Portrait of Vengeance

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  Officer Attao returned. Once again I handed him one end of the tape measure and we finished the child’s room. I went over my notes to be sure I hadn’t missed something. Officer Attao shifted from one foot to the other. I finally looked up. “Done.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card with my cell number. “Thank you for your help. If I can do anything for you, please call.”

  Attao’s eyes opened wide, but he took my card and tucked it into his wallet.

  Gathering up the binder, teddy, puppet, and sketchpad, I left the house. I didn’t want to think about the fate of that little girl, but I also wanted to keep in mind the stakes if I failed to do my best work.

  The town of Lapwai, the seat of the Nez Perce tribal government, was less than a square mile in size. I headed for where I’d parked the IMCU car, a 1995 burgundy Honda Accord with over two hundred thousand miles on it, a couple of blocks away. When the unit promised an agency car, I’d somehow thought I’d get an official black SUV with tinted windows. Or at least a Ford Police Interceptor.

  My car was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I GLANCED UP AND DOWN THE STREET, SURE I’D PARKED there, in front of a mass of blooming lilac bushes and across the street from the gold-and-white mobile home. Every house had a large number of vehicles parked in front, on the side, and sometimes on the lawn, as it seemed everyone was having a neighborhood party. It had been tricky to find a spot to park without blocking someone’s driveway. I thought the lilacs were a good marker, albeit not my favorite fragrance anymore.

  This is ridiculous. The town isn’t that big. I could see the emerald-green rolling hills marking the outside of town. How many oversized lilac bushes and mobile homes could there be in this place? I walked around the block, then the next one. Lots of mobile homes. Lots of lilacs. No sign of my car.

  A warm wind smelling of fresh earth and fragrant syringa restlessly tossed my hair. Curious faces peered at me from the houses I passed. A dark-haired woman stepped onto her porch, stared at me intently, then called her two children inside. Other children rode bicycles at the end of the street.

  A patrol SUV pulled up next to me and parked, and an officer stepped out. “Can I help—Oh, it’s you.” Officer Attao didn’t look happy to see me again.

  “Someone stole my car.”

  “But not your teddy bear or stuffed lamb?”

  I’d forgotten I was still carrying Beatrice’s bear and the puppet. I tucked them under my arm. “This is serious.”

  “Are you sure you parked it here?” He shaded his eyes with one hand and looked around with an exaggerated gesture. “Such a big city and all.”

  A cow mooed in the distance.

  He dropped his hand. “And you think you can help us find a killer when you can’t even find your own car?”

  I gritted my teeth. “It was a 1995 burgundy Honda Accord.”

  “And you think someone would have stolen that car? Did you leave your keys in it?”

  “Of course not.” I swung my purse off my shoulder and rummaged around inside. “My keys are . . . Just a minute . . . They’re in here somewhere.”

  The keys were missing.

  I slumped against the patrol SUV. Could I possibly have been so focused on getting to the crime scene that I left the keys in the ignition? Of the agency’s car?

  Shaking my head, I turned. “Officer Attao, the keys are missing from my purse, maybe removed when I fainted.” Yeah, right, someone takes keys for a beater car and leaves my wallet and brand-new Glock 42 pistol.

  “Get in.” Officer Attao barely waited until I jumped into the front seat before he drove us the short distance to the Nez Perce Tribal Police Department.

  I was glad he was driving. I never would have found the department on my own. The only clue was the chain-link-enclosed parking area for police vehicles. The department was a pale-yellow building with the main door recessed between a single-wide mobile home and two other structures. It was accessed by a long cement ramp leading to a door with a computer-generated sign on paper stating Main Lobby. Once inside, we turned left, opened another door, and entered the lobby, about the size of a large walk-in closet. A woman behind the glassed-in reception waved us through a secure door. Chief Kus was walking toward us. He paused, folded his arms, and raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Stolen vehicle,” the patrolman said to the chief.

  For the second time that day I hoped the earth would open up and swallow me. “I think someone took the keys out of my purse while I was unconscious—”

  The chief’s cheeks reddened slightly. “The only people around at that time were my officers.”

