by Nancy Bush
She didn’t like him one bit. “I thought you had to use the restroom.”
“I’m heading that way.” With that he strode out of the room, Liv on his heels. When he entered the bathroom, he tried to shut the door. She held it open with one hand. “Fine,” he said through his teeth, turning to the toilet and slamming up the lid.
She kept her eyes staring at the profile of his face as she held the gun on him. It was silly. Stupid. Of no importance, in the larger scheme of things, but she kept her gaze averted anyway. She was running on reaction rather than logic. Had been since the massacre at Zuma.
She heard the toilet flush and the sound of him zipping up. Then he moved to the sink and washed his hands. Finally, he turned to look at her, lifting his palms, as if for inspection. “All done.”
She stepped back and waved the gun to indicate he should walk ahead of her, back toward the kitchen.
“I could have overpowered you,” he pointed out.
“But you didn’t.”
“If that gun’s loaded, one of us could get hurt.”
“It’s loaded.”
He paused, gazing at her speculatively. “Maybe. So, tie me up again. Do whatcha gotta do.” He walked into the kitchen, but suddenly grabbed up his chair and started striding back toward her.
She stopped short at the table. “What are you doing?” she demanded, rattled.
“I’d like to watch TV. And the TV’s in my bedroom.” He stepped around her.
Hurriedly, she grabbed up the twine on the counter, then race-walked after him, standing by as he set the chair down in the bedroom and picked up the remote. She stood over him as he sat down, feeling like an idiot. “I don’t like this,” she said.
“I’m having the time of my life,” he muttered.
“I don’t know how long this is going to take. But I’m committed now. I’m just—not sure what to do next.”
“Contact the police,” he said again. “Would you mind moving? You’re in the way.”
She automatically sidestepped. “They won’t believe me.”
“What happened that made you a cop hater?” he asked.
“I’m not a cop hater,” she said. “They’ve just never shown the least interest in helping me. They’re just another wall.” She hesitated, then lifted the twine and ordered, “Put your arms around the back of the chair.”
He sighed, set the remote on the bed and got to his feet again. “Save yourself some effort and tie me to the bedpost. I’m not sleeping in that chair tonight.”
His highhanded manner irked her; he seemed intent on making her feel like he was in control. If it was some kind of psychological tactic to keep her off balance, it was a good one.
He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off his shoes, then leaned back, draping his arms over the back of the headboard. “This is gonna be a pain,” he said in a long-suffering tone.
She lashed his wrists to the bedposts. It was an older double bed that appeared to have seen better days, but it served the purpose. He was ahead of her in his thinking, she realized.
One of the Law & Order franchises was on the television. The one with Vincent D’Onofrio where he played a character who understood and dug into a criminal’s fractured psyche.
“Just like you, the police will think the murders are because of Kurt Upjohn,” Liv said as she checked the strength of her ministrations; the twine was taut and tight. “People think Zuma’s involved with the military because of their video war games. Mr. Upjohn likes the rumors. Keeps interest in his product.”
“But they aren’t true.” Auggie’s blue eyes were watching her as she perched at the end of the bed. The show ended and she picked up the remote and lifted her brows, but he shook his head. “I’m over it,” he said.
“They’re just rumors,” she answered his earlier comment.
“And you would know.”
“What happened today wasn’t about Kurt Upjohn. But if it were,” she said, when it looked like he was about to object, “it would more likely have something to do with his personal life, than professional. His son, Aaron, was working there, and now he’s . . .” She pressed her lips together, then said, forcing herself, “Dead.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Okay, we’ll put Upjohn aside for the moment. What about the others? Could the shooting have anything to do with them?”
“This is about me,” she insisted quietly. “Whoever shot them . . . they were looking for me.”
“Just . . . okay. Could you just take a moment and consider another angle?”
“This is why I can’t go to the police,” she said tiredly.
“You could use a little perspective,” he insisted.
She wanted to scream at him, take all her pain and frustration out on him. Instead, she said firmly, “None of this has to do with Aaron Dirkus. He’s too . . . disorganized and . . . unfocused.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”
“I didn’t know him well at all. But I knew that much about him.”
“He could have been into drugs,” he suggested. “Or, something that got him caught up with the wrong people.”
“No. Aaron smoked some weed, but that’s it. Nothing else.”
“The fact that you liked him isn’t a reason to take him off the list. You don’t know—”
“I do know! This isn’t about Aaron. I don’t care what you say! And, it wasn’t about Paul de Fore, either. Paul was . . .”
A tool.
She couldn’t bring herself to say what she’d thought of him in life, now that he was dead. The image of his sprawled body was imprinted on her brain. Finding herself suddenly close to tears, she turned away from Auggie’s scouring gaze and said diffidently, “He was too into the rules.”
“A rules guy. The kind that gets on top of you. Controls you. Forces his way.”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t the way you make him sound. Not like that, anyhow.”
“Then, how?”
“I don’t know,” she expelled in frustration. “He was pissy about it.”
“Ahh. Petty. Into small victories.”
