The few people Liv had spoken to on the phone expressed disbelief, fear, and vulnerability. Veiled was their burning question: What had she done to bring a shooter into town? By the end of each conversation, Liv was left with a feeling of guilt, an uneasiness that compounded by the hour. With too much time to think and pain killers in the mix, her brain went into overdrive.
Did I bring this on? Maybe a guy doesn’t like the way I dance. Is some woman jealous of my relationship with Tuck? Could a man be seeking revenge because I’m the sister of the chief? Does my closeness to Parker piss someone off? What if my stupid articles in Giggler put a guy over the edge? Would the Sing Lee articles enrage people? Suppose the stuff I’m doing with salmon oil is cutting into another entrepreneur’s plan. Dammit, why in the world would I want to stay in a town that wants to get rid of me?
A knock on the door startled her, so Liv jerked. “Ouch. Who is it?”
“Me,” yelled Ivor. “You decent?”
“I’ve got my robe on over my PJ’s and I look like hell. I wouldn’t call that decent.”
“I’ll use my key.”
“How you doin’, Sis?” Ivor asked when he entered the room. Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “Got someone to see you. I dropped Parker at the airport and picked up his partner. This is Special Agent Anton Nilson. He wanted you to be the first person he visited after I checked him into the B&B.” Ivor withdrew to the side and gestured to a tall, curly blonde-headed man with a minimal chin and close-set eyes. The man smiled, but Liv could tell he wasn’t practiced at the art.
“Special Agent? I thought Parker was a Seattle detective.”
Ivor jumped in. “A cover, Liv. The alleged murder crossed state boundaries, so the Feds are involved in the task force. When they found evidence on Everett that he had money stashed in a foreign account, Treasury stepped in. SA Nilson and SA Browne are from the office in Fresno, California. We’ll let the town know they’re Federal agents; I’d like you to keep the Treasury part to yourself.”
“Parker’s Treasury?” She pressed her fingers to her glass ochre and black pendant and took a breath.
Ivor came to the couch and sat down next to her feet. “His office is in Fresno, California.”
She made eye contact with Nilson. “Are you taking over the investigation?”
“No, ma’am. SA Browne and I are working together. Sorry you were injured, ma’am.”
“Please call me Liv.”
“I’m on board because someone shot at you or SA Browne.”
Patting Liv’s slippered foot, Ivor said, “The Feds have been involved from the beginning.”
“Because it’s an interstate crime.”
“Right.”
“Why keep that fact hidden?”
“Best not to tip off our suspects.”
Nilson cleared his throat. “The shooting not only blew our cover but clarified for the department SA Browne needed assistance.”
Liv wanted to protest, but she clamped her mouth shut. Wasn’t she the one who’d critiqued Parker’s methods? Why in the world would she argue against back-up? “Agent Browne was working under difficult circumstances, Anton.”
“Oh?”
Liv thought about Gus Stockton, anguishing over his growing list of suspects in the murder of Sing Lee. Was every murder investigation so complicated? “We think the bullet that hit me was meant for Agent Browne.” The impact of her words sank in. Parker could have been killed. We were walking to my apartment, on fire for each other and he might have died before we had a chance to… A tear fell to her cheek.
“Liv?” Ivor asked, eyebrows knit. “Is it the pain, honey?”
“Yes,” she lied. It was pain from the wound as well as from the thought of losing Parker. “Parker Browne was working tirelessly to find Everett Olson’s killer. He’d picked me up at Lito’s Landing so he could follow up on a question session at my mother’s.” She paused for Ivor to show agreement. “Parker could have waited until the next day to question me, but he was trying to be efficient along with being a gentleman and escorting me to my home.”
“That’s true.” Ivor stood and headed for the kitchen. “Let me get us some coffee and hunt up some cookies.”
“Nothing for me.” Nilson sat down in a chair next to Liv’s. Out of his breast pocket, he pulled Liv’s chart. “Agent Browne faxed this to the office a few days ago.”
Liv nodded, but didn’t like the idea of her chart, the one she’d composed for Parker, in this man’s hands. What would the Swede think of the detail in the spreadsheet?
