Rogue Wave

by Susan Dunlap

  And all those years Garrett Brant was sitting on his ass out here in the woods, planning to give the memo to Jessica Leporek!

  She could still see Delaney’s forehead wrinkling in shock when she aimed the chop at his neck. He hadn’t seen it coming, not until the last instant, then the bastard had ducked and she’d hit him too high. By then he was drunk. After the first swallow she hadn’t even needed to threaten him. She’d thrown the gun overboard halfway to the Farallons. She could still see Delaney falling, stunned from the blow, not out cold as she’d planned. She could feel the shock giving way to action as it always had for her. She could feel the muscles in her arms tightening as she’d grabbed the rope and bound his wrists and ankles. The storm had picked up then, bounced him around. He’d never gotten to his feet again. It had taken hours to get out past the Farallons, fighting the thirty-foot waves, waiting for the moment when she could leave the wheel long enough to cut him loose. Not too soon and have him get to his feet and be banging around in the cockpit, or trying to get at her in the wheelhouse. But she couldn’t let him be washed overboard still bound. If anyone found his body … That fear was a long shot. The whole goddamn Pacific floor for the man to settle on and he had to float up on the Farallons. It was her worst nightmare come true. Bastard! If he hadn’t floated up and been found, she could have come back to the wharf in two weeks, collected the insurance and gone on with her life. Goddamn bastard. Now she had nothing. She needed that memo.

  “Garrett”—her voice was guttural—“I’m not fooling around with you. I’ve already killed one man.”

  His smooth brow wrinkled lightly.

  “Goddamn it, do you realize what I’m saying? Give me the memo now or I will shoot. You and your wife.”

  Kiernan turned off Highway 1. Was that the Brants’ road? It didn’t look quite the same. But everything looked different in the white-out fog. She eyed the odometer. The pavement ended in about a mile. That would be the clue. If all the roads off the highway weren’t paved for an equal distance!

  The pavement ended. She checked the odometer. One mile down, four to go. The Jeep bucked into a hole. There was no way to avoid them now. She pulled to the edge of the track, and kept going, watching the odometer, clutching the wheel, the Jeep slamming into holes and rocks and the bank of the road when curves came too fast. A mile to go. A half.

  Maureen’s car was still parked under the redwoods. Kiernan pulled up. Grabbing the flashlight, she raced up the bluff, head down, straining to see as far as her stride, flashing the light back and forth to spot the abandoned swimming pool before she tripped over the edge and cracked her head on the cement.

  The house was dark. Kiernan knocked. “It’s Kiernan!” No one answered.

  She didn’t bother to knock again. Wound tight as Maureen was, she’d have heard the first time.

  She made her way around the side of the house, stumbling over roots that hadn’t merited a thought in daylight.

  A blur of light shone from Garrett’s window. She ran forward, across the bramble of grass, and peered in. The room looked empty.

  She opened the door and saw the body.

  It was a woman’s.

  41

  THE SMELL OF DEATH—urine, excrement, blood, and ripped tissue—filled Garrett Brant’s studio. Automatically, Kiernan breathed through her mouth. The studio was empty but for the body on the floor. Robin Matucci’s body.

  Kiernan shut the studio door and wedged one of the chairs against the handle. It wouldn’t keep out Robin’s murderer, but it would make any entry noisy.

  Matucci lay facedown, her long red hair fallen over one shoulder, knees slightly flexed. Her feet faced the door, her body away from it, as if she had tripped in the doorway and hit the floor. But her right arm was flung over her head, her left out to the side, suggesting she’d twisted around on the way down. She faced to the left, toward Garrett’s half-finished canvas. One shot had entered through the bridge of her nose, rupturing the tissue and sending blood spurting out of her left eye socket.

  Keeping clear of the windows, Kiernan bent down and rolled the body over, flinching instinctively, knowing how the local coroner would feel about her moving it.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, shutting out the death of a woman she almost knew. The body was still warm, but already the cell walls were breaking down, allowing the bacteria to roam the corpse. This woman had killed a man and wrecked two lives; a decomposing pile of flesh was all it had come to.