  “I’m not accusing your staff—”

  “From where I’m standing, it looks that way.” He glanced at the patrol officer. “Get the paperwork filled out and drive her to the lodge.” He stared at me. “I’m shorthanded as it is and don’t have an extra officer to cart you around. You’re supposed to be assisting us here, so I assume you can get other transportation. You can start your interviews at the lodge.” He turned and moved away, then stopped and said over his shoulder, “The task force will be assembling here at 0800 tomorrow. I need results on finding that little girl.”

  My face burned and I looked down. Someone shoved a police-report form at me. I took it and followed the retreating patrol officer’s heels to a small interview room with a table and two chairs. He nodded at one, then left, leaving the door open behind him. The jaundiced fluorescent light buzzed and flickered overhead, and the room reeked of sweat, disinfectants, and a hint of burned coffee. I rummaged in my purse and found a pen and my cell phone. My best friend, Beth, was on speed dial. “Hi, Beth—”

  “Gwen! You must have just arrived in Lapwai.” The background music of a forensic television show stopped. “What’s wrong? Is it true a little girl is missing? And you have a double homicide? It’s in all the papers. Can I help? All you have to do is ask.”

  “Yes. A lot. Yes. Yes. I’m not surprised. Yes. I’m asking.”

  Beth was silent for a moment. “I hate it when you do—Really? You need my help?”

  “More than you know. It’s not just this double homicide.” I took a deep breath. “What I’m going to tell you I’ve not shared with anyone else. Except Robert.”

  Beth snorted.

  “When I was fourteen, I came home from the store and found the front door open, the house trashed, and blood everywhere. I knew that Holly, who was sort of my mom, was dead, along with her four-year-old son.”

  “What’s a sorta-mom?”

  “I’ll explain it all later.” I took another deep breath. “There are elements to this double homicide that are strikingly similar to that murder. It may be nothing, but I just have this hinky feeling. I need to concentrate on finding the killer and little Beatrice, but I need you to do the research on the earlier murders.”

  “You know I’ll be there and help you.”

  “There’s more.” I explained the stolen car. “So here’s my problem. All my clothes, my forensic drawing kit, and my newer laptop were also stolen. I can do a few interviews and hope they find my car, but if they don’t find it right away, I’m dead in the water.”

  “Let me know what to bring and I’ll be there as fast as possible.”

  “Thanks, girlfriend.” I explained what I needed and where to find it. “Drive my car over. I’m staying at the Clearwater River Lodge just outside of Lewiston. You’ll find a spare set of keys in the kitchen drawer on the left of the sink, and I’ll get you a flight from Lewiston to Missoula—”

  “Hold on to your deerstalker, Sherlock! Your faithful Watson is sticking around to help you through the case.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “What about your husband? Won’t he miss you?”

  “After April fifteenth, Norman can only think about his yearly fishing trip. He won’t notice I’m gone.”

  “But you’re dog-sitting Winston. I’m sure this lodge won’t appreciate a 165-pound Great Pyrenees, albeit well behaved
.”

  “Let that be the least of your problems. I’ll find a dog-friendly place and we’ll make that headquarters. I’ll drive my car because it’s bigger. With fewer dents. I commend you on your foudroyant insight, will pack up your schmatte, and see you soon!”

  “Did you just—”

  “Yes. Got two words of the day into one sentence. Bye.”

  I clutched the phone after Beth disconnected, reluctant to let go of her caring voice. That’s not surprising, she’s your best friend.

  Your only friend, Robert chimed in.

  “Not true, Robert,” I whispered. “There’s Dave—”

  His family raised you since you were fourteen. He just feels responsible.

  I squeezed the phone tighter. “Again, not true—”

  Name one other friend, let alone a boyfriend. You can’t. You’re so selfish and self-centered that no one can get close to you.

  “Shut up!” I slammed down my phone before Robert could intrude on my thoughts any more.

