He needed to focus on the murders, not the three sisters. “Did you talk with Sean Fitch’s relatives yesterday?” he asked Ava.
“The sheriff hadn’t contacted his family yet, so I requested that an agent from the Portland office visit and inform them in person. He gave them my number and told them to call when they were ready to talk. His father called me within a few hours. As you can imagine, they’re hurt and confused.”
Madison appeared at their table. “Coffee?”
“Please,” Zander and Ava answered in unison. Madison turned over the coffee cups on the table and poured.
“Do you know what you want?”
Zander ordered an egg-white omelet, and Ava asked for apple French toast with a side of eggs. He glanced at the menu and saw hers came with whipped cream and caramel sauce.
He immediately regretted his order.
Madison didn’t write anything down but gave a smile as she took their menus.
“That’s not breakfast,” Zander said after she left. “You ordered dessert.”
“That’s why I added the eggs. Any place can make an omelet. I judge a restaurant by their French toast. There are hundreds of ways to do it, and I like to see if places are lazy or unique.”
“I think you’re expecting too much from a rural diner.”
“We’ll see.” Her smile was smug.
“What did Sean’s father have to say?” Zander steered them back to the case.
Ava’s smile faded. “He was in shock, of course. Sean’s mother wasn’t ready to talk, but the father wanted answers.”
“Which you didn’t have.”
“The family is doubly stunned by the possibility that this is a hate crime. Actually, his father fully believes it is—not because Sean had told him there were issues, but because of the scene.”
“He knows how his son was found?”
“He does.” Ava lowered her gaze to her coffee and wrapped her hands around her mug as if they were cold. “I’ve never had a case like this,” she said softly.
“Me neither,” Zander admitted.
“The father said he’d told Sean not to marry Lindsay.”
“Christ. Because she was white?”
Ava nodded. “He liked Lindsay. He knew they were in love, but he didn’t want his son to deal with the additional stress that can come from a mixed-race marriage. He said life is tough enough.”
Zander swore under his breath.
They were both silent for a long second.
“He didn’t know who might hurt his son,” Ava went on. “Stated Sean was always an easygoing guy with a lot of friends. He hadn’t heard from Sean in several weeks, but he said that was normal. I want to talk to him face-to-face at some point. He did give me a few names of Sean’s friends, and I’ll try to contact them today.”
“What about Lindsay’s family?”
Ava looked out the window, frustration forming a line between her brows. “I can’t find much. Her mother died a few years ago, and she had divorced Lindsay’s father when Lindsay was a toddler. She never remarried. No other kids. I’m trying to find the father, but he’s been elusive.”
“Friends?”
She grimaced. “I’ll have to use her old work history and contact her previous employers to find any personal information. Sean’s father wasn’t a big help. He said she had a few friends attend the wedding, but no family.”
“Maybe her father has passed.”
“Sean’s father was under the impression they were estranged in some way but wasn’t positive he was alive. Claims Sean said she didn’t like to talk about her family. It sounds like she didn’t keep in contact with anyone. I don’t know if we’ll find a lead in her background.”
Zander glanced at Madison, who was filling water glasses and chatting with a table of men in heavy work boots and coats. “Emily Mills says Madison was Lindsay’s closest friend.”
“Good to know. I’ll put her at the top of my list. I’m sure she can tell me who else Lindsay socialized with. What about the autopsies? Have you heard from the medical examiner?”
“Dr. Rutledge called me at six this morning.”
Ava’s eyes widened. “Let me guess. He was already at work.”
“Yep. Wanted to let me know he planned to perform both autopsies this morning.” Zander sighed. “I think I answered coherently.”
“And it’s too early to expect any news from the state crime lab.”
“Definitely. I did ask for priority processing on Sean’s laptop that was sent to our computer forensics lab in Portland.”
“Everybody wants priority,” Ava commented.
“True. And the manager’s big sigh when I asked for it didn’t give me a lot of hope.”
