On a Dark Tide

by Valerie Geary

  “It could be a coincidence,” Brett said.

  Jimmy snorted a laugh. “Sure it could. So what are you thinking? What’s your plan here?”

  “I don’t know. Wait for the autopsy. Let the lead detective work his case, but stick close. Keep my eyes and ears open for anything interesting.”

  “Does your new boss know you’ve been poking around like this?” Jimmy asked.

  “I talked to him about it when I first got here.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He told me to leave it alone.”

  Jimmy’s silence spoke volumes.

  “I can’t live the rest of my life with this seed of doubt,” Brett said. “It’s going to drive me crazy. I need to be sure it was French. But if it wasn’t French, I need to be sure of that, too.”

  “No loose ends.”

  “No loose ends,” she repeated.

  Jimmy sighed. “I know you, Brett. You’re going to do what you’re going to do, no matter what I say. But be careful, okay? Officially your sister’s case is still open. Which means, if you’re right about French—”

  “I think I am.”

  “If you’re right,” he repeated, “then your involvement in tracking down a new suspect could hurt a future criminal trial. Any defense attorney worth their salt would jump all over that demanding a mistrial. It would be a shame to lose a case like that on a technicality, right? Look. I’ve got a few vacation days piled up. Do you want me to come up there? I can be on the first flight out of Portland tomorrow. I’m happy to snoop around a bit if you think it’ll do any good.”

  Jimmy was a badger of a reporter. He dug up answers where others found dead-ends. If she asked, he would drop everything and help her, but she already felt like she owed him too many favors.

  She shifted her tone, wanting to lighten the mood and return them to a place that didn’t feel so suffocated with grief. “I’ve got my hands full enough already without having to come up with ways to keep you entertained.”

  He laughed.

  “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He added, “I miss you, Brett.”

  His words hung heavy in the silence between them.

  It had been five months since he’d kissed her in the dark on his tiny apartment balcony, the lights of downtown Portland reflecting off the Willamette River. She remembered the taste of him, sweet from the wine, bitter from the cigar they’d shared. They were celebrating the sale of his book to a major publisher, and how all he had to do now was write it. She blamed the wine, the way it made her feel loose and happy. She blamed the tiny balcony, which was barely big enough for one person, their bodies brushing together, arms, hands, legs, and then his lips on hers. She kissed him back, and for a minute, she thought he could be everything. Then he pulled away, apologizing. She’d gone inside for a glass of water, and when she came back, she told him they couldn’t start something, not when she was moving to Crestwood for who knew how long. He agreed and laughed it off. Said it was the excitement of the book deal, the wine, the lights on the water. He got carried away, that’s all. She gave him a peck on the cheek, squeezed his hand, and left, stumbling home a little too tipsy that night, trying to convince herself she’d made the right choice.

  She touched her fingers to her mouth now, missing him suddenly and painfully. It would be nice to sit with him and share a drink again. To accidentally brush feet under the table. To watch his hands move as he talked, how excited he got when he spoke about his work. To look into his dark blue eyes and see herself reflected back. It would be nice to be with someone who knew her entire history, more than what was on her résumé. Jimmy was comfortable, like a well-worn pair of shoes, a favorite blanket, like a hot cup of coffee in the morning. But his friendship was too important to her. She didn’t want to complicate it with sex and inevitable heartbreak.

  “Jimmy,” she started to say but was interrupted by the chime of the doorbell. Amma’s hurried footsteps crossed the foyer, and her muffled voice rose up the stairs.

  “Listen, Jimmy, I gotta go,” Brett said. “Someone’s here.”

  She glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was nearing 8:00 PM, wondering who would drop in this late in the evening. Amma met her on the stairs coming down. Her smile widened mischievously, and she reached to pat Brett’s arm. “There’s a very nice young man waiting for you in the sitting room.” She leaned closer and, in a hushed voice, said, “He’s the mayor’s son, you know. Quite a catch.”