  A closer look revealed that lividity had already taken its toll—blood was settling in deep red bruises on the right side of Robin’s face. But the damage from the bullet was greater on the left. It had entered at an angle, she speculated. Three wounds to the chest, one near the sternum. Here the pattern with the face was repeated: lividity on the right shoulder, but tissue damage on the left. She lifted the shoulder to make sure. Yes, the wounds in the back were larger—exit marks. And they were more lateral—nearer the shoulder. The other shots had also entered at an angle and spun her around, or entered that way because she herself was turning.

  Carefully, Kiernan backed away from the window and straightened up. The easel had been knocked over. A coffee cup lay smashed on the floor, both the director’s chairs were overturned. She looked at the wall opposite the door, expecting to find blood splatters and noted a wide red band feathering out to where the easel had stood. She picked up the canvas of the Alaskan mud flats and leaned it against the wall. The blood on the painting was thicker, the band narrower, indicating that the canvas had been closer to the body. The dark red splotches seemed eerily at home on the brown of the mud. Most of the canvas had remained white. But now, on the left side, it was decorated with a dark-gray flash mark, a V lying on its side like a deadly wind blowing toward the mud flats.

  “Kiernan.”

  She spun around. It was Maureen’s voice, slightly muffled. Coming through the intercom. She could hear Maureen’s panic.

  “Kiernan, are you okay?” Her phrases were coming in anxious gasps. “Be careful. Don’t try to operate the intercom. The controls work from this side.” Her breath hit the speaker. “Garrett and I are in the house. We’re okay. Can you get over here? Be careful. I know the killer’s out there. I’ll watch for you and wait at the back door.”

  Kiernan tapped her finger on the doorknob. Should she believe Maureen? Why trust a woman who’d lied throughout the case? Slowly, she opened the door, glanced in both directions even though the fog obscured all but the ground in front of her. Then she ran full out across the slick grass toward the house.

  The lights were off. The kitchen was dark. She caught the scent of Maureen’s shampoo before she made out her taut face, then the rifle she was holding. “Where’s Garrett?”

  “Asleep.”

  “He went to bed?”

  “Of course. He saw Robin get shot. He came close to getting shot himself. He was jittery afterward, but as soon as that faded it all became just another moment to him.”

  Squinting into the gloom, Kiernan stared at Maureen in disgust. “Maureen, you lured Robin here. Did you kill her?” she added, knowing that Maureen had not.

  She heard the other woman’s quick intake of breath, saw her shrink back against the kitchen counter.

  “No.”

  “But you called her, didn’t you? You’d gotten the number of her car phone from Olsen. Delaney would have found that.”

  When Maureen didn’t answer, Kiernan said, “There’s no other way Robin could have found Garrett. You called me with your fake emergency, then you called her and told her I’d be at Barrow’s late this afternoon. That was the call that faded, not your call to me, right?”

  “If I could call Robin, why wouldn’t I just give her directions here?” She shifted the rifle, one hand on the barrel, the other near the firing pin.

  “Because she’d have arrived whenever she felt like it. This afternoon, two in the morning, maybe not until tomorrow. The advantage of surprise would have been all hers. No, Maur
een. You called me; you figured out just when I’d get here. You let Robin follow me. And once I was here you chased me off as soon as you could. Then you just waited for Robin to show up.”

  “I didn’t kill her!” She held out the rifle. “Smell it.”

  Kiernan leaned against the doorway. From where she stood she could see the kitchen, dining room, and living room. The rooms were in shadow, but her eyes had adjusted enough for her to be able to make out the tables, chairs, and sofa. She wouldn’t miss a person moving through. “Okay, Maureen, if you didn’t kill her, what happened? Tell me.”

  She clutched the rifle. “I heard her drive up, about half an hour after you left. I was right by the front window. She was pretty noisy when she went around back—must have rustled every leaf, bumped into every branch that would snap. I was at the back window when she reached the house. I could have shot her. I had the rifle. I’m a good shot. But I let her go into the studio. I had to …”

  “You had to see …”

  She nodded.

