by Nancy Bush
She inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “I got it at work. I took it to my brother’s apartment.”
“After your neighbor saw the pictures.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Then my father and Lorinda stopped by Hague’s. They thought it was strange that my mother had sent me the photos and documents, and we talked briefly about the strangler. I told them I was going to do some investigating on my own, that I never believed Mama had committed suicide. Della was mostly concerned about Hague, who had gone into one of his fugue states, a trance, so I don’t know how much she was really paying attention to the package contents. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t.”
“This was how long before the attack on Zuma?”
“The night before. Thursday.”
“Go on,” he said, when she stopped.
“There isn’t much more to tell. I went to work, went to lunch, came back and saw—the bodies. Then I ran and eventually got in your Jeep and held you at gunpoint.”
“Is there anything else—anything—that would make you suspect the Zuma killings had to do with you?”
She shook her head and gave him a resigned look. “No. I told you, it’s just a feeling I’ve had for a long time. All my life really, since my mother’s death. Like there’s something out there. Someone out there, who means me harm. Yes, I know. This could probably be the result of finding my mother’s body. I’ve heard it all before. It just doesn’t go away and it doesn’t matter how rational I am, or how much I try to talk myself out of it, it’s always there.”
“So, if the strangler had something to do with your mother’s death, and the Zuma killings are related to that, you think he struck again now because you got the package?”
“He came into Zuma shooting,” Liv said. “That doesn’t follow his m.o. I know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Been a lot of years,” Auggie said. “Anything’s possible.”
“Are you playing devil’s advocate?”
He couldn’t tell her that he’d seen a lot of criminals whose crimes morphed from one thing to another for various reasons.
“He killed three more women after my mother’s death,” she said. “Most of them were prostitutes out of the Portland area, but not all. There was a woman from Malone, the town over from Rock Springs.
“It just feels like someone’s after me,” she went on. “Maybe they think I now know something about my mother’s death. The doctor . . . if he knew what Dr. Yancy thought, that I’d repressed something, something I’d seen . . .” She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “And then the package contents scared him. Jump-started him, or her, or whoever. If it’s not the strangler who’s after me, it’s still somebody. That’s what I feel.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?” she asked suspiciously.
“I know you’re not going to, and I’m not going to make you, but I still think you should go to the police.”
“No.”
“Then, I’m a part of your team. You chose me, and you’re stuck with me.”
He could tell his declaration almost relieved her, but she said with ill grace anyway, “Sounds like I don’t have any choice.”
“You could still hold me at gunpoint and threaten to shoot me.”
She lifted her brows in that way people do that silently asks, “Really?”
“Of the people who saw the package, which one do you think it is? The one who acted on it?”
“None of them. I don’t know. Maybe it was someone at the lawyer’s office?”
“Was the package opened?” he asked. She shook her head. “Move past the lawyers for a moment. Go back to the people you know who saw the contents of the package.”
“Like I said, it’s none of them. I don’t like Lorinda at all, and my father’s a cold fish, but Della . . . or Hague . . . they just . . . wouldn’t. I mean, why? Hague was a baby when our mother died, and Della wouldn’t care. . . .” She trailed off and Auggie’s attention sharpened.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s nothing. It’s just . . . Hague orates. In a corner of the bar below his apartment. He holds court and just talks about everything. Rants, really.”
“About?”
“Political stuff, mostly. He has followers. They come and listen to him, or argue with him, or just come to feel like they’re part of a crowd.”
“You think he brought up the package to his listeners?” Auggie was skeptical.
“He said he did . . . but I don’t know if it’s true. I upset him and he reacted. Hague gets things confused.”
“If you had to put a finger on what item specifically, from inside the package, would send a killer to Zuma, what would it be?”
“The photo of the stalking man,” she said. “The zombie-doctor. That picture stands out. He stands out.” She made a sound of disbelief. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long. Do you want to see the package contents?”
Auggie was happy with this show of trust. “Sure.”
She dragged her backpack up from beneath her chair, dropped it on the tabletop, then dug inside it and lifted out a manila envelope. Wordlessly she handed the package to him. He slipped the contents onto the table and arranged each piece so he could see each one, feeling like an intruder when he read the personal note.
“I think he was a visiting doctor at Hathaway House, but I have to wait to talk to Dr. Knudson. I don’t even know if that’ll work. Knudson wasn’t on staff when I was there, so will he even know him?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Auggie said positively. “We’ll go see him together.”
“On Monday . . . today’s Saturday . . . ?”
“I can wait.” He smiled and she just looked at him. Eventually, she nodded her agreement as she slid the items back inside the package and set it to one side.
Now, he just had to figure out a way to talk to D’Annibal without Liv Dugan overhearing.
Chapter 12
Jessica Maltona’s boyfriend, Jason Jaffe, was exactly the piece of work Gretchen had said he was. He even looked the part with disreputable jeans and a wife-beater T-shirt. He was an artist who worked with metal and a welding machine and Gretchen and Nine found him hard at work in the garage of the small home he shared with Jessica, a blue flame spurting from his hand-held welder, melting metal into a bubbling liquid at the joint of something that looked like a large ball with rebar spikes that now looped down like limp spider’s legs.