  With a wink, she let go of Brett and continued up the stairs. “I’ll be in my bedroom if you need anything, dear.” There was a brightness in her voice, a hint of play. Their fight from earlier in the day, apparently forgotten now.

  She fluttered her hand at Brett and disappeared into her bedroom.

  Brett continued down the stairs where she found Eli Miller in the living room, studying a watercolor painting that hung above the fireplace. It was one Amma had painted years ago. Pop’s sailboat tied to the dock, floating on a rippled surface. The colors made it seem as if the boat was gently rocking. Eli turned away from it when Brett entered the room.

  He smiled at her and held up his hands, showing off a six-pack of beers in one and a white take-out bag in the other. “Thought I’d take you up on that rain check.”

  “What?” She blinked at him, baffled.

  He rattled the paper bag. “Clam chowder. Best in the state.”

  Her cheeks warmed as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Along with her loose-fitting, torn-sleeved shirt, she was wearing ratty sweatpants that hadn’t been washed in she didn’t know how long. Her hair was tousled, probably sticking up in places, the cowlick kinked.

  Eli was dressed in plain clothes, but nice ones. Fitted jeans and a black knit sweater that formed around well-defined muscles. His hair was combed back but not gelled down the way he wore it at work. It looked softer. All of him looked more relaxed, inviting, and she found herself warming to the dimples folding his cheeks. But it was late, and she was dressed for bed, and Jimmy’s voice was still curled against her neck, I miss you, Brett.

  She shook her head. “Did something happen with the Andress case?”

  It was the only reason she could think that he would be here now in her grandmother’s sitting room. A new lead, new information, something so big it couldn’t wait until tomorrow’s briefing. The soup and beers were to make up for the fact that he hadn’t called first.

  But, “No,” he said, his smile faltering. “I thought you might be hungry, and I thought we could, you know, talk. Get to know each other a little better?”

  Without thinking, her hand moved to smooth her cowlick. “I’m sorry, I—”

  Shouting from upstairs interrupted her.

  “I’m going to kill every one of you little bastards!”

  There came a loud squeaking sound and a thump—noises Brett recognized as the attic ladder being pulled from the ceiling.

  Eli took a step toward the stairs. Brett grabbed his arm.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You better run!” Amma shouted. “I’m coming up! I’ll give you to the count of five!”

  Brett pushed Eli out the front door as nicely as she could. His silhouette visible through the etched sidelight windows, he stooped to leave the beers and chowder on the porch.

  Brett turned and took the stairs two at a time. She found Amma standing beneath the attic trapdoor with her head tilted back, Pop’s old BB gun pointed into the gaping, dark hole.

  “Amma! Give me that!” She pulled the BB gun from Amma’s grip.

  “It’s those damned rats again.” Amma put her hands on her hips and scowled up into the attic. “They’re going to chew right through the floorboards.”

  “I’m sure they won’t,” Brett said.

  Amma lowered her gaze to the gun now in Brett’s hands. “Where did you get th
at? You know you’re not supposed to touch your grandfather’s things.”

  She tried to take the BB gun from Brett.

  Brett moved it out of reach of her grasping fingers. “You were the one who brought it out, Amma. Don’t you remember? A few seconds ago, you were pointing it into the attic, threatening the rats.”

  Amma laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even like guns.”

  Brett stared at her. She looked small in her oversized nightgown. Her sharp bones jutted through the thin fabric. Her silver hair, usually neatly combed, was tangled and flying in all directions. Brett didn’t want to do this with her again, talk in circles, arguing until they were both exhausted and saying things that couldn’t be unsaid.

  “I’ll put the gun away, Amma,” she said. “I’ll take care of the rats, too. But first, let’s get you ready for bed.”

  She tried to take her grandmother’s elbow and guide her toward the bedroom, but Amma pushed her away. “I’m not an invalid, Brett. You don’t need to be fussing after me so much. Honestly, it’s tiresome.”