  “They argued. No, she argued. Garrett just looked confused. The fog blurred everything, but I could tell from the way he was standing that he didn’t really understand what was going on. I kept watching that lighted square, waiting for the right moment to stalk out there and … and … I was watching, waiting. I was there at the window when someone shot her.” She shifted the rifle. “You have to believe me.”

  “Someone?”

  “I heard the shot.”

  Kiernan sighed, then pulled Maureen away from the window and into the dining room. “Tell me exactly what you saw out there.”

  Maureen was holding the rifle across her body like a shield. Her voice was tight as she said, “She was yelling at Garrett. I was looking out this window at the studio window. He was standing in front of it. The door opened. I caught that out of the corner of my eye. By the time I glanced over, whoever it was had gone in. It’s all so vague. I couldn’t say who it was.” She stared at Kiernan. There was desperation in her face. “I’ve tried to see it again in my mind, but it’s no use. I heard the shots, three or four of them. Robin spun around. Then she fell. When she hit Garrett’s canvas, it went flying. I ran to the intercom. It’s on the living-room wall, so I couldn’t see the studio from there. I screamed through it, ‘Get away! Get away from him. He’s harmless. He’ll never remember!’ Or something like that. I was so worried about Garrett. I was terrified he’d been killed, I didn’t care who had killed Robin. I ran for the back door, yanked it open. By then, the person had gone.” Maureen grabbed Kiernan’s arm. “My screams, they saved him, didn’t they? He would have been shot just like Robin, wouldn’t he?” Her hand was sweaty, her breathing rough and choked. “I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”

  “Okay.” Kiernan put a hand over Maureen’s. Maureen’s breathing slowed. Her grip eased.

  Kiernan grabbed the rifle from her hand.

  Maureen cringed against the wall. “Kiernan! I thought you believed me!”

  “You didn’t run up to the studio door and shoot her. No one killed her from the doorway. Robin was shot by someone standing next to the canvas.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because, Maureen, there was powder residue on the painting. Dark-gray powder that ballooned out of the cylinder of that revolver as the bullet passed down it. The Ruger is a big gun, an old gun. There’s a good deal of space between the cylinder and the barrel, and in the few seconds the barrel is blocked by the bullet, there’s no other place for the gases to go but out through the spaces around the cylinder. They blew past the left hand that was steadying the gun and outlined the V between Garrett’s thumb and forefinger.”

  Maureen took a deep breath. Her voice shook. “The V between somebody’s thumb and forefinger. You can’t prove it was Garrett’s.”

  “The residues of barium and antimony will be on his hands and the cuff of his shirt. And Maureen, the cylinder of a revolver spins fast when you shoot. Garrett was using his left hand to steady it. He’s got metal burns on his left hand, doesn’t he?”

  Maureen gasped. She leaned back against the wall. Then, she reached over and flicked on the light. Her face was pale and damp, her blond hair matted. She took a breath and her face hardened. “He was defending himself. It was self-defense. The sheriff won’t charge him. Even if he were normal, they wouldn’t charge him.” There was a thread of hysteria in her voice. “That woman came into his studio. She had his gun. He had to grab it from her.”

  “How?”

  Maureen hesitated.

  “Searching for another lie?” Kiernan demanded. “It was the intercom, wasn’t it? You called, it distracted her just long enough?”

  Maureen nodded. “I did save him. It didn’t occur to me till then that Garrett might be killed.”

  Kiernan walked over and leaned against the couch. “No, Maureen, that’s one lie I’m not going to buy. You knew he could be killed. It was a chance you decided to take. You set up that investigation to bring Robin here where you could kill her with impunity. You put the revolver out in Garrett’s studio.”

  “He had to protect himself!”

  “From what? He wasn’t in danger. As far as Robin knew, he could lead her to the memo. She wasn’t going to kill the only person who could get her what she wanted. Right?”