They both sipped their coffee. Forensic evidence took time. TV had taught the public that forensics could solve a crime in an hour, but more often it took months. Zander knew he could use the FBI lab back east if he needed a certain piece of evidence handled quickly, but he preferred to use it selectively instead of swamping it with every scrap of evidence from a scene. As the investigation went on, he’d narrow down which pieces of evidence took precedence.
Madison appeared with their order and efficiently set down their plates. Ava’s smile widened as she studied her French toast. Zander’s oversize omelet was stuffed with sautéed peppers and onions, and a parmesan cheese sauce oozed out the sides.
“Do you need anything else?” Madison asked.
“Looks perfect,” said Ava. She already had a fluffy bite on her fork, headed for her mouth. Her blissful expression after her bite reminded Zander why he’d once been half in love with her. He’d told her his feelings last fall during his once-a-year depressive alcohol binge, but it hadn’t affected their friendship or work relationship. The fact that her fiancé was a good guy and a close friend had smoothed the way once Zander had recovered from the acute embarrassment of sharing his deepest secrets at his lowest moment.
“Good?” he asked.
“Amazing. I don’t know what coats it, but the fried crunch is spot-on.” With a wink, she cut a slice in half and transferred it to his plate.
He tasted his omelet, and unexpected flavor exploded in his mouth. He took three rapid bites, no longer regretting his choice.
“How’s your room?” Ava asked between mouthfuls.
He snorted, and she grinned in understanding.
His hotel room was bare bones and hadn’t been updated since the 1980s.
He didn’t mind; he could sleep anywhere. But he hadn’t cared for the earthy scent of dampness. It permeated the carpet and curtains. The bedding and towels were fresh, but this morning his clothing seemed limp from the wet air.
The two of them made fast work of breakfast and were lingering over their coffee when Zander saw Emily emerge from the kitchen. She wore a jacket, so he assumed she’d just arrived. She stopped to talk to a table of four women, each one with a baby or toddler on her lap. Some sort of mom’s group, he surmised. She admired each baby and then patted the shoulder of one mother. The woman’s smiling little girl made him suck in a breath and focus on his coffee.
He looked up to catch Ava eyeing him, her gaze deliberately blank. She wisely didn’t say a thing.
“Good morning.” Emily stopped at their table. “How was your breakfast?”
“Amazing,” Ava stated at the same time that Zander replied, “Great.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Emily, I’d like to talk with Madison,” Ava told her. “When is she off work?”
Emily frowned. “What for?”
Her reluctance caught Zander’s attention. Overprotective sister?
“I’ve hit a bit of a wall on Lindsay’s closest relatives. I was hoping she could help.”
“Oh.” Emily glanced over her shoulder at her sister. Madison had four breakfast plates balanced on her arms as she strode to the far end of the restaurant. “Once the breakfast rush is done, she’ll have time.”
Zander’s phone r
ang, and Emily stepped away. Sheriff Greer’s name was on the screen.
“Wells,” Zander answered.
“Greer here. I got a call from a bar manager who says Sean Fitch got in a bar fight the night before he died.”
“Where?” Zander’s heart sped up.
“Patrick’s Place. Local dive.”
“They open this early? Who’s the manager?”
“They’re not open, but Paul Parish is the manager, and he’s there now. He’ll let us in.”
Annoyance briefly flickered at the thought of the sheriff observing as Zander conducted an interview. Or maybe he expected Zander to observe him interview the manager.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Zander told him before hanging up. “Sean Fitch supposedly got in a bar fight the night before,” he told Ava.
Her eyes widened. “Interesting.”
“The sheriff says he’ll meet me at the bar.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Enjoy. I’ll talk to Madison as soon as this place clears out a little more.”
He slid out of the booth and put on his coat. “Check in later?”
“Absolutely.”
9
No sheriff’s vehicle was present at Patrick’s Place.