  She shuffled into her bedroom and slammed the door.

  Brett stood a moment beneath the open attic hatch, listening for the rats Amma swore were going to tear the house to pieces. She heard nothing but the distant hiss of the ocean against a pebbled beach. She climbed up the ladder to check the traps. All four were empty, the bait untouched.

  Chapter 7

  Brett checked her watch again. On any other Monday, the morning briefing would already be over. Crestwood PD usually handled simpler cases—either same day open and shut, or lacking any good leads, they were worked only a few days before being filed away in dusty boxes unsolved. Roll call usually lasted no more than an hour, and sometimes five minutes was all they needed. This one was dragging into hour two. And sure, the Andress case was complicated, but considering they didn’t know much more than what they knew on Saturday, it seemed they should be spending their time tracking down leads and interviewing potential witnesses, not listening to their detective sergeant tell a tired story about the time a fisherman found a detached leg floating in Sculpin Bay.

  He’d told this story three times in the four months since Brett had been working here. She didn’t want to know how many times the other officers who had been with the department longer had heard it.

  Brett wasn’t impressed by Stan Harcourt. He insisted on wearing suits that were several sizes too big—the fabric always wrinkled and loose like he was a snake in the middle of shedding season. The earth tones he chose—browns and tans and taupes—washed out his already pale skin. His bad comb-over did little to hide the fact of his balding. As he talked, his jaw worked over a piece of gum, his lips smacking with each word. Twenty years ago, he’d been the lead detective on her sister’s case. He’d since been promoted, but his philosophy about the job hadn’t appeared to change much: do the bare minimum and no more.

  He reached the end of his story, the part where it turns out the leg was from a cadaver the local hospital had lost after one of their vans drove off a bridge in a freak accident. When he laughed, he tilted his head back, and his Adam’s apple jutted like a knife from his skeleton-thin neck. A few officers laughed politely along with him, but most sat like Brett, slouched and staring at the floor, waiting to be given a task and released to work.

  Nathan Andress’ car had been towed to the police impound two days ago. The techs were taking a closer look at it this morning. Irving Winters, the detective leading the investigation, had talked to Mary Andress, Nathan’s mother, on Saturday afternoon. She confirmed Nathan got home from work on Friday around five and that they ate dinner together around six. He’d left shortly after that saying he was meeting up with a friend at the Blue Whale Diner. Mary went to bed around ten. Nathan never came home.

  Someone still needed to interview Nathan’s boss and coworkers. Talk to his friends. Canvass the area around Deadman’s Point to see if anyone witnessed anything strange the night he died. Attend the autopsy. Check into his financials. At some point, Brett needed to tell Irving that she was the friend Nathan was supposed to be meeting at the diner.

  She glanced at her watch again. She usually called Amma around this time to make sure she was awake and had gotten herself dressed and eaten breakfast.

  Last night had been rough for them both. Amma kept getting up and wandering into Brett’s room to ask where Margot was. The first few times, Brett told her the truth. Margot died twenty years ago. But that news sent Amma spiraling into despair, making it nearly impossible for Brett to settle her down and get her back to bed. Exhausted, annoyed at being pulled once again from sleep, Brett finally told Amma that Margot was staying at a friend’s house. The answer seemed to satisfy her. She shuffled off to bed and stayed there for the rest of the night. Of course, by then, it was almost three in the morning, and any chance Brett had at a decent night’s sleep was gone.

  The yawn caught Brett by surprise. She quickly tried to stifle it, but she wasn’t fast enough.

  “I’m sorry, Buchanan, am I boring you?” The Detective Sergeant fixed his gaze on her. His lips pulled into a smirk as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there somewhere more important you need to be right now?”

  “Just eager to get to work, sir,” she said.

  Stifled laughter erupted. Stan’s face pinched, and his cheeks turned bright red as he swept a menacing glare around the room. The laughter stopped.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he said. “The medical examiner is starting his autopsy in a half hour. I know you’re new in town, but I trust you won’t have any problems finding the morgue.”

