“We need to have Dr. Rutledge check the paternity of Lindsay’s baby,” Zander muttered.
“What difference will it make who the father is?” Greer said bitterly. “Both the mother and the baby are dead.”
Dead. Mother. Baby.
Zander fought to hide the shudder that abruptly racked his limbs. “You know as well as I do that it could indicate motivation. Or at least part of the motivation,” he said. “We should find out anyway. I’ll shoot him an email.”
“We’ll need a sample from Billy.”
“Let’s first see if it’s Sean’s.” Zander took a deep breath. This case was getting more twisted by the minute. “Has Kyle or Billy been in the prison system?”
The sheriff took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I remember Kyle going away for a bit. Assault charge, I think. I want to say he was down in Salem at the state pen. I think Billy’s only been held in the county lockup, but I can double-check.” He replaced the hat and gave a firm tug on the brim. “Let’s head inside and take a look. I need to check in with the crime scene unit back at Copeland’s too.”
Zander followed the sheriff toward a back door at the department. “Did you get a good look at Kyle’s tattoos?” he asked. Clear, black, curved lines burned in Zander’s memory. But the top of the tattoo had disappeared under Kyle’s sleeve.
Greer frowned. “Didn’t pay attention, I guess.” His face cleared. “We have photos of his tattoos on file from his arrests. I’ll find them. We started recording tattoos about five years ago. Sometimes the Portland Police Bureau’s Gang Unit wants to see a tattoo on someone we arrested. They track gang tattoos.”
“I’d like to see the rest of the tattoo on his right forearm. It went under his sleeve.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Could be an indicator of how Kyle feels toward other races.”
“Was it the same symbol as on Sean’s forehead?”
“No.”
Greer deflated a bit. “I’m not up to date on this shit. Wonder how many other things I’m oblivious to.” He yanked open the back entrance and led Zander through a hallway lit by fluorescents. He unlocked a door with his name on it and motioned for Zander to enter.
Zander took a seat. The sheriff stepped behind his desk, woke up his computer, and turned the screen so Zander could watch. While he waited for the sheriff to find the files, Zander sent a quick email about Lindsay’s baby to the medical examiner. There were two voice mails from Ava, and he read the transcriptions on his phone. The first said the county deputy was still watching Billy and keeping an eye on his vehicle as the man worked inside the store. The second asked if he knew about a community meeting tonight to address the Fitch murders.
First I’ve heard of it.
He wondered if the news of Nate Copeland’s death had gotten out. He had doubts about it being a suicide, but the public didn’t know that yet.
They shouldn’t know that yet.
Zander was about to mention the community meeting to the sheriff when Kyle Osburne’s mug shot appeared on the computer screen. Make that several mug shots of Kyle. The sheriff was correct that Kyle had been arrested a number of times. Greer clicked and scrolled and muttered under his breath until he found what he wanted. “Yep. Kyle was in the state pen for eight months. Got out two years ago.” He clicked some more. “Here are the images I was looking for.”
He opened a file of thirteen photographs. Zander leaned toward the screen. The pictures had been taken at different times. The progression showed that Kyle had actively acquired more ink. He had an eagle across his upper back and a tiger on his calf. The most recent photo showed the tiger had been enhanced with color when compared to an older one where it was simply an outline. Kyle’s right arm had a tribal band around his bicep, and Zander eyed it, wondering if it was simply decorative or had a deeper meaning. The sheriff scrolled down the page, and a shot of Kyle’s right forearm rolled into view. The tattoo was a simple shield with two letters inside.
Ice touched Zander’s lungs.
“Is that the one you wanted to see?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes. Scroll back up to the right arm with the tribal band on the bicep, please.”
The sheriff did, and Zander noted the date. “Now back to the forearm view.” He checked its date, remembering Kyle had been in the prison system two years before.
The forearm tattoo had been added after his prison time.
Zander sat back in his chair. He’d been right but didn’t feel victorious.
“Well?” Greer was impatient.
“The E and K in the shield stand for European Kindred,” Zander said slowly. “I’ve come across it in a case before. It’s a white supremacist gang that originated in the Oregon prison system about twenty years ago and spread to the streets.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s real. On the streets it’s more about the drugs, but racism is the primary tenet. Did you say Billy and Kyle had drug arrests?”
“Both do.”
“Do you have tattoo photos for Billy?”
Greer nodded and started to search. A moment later he opened a file for Billy. In the photos, Billy had only one tattoo. A lion roaring on his right deltoid.
Zander was strangely disappointed.
“This photo is four years old. He could have more by now,” Greer stated.
“We need to have a talk with Billy Osburne.” Zander checked the time. “You want to meet him outside his work? I’m sure Kyle has let him know we paid a visit.”
“We definitely need to do that.”
“Ava left a voice mail asking if I’d heard about tonight’s community meeting regarding the Fitch murders,” Zander told him.
The sheriff jerked in his chair as his gaze flew up. “What? Tonight? We’ll see about that. Who on earth—oh, I can guess who organized that.” He glowered at Zander. “One of Emily Mills’s aunts.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because they’ve got their wrinkled fingers in every pot in Bartonville.”
