?” I ask Larry.

  He seems to be thinking.

  “No. I don’t believe I ever did,” he says. “What was his last name?”

  “Polito. From Little Italy in New York.”

  Larry shakes his head. “I don’t hold truck with crooked cops. Maybe someone not writing a ticket, but what he did wasn’t human. I’m with Clay on that. The asshole got what was coming to him.”

  “What happened to your Caprice?” Clay asks.

  “I’m not sure.” Larry’s smile slips a tad. “It was ready for the junkyard. Maybe it went to the crusher. I hope so.”

  I know you do.

  “I might be in the market for a personal vehicle,” I say. “Do you think they’d sell it to me?”

  “Now, why would you want a piece of junk like that? You get to drive your department car for free, don’t you? Stupid to have gas bills and repairs. And try to find parking with a personal car. Believe me, you don’t want that headache.”

  “You’re right,” I say. His smile is back.

  “What about you, Clay? You don’t use that Harley for police business, do you?”

  Clay looks at me. “I didn’t know we were here to discuss vehicles.”

  I can see him tense up. His jaw tightens and the muscles in his neck ripple. His hand moves to his lap, directly beneath the .45.

  “We’re a team. Remember?”

  He stays mute. I look from Clay to Larry. “I needed to get us all together to iron something out that’s been bugging me.”

  It’s perfectly quiet except for a ship’s horn on the bay and the clanging from a buoy.

  “Ronnie, tell them what you told me and Sheriff Gray this morning.”

  She looks nervous, like a kid in school giving a report in front of the class. I nod at her to indicate it will be okay. She begins and gives almost word for word the report she told me and Sheriff Gray. When she’s done, it’s still silent in the room. Clay hasn’t moved but Larry has lost the smile. I can see a little tic develop under one of his eyes.

  “Margie Benton. Dina Knowles. Leann Truitt. Robbie Boyd. Karynn Eades. Qassim Hadir. Captain Roy Martin,” I say.

  A stillness fills the space between all of us.

  Larry breaks the silence. “Aww. You’re not going to say we still have to investigate all of them other ones, are you? I mean, hell. This Polito guy confessed to three of them. He did the rest. Cases closed.”

  Clay’s eyes never stray from mine. “I never thought I’d say this, but even though Roy was one of us, I have to agree with Larry.”

  “Well, kiss my ass, Clay,” Larry says but he chuckles and relaxes. “Excuse my French. I mean, this is done. No one’s unhappy. My sheriff even gave me a new car. I’m sure Tony’d like all this to just go away.”

  I’m sure someone would. But it’s not happening.

  “I don’t usually tell people this”—I look at Clay—“but I have almost perfect memory. If I see something, I can see it exactly the same way even years later. You can call it my all-seeing eye, like the symbol that we found at all the scenes. I’m sure we would have found it near Ronnie’s body if Jimmy had been successful. I can remember everything that is in a room. Exactly where it is, what was near it, colors, all of it.”

  No one speaks. I look at Larry. “I guess you could call it a blessing, but sometimes it feels like a curse. For example, I remember pulling down the road along the pier where the Integrity was moored.”

  Larry looks impatient. Clay is unmoved.

  “I remember every vehicle, every boat, the hull numbers, boat trailers, everything. I remember everything inside the cabin when Jimmy thought he had the drop on me.”

  Still nothing from either of them.

  I look directly at Clay.

  “I remember seeing a motorcycle tucked in behind a trailer.”

  Clay grinned. “And?”

  “It wasn’t a Harley. It was a Suzuki. Not your style. Not Jimmy’s, either. His police car was there. I couldn’t see the back, but I got the tag number.”

  “I did too,” Clay says. “I’ve got a copy on my desk. It’s one of the dockworkers’ bikes. He weighs ninety pounds wet. No way he could have done any of this. But if it makes you happy, I’ll bring him in.”

  I turn my attention on Larry. “I guess you could say I have an all-seeing eye myself, because I also saw a faded blue Chevy Caprice. It had Clallam County government tags.”

  Larry’s face goes pale before I even finish. He starts to jump from his seat, but it has been a few years since he’s moved fast. Clay has already drawn the .45 from his shoulder holster and is pointing it at Larry.

  “Sit,” Clay says.

  Larry’s hand was going to his own gun, but he stops and sits
back in the chair.

  “I can explain that,” Larry says. Some of the color is coming back to his face as his confidence grows.

  We all stare at him. Waiting. Go ahead and try, my look says. My .45 is in my hand. It hurt like hell to twist like that, but not enough to keep me from blowing Larry’s lungs out his back.