“I don’t understand something, ma’am.”
Liv didn’t move, the throb in her stitches reminding her it was time for another pain pill, the empty feeling in her stomach warning her that Parker might never come back to Petersburg. “What don’t you understand about my data sheet, Anton?”
“Ma’am, I’ve been an investigator for my whole career.” He took a deep breath. “Never have I seen this kind of detail rendered by a witness.” His eyes bored into hers, but he spoke quietly, as if he didn’t want Ivor to hear his words. “We’ve been passing this sheet around the Fresno office. It’s pretty unusual.”
Liv straightened her back and winced at the lightning bolt of pain from her shoulder. “Parker asked for a detailed account, Anton. I am a writer, a researcher; factoid-prone.”
The agent gazed at the sheet of paper, his head shaking. “It’s carefully done, ma’am, more like the work of a guilty person, someone who knew ahead of time she’d be required to account for every minute in this week.”
Liv leaned forward, ignoring the pain in her arm, carefully matching the intensity and modulation of Nilson’s voice. “You work fast don’t you Special Agent Nilson? You whip into town with a plan to show up Parker Browne by having the murderer picked out beforehand. Is this when you slap the cuffs on me and take me to Fresno for questioning?” She smiled inside, thinking she’d at least see Parker there.
Nilson blinked. “Well, I…”
“If I’m guilty of Ev Olson’s murder, then who shot me last night…or tried to shoot Parker? You think I have an accomplice, someone who missed Parker and shot me by accident? Who might that be?” Liv glanced at Ivor as he walked into the room with the coffee, a puzzled look on his face. “Ivor, this is rich. In the time you’ve prepared our coffee, Special Agent Anton Nilson has accused me of bewitching Parker Browne so he won’t arrest me as the killer of Everett Olson. In addition, he’s convinced I have an accomplice I ordered to shoot me in the dark of Sing Lee Alley so I look less suspicious. Isn’t that amazing?”
Balancing a tray of coffee and cookies and a glass of water, Ivor looked from Liv to Nilson repeatedly, settling, finally on Nilson. “She’s been shot, for Christ’s sake, and she’s on pain medication.” He put the tray on the table next to Liv and addressed Nilson. “You should know that Petersburg has taken a liking to Parker Browne and his father. The agent was making progress on the case before someone took a shot at him and/or my sister.” Ivor handed a mug of coffee to Liv and pushed the cookie plate within her reach. The water in Nilson’s glass sloshed a bit when Ivor handed it to the agent. Liv caught Ivor’s tiny grin when Nilson jerked back to avoid getting splashed.
Ivor plunked down in a chair, grabbed his mug of coffee and a handful of cookies. “Have a seat, Nilson, and let’s pretend none of the previous conversation occurred.” He lifted his coffee toward Nilson and Liv, and with a sly smile, said, “Welcome to Little Norway.”
****
Parker sighed as he eased into his chair, exhausted. He gazed at his hourglass, the only artifact he’d brought from his former office. With its rich mahogany base and top, the big hourglass was too elegant for his cubicle’s gray metal desk, but he’d kept it to remind him of a decade of Internet crime-fighting. Computer work had a way of stealing time. He used to hunch over the screen longer than he’d planned, muscles stiffening from disuse and eyes smarting from staring at the computer screen. So he’d learned to flip ov
er the hourglass as soon as he started a project. When the last grain of sand hit the bottom pile, he’d stand up and stretch, walk around the office floor and grab some water… anything to recharge his body and mind, before he’d sit down, turn the hourglass over and begin, again.
No need for an hourglass in Petersburg or Seattle. He couldn’t remember a time in the last two weeks when he wasn’t on the move, except for the slow dance with Liv.
He smiled at the memory.
“Browne?”
“Sir!” Parker said, standing.
“Sit,” Newcastle commanded, charging into the tiny space. “I will, too.”
Parker lowered himself into his chair, unsettled by his boss visiting him. Against the norm; against protocol.
A big man with linebacker shoulders and thick thighs, Bertrand Newcastle always seemed uncomfortable in a suit. A sheen of sweat perpetually lay on his forehead below his crew cut, a sign of constant pressure on a region supervisor, Special Agent in Charge, Parker’s SAC for more than five years. Newcastle sat back, pretending to relax. “I saw you come in. Fresno weather a bit more to your liking?”
