Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  I shrugged. “Just a bit of small talk.”

  Holly rolled his eyes.

  “It got us to the bit about Shannon spending twenty K for an upgrade, didn’t it?”

  “I’ll give you that, I guess.”

  20

  Late Morning, August 19

  It wasn’t my first choice, but I left it to Hollis and Al to dust Shannon’s loaner for prints and gather any other possible evidence. Before leaving town, I stopped in at my apartment and changed into my newest uniform, one I hadn’t worn since retrieving it from the cleaners. I thought about dabbing on a spot of lipstick, but I’d never worn makeup while on the clock, and it seemed ill conceived to do so now since I was off to meet with a woman who called herself Steve. Not that I cared what Trooper Stephanie Abbott called herself; I only cared that she wasn’t trying to mess with my reputation and my career.

  Finally on the road to Bend, I phoned Duncan to find out how his dad was doing and to let him know I was making this damn trip. When he didn’t answer, I hung up and dialed in KJDY, a local radio channel. Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Snoop Dogg, and Jamey Johnson were belting out “Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die.” Grant County residents weren’t teetotalers when it came to weed—not by a long shot. But that song was a definite indication the radio station was under new management.

  Soon enough, I had motored beyond the reach of KJDY and was yet to be in range of KRCO, the classic country channel in Prineville. I had other options but decided to go with silence instead. I hadn’t driven Highway 26 west beyond Picture Gorge and the Grant County line for some time, and I’d forgotten how stunning that patch of territory was.

  About an hour in, I pulled off the roadway at a small turnout. The Aldrich and Strawberry ranges flanked the view to the east, forming a massive volcanic wall millions of years old. And to the west, the Ochoco Mountains, a sister range of similar proportion and makeup. From where I sat in my idling Tahoe, the serpentine specter of those ancient peaks of granite, marl, schist, obsidian, and shale alive with forestland, wildlife, and waterways reminded me I was nothing more than an itinerant mote.

  An itinerant mote that needed to get her ass on the road.

  I’d just passed through Prineville when Hollis radioed from his police vehicle to tell me Dave Shannon hadn’t owned his sheep ranch property for more than a year. He’d sold it to some investment company that had kept him on to manage the place.

  “The package included purchase of the animals, too,” he said.

  “But not his vehicle, right?”

  “Only those related to managing the ranch.”

  “I know there’s an all-terrain vehicle. Anything else?”

  “A tractor with mower and baler attachments.”

  I sighed. “So financially, he’s pretty well set?”

  “He hadn’t been able to pay his mortgage in quite some time. And it looks like he barely managed to break even by selling the ranch. And before you ask, I don’t know how he was able to buy the first truck, let alone go for an upgrade after it was stolen.”

  “We didn’t ask Bob Cole, the car salesman, how Shannon qualified for an upgrade, either. As in, did he pay the difference in cash or refinance the whole thing.”

  I let all that sit for a moment. Holly followed suit.

  “Shit,” I said. “We also didn’t ask Bob if Shannon had a bandage on one side of his face.”

  “Well, I’m not sure if it helps, but we did find a bloody rag when we went through the loaner. I’m on my way to Silvies right now so Harry can check it out. The detective decided we’d wait until tomorrow to question Cecil Burney.”

  “Well, a bloody rag is something, at least.”

  “Maggie, after I drop it off at Harry’s lab, I need to go home and take over childcare for a while. Lil hasn’t been sleeping at night. All that reading about ovarian cancer is getting to her, seems to me.”

  “No problem, Holly. See you in the morning.”

  Bend had outgrown itself a couple of times over since the time I first traveled there in 1992 with my high school choir. We had gone to listen to the Oregon Symphony, and it was the closest most of us had ever gotten to highfalutin concertgoers, or highfalutin anything else. Even then, with its population of twenty-four thousand, the town of Bend had three times more residents than all of Grant County. And in the interim, it had sprouted into a small city of over a hundred thousand.

  I made my way through the sprawling streets and overpasses flanked by shopping malls and arrived twenty minutes early for my appointment with Trooper Abbott. Parked in the small lot next to the State Police headquarters, I was reluctant to enter the building any earlier than I had to. I punched in Duncan’s cell number.

  He picked up after a few rings. “Hi, babe.”

  “Hey, Dun. I tried to reach you earlier. I wanted to know how your dad was doing?”

  “Great. He’s likely going to be sent home in a couple of days. Says he’s giving up bacon and eggs for good.”

  “Glad he’s feeling better. How’s your day going otherwise?”

  “Good, how about yours?”

  “I’m sitting in the OSP parking lot in Bend.”

  “Bend?”

  “I forgot to mention it last night, but I have a three o'clock appointment.”

  “Is this about the case—the murder, I mean?”

  Technically, it was. “Yeah. I’ll probably be late getting home.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “My being late?”

  “Nah, you calling the place home.”

  “Well, Louie insisted.”

  “Ah, I knew the old guy was on my side.”

  “I should probably go check in at reception, Dun.”

  “Okay, babe. Drive carefully on your way back.”