  “You can’t prove shit,” Larry says. His voice has lost its playful Texas drawl. I hope he calls me “missy” again.

  Clay says, “Move away, Ronnie.” She does. “Now get up slowly, Larry. You can try to grab your gun, or you can turn around and put your hands behind your back. Your choice.”

  Larry looks from Clay’s gun to mine. He shakes his head, stands slowly with his hands up at shoulder level, and turns around. He hesitates and lowers his arms. I tighten the pressure on the trigger. I can’t miss at this range. Larry lets out a deep breath and puts his arms down, hands behind his back. Ronnie asked to handcuff him earlier but with a broken wrist it would have been awkward.

  Clay places a handcuff on one of Larry’s wrists and tells Ronnie, “It’s all yours.”

  Ronnie uses her good hand to secure the other handcuff. I’m sure she’ll always remember every click and ratcheting sound the steel made. It is her first arrest. She’s had a big part in all of this. In fact, if it weren’t for her being a target of these two killers, we’d never have caught Jimmy.

  Or Larry, for that matter.

  Clay takes Larry back to a holding cell and he isn’t gentle about it, but I will swear in court I never heard the man fall down. Twice.

  Clay comes back and we all sit again. Larry’s yelling from the back that he wants an attorney. Clay gets up and shuts the door. “I didn’t take his belt or shoelaces. I’ll get them in a bit.”

  I have to smile even though it hurts behind my eyes.

  Fifty-Four

  Larry was wrong about me not proving anything.

  On our way to meet with the two detectives Ronnie remembered something she saw on the hospital video. I hadn’t noticed, and she most likely didn’t think it was too important, since we were looking for Captain Martin. In the view of the ER entrance she saw Larry standing outside the doors, talking to Jimmy. That was why Jimmy took the thumb drive at Ronnie’s when he shot me. We’ll have to go through the video again, but I am all but sure we’ll find Larry and Jimmy together on other dates. It will take a lot of Scotch and pizza to watch all that video, but Ronnie and I will soldier through.

  Since the kidnapping of Ronnie and death of Jimmy happened in his county, Clay said he would get a court order to obtain DNA from Larry. There is no way Larry is going to cooperate. Or confess. Or kill himself. He loves himself too much for that.

  It was Ronnie who had the idea of calling in the FBI. We had six murders involving kidnapping covering three counties. The Feds had the clout, the attorneys, and the reach to get extensive records on both Larry and Jimmy and trace Jimmy’s path across the country from Little Italy to Port Townsend, looking for other unsolved murders. Plus this was all very high-profile and news media were showing up from across the country. From other countries. Sheriff Gray said he’d neuter or spay anyone who gave the news people my or Ronnie’s address. When he said it, he was looking at Nan, who kept her back turned, but I knew she’d heard every word. The FBI were more than happy to get in front of the cameras and microphones. I like news people only when they tell me something I need to know.

  There was only one other matter to clear up, and I wanted to do it. Ronnie got into county tax records. She found property owned by either Jimmy or Larry. Larry owned a house in Port Townsend that had belonged to his birth mother. Apparently he had tracked her down and she had not been heard from for the last ten to twelve years. Probably dead.

  Sheriff Gray acknowledged that Larry was adopted as a baby but said he knew nothing about Larry’s real parents.

  We got a search warrant and found the room where the two killers had kept their kidnapped victims. Deputies Davis and Copsey went through the house with a fine-tooth comb and found jewelry, purses, clothing, identification, and evidence of the horrific conditions the women had been kept in. There was a single bed with a steel frame. A chain was attached to the bottom rail and an ankle cuff attached to the other end of the chain. A set of bloody handcuffs was on the mattress. A leather dog leash was on the bathroom floor. The entire house was a hoarder’s dream.

  DNA left at the scene was Marley’s dream.

  We weren’t needed at the house anymore, so I took Ronnie to get her car. We agreed to wait until the next day to do any reports. The FBI had enough evidence to put Larry away forever. If he gets out, I’ll be waiting for him.

  I follow Ronnie to make sure she gets home, then go to my own place. We are both beat. Physically. Inside, we have won.

  I park in front of my house and sit for a minute. I’m not thinking about anything except how much it will hurt to get out. I have to pee. Code 3. I get out.

  Inside, I drop my keys and purse on the table and head agonizingly slowly for the bathroom. It’s still mid-morning but I want something. Wine, maybe. The hospital gave me painkillers, but I pocketed them. I need a clear head. My stalker is still out there and seems to be keeping current on Megan Carpenter. I think Scotch will work better. I have nowhere to go and plenty of time to get there.