With a smile, Parker nodded. “110 inches of rain a year in Petersburg, sir. I think I experienced fifty inches in two weeks.”
SAC Newcastle chuckled. “Never been to Alaska. Lots of crime there, but not much of the big buck variety.”
“Until now.”
“You reported on the Seattle wits. A dozen fat zeroes.”
“Or pluses. Any one of them could have done in Olson sometime that week.”
“But we’re no closer to fingering one.”
“Correct.”
“You’re here to follow the money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nilson said he saw you at the airport.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s already interviewed the woman Olson attacked when she was young. Nilson called her a hostile.”
Parker sat forward. “Sir, Liv Hanson was shot and she’s on pain pills.”
Newcastle held up a palm. “Whatever. He’ll go after Olson’s so-called friend, next. The owner of the bar.”
“Definitely hostile.”
“Olson’s girlfriend?”
“Another tough one.”
“Nice, friendly fishing village.”
Parker leaned back and thumbed in the direction of his computer. “I’ll be done here in half a day and on a plane back to Alaska tomorrow, sir.”
With a shake of his head, Newcastle said. “Maybe not. Let’s see what Nilson can do.”
“Sir?”
“Nilson’s been on the street a long time and I know he was expecting a promotion until the cutbacks hit the department. Let’s give him some time to work alone and lick his wounds. And since you might be a target, let’s keep you out of harm’s way.”
“Sir, I don’t …”
Standing, Newcastle held out his palm again. “No need to get up, Browne.” He pointed to the computer. “Do what you do best.”
“Yes, sir.” As his boss left the cubicle, Parker thought about Nilson grilling Liv. Parker grabbed the hourglass and shook it like a barbell. “Dammit.” A memory of the last time he held the thing aloft roared into his consciousness. Two years ago, he’d been staring at the same computer, watching a satellite image of the massacre of his girlfriend and her crew. Parker had squeezed the hourglass, not caring if he crushed it in his fingers, driving shards of glass deep into his hand. He’d welcome the pain; he deserved the punishment. He’d sat safely in his Fresno office watching the woman he loved die at the hands of assassins. His intel had sent her there, into harm’s way. Once again, he sat cozily in an office while his father, Liv, and Ivor walked among criminals.
And the dreams had come back full force. He woke from nightmares, sweating and shaking. The scene in Sing Lee Alley, when he threw Liv to the ground and covered her body, replayed with horrible specificity.
Sometimes the event unfolded as it happened, but most of the time, when he pulled away from Liv’s body, he saw that she wasn’t breathing, eyes and mouth open in perpetual surprise while blood gushed from her neck, the shot that killed Bernie. In desperation, Parker would staunch the wound with his fist, tears of frustration falling when he couldn’t stop the flow of blood.
Half the time, in his dreams, when he lifted himself away from Liv’s body in shadowy Sing Lee Alley, it was Bernie who lay under him, icicle cold, her porcelain expression frozen in despair.
He’d leave his bed and pace, praying for the nightmares to stop, wishing that guilt wasn’t walking the carpet with him. Parker had left Liv in pain and in perilous Petersburg while he labored in the safety of Fresno.
His dreams and reality foretold: Liv was in as much trouble as Bernie had been. Parker had lost Bernie when she was a world away from him; he’d lose Liv the same way.
Setting the hourglass down with a thump, he replayed Oldshack’s points. True, if Parker returned to Petersburg, the shooter might try again. Also true: Nilson could crack the case in record time, especially if Parker could feed him the information that would pinpoint one or two suspects. But the scenario felt all wrong and, ironically, if Parker and Nilson did their jobs right, Parker would never return to Petersburg.
