by Nancy Bush
It didn’t help that both Upjohn and Jessica Maltona had taken a turn for the worse.
September walked down the hall to the water cooler and poured herself a cup. She stood in the hallway, smelling the scents of floor wax and Pine-Sol, drinking slowly. She hadn’t liked the way Gretchen had handled Camille Dirkus; she was too brash, too impatient, too everything. Camille hadn’t appreciated the treatment, either, and her short, blond hair had bristled as her pinched mouth bit out answers and finally spewed her theory about the drug operation. She was certain Kurt Upjohn and the roommates had sparked a retaliation from a bigger fish up the chain. That’s who they should be looking for. Not wasting time talking to her!
When September and Gretchen related Camille’s theory to D’ Annibal, he’d taken in the information and, from what September had gleaned, had asked Wes Pelligree to look into it. Personally, she didn’t think it was the root cause of the shootings, but maybe . . .
Returning to the squad room, she overheard a few of Gretchen’s terse remarks into the phone, then tuned her out. She and Gretchen were never going to be simpatico; they were just too different. As she looked out the window, her mind drifted again to the woman’s body found in the field. DO UNTO OTHERS AS SHE DID TO ME. The words, carved into the vic’s skin, were an extra violation that bothered September deeply.
“Okay,” Gretchen said, slamming down the receiver. She leaned back in her chair and ran her hands through her curly dark hair. “From the description, I think our vic is one Emmy Decatur. Her roommate called her into missing persons this morning. She and the roommate, whose name is Nadine, work at a tanning salon in Laurelton. The Indoor Beach.”
“Let’s go,” September said, glad to get moving again.
“Helluva way to spend another Sunday,” Gretchen muttered, heading for the door.
“Overtime,” George said from his desk, not looking up, to which Gretchen merely snorted.
They got to The Indoor Beach in twenty minutes. It was at the end of a strip mall, painted a virulent shade of puce, and announced in big black words across the front window: TAN, TAN, TAN!!! IMPROVE YOUR APPEARANCE!!! IMPROVE YOUR LIFE!!!
There were two young women behind a podium that served as the reception desk. They both looked vaguely at September and Gretchen, their thoughts clearly elsewhere. Their attention sharpened when Gretchen showed her badge and asked, “Nadine Wilkerson?”
The taller of the two started as if she’d been goosed. She had light brown, straight, flattened hair, the kind that comes from seriously removing the curl through a procedure. “That’s me . . . are you here about Emmy?” she asked tremulously.
“Do you have a picture of her?” Gretchen asked.
“Oh, God, have you found her?” She looked ready to faint.
“Why don’t you sit down?” September suggested, motioning to one of two white, wicker chairs for waiting customers. Nadine walked on wobbly legs and collapsed into the chair. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Gretchen said.
The other girl said, “Oh, golly.” She was blond and petite with a dark tan that looked like it had been painted on. Maybe it had.
“I’ve . . . uh . . . I’ve . . . got a picture . . . in my purse?” Nadine said. She sat a moment longer, then stood up and walked around a partition. A moment later the sound of a locker slamming shut was heard, then she returned with a snapshot, which she handed to September.
In the picture were two girls in bikinis waving from a boat. One was Nadine; the other was their victim. September handed the photo to Gretchen, who said, “Do you know how to get in touch with Emmy’s parents?”
The color drained from Nadine’s face. “Ohhhh . . .” she cried, collapsing back in the chair. “It’s her. It’s her. Oh, God, God, God!”
The other girl said, “Oh, golly.” Blinked, and then said, “Her parents live around here somewhere. I’ve known Emmy a long time.”
“Anything else you can tell us about her?” Gretchen pressed.
September urged Nadine, “Put your head between your knees.”
“Um . . . oh, golly . . . I don’t want to be mean or anything, but she was kind of a man hater.”
“No!” Nadine lifted her tear-stained face to glare at her coworker. “She was just a loner. Her parents live on Sycamore Street,” she said to September. “Not far from here. Street ends in one of those circles and they’re the yellow house at the end.” Her face screwed up, more tears forming. “They kicked her out when she was a junior. They probably won’t even care!”
“Don’t believe it,” Gretchen said, and they left for Sycamore Street
There was no one home, so Gretchen took down the address and phoned the station, asking for someone to get her a number. It took a few minutes, but Gretchen got the cell number of Mrs. Decatur, who fell apart like Nadine when she was asked to come and identify the body.
“Now, we know who the vic is,” Gretchen said. “We just don’t know who killed her. Jesus, at this rate we’re gonna need some more detectives. Where the hell is your brother?”
Good question, September thought. Hurry up, Auggie. Bring Dugan in and get back here.
“Huh,” Auggie said, seated at the table, his gaze on the screen of his cell phone. “Dr. Frank Navarone was last employed at Halo Valley Security Hospital. Google. Who knew?” Liv was staring at him, wide-eyed. “You okay?” he asked.
She seemed to shake herself out of a reverie. “Remains to be seen.”
Auggie scrolled through his numbers. “You ready to call LeBlanc?”
Her answer was a short bark of humorless laughter. She held out her hand for the phone and he held up a finger.
Finding the number he’d entered earlier, he pushed CALL and handed her the cell. She put the phone to her ear slowly, as if it weighed a ton.
He leaned close to her and she cocked the phone so he could hear. The line rang four times before a man answered, “Hello?”
“Mr. LeBlanc?” Liv asked.
“Yes?”
She drew a breath. “My name’s Olivia Dugan and I was adopted by Deborah and Albert Dugan from Rock Springs.” The strangled sound he made said he knew where this was going. “I guess you know why I’m calling. . . .” she trailed off.