  Before I leave the bathroom, I look at my face in the mirror. Blood spatters look like freckles, only redder. I run a brush through my hair, hoping it doesn’t come away with bits of Jimmy in the bristles. My blazer is marked with blood spatter and was taken by Crime Scene. They wanted my shirt as well, and my body armor. I drew the line at my pants. I was wearing a Washington State University T-shirt Clay loaned/gave me with my shoulder holster. They took my body armor, but Sheriff Gray gave me and Ronnie loaner .45s to keep until the shooting inquiry and ballistic tests were over. It wouldn’t be long. We’re both on administrative leave, but I plan to go to the office tomorrow if I can get out of bed. There’s a ton of forms to fill out.

  Killing Jimmy will take less paperwork than arresting Larry. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

  I get the Scotch and tumbler with the Idaho motel logo out of my desk drawer. I’m drawn to the box of tapes on top of my closet. I keep the loaner gun in my holster. The weight under my arm is comforting, reassuring. I get the tapes down and put them on the desk with the recorder. I can smell myself. The smell of blood is still in my nostrils. Blood is still under my fingernails. I want to take a shower but I’m too tired. I’ll wash my hands and face later. I’ll take a shower after I sleep.

  I pour the tumbler half full. No ice. The Scotch is cheap. After the first sip, they all taste the same. Something on an old tape of a session with Dr. Albright comes to me. Of course, I remember it word for word.

  I can picture her white hair, her kind face, as we talk.

  Dr. A: But you’re here now. You’re safe.

  Me: I think so. But I don’t know for sure. No one really does.

  Dr. A: I suppose that’s so. But you’re no longer in imminent danger.

  That’s what you think. What was true then is true now. I have a stalker. I’m not conscious of moving my hand, but I’ve drawn the loaner .45 and am holding it on top of the desk. Again, I don’t know why they need to test my gun. I told them I shot the asshole. I know I’ll sleep with this one for a while.

  I look at the top of my desk. Cheap tumbler. Cheap Scotch. Cassette tapes in a box. Cassette player. Two framed pictures of my brother. One was taken at my aunt Ginger’s house in Idaho. The other is of Hayden when he graduated from high school. On the back of that one is a handwritten note:

  Rylee, I’m graduating today. You are not here (as always). My foster parents are nice people, but they don’t replace my family. Thanks for taking all of that away from me.

  I deserve his hate. But still I send emails and check for emails several times a day. I’ve written him dozens of times. He hasn’t written back.

  I punish myself by listening
to the taped sessions with Dr. Albright. I guess they’ve helped to open me up, as she was fond of saying. Giving me a new life. I don’t think so. I slot in a new tape and my finger pauses over the “play” button when I hear a knock at the door.

  There’s a sharp pain in my chest because I’ve jumped up, and my weapon is in my hand. I don’t think a killer would knock first, but Jimmy knocked at Ronnie’s before he shot me twice. I move to the door and stand to one side, gun held in both hands, muzzle pointed at the middle of the door. I wait. Another knock. Not forceful. I move to the other side of the door where the doorknob is. I unlatch the door, twist the knob, and pull it open.

  My breath catches in my throat and I consciously have to ease the pressure my finger has put on the trigger.

  “I figured I’d get a reception,” Hayden says, “but I didn’t think it would be this.”

  I can’t stop staring. My mouth is hanging open. I will my arms to lower the gun.

  “Can I come in?” He smiles that same stupid lopsided smile of his and that breaks the spell.

  I stand back and he enters. I close and lock the door behind him. He walks into the sparse room where I have a couch and a kitchen chair. I still don’t have a television. Too many of the programs still trigger bad memories. I only think of the TV because Hayden spent hours in front of it.

  My brother is more than six feet tall and his skinny ribbed chest and slumped shoulders have broadened and filled out with muscle. He’s wearing khaki cargo pants that are a little too snug and a blue-and-red T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front. His hair is short and sun-bleached the color of beach sand. His eyes, however, have changed. The color is the same, but they aren’t the scared-shitless eyes of a little boy. They exude confidence. Experience. Danger. They’ve seen things even I haven’t seen. He’s me, only maybe more messed up.

  “How have you been?” It comes out of my mouth and I cringe inwardly. Stupid. Stupid.

  “I’m home. That’s all that matters. Right, Rylee? Or is it Megan now?” He grins, but I can’t tell if it’s a humorous grin. It’s more accusing. Sharp.