  I filled out the paperwork. Officer Attao was speaking with a coworker when I emerged. He took the report, handed it to a secretary, and jerked his head for me to follow. The drive from Lapwai to the hotel at Lewiston took us down the Lapwai Valley. Though I had vague memories of Kamiah, I’d forgotten so much of that time, for obvious reasons. Officer Attao thawed enough to inform me the Nez Perce named the region Thlap-Thlap, referring to the sound of butterfly wings.

  “Are there a lot of butterflies now?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Shortly he jerked his thumb right. “Spalding.”

  Hoping to show at least a particle of knowledge of the area, I said, “I did read that Lillian Disney, the wife of Walt Disney, was born here and grew up in Lapwai. I didn’t realize she was Nez Perce.”

  “She wasn’t.”

  Okay, then, so much for small talk.

  “You’ve heard of Spalding and Whitman?” Attao finally asked.

  “Um . . .”

  “Reverend Henry Spalding and his wife were missionaries to our tribe. This was the first white settlement. Eighteen thirty-six.”

  “And Whitman?”

  “He and his wife, Narcissa, had a mission near Walla Walla, with the Cayuse tribe. Exposure to the white man brought measles that wiped out nearly half the tribe. As a result—”

  “I have heard of him. The Whitman Massacre.”

  “Yep. They were both killed, along with eleven other settlers. The start of the Cayuse War.” He glanced at me, then focused on his driving.

  “I’m afraid about all I remember of Northwest history is Lewis and Clark.”

  “And Sacagawea, a Lemhi Shoshone woman who spoke three languages and did the entire journey carrying her infant son.”

  I can’t even drive over from Montana and walk into a house without fainting. “Impressive.”

  He snorted.

  We were now driving along the Clearwater River, the largest tributary of the Snake River, to the edge of the city of Lewiston, the farthest inland seaport in the western United States. Overlooking the river, the casino and lodge were housed in an imposing wood-and-log structure.

  The teddy bear and Lamb Chop puppet under my arm and lack of luggage raised the clerk’s eyebrows, but the presence of Officer Attao must have reassured her. She handed me a key card, pointed right, and fluttered her eyelashes at the officer.

  My room was decorated in warm tones with two queen beds and a desk. I locked the door behind me, placed my few belongings on the desk, sat, and closed my eyes. Two bloody crime scenes. Two hatchet murder weapons. Two of the same toy. Both Beatrice and Jacob were four. The murder locations were within an hour of each other.

  I opened my sketchpad to a clean sheet. Nothing cleared my mind more than visualizing a case. At the top of the page, I wrote Similarities. Underneath I drew a line forming two columns. I wrote Holly murders on one side, Sinopa murders on the other.

  On the next page I did the same, but changed Similarities to Differences.

  I’d already identified the similarities: bloody scene, age of children, location, murder weapon, toy. I’d record the differences as I worked the Sinopa case. That would settle the uneasiness I felt.

  I picked up the teddy bear. One eye was missing, and a small tear along a side seam allowed a puff of stuffing to seep out. “Finding your mom and dad’s killer will lead me to you, Beatrice. And I will find you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OPENING THE BINDER ON THE DESK IN FRONT OF ME, I read the case file.

  Bob Williams, the principal of the Lapwai Elementary School, called dispatch at 0817 about a body at the home of Adam and Alice Sinopa. He said he went to the home when Alice, a second-grade teacher, hadn’t shown up for work or answered repeated phone calls. He saw Adam’s body through the living room window. He sat on the porch and waited until police arrived.

  The report went on to say that Alice wasn’t discovered for over an hour after the police entered the home because her body was concealed between the bed and wall. Beatrice’s absence, however, was immediately noticed and an Amber Alert went out. Good.

  I removed Beatrice’s photo from my purse. Her shoulder-length dark hair was held back by a beaded headpiece. She was wearing a heavily adorned, white buckskin jingle dress. Her skin was quinacridone deep gold, with a slight coral blush on her cheeks. With a heart-shaped face, huge black eyes, and infectious grin, she was adorable.