Zander glanced at the sheriff’s weathered hands. He must feel entitled to use that descriptor since he had wrinkled fingers too.
“Where would they hold the meeting?”
“Probably the Methodist church hall. It’s the biggest place in town—every group rents it for their gabfests. It holds more sinners’ meetings than saints’.” The sheriff stood up. “Let’s go find Billy first.”
14
Madison burrowed her nose into the fuzzy collar of the thick coat and curled her cold hands inside her pockets. She was trespassing, but the dock supervisors wouldn’t care if they spotted her. The deserted employee bench behind the warehouses at the dock was hard and cold, but one of the best places to watch the sunset.
A half hour ago she’d noticed the sky far to the west had cleared, promising to show off the first visible sunset in weeks, so she had headed for the docks. She’d crammed an old Goonies baseball cap on her head, determined to ignore the icy air.
The sky started to change, and she sighed, watching the blues and pinks move across as the ocean turned a glassy silver, mirroring the colors of the sky. The wind had taken a rest, and the water was calm.
She could almost forget that Lindsay was dead.
Her eyes closed, and her friend’s warm smile took over her thoughts.
That FBI agent—McLane—had been gentle and tactful with her questions that morning, and Madison had respected the keen look in her eyes. The woman was determined to find out who’d killed Lindsay and Sean. Madison had answered her questions the best she could, letting the tears flow.
Tears were a good shield. They hid her eyes from exposing her thoughts and gave her time to consider each question. They also made other people tread carefully, not wanting to make the crying jag worse.
It’d been an effective tool for McLane’s interview.
Madison had nothing to hide from the agent, but she didn’t allow people to peek into her bra
in and explore what made her tick. The questions and answers were about Lindsay, but she knew the agent was studying and forming opinions about Madison as they talked.
She was a good actress. Skilled at deflecting and masking.
Keeping people away was her specialty.
McLane had asked when Madison saw Lindsay last. An easy question. They’d worked together the day before. Lindsay had been the opening solo waitress, sufficient for the off-season breakfast crowd. Madison came on for lunch, and the two of them had easily covered the mild rush.
The agent’s questions about Lindsay’s recent attitude and state of mind had been harder to answer. Madison had thought back, realizing that lately she’d barely spent time with Lindsay outside of work. That was unusual. But Lindsay had broken their plans a few times—meeting for drinks or heading to Astoria to shop. Even a trip to Portland.
Lindsay had been quiet. Less laughter, less lightheartedness. Fewer texts.
Madison hadn’t seen it until McLane asked.
“Did she mention any problems with her husband?” Special Agent McLane had asked her. “Was she worried about anything at home?”
Madison had no answers. But in hindsight, she had subconsciously known something was wrong. Something else had been taking up Lindsay’s time and depressing her.
Had she been a horrible friend to not see it?
Had Lindsay and Sean been having trouble?
She took a deep breath of the salty air, savoring the western sky as it grew pinker and more intense. The sun was close to setting—maybe another five minutes. Her cell phone stayed in her pocket. The colors could never be captured. Instead she simply enjoyed each sunset as it came, confident that there would always be another to see.
No more sunsets for Lindsay.
Her eyes burned.
Why Lindsay? Why Sean? And why was he hanged?
The last question disturbed her acutely because of the similarity to her father’s death. But she refused to let others see the depth of her feelings.
Madison liked walls. Protective barriers around her thoughts and fears.
Walls kept her heart safe.
If she didn’t feel anything for anyone, then she couldn’t be hurt if they were taken away.
Lindsay had sneaked under her usual barriers. Madison had thought getting to know the outgoing young waitress was safe. Now Lindsay had been forcefully removed from Madison’s life, leaving her insides in shreds.
She couldn’t let anyone in again.
She pulled up her legs, braced her boot heels against the bench, and wrapped her arms around her legs, enjoying the show. The sky’s colors now spread to the east, where they met the day’s dark-gray clouds. Gentle waves rippled through the colors reflected by the ocean.
Flames of yellow and orange hovered near the sun as it seemed to touch the water. She set her chin on her knees, willing the sun to slow.
Flames. Madison woke as her bedroom window flashed with light, and she blinked at the odd glow. Emily’s bed was empty, and patterns flickered across the bed and up their bedroom walls. Madison stood, balancing on the foot of her bed to see out the window. Fear froze her in place, her fingers gripping the windowsill. The bushes against the house were on fire. Through the smoke and flames, she spotted Emily in her nightgown, but she faced away from the house, looking toward the woods. Her sister took several steps, picked up something from the grass, and clutched it to her chest, her profile now clear to Madison. Emily stared across the yard, and Madison followed her gaze.
Her mother ran among the firs at the far edge of the yard, the light from the fire catching her long, blonde hair. Suddenly the flames flared below Madison’s window, nearly reaching the roof. Madison lost her balance and fell backward onto her mattress, losing her breath. And then Emily was inside, tugging at her arm. “Wake up! Fire! We’ve got to get out of the house!”
The sky around the sinking sun turned the deep orange of hot coals.
Madison hated fire with a passion.