“That sums him up pretty well,” she had to admit.
“It’s not a crime to not like people,” he said after a moment of watching her.
“I don’t know why I’m talking to you.” She got up and paced to the other side of the room, pulling at the curtain and looking outside the bedroom window.
“I know you believe the Zuma shooting was about you. I don’t want to totally piss you off, but couldn’t this attack be about something else? I mean, can you entertain that idea, for just a few minutes? Maybe get a dialog going?”
She lifted her hands and tossed them back down. “Go ahead.”
“It’s Upjohn’s company. That’s where the money is. Chances are the killer was after him.”
“I suppose.”
“It doesn’t really sound like you’re agreeing with me.”
“I just want you to stop talking,” she said. “Stop theorizing. It makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Like this is simply an exercise. Like I’m not . . . I don’t count.”
“You count,” he said.
She threw him a look, aware that he was just humoring her, trying to get on his captor’s good side. Wasn’t that what all hostages did? “Shut up,” she told him.
He opened his mouth to argue, then pressed his lips together, as if physically holding back his next comment. She marveled that this was the guy she’d chosen to take hostage. Why hadn’t she taken a woman? That might have worked better.
But then, it wasn’t like she’d planned any of this.
Walking back from the window, she perched at the end of the bed again, aware of his feet in their dark socks just inches away. “You said you’re a fisherman. From Canada.”
“Fishing guide,” he corrected. Then, “Oh, sorry. You wanted me to shut up.”
“So, where’s all your stuff?” Liv asked, ignoring the jibe. “There wasn’t anythin
g in your garage. Nothing.”
“It’s all with the boat. Some’s still in Canada,” he clipped out. “You want to know about me? Here’s the short version: my wife left me, so I moved to Canada. Had to come back to sign the divorce papers and decided I wanted to stay. Saw this place for rent. I’ve been here exactly thirteen days. And now I don’t have a wallet or any ID and lucky me, I’ve got you.”
Liv stayed silent for the lack of something to say. She didn’t like the fact that he was making sense. She didn’t like arguing about it. She knew she was right. But all this talking, talking, talking, made her head hurt.
“What about the woman?” Auggie asked. “The employee that went to the hospital? Believe it’s all about you, if you want, but let’s work through it. The woman that was shot . . . what’s her name?”
“Jessica,” Liv said with an effort. “Maltona. She’s the receptionist. She’s . . . benign.”
“Maybe she thinks you’re benign, but . . .” He inclined his head toward her. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to close her ears, but he went on, “Maybe this Jessica was having an affair with Upjohn or your friend, Aaron.”
“Jessica has a boyfriend. An artist. Anytime I talked to her about anything, she brought him up, almost like a compulsion. It was one of the reasons I avoided her,” Liv said, realizing it for the first time. She opened her eyes again.
“How about a disgruntled employee? Somebody Upjohn screwed over. Or, a customer who was taken for a ride.”
“I got this package, okay?” she finally burst out. “Lawyers sent it to me by special messenger at work. It was from my mother. Who’s been dead for almost twenty years. That’s what happened. That’s what started this. That’s why he came for me!”
Auggie’s attention sharpened. “Who? Who came for you?”
“Him.”
A pause. “Him, who?”
She jumped to her feet and moved to the open doorway. “I don’t know. The bogeyman. The one you see out of the corners of your eyes.”
He gave her a long look. “Could you be a little more specific?”
“This is why I can’t go to the police. They won’t believe me any more than you do. They probably already think I shot the place up! They’ll look into my history and there it’ll be: Mental problems. A year at Hathaway House. Crazy as a loon!” She glared at him. “Have you ever been in therapy?”
He slowly shook his head.
“You’re just too squared away, right? Fishing guide. I bet you’re good with people. People like you. Trust you. That’s why you want to talk me off the ledge. You’re trusting and compassionate and willing to really go that extra mile to make sure the crazy lady thinks she’s being heard!”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“Well, I am,” she snapped back. “And I’m through talking.”
“Where are you going?” he demanded when she stepped through the doorway.
She was heading to the couch in the living room, such as it was. “Somewhere else,” she said aloud.
“What happened when you went out?” he called after her. “Did you get done what you needed to do? Where’d you go?” He sounded desperate to keep the conversation going, but she was deaf to him now. She needed to get away.
“Livvie?”
She flopped down on the couch, burying her face into the dusty cushions, closing her ears to him. She wished she had a gag, too. Auggie was like a devil on her shoulder, talking, talking, talking. Confusing her.
“Go to sleep,” she yelled at him, her voice muffled by the cushion.
“I can’t.”
“Figure it out!”
With that she clapped her hands over her ears and blocked out all sound. Everything. She needed sleep, though she doubted she would find it. But she was through discussing anything more with him.
The call on her cell came in a little after nine P.M. September was at home, curled up on the sofa beneath a quilt her grandmother had made for her mother and that had been handed down to her. Her head was full of the events of the day and she planned on watching TV shows she’d taped to her DVR as a means of clearing her mind. She’d half-expected her plan might fall apart with the Zuma killings, but she’d hoped she’d at least make it till morning. But glancing at her cell, she saw the number was from the station. Steeling herself, she answered, “Rafferty.”