Chapter Eight
“Damn.” Liv stopped typing and worked the stiffness out of her bad shoulder. “And ouch.” She stared at her phone, watching the voice messages compound. “Probably more complaints about Anton Nilson’s Petersburg blitzkrieg. You suck, Nilson. I miss Parker; everyone misses Parker.” Liv toyed with her necklace, the same one she wore on November 6thst when she first met Parker. She’d accessorized with the yellow, black and white set this morning purposefully, on a wild notion that by wearing it, Parker might return. Dumb bunny. Call him. Tell him he has to come back to Petersburg and stop Nilson from alienating everyone.
Parker’s cryptic e-mail message: “I’m working on the case from Fresno. Nilson’s on point. Help him, Liv. More important, hope you’re mending and writing again. Keep Chet with you at ALL times. Parker.”
No mention of Liv licking the rain off his face, humming with a desire so violent that she wasn’t sure the three-block walk to her place was physically possible. She remembered the yearning in his expression that night. Would he have acted upon his need when they got to her apartment?
Three bullets have a way of coldly interrupting desire. He’d covered her body in the alley, all right, but fear trumped sex in those few minutes they lay in the gravel.
She shivered at the memory, conscious of the flimsiness of the shield he’d offered her and aware of how vulnerable they were lying in the dark alley. The killer could have walked up to their prone bodies and shot them, a bullet exploding Parkerʼs heart then traveling to hers.
Liv tapped a key on her computer and re-read Parker’s clipped e-mail message. “Is he agonizing over our brush with death as much as I am? And isn’t it better that he’s safe in Fresno, rather than a target here in Petersburg?”
“Liv? Can I come up?”
Pulling in a breath, Liv rolled her chair back and rose, grabbing three copies of her chart. She yelled to be heard. “Sure, Tilly. You have Nilson with you?”
“Yeah.”
Liv poured three cups of coffee and put pecan sandies on a plate, knowing Nilson wouldn’t touch the coffee or the cookies. Every townie commented on his blatant refusal of food and drink. Did he think they’d poison him?
Tilly entered, chewing gum, her red-brown hair pulled back from her face, emphasizing her full mouth and big brown eyes. She pulled at the neckline of her sweater like it was itching her, but Liv knew Tilly well enough to understand this was a sign of irritation. Nilson had questioned Tilly once and she’d refused to speak to him again without Liv present. Of all the people in Petersburg, Tilly was a sworn enemy of SA Nilson. Out of spite, she nicknamed Nilson “Say,” a play on the abbreviation for special agent, and now most of the town used the moniker.
“Ma’am,” Nilson s
aid, politely. A giant against Tilly’s wisp of a figure, his expression was grim, his shoulders slightly hunched and his curly blond hair in disarray from the wind and rain.
“S.A.” Liv set coffee, cookies, and her latest spreadsheet on the coffee table. “Sit and relax,” she invited, well aware that he wouldn’t do either.
He picked up the chart. “What’s this?” he asked, even though he could see what ‘this’ was.
Tilly smiled. “At it again, girl? What do you say to that, Say?” Tilly grabbed a copy and pointed to a column. “That’s me. My Seattle whereabouts for the seven days I might have offed Everett Olson.”
“I updated the chart I made for Parker.” Liv shrugged. “Thought it was the least I could do.”
“You’ve added a new section, I see,” Nilson said.
“I have. The night Parker and I were shot at. I figured you’d want a column for suspect alibis during those hours.”
“But they’re ‘home in bed,’ except for you and Parker.”
“Makes it tough, doesn’t it? Even Tuck went home early that night and asked the bartender to close. Might have had something to do with me.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, he’s no longer my dance partner. Maybe he preferred not to flaunt the situation by dancing with other women.”
Nilson put down the chart, shaking his head.
Tilly leaned toward him, coffee cup in hand. “Say, you have to admit our Liv is a smart one. That’s why I wanted her around the second time you interrogated me.”
Expelling a breath, Nilson said, “This is not an interrogation, ma’am. After I spoke with you two days ago, I had a chance to question several other Petersburg residents. I have some new issues to run by you, now.”
Tilly blinked and turned to Liv. “I miss Parker, don’t you?”
Smiling, Liv said, “I do.” She frowned at Nilson. “Do you carry a gun?”
“Ma’am?” Nilson appeared confused by the question. “All agents carry guns.”
“Do you have one on you now?”
Lie Catchers Page 10