Emily had shoved Madison out of the house and then gone to find their mother. Tara was at a friend’s. The three of them had clutched each other, watching the house burn.
Later she learned how her father had died, and her child’s heart broke in half, crushed by the loss and cruelty.
And a few days later, Tara left, and Madison blamed herself, convinced she had driven her away with her sisterly inquisitiveness.
Her mother might as well have vanished that fateful day. She became a brittle shell, a whisper of the woman she’d been, a shadow of herself.
Then she too was gone.
A third blow to her ten-year-old psyche.
Madison pushed away the deluge of old hidden emotions that threatened as she sat at the ocean’s edge.
She had learned she should never share her heart with another. People left. People died. It hurt. It was best not to become attached.
The aunts tried their best to fill the empty family-shaped holes around Madison, and she loved them for it. But their presence was not the same.
“Is that you, Madison?”
Madison lowered her legs and swung around to face the woman, her elbows and feet ready to strike. She’d instantly recognized the voice but couldn’t stop her reaction.
The old woman in the long, padded coat stumbled backward. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to scare you. I don’t like to scare people.” She covered her face with her hands.
Madison’s spine relaxed, and her heartbeat slowed. “It’s okay, Alice. I was just startled.”
It was another Bartonville loner.
Over her thick knit scarf, Alice Penn gave a toothy smile—more of a grimace that flashed her teeth without projecting warmth. Alice was harmless.
Alice had wandered Bartonville for as long as Madison could remember, living in a tiny house near the abandoned seafood processing plant. Rumor had it that her lover had died in a fishing boat accident, and that she’d walked the docks since then, waiting for him to return. Madison knew the story was false. She’d talked frequently with Alice, and even though Alice wasn’t mentally all there, she was fully aware he was dead.
The woman’s mind skipped and jumped around between decades. Sometimes she believed she was in high school, her parents still living. Other times she believed she was late for her cleaning job at a hotel that had closed a decade ago. Some days she knew Madison’s name; other days Alice called her a name from some shadow of her past.
Around Alice, Madison didn’t feel compelled to hide.
She could be herself.
Alice’s bent, shuffling form was a familiar sight on the streets of Bartonville and surrounding towns. Alice walked every day, no matter the weather, and often ended up on the bench that Madison loved. Sometimes Alice would talk the entire time they sat; other times she was silent.
Alice’s family was gone, but the people of Bartonville looked after her. Madison brought her leftover food from the restaurant, and Leo, the diner’s cook, made sure her house was stable and secure.
Tonight appeared to be a silent night instead of a talkative one. Alice sat quietly on the far end of the bench, with as much room as possible between herself and Madison. Alice mumbled about being late and missing the best part of the sunset, but her eyes locked on the vibrant slivers of its remains, barely blinking. Several minutes later the light was nearly gone, leaving a dark-lavender sky that steadily grew darker.
Alice sighed and pushed to her feet. “A good day. A very good day today. I hope your day was as blessed as mine, Madison.”
She had the voice of a young woman.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Madison replied.
Alice tilted her head, her eyes nearly invisible in the dimming light. “I don’t hear joy in your words, Madison. How can you watch the heavens outdo every sunset of their past and say your day wasn’t too bad?”
Because my closest friend was murdered. And I think I may have let her down before she died. Why didn’t Lindsay tell me wha
t was going on with her?
Why didn’t I ask?
“You’re right. It was amazing.”
“Good. Good. Good. That’s better. Now. We had both best be going. I don’t want to be late for the meeting at the church.” She steadied herself with one hand on the back of the bench.
Madison jumped to her feet, ready to grab Alice if she toppled. “What’s happening at the church tonight?”
Like a curious puppy, Alice tilted her head again. This time her gaze solidly collided with Madison’s. “Why, there’s a meeting about the murders, of course. We’ve got a killer in our town.”
15
“He’s gone?” Zander was fuming.
The deputy wouldn’t look him or Sheriff Greer in the eye.
Billy Osburne had disappeared into the wind. His truck was still in the parking lot, having been watched carefully by a deputy, but when they stepped inside the store, they’d discovered Billy had left fifteen minutes before. The other auto parts employee was baffled by their interest in Billy and also surprised that his truck was still in the lot.
“Billy didn’t act worried about anything,” the employee told them. “He asked if I could cover the rest of the evening since things were slow.” He shrugged. “Then he left. I assume he called a ride. What do you think is wrong with his truck?”
Zander didn’t tell him that Billy had been under surveillance.
The deputy on Billy duty drooped. “I saw him through the store window not that long ago. I couldn’t see him the whole time unless I went in the store. I figured I was good as long as I had his truck in sight.”
Greer simply stared at his deputy, making the man wilt even more.
Zander could almost hear the lecture that had to be running through Greer’s brain.
“Since you’re so good at watching his truck,” the sheriff finally said, “you can continue watching it for the rest of your shift after you call in his description. I want everyone keeping an eye out for Billy Osburne.”
“What if I’m needed somewhere else?” the deputy asked, his focus on his shoes.
“If no one else is available, then go, dammit. Citizens come before an empty truck.” Greer shook his head and turned to leave, gesturing for Zander to follow him.
The Last Sister Page 10