For two seconds Zander considered waiting for Sheriff Greer, and then he got out of his vehicle. Patrick’s Place was on the oceanfront. In fact, most of the building stuck out over the ocean, balanced on a network of pilings and heavy beams. The squat one-story building didn’t have any windows in front, and Zander hoped there were windows on the ocean side to take advantage of the view.
It might be prime real estate, but the parking lot was gravel with scattered broken glass. The surf swirled around the pilings as he drew closer, leaving dirty white foam stuck to the wood. It should have been a nice-looking bar in an ideal location. Instead it felt tired and run-down. The building creaked as the waves receded, and Zander wondered if he was taking his life in his hands by entering it. Orange neon light above the door sloppily formed the name, appearing to read PATRICK’S LACE.
Not a good name for a dive bar.
The front door swung open, and a thirtyish guy with a thick beard and a gray stocking hat stepped out, looking directly at Zander. “You Agent Wells?”
“I am. Paul?”
“Yep.”
They shook hands. “Paul Parish at Patrick’s Place,” Zander said with a grin. “That’s some alliteration.”
Paul blinked at him. “Uh . . . yeah.”
He doesn’t get it.
“There isn’t a Patrick anymore,” Paul said, still viewing Zander with confusion. “He died about five years back.”
“Who owns the bar now?” Zander asked to move the conversation farther away from his alliteration comment.
“I do.”
“The sheriff told me you’re the manager.”
“I’m that too. I was manager when Patrick was still around, so people are used to calling me that.”
“So what happened Thursday night?”
Paul shifted his feet and peered past Zander to the road. “Probably should wait for the sheriff since this is about . . . a murder. Can’t believe Sean is gone.”
Zander studied the discomfort on Paul’s face. “How about you show me around your bar while we wait. This is a great location.”
The owner’s face brightened. “Can do.” He tugged on the door’s heavy wood handle, and the door moaned as it opened. Zander entered and was greeted by the odors of stale beer and fryer grease. The interior was well lit; every streak on the grimy floor tile and scuff on the tables was visible. No doubt the lighting was turned down in the evening. The actual bar with shelves of alcohol and stools was spread across the back of the building.
There were no windows.
Regular square tables filled most of the floor, their chairs upside down on their tabletops, leaving the floor available to mop. One corner of the bar was empty. A motionless disco ball hung above the clearing, and a jukebox sat nearby.
“Nice place,” Zander said. “Business good?”
“Winter is slow. Summer’s better.”
“Get a lot of tourists during the summer?”
“Some. The Jiggy Bar down the street gets more. It has windows, and I think tourists like to be able to see inside a new place before they enter.”
“Then you should put in some windows. Windows across the back too. Shame to miss the ocean view.”
Paul gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe someday.”
Zander wondered if his disinterest was because of cost or if he didn’t care for change.
The front door opened, and Sheriff Greer appeared. Out of the corner of his eye, Zander saw the relief on Paul’s face.
Am I that uncomfortable to converse with?
“Hey, Paul. Good to see you. You too, Agent Wells.” Greer nodded at Zander as he removed his hat. “Sorry I’m late. Can you recap what you’ve covered so far?” He looked from Zander to Paul.
“Nothing yet,” said Paul.
Satisfaction crossed Greer’s face. “Good. Walk us through it.”
“Well, I was tending bar—I usually do on Thursday nights. There were probably twenty people inside. A basketball game was on the TV.” Paul gestured at a small screen behind the bar. “Sean came in around—oh, it was probably eight or so.”
“Do you have cameras?” Zander asked, scanning the ceiling and corners.
“No. What for?”
Zander stared at him. “In case of crimes. Fights. Robberies.”
Paul waved a hand. “Not worth the investment to me. We’ve never been robbed—unless you count the time four college punks decided to help themselves to a half dozen vodka bottles. My customers stopped them from making it out the door,” he said with a flourish.
“I remember that,” agreed Greer. “Two had fake IDs. It was a pleasure contacting their parents.”