To her surprise Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal himself was on the other end of the line. “There’s been a shooting,” he clipped out. “The victim was found shot to death on the top-floor balcony of a two-story apartment building. I need you to get down there. Can you get hold of Gretchen? She’s not answering her cell.” Quickly, he rattled off the address, which seemed familiar to September though she couldn’t immediately place it.
It wasn’t like D’Annibal to call her, or anyone, directly. He normally left that to George, if other detectives were out of the office, or he just assigned cases to whoever was available when they were in the office. But George, apparently, wasn’t picking up, either.
“Do we have a name?” she asked.
“Not yet. One of the uniforms picked up the call. His name’s Waters. He’s on scene, so if you’ll just get there, he’ll fill you in.” D’Annibal sounded rushed and a little anxious. Totally unlike the put-together lieutenant with his smooth hair, creased pants and expensive shoes.
“I’m on my way.”
She tried to reach Gretchen but her cell went directly to voice mail. Failing that, September dug through her closet for a pair of jeans, a black shirt and a black vest. It wasn’t cold, but she wanted something to cover the Glock she was going to place in the small of her back, once she got to the scene and climbed out of her silver Honda Pilot.
She was rolling in ten minutes, driving with controlled speed to the apartment complex. Something about the address . . . she thought.
As she cruised onto a side street, she could see the red-and-blue reflection of a cop car’s light bar splashing against the sides of an L-shaped apartment building. She turned into the drive at the northwest corner and around the short end of the L into the parking lot, grabbing the first available spot she saw. Apartment numbers were visible in white paint on each asphalt slot. Too bad if the people from 14A came home, she thought, sliding her Glock under her back waistband and climbing from the vehicle into the dark, hot night. The uniform—Waters—was standing on the second-floor balcony and a group of people were hanging back at the base of the outdoor stairway on the far end away from him. September skirted the group to take the stairs and as she started to climb, Waters yelled at her, “Stay back.”
“Detective Rafferty,” she called firmly, and, reaching the upper level, she held her ID in front of her as she walked toward him.
“Thought Rafferty was a man,” he said, holding a flashlight beam into her eyes and then focusing it on her extended ID. Behind him, lying on the ground in front of an apartment door, lay a man, face down, in blue jeans and bare feet, his hair a dark, unkempt tangle to his shoulders.
“The other Rafferty’s my brother,” she told Waters, her gaze still on the victim. “We’re both detectives.”
“Huh.”
She glanced around the place, noting the exterior concrete walkways and the line of doors, all closed. “Do we know who he is?” she asked, nodding toward the victim.
“No ID. One of them might know.” He glanced to the gogglers down below. “He’s not wearing shoes.”
“He either lives here, or he’s visiting someone he knows pretty well.” She turned to the group of bystanders and yelled down to them, “There’s been a shooting,” then began to walk their way.
“Is he dead?” a young man yelled back, cupping his hands over his mouth. He had short, dark hair and it looked as if a tattoo of some kind were trying to escape the neck of his gray T-shirt.
September stopped at the top of the stairs, getting a good look at them. “The medical examiner is on his way,” she said.
“He’s dead,” the man
beside the yeller stated positively. He was older, his face looking heavily lined in the illumination cast by the overhead light attached beneath the second-floor gallery. She could hear a moth beating itself into the glass.
One of the two women shivered. She was young and skinny and held her arms hard around her torso like she was freezing even though the night was hot and surprisingly humid for Oregon. “God, I hope it’s not Trask. I think it’s him, but God I hope it’s not.”
“Trask?” September asked.
“He lives in the end unit. Just past where he—his body’s—laying.”
“Check the end unit,” September called over to Waters but he was already on his way, having overheard.
He knocked, then tried the door. “It’s open,” he yelled back.
September headed back his way, skirting the sprawled victim. There was that pesky thing about walking into a place without a warrant. She shook her head to Waters, who reluctantly stayed outside the threshold. “Helllooooo. Police officers,” he called into the crack of the now-ajar door.
“You’re certain Trask lives in the end unit?” September yelled back toward the crowd. She looked over the rail.
“Well, maybe he lives at the unit he fell in front of,” another woman, older and more heavyset, said.
“No! The end unit.” Skinny Girl was certain of it.
“That single gal lives where his body is,” the older man said. “That’s her car over there.” He pointed to a blue Accord.
September followed where he was pointing. And that’s when it hit her. Blue Honda Accord. The missing employee. This was Olivia Dugan’s address.
Oh, my God.
“Stay down there,” she ordered the group at the base of the stairs as the younger man had one booted foot on the bottom step. He instantly moved back and September hurriedly returned to the victim’s body. To Waters, she said quietly, “This could be the address of one of the Zuma Software employees. The one that was at lunch.”
“You’re shittin’ me.” He moved from the end unit to September, staring at the door to 20B.