  I sat in the angular waiting area and grew impatient. One of Steve Abbott’s likely strategies for jangling my nerves, I assumed. When she arrived to collect me, I was surprised to meet a State cop even shorter than I was. And tiny, to boot. Figured I could take her if our conversation wandered into a tussle. My mood lifted just thinking about that possibility.

  She led me to a room smaller than the storage closet in my police station and furnished with a metal table and two metal chairs. Cold, like the woman herself.

  We droned through the up-front formalities, and then she got down to business.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Sergeant Lake.”

  “We were married for five minutes, and then we got divorced.”

  “Were you a member of the Oregon State Police while you were married?”

  “He was. I was an Academy cadet.”

  “Was he your supervisor?”

  “When I was first stationed in John Day and long after we were divorced.”

  “Was he your supervisor while you were a cadet?”

  “As a cadet, every sworn officer was my supervisor.”

  “Was he an instructor during your training?”

  “Yes. That’s how we met.”

  “And you knew fraternization between instructor and cadet was forbidden?”

  “I did.”

  “While you were married to Sergeant Lake, was he ever violent?”

  No beating around the bush from this gal.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you fight back?”

  I had to word my response carefully. “Every time, but he always won.”

  “How many instances of violence during your marriage?”

  “I don’t know exactly. We were married on June the fifth and had separated by the time October rolled around. He didn’t beat me, slap me, kick me, or shove me against a wall every day we were together, just most days we were together.”

  “Did you seek help?”

  “No, I simply left before it got worse.”

  “And you had no clue before the marriage Sergeant Lake could become physically violent?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But I was an emotional mess, on the rebound from
my first marriage. My ‘asshole detection’ skills were on the fritz.”

  “Why didn’t you report it to his commander?”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “I’ll ask again, why didn’t you report Sergeant Lake’s behavior?”

  “Would you, a female in a male-dominated, regimental police organization, have reported his behavior? No, I don’t believe you would have, not if you planned to go up through the ranks, prove your ability to take it while being a good fucking cop, one respected even by pricks like Jeremy T. Lake. No, I can tell. You’re like me, you want to make it out alive and on top. You wouldn’t have reported him either.”

  She stared at me for a full half minute. “What was the final straw, the action that prompted you to leave?”

  “He knocked me hard into a hot woodstove, and my shoulder was badly burned.”

  “And after that happened, did you pull out your service revolver and aim it at Sergeant Lake?”

  The woman had no idea how well practiced I was at keeping that matter a secret. Duncan was the only person I had ever told. “No.”

  “That’s not what Ms. Kennedy suggested.”

  “Did she suggest it, or did she say that’s what he claimed happened?”

  “Sergeant Blackthorne, I don’t think you understand why you’re here.”

  “Oh, I do understand why I’m here. Ms. Kennedy’s fiancé was murdered in my police district. Her fiancé and I had a tawdry, violent past. And until he lost the authority he once had over me, I’d had to put up with all the shit he pulled as my supervisor. So, this woman believes there was so much pent-up rage and hatred that I jumped at the chance to kill him?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Now is when I would’ve murdered him?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No, you tell me.”

  “Sergeant…”

  “Fuck off. I have moved on from past history, Trooper Abbott. I’m engaged to a great guy. I’m even pregnant with his child. Lake has been out of my life for some time. I did not kill him.”

  She placed her pen on the desk. “You really should watch your language, Sergeant.”

  I almost told her to fuck off a second time. “You’re welcome to ding me for that.”

  Steve Abbott pulled her ringing phone from her back pocket. “No, we’re done here, sir. We’ll be right there.” She clicked off her phone. “I’m to escort you to Corporal Macintyre’s office.”

  “What’s that about?”

  “He didn’t explain. But he said to hurry.”

  We moved from the interrogation room, or whatever its true purpose was, and I followed her down the hall and up the stairs to the third door on the right. When she knocked, Macintyre, I presumed, told us to come on in.

  “Thank you, Steve. Have a seat, Sergeant Blackthorne.”

  Trooper Abbott shut the door, and I sat in the chair I was offered. I had met Corporal Macintyre once before, and that was at my Academy graduation ceremony. I’d heard he was aloof, but he was also well respected.

  “How was the drive over?” His white mustache twitched when he spoke.

  I could see Mt. Bachelor from his corner window. “Beautiful, sir.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it will be a while before you get to drive back.”

  What the hell did that mean? “Sir?”

  “I had a call from Al Bach. St. Charles Hospital here in Bend had called your office in John Day trying to reach you. A woman by the name of Janine Harbaugh—a resident of your county, I believe—is awake and asking for you. Al thought it might be important to one of your cases, so I told him I would send you over to the hospital pronto.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  I stood. “Do I need to explain to Trooper Abbott?”

  “Abbott will contact you if she has any more questions.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You better get a move on, Sergeant.”

  Janine was still a ways from being back to her old self, but it appeared to me she was going to live. The nurse who had led me to her bedside was tight-lipped about her condition. All he’d said was, “Five minutes.”

  “Janine,” I whispered. “How are you feeling?”