“So, back to Sean. Eight o’clock. Thursday.” Zander redirected the reminiscing.
Paul ran a hand down his beard. “Sean was sitting right there.” He pointed at a barstool at the center of the bar. “His usual drink is Coors Light.”
“He comes in a lot?” Zander asked.
“Not really. Maybe once a week.”
That seemed frequent to Zander but maybe not to a bar owner.
“Did Lindsay ever come with him?” he asked.
“Nah. Haven’t seen her in here.”
“You know who she is?”
“I do. Seen her around town and in the diner.”
Zander noticed Paul referred to Sean and Lindsay in the present tense. It was probably more comfortable for him. Their deaths hadn’t sunk in yet. “I assume Sean talks to you if he’s sitting at the bar?” Zander asked, mentioning the couple in the same tense. “What’s he talk about?”
Paul frowned. “I don’t know. Basketball? Sometimes he has funny stories about the kids at the high school. He never says their names, though,” he added quickly. “Just tells me about the shit they pull.”
“Who does he hang out with when he’s here?”
The owner crossed his arms. “I thought you wanted to know what happened Thursday.”
“I do. I’m also trying to get a better picture of the victim.”
“These are pretty standard questions,” Greer added.
Zander appreciated the backup, since so far the sheriff had been silent.
Paul twisted his mouth as he concentrated. “Sean doesn’t single anyone out. He just talks with whoever is closest.”
“How’d Sean seem on Thursday? Talkative? Was he watching the game?”
“He didn’t say much on Thursday. I think he mainly watched the game, but he’d been here a solid hour before the Osburne brothers came at him.”
Zander spoke to the sheriff. “Osburne brothers?”
Sheriff Greer grimaced. “Troublemakers. Not the brightest bulbs in the box. I’ve dealt with them at least a half dozen times for DUI, fighting, and speeding. They’re usually mel
low unless they’re drinking.”
Paul was nodding at the sheriff’s words. “I’ve had to cut them off or ask them to leave a few times. Kyle is an obnoxious drunk. One of my bartenders has had a lot of trouble with him.”
“And the other brother?” asked Zander.
“Billy,” said Greer. “Follows his brother’s lead. Both big guys, but Kyle probably has thirty pounds on Billy.”
“The two of them together don’t create a whole brain,” Paul added.
Sheriff Greer snorted. “You got that right.”
“Okay.” Zander had a good picture of the men. “Who approached who?”
“Well, I didn’t see when it started. I heard the crash and turned around. Sean was on the ground, and his stool was knocked over, with Billy swinging and kicking at him, so I think he approached Sean.”
“What did you do?”
“Grabbed my bat.” He walked around the bar and pulled a hidden bat off a low shelf. “I hollered at them to break it up, but I was on this side of the bar, and they ignored me. Well, Billy ignored me. Sean had gotten to his feet, but he was focused on avoiding Billy’s fists and boots.”
“What was Kyle doing?”
“Holding back the crowd,” said Paul, resting the bat on his shoulder. “A couple people tried to get involved, but few will stand up to Kyle or Billy when they’re pissed. I came round the bar and knocked my bat on a few hips to clear a path. When I got through the crowd, I pointed my bat at Kyle and told him to get Billy off Sean. Both were back on the floor by then. Kyle gave me a shitty grin, grabbed his brother’s shirt, and hauled him off Sean. I ordered them out, and they left.”
“You didn’t call the police?” Zander asked.
Paul glanced at Sheriff Greer. “They got better things to do than bust up a fight. It was over, and Sean could stand upright. I gave him a beer on the house, picked up his stool, and he went back to watching the game. It was handled.”
“Sean wasn’t hurt?”
“Oh, he was hurting. I fixed up a bag of ice for his lip, and I noticed he moved stiffly when he finally did leave.”
Zander made a mental note to ask the medical examiner about abrasions and bruises.
“Did anyone ask him how it started?”
The Last Sister Page 6