Such was September’s appreciation of Jaffe’s art.
He looked up at their approach through his welder’s helmet; his eyes visible behind black mesh, the rest of his face hidden. Switching off the torch, he flipped up the helmet. He was good-looking in that lean, rawhide way with deep grooves beside his mouth and flinty eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” he greeted them.
“We’ve spoken,” Gretchen said, whipping out her ID and getting bristly.
As soon as he realized who they were he visibly pulled on a mask of geniality. September introduced herself and then explained a little about the general investigation, and their visit to the hospital to see Jessica.
“She’s not doin’ so well, huh,” he said blithely.
Gretchen’s eyes narrowed at his callous tone, but September sensed it might be a cover-up. She wasn’t in love with the guy, but he might have a lot of feelings buried down deep that he wasn’t willing to let them see.
“Tell us a little bit about her,” she suggested.
“Like what?”
“How long have you and she been living here? How did you meet? Like that.”
He paused for a long moment, then took off the helmet and flexed his arms and back. Hunks of metal surrounded him in disorderly bins and a wooden workbench with scattered tools stood against the back wall.
“We met in a bar. I liked the way she looked. I guess she felt the same. I was doing some landscaping for Lawn Like New. Asshole boss. Asshole company. She was workin’ for that Zuma guy and makin’ more
money than I was. We started renting and then the bastard fired me and Jessica said maybe it was meant to be. We could squeak by on her salary for a while, and this way, I got to work on my sculptures full time.”
Gretchen just stood back; she’d heard enough bullshit in her life to be bored or irritated or both. She was itching to get on to something new.
September said, “Any thoughts on why someone might have it in for Jessica?”
His flinty eyes gazed at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Hell, no. Everybody loves Jess. She’s nice.” He slid a look Gretchen’s way as if making a point. “You gotta get your head outta your asses. This ain’t about Jess. This is about that asshole Kurt Upjohn. He’s the asshole. Makes tons of cash and works everybody like crazy.”
“You have any specific reason to suspect the murders were because of Upjohn?” September asked.
“Wha’d I just say? He’s an asshole!”
“I heard that Paul de Fore gave her a hard time for leaving on her break,” September said.
“God . . .” He shook his head. “She met me at that Starbucks close by Zuma to give me my keys, which she ran off with this morning by mistake. Stop trying to pin this on her. It’s Upjohn’s fault Rambo came in and shot the place up.” A pause, and then he said with a hitch to his voice, “That was the last time I saw her.”
Gretchen chose that moment to join back in, saying coolly, “She’s at Laurelton General now. You can stop by anytime. Do you have anything concrete to back up your theory that this was Upjohn’s fault? Something besides just not liking the guy?”
“All I know is that Jess doesn’t deserve this. Any of it.” His lips started to quiver a little and he smashed them together. “It’s Upjohn’s fault she got hurt. That’s on him . . . asshole,” he added.
They left after a few more questions that earned them more of the same. In the car Gretchen observed to September, “You’re a lot more patient than I am.”
She observed right back, “You haven’t set the bar too high.”
That earned her a snap of Gretchen’s head and a drop of her mouth. To date, September had been quietly taking it all in, not wanting to make waves, but her innate sense of humor couldn’t remain repressed for long.
Gretchen gave a short bark of laughter. “Okay,” she said. Then, “Let’s get our asses back to work.”
“We don’t want to be assholes,” September agreed.
They both broke into chuckles.
At the station, D’ Annibal was just coming back from an on-site interview at Zuma with Pauline Kirby as Gretchen and September entered the station. Gretchen glared at Urlacher, whose throat worked as if he were desperate to get the words out even though he knew she’d growl at him. He just managed to keep his requests for ID to himself.
D’Annibal was entering his office, taking off his coat and loosening his tie. His gray hair was smooth, his color high, as if he’d been standing in the sun for a little too long, which he probably had been.
“How’d it go?” Gretchen asked him, stopping outside his door.
“Fair. She kept zinging questions about Upjohn’s finances, his relationship with Dirkus’s mother, and the secrecy surrounding his operation. I kept deflecting.”
“Did you bring up the Martin killing?” she asked, as September joined her, both of them standing outside the office.
“I tried to say next to nothing except that we’re on the job.” He smiled thinly. “The usual. It’ll be on tonight’s news. Another reporter appears to be on the Martin homicide. Expect a call,” he said to September, seating himself behind his desk.
It was their cue to leave and as they walked away, Gretchen said, “Ever talked to the press?”
“Not about work.”
“Give ’em the basics: where the body was discovered, that the death was from a bullet wound—don’t say how many shots—that the name won’t be released until next of kin have been notified.”
“His parents are both gone. Jo is really all he has,” September reminded her.
“Don’t mention her name, either. Let ’em think we’re still notifying family, even if we aren’t.”