  “Sir,” Irving protested. He was standing at the front of the room with the detective sergeant waiting for him to finish his story so he could pass out assignments. “I was going to send Officer Miller.”

  Eli shifted in his chair and shot her a quick glance from across the room.

  On the way into the conference room this morning, Brett had pulled him aside. “I’m sorry about last night,” she’d said. “Bad timing.”

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  The question was a land mine. Little by little, her grandmother was forgetting pieces of herself, and Brett had no idea how to help her because she didn’t want help. Because she insisted there was nothing wrong. So, no, everything was not okay. Or maybe it was, and Brett was just overreacting. Either way, that was her personal life, and this was her professional life, and she tried not to mix the two.

  “We’ve got rats in the attic,” she told Eli. “Amma hates rats.”

  He nodded a little too eagerly. “I’d be happy to come by and set some traps.”

  “I already took care of it,” she said, and then quickly added, “Thanks, though. And thanks for the food, too. I don’t know if it’s the best chowder I’ve ever had, but it was pretty damn good.” She’d brought it in from where he’d left it on the front porch, microwaved a cup for herself, and ate it in front of the television after Amma had gone to sleep.

  He smiled at her, said he was glad she’d enjoyed it, and she thought, maybe Eli was someone she could be friends with, her ally in the department. Once one person liked you, it was easier to get the rest on-board. But that wouldn’t work if they were going to continue being pitted against one another like this.

  Eli had been with the department long enough to be on the list for a promotion, but detective spots didn’t come around often in a small force like Crestwood. And though Brett was well-qualified for this position, she knew part of the reason she was here was that the chief of police had pulled a few strings. Not everyone was happy about that. If Irving wanted to assign Eli extra tasks to ease some tension, Brett was fine with that. She didn’t particularly like autopsies anyway. If Eli wanted to go, he should go. She was about to say as much when Stan spoke again.

  “What’s wrong, Irv? You don’t think our little princess can handle an autopsy?” He cracked the gum he was chewing loudly between his teeth,
looking pleased with himself.

  On the other hand, Irving looked very uncomfortable, like he was being jabbed in the back with something sharp. He frowned into his Styrofoam cup of coffee. “No, sir, it’s not that. It’s just—”

  Stan didn’t let him finish.

  “According to the chief, and I quote…” Here Stan lifted his fingers in the air. He curled them around invisible quotation marks and turned his voice mocking, “‘Brett Buchanan is one of the best and brightest. She brings a unique expertise to our department, and we are very lucky to have her.’ Do you hear that, Irv? We are lucky to have Princess Buchanan come down from her castle to help us work our very complicated cases. And seeing as how she’s so much smarter and prettier than the rest of us, I think we should let her do some real police work. Don’t you think we should let her do some real police work?”

  Brett’s cheeks were hot, her jaw clenched.

  Chairs creaked. Someone coughed softly.

  A rigidness crept through Irving’s shoulders. Even from the back of the room, Brett could see a vein pulsing in his temple.

  “Yes, sir,” he finally responded. “Detective Buchanan can handle the autopsy.”

  “Good then.” Stan put his hands on his waist, shoving his sharp hip points out. “The rest of you have your marching orders. Go, do, close this damn case.”

  Chairs screeched across the linoleum. Brett stayed in her seat as the other officers filed out. She kept her head up, her eyes facing forward. No one spoke to her. Even Irving brushed past without a word. He dropped a thin binder on the table in front of her as he left. When it was her and Stan alone in the room, the detective sergeant approached, bending so his breath was hot against her cheek. He reeked of onions and sweat.

  “Truth is, sweetheart, some of us think the chief made a mistake hiring you. So.” A small shrug. “Prove us wrong.”

  Brett gritted her teeth and said nothing.

  When he was gone, she grabbed the binder off the table and followed Irving to his desk. “Irving, I don’t think I should—”