  When Maureen didn’t respond, Kiernan went on, “You left the revolver in the studio to up the ante. You knew Garrett wouldn’t talk about the memo. You’d asked him often enough yourself. You knew he’d drive her into a rage. They’d argue, and one of them would grab the gun and shoot. And your plan worked perfectly. Garrett shot Robin. But it could easily have happened the other way around. He could have threatened her with the gun. They could have fought. She could have shot him in fury or in fear. Then what would you have done, Maureen? Would you have picked up your rifle and killed her in self-defense?”

  A draft carried the smell of long-cold ash across the room. Maureen walked to the other end of the sofa and sat on the arm. “It’s justice.” She smiled.

  Kiernan laughed. “I kept hearing how obsessed Robin was. I began to worry that I was too much like her. But it wasn’t me, Maureen, it was you. You haven’t just killed Robin, you’ve become her.”

  42

  IT WAS DAWN BEFORE the sheriff was ready to take Garrett and Maureen into town. Garrett’s neurologist would meet them there.

  Kiernan wandered through the dark, paneled rooms. She had spoken to Maureen only long enough to convince her that the sheriff would want Dwyer Cummings’s memo. After an hour’s search, Maureen had pulled it from a terra-cotta vase and handed it to Kiernan. Then she’d walked into the bedroom, crouched on the bed with her knees pulled to her chest, and watched Garrett sleep.

  Kiernan unfolded the sheet of AlaskOil stationery.

  Re: Blow-Out Preventers Platform Nina

  The blow-out preventers (BOPs) for Platform Nina are due for delivery next month. At that time, we will be ready for production from the oil reservoir 2000 ft. below the surface as originally designed. Note the cost of the BOPs for the 15 wells was 2.6MM$.

  When we deplete the 2000 ft. reservoir, we plan to deepen the wells and produce from the 10,000 ft. reservoir discovered last month. The BOPs to be delivered will not give 100% assurance that we can prevent a blow-out and subsequent chance of a severe oil spill when we produce from the deeper reservoir.

  The cost to retrofit our BOPs for higher pressure will cost an estimated 3MM$. In addition, retrofitting will delay production by at least 30 days. Production revenues from Platform Nina are expected to be at least 0.6MM$s/day (180MM$s/month).

  Our present financial state does not allow us to incur such costs. Therefore, we will not be retrofitting the BOPs.

  Dwyer Cummings

  Amazed, Kiernan sat back on the couch and took a deep breath. Then she ran out to the Jeep. The sky was still dark, the scent of the redwoods so strong and clear that it stopped her in her tracks. She was about to call Jessica Leporek
. But that would be Tchernak’s reward. He could astound Leporek with the tale of how her yearned-for memo had been sitting in a dusty vase on the top shelf of a cupboard for three years without Maureen even knowing it was there. It was only when Kiernan had brought up the subject that Maureen had searched the spots in which Garrett might have hidden it.

  She settled in the Jeep and copied the memo.

  Tchernak arrived just before sunset. Not giving him a chance to get out of his wolfhound-sized rented car, Kiernan climbed in, handed him the copy of the memo, and watched the broad grin spread across his endearingly ugly face. “Jesus Fucking H. Christ! They would have taken the chance of a major oil spill because they were too cheap to shut down for a month and install the proper equipment. Prop. Thirty-Seven is a shoo-in!” He was yelling. Ezra was licking Kiernan’s face.

  “So,” he said, “what now? Do we have to go back to San Francisco?”

  “No.”

  Tchernak smiled. “What about Olsen? Aren’t we leaving him open to the threats of his enemies? I mean, after they snatched him off the wharf—”

  “That wasn’t the cops. It was the same guys who followed me to Delaney’s. Ex-dockhands Robin had paid off. Cops wouldn’t have left visible bruises on Olsen’s body. They wouldn’t have known where to cut the wharf lights. And they wouldn’t have taken the chance of being caught on the Crab Cage roof with a kidnap victim. That’s careless stuff, just the type of thing Robin’s deckhands would do.”