  The slain man, Adam, was the manager of the Clearwater Casino. A quick peek at my list showed several employees of the casino in need of interviewing.

  I wouldn’t need a car for the casino employees, but if any of them had seen someone I should sketch, I’d have to reschedule for a composite until Beth arrived with my materials.

  My laptop was in the trunk of the missing car. Beth was bringing my old one, barely working, but buying a new computer would be a painful replacement. The money I received from my last job in Kentucky hadn’t gone as far as I’d hoped. A down payment on a new house, Aynslee’s college fund, and the move emptied the account pretty fast. I had four weeks of probation—unpaid, of course—before a salary kicked in.

  I scheduled an interview with the casino’s assistant manager. I also left a message with Andi Tubbs, a home health nurse who’d been visiting the family next door to the Sinopas the day before the murders.

  Before I left the room, Andi returned my call. She had seen someone at the Sinopas’ house. I asked her the critical question—would you recognize him again if you saw him? If the answer was yes, we could attempt a drawing. We never ask witnesses if they think they could do a composite. It’s too easy to say no. If they feel they would recognize someone, however, that means enough memory is present for a skillful interviewer to retrieve that memory.

  We agreed to a meeting time the next day at eleven. That would give me time to meet with Chief Kus’s task force.

  I got directions and disconnected. After checking my watch, I headed next door to the casino to interview Peter S. Otskai, the assistant manager of the casino and lodge. Adam Sinopa had been his boss.

  Glass display cases of traditional Nez Perce clothing lined the walls of the main hallway leading from the lodge to the casino. A huge bronze of Chief Joseph, easily the most famous tribal member, stood in front of the gift shop. Entering the gambling section, I peeked into the Qeqiit Lounge.

  Chief Kus and Officer LoneBear, who’d announced my arrival at the murder scene, were sitting at a table, heads together in intense conversation.

  Not wanting to be seen spying, I ducked behind the menu board.

  LoneBear shook her head, then glanced around the lounge. She spotted me.

  Straightening, I brushed off my slacks as if they were covered in dog hair, then studied the daily specials as if that were my reason for lurking.

  LoneBear smiled and placed her hand on the chief’s arm.

  I quickly moved away before she could see me blush. Continuing forward, I was soon enveloped in a haze of cigaret
te smoke and a cacophony of pinging, beeping, dinging slot machines. The room was dim, but the machines, placed back-to-back in rows, flashed splashy lights and dazzling images.

  Peter had told me on the phone that his office was on the right side of the room as I approached the casino from the hall. I entered the door marked Employees Only. A surprisingly young man in an open-collared light-gray dress shirt glanced up from behind a messy desk. His long black hair was parted in the middle and pulled into a loose ponytail at his neck, making his face appear quite round. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  I offered my hand. “I’m Gwen Marcey and I have—”

  “Yes. You’re from the sheriff ’s department. I’m Peter Otskai.” He shook my hand. “Please have a seat. I see the tribal police checked you into the hotel.”

  Taking the chair opposite him, I sat and pulled out my sketchpad. “Yes, though I’ll probably have to find someplace else. My friend is bringing my dog later—”

  “We don’t allow—”

  “I know. He’ll sleep in the car tonight.” I smiled at him.

  He jotted something on the yellow legal pad in front of him. “I see. Well, if you’re checking out tomorrow, could you let me know where you’ll be staying? Just in case someone is looking for you.” He handed me his business card.

  I tucked it into my purse. “Sure. Not a problem. Before we begin this interview, let me offer my condolences—”

  He snorted. “Don’t bother. The guy was a jerk.” At my expression he held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t kill him. But I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “I see.” I took out a pencil and twirled it in my fingers. “Why was he a jerk?”

  “Micromanaged everything. Rude. Obnoxious. Always looking for ways to put people down. And he was a Blackfeet.” Peter punctuated his last statement by tapping the desk with a finger.

  “And that’s important because . . . ?”

  “His job should have gone to a Nez Perce. Just saying.”

  “So.” I thought for a moment. “The rest of the staff?”