  She opened her eyes and spoke hoarsely. “Like I’ve been pushed off a fire tower.”

  I noted that she was able to speak in a complete sentence. A level of lucidity she couldn’t manage yesterday.

  I smiled. “You had something you wanted to tell me?”

  “His name.”

  I had the urge to say Dave Shannon’s name myself, sparing her the effort. But that’s not how this was supposed to work.

  “Bob Cole’s kid,” she said.

  “Robbie?”

  She took a ragged breath. “Robbie Cole choked me and forced me off the catwalk. Told me he came to kill me.”

  Janine wept quietly, and perplexed, I stood at her bedside wondering what on Earth made Janine believe Robbie Cole was the assailant. Snapping out of it, I lifted a tissue from the box strategically installed nearby and placed it in her hand.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” I said.

  She smiled weakly. “Why would Robbie want to hurt me?”

  “Are you certain it was him?”

  “I watched him march up the hill. I know it was.”

  “You have some photos on your phone of someone walking up the hill. Is that the guy?”

  “You found my phone. I didn’t know.”

  I patted her arm. “Yeah. I should have told you first thing.”

  “Then you can see that it’s Robbie Cole.”

  “The pictures are really blurry.”

  “It’s him, Maggie.”

  I took a different tack. “Did he say anything else?”

  Janine swallowed. “Asked me over and over ‘who took it.’ Said I didn’t know what he meant. And he called me…what was the word? Snitch. Said I was a nosy old snitch.”

  I let that marinate for a moment. “Snitch? Did you tell anyone you phoned me after you spotted those fugitives driving Dave Shannon’s rig all over the forest?”

  “No, I wouldn’t have.”

  But I had. I’d explicitly told Dave himself that Janine had contacted me after viewing his stolen truck from her fire finder.

  “You had foreign skin under your fingernails. Is it possible you scratched his face while you were fighting him off?”

  She paused and closed her eyes. “I’m so tired. Afraid I don’t remember.”

  “Time’s up.” The nurse had returned.

  I nodded and kissed Janine lightly on the forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Now I know you’re gonna lock him up, all the bad dreams will stop.”

  Back on the road, I called Al Bach. He was still at my police station, and he sounded exhausted and irritated about having to supervise three ongoing murder investigations. Along with J.T.’s homicide and the suspicious death in La Grande, it turned out that Ray Gattis had been correct about the death of the twin sisters in Baker City. One had shot the other and then turned the gun on herself.

  “Corporal Macintyre tells me I need to warn you about your use of profanity,” the detective began.

  “I was very respectful when I spoke to the corporal.”

  “Stop it, Maggie. You know that’s not the conversation he was referring to.”

  I told myself to chill it with my so-called witty remarks for the time being. “Thanks for arranging for me to speak with Janine Harbaugh. She’s doing much better, but she made a surprising claim. Surprising to me, anyway.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “That car salesman this morning, Bob Cole, has a son about seventeen or eighteen. Name’s Robert Cole, Jr. Goes by Robbie, and Janine claims he strangled her and pushed her off the tower catwalk.”

  “Could she be mistaken?”

  “Not only could she be mistaken, I believe she is mistaken.”

  “What do you know about the boy?”
/>
  “He spent three years in the Eastern Oregon Youth Correctional Facility. Just got out last spring. He was in for the usual. Drugs, booze, shoplifting, getting into brawls.”

  “So he gets sent to a place where he can hone some of his skills?”

  I’d never heard Al speak so pessimistically. “Yeah. Interestingly, I had a chat with him yesterday. Let him know he couldn’t sleep on picnic tables in the park. And the day before, I interrupted him roughing up a younger boy.”

  “Why are you so certain she’s mistaken about the identity of her attacker?”

  “The skin under her fingernails is evidence she scratched her attacker, it seems to me. But when I talked to Robbie yesterday, he had no scratches on his face.”

  “Well, other than the hospital director letting you know someone had come in with facial lesions consistent with fingernail scratches, why are you so sure Ms. Harbaugh didn’t scratch her assailant elsewhere on his body?”

  Damn. Hadn’t thought of that. “You’re right, Al. Of course she could have scratched the guy somewhere else. An arm, for instance. Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember scratching him at all, so she wasn’t able to say where.”

  “The photos in Ms. Harbaugh’s phone? Could you tell what he was wearing?”

  “A brown long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and if I remember right, a dark cap with some kind of insignia on it. And cowboy boots, maybe a match for the casts I took.”

  “If the shirt had long sleeves, that lessens the likelihood she scratched an arm.”

  “It was definitely a long-sleeved shirt, Al.”

  “You could be on to something. At least it calls for another talk with the hospital director. But you might be more persuasive if you bring along a homicide detective.”

  21

  Evening, August 19

  Detective Bach and I had agreed on a general game plan for our discussion with the hospital director before ending our call. The weather was clear, and there would be plenty of daylight for most of the drive back to John Day. Still, I was anxious to hasten the day’s second trip through the Ochoco Mountains, so I bumped up the speed of my Tahoe a notch.