She asked innocently, “Do you want me to also keep it quiet about the fact that Olivia Dugan, Zuma’s missing employee, is a person of interest in the Trask Burcher Martin homicide?”
Gretchen shot her a look, realizing she was being put on. “Smart ass.”
September grinned. “You and Jaffe. Big with the ‘ass’ stuff.”
Gretchen pointed a finger at her. “I’m just sayin’, when you get the call, sound like you’re being overly helpful but give them as little as possible.”
“How do you propose I do that?”
“Omit, omit, omit.”
“What if I screw up?”
“You won’t. And if you do, you’d better hope to hell you get that other reporter instead of Pauline Kirby because she’ll eat you alive.”
The news came on at five and Auggie, who’d flopped himself on the bed and gone channel surfing the last ten minutes, switched to Channel Seven’s News at Five. His antennae were very aware of Liv Dugan, who had settled on the couch as if she were done for the day.
He called out to her. “You want anything to eat? You missed lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” she called back.
“You should eat something.”
He heard her rustle around and then she was standing in his doorway. There was something elfin about her large eyes and pale face, but her chin was stubborn, and her arms were crossed.
“Wanna go get something to eat?” he asked. “I just was going to check the news.”
“I don’t want to show my face anymore than I have to.”
“But food . . .” He tried on his most winning smile. “It’s how we stay alive.”
“I don’t think I could eat anything. I’m just . . .” She looked over her shoulder as if she’d heard something. “I’m just not hungry.”
“There’s a deli about two miles away with the best soup around. I’ll go get some after the news and bring it back.”
“Maybe I could go and wait in the car,” she said, looking worried.
“Sure. Whatever . . .”
The lead story was a murder from the night before. Auggie looked at the screen as the young male reporter was saying that the shooting had happened around nine o’clock. The camera revealed a parking lot and then led them up to the second story where it zeroed in on a length of balcony toward one end of the building.
The gasp from Liv was almost a shriek. Her hands were at her mouth, and she was gaping at the television. Auggie’s gaze slammed from her back to the screen.
“. . . Laurelton police are waiting to notify next of kin before releasing the male victim’s name. If anyone has information, please contact the authorities. . . .”
“What?” Auggie asked her. “What?” But he was getting that strange feeling, like electricity running beneath his skin, that said something momentous was about to happen.
“That’s my apartment.”
He jumped off the bed, wishing to high heaven he had a DVR at this place. “Your apartment?” he snapped. He’d seen her apartment from the backside, but then she’d appeared on foot with her backpack and he’d followed her, never actually turning off the main road and into the drive of her parking lot.
“Who . . . who . . . oh, my God . . . Trask? Is it Trask?” She swayed on her feet, and he took two large steps and grabbed her by the arms, steadying her.
“The neighbor? The one who saw the photos?”
“Maybe it’s someone else. Maybe it’s . . .” She couldn’t come up with another alternative.
The news had moved on and suddenly there was Pauline Kirby, standing in a bright blue dress outside a two-story glass building with a large wooden door and thrusting a microphone toward Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal. The image caught Auggie unawares and he stood there in frozen surprise, his hands still clasped around Liv’s shaking shoulders.
; “That’s Zuma,” Livvie choked out.
“Lieutenant, can you give us an update on the mass murder that took place here yesterday? Do you know what precipitated this deadly slaughter?”
D’Annibal winced a bit at the word “slaughter.” “We’re still sifting through evidence and interviewing employees.”
She jumped on that. “Has the missing employee been found? Ms. Dugan?”
The faintest hesitation and Auggie held his breath. D’Annibal said, “As soon as more information’s available, we’ll make sure the public’s made aware. Zuma Software’s owner, Mr. Kurt Upjohn, is through surgery, as is the other injured employee, Ms. Jessica Maltona.”
“We understand they’re both critical,” Pauline said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Aaron Dirkus, one of the deceased, was Kurt Upjohn’s son. Is Mr. Upjohn aware his son is dead?”
Auggie sucked air between his teeth while D’Annibal did something similar on the screen. “Yes,” he stated flatly.
“He suffered bullet wounds to his abdomen, whereas Ms. Maltona was shot in the chest?”
“We hope to have some good news about their recovery soon,” D’Annibal deflected.
“Is it true Zuma Software was creating software for the military?” Pauline leaned forward, trying to create a fake kind of tête-à-tête.
D’Annibal didn’t buy it for a minute. “As soon as we learn something definitive, we’ll let you know. Thank you.” And he moved away. The show cut to Pauline staring directly at the camera as she wrapped up with comments about how she hoped good news would be forthcoming about capturing the gunmen so we could all sleep more soundly in our beds.
Liv had collapsed against Auggie, and he’d wrapped his arms around her. He led her to the bed and had her sit down. She seemed to be boneless, so he told her to lie down, and she did so with a blank look on her face.
“Trask,” she said. “It’s Trask.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Um . . .” Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t . . . Martin, I think.”