“You’re looking for your father. Well, you found him.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“I don’t want to bother you, but I got this package from my mother, my adoptive mother, Deborah Dugan . . .” She went on to explain how it had arrived after she turned twenty-five and that her birth certificate was inside. “I’m trying to figure out why she sent it to me. Could I meet with you? Just for a few minutes?”
“You could,” he said reluctantly.
“Is Patricia around?” she asked.
“Nah. Patsy and me, we were married but we were so young and it was over before you were even born. We had to give you up. Neither of us knew anything about anything. We couldn’t raise a kid.”
Auggie pulled back and mouthed for her to find out where he lived. Liv asked LeBlanc for his address and he grudgingly gave it to her, a condo on Portland’s eastside. Liv told him she could be there in a half hour, and LeBlanc grunted an assent.
The LeBlanc condo was in a large complex with units facing outdoor balconies, much like Liv’s apartment complex. Liv’s legs were leaden even while her insides were thrumming, a kind of anxiety building with the thought of meeting her biological father. She’d never really cared, or wondered about her birth parents. In point of fact, ever since her mother’s death she’d felt disconnected from her family except for Hague. But Hague’s problems had prevented her from any kind of closeness with him, so she’d basically always been on her own.
Everett LeBlanc’s condo was on the third floor. They took an elevator up that let them out on a gallery that faced west, toward a common area the condominium complex enclosed. They walked to the door together and Liv hitched her backpack on her shoulder, feeling a brief moment of wonder that she
had Auggie as an ally. She’d given up questioning his motives. She didn’t really care. He was with her now and she was grateful.
Drawing a breath, she rapped on the door with her knuckles. Momentarily, she thought about what she looked like: jeans and a dark blue T-shirt and sneakers. The baseball cap had smashed her hair and belatedly she fluffed it with her fingers, then dropped her arms. What did it matter now?
LeBlanc opened the door, a man in his late forties with brown hair and a pair of hazel eyes that caused Liv’s throat to close briefly. She could see a resemblance, the genetics obvious. It was slightly eerie and for a moment she and Everett just looked each other up and down.
“Well, come in,” he said gruffly, and she and Auggie walked inside.
He gestured them to a well-worn couch and sat down in a chair opposite them, moving some magazines to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re lookin’ for or how I can help ya, but fire away.”
Liv hardly knew where to start. It was Auggie who asked, “You watch the news, Mr. LeBlanc?”
“If ya mean, did I see Olivia’s face, yes I did.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with what happened at Zuma,” Liv said quickly. “But I think . . . I don’t know . . . maybe it happened because of me. We won’t stay long. I just . . . would you look at these pictures?” She yanked the package from her bag and slipped out the photos, handing them to him. “You lived around Rock Springs, too, right? I was born in the hospital in Malone.”
“That’s right.” His head was bent to the photos. He looked each one over carefully, then set them down.
“The man walking toward the camera, reaching for it. He’s a doctor, we believe. Dr. Frank Navarone.”
“I don’t know. My memory for that time’s not so good. You should really check with Patsy. Your—er—mother.”
“Can you give us her address or phone number?” Auggie asked as Liv absorbed his words.
“Sure thing.” He went into the kitchen, yanked out a drawer, and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. “Want me to write it down?” he asked, but he was already dragging out a tablet and pen from the same drawer and scribbling it down. He ripped off the top sheet of paper and handed it to Liv. “You think this doctor’s behind the shootings?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like it has something to do with me. Like he’s after me.”
Everett picked up the photo of the stalking man grabbing for the camera. “He sure doesn’t want his picture taken.”
Auggie glanced at the address on the paper Everett had given Liv. “Patsy Owens? She’s remarried.”
“Uh-huh. To Barkley Owens.” Everett made a face. “We don’t keep in close contact anymore, but if you see her, say hi for me, okay?”
“I will,” Liv said. An awkward moment passed and Liv looked at Auggie, who got to his feet. She followed suit and so did Everett. They gazed at each other and then he nodded and gestured toward the door.
“Be seein’ ya,” he said as he showed them out.
In the elevator on the way down, Auggie said, “Do you want to call Patsy?”
Liv nodded. “Yep.”
“Still think we’re on the right trail?”
“You think I’m wrong?” She gave him a long look. His T-shirt was starting to stick to him in the afternoon heat and she had to drag her eyes away, her mind thinking about how she would like to rip his shirt off and press her own overheated flesh against his.
“I think we’re running out of time,” was all he said.
September returned to the station in the afternoon to find Wes Pelligree at his desk. The rest of the room was quiet. There was a distant humming from the air conditioning that cycled on and off when the temperature reached the eighties, but otherwise the place was like the proverbial tomb.
“There you are,” she greeted him. “I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination, Wes.”
“Everyone calls me Weasel,” he reminded her.
“There’s nothing ‘weasel’ about you,” she said.
Wes smiled. He leaned toward a cowboy style with leather boots, low-slung jeans and black shirts that made his six-three seem even taller. Today he was in “uniform” and his smile moved slowly across his lips. He’d been undercover like her brother for most of the time September had been with the force.
“If I looked like a weasel, then I would be gettin’ upset,” he said. “But I don’t.”
His grin widened and there was the trace of a dimple. He’d been looking at some photos of Emmy Decatur and September saw the picture of Sheila Dempsey had been moved to his desktop and placed alongside the crime scene photos of Emmy.
“What do you think this is about?” she asked him, gesturing to the line of pictures.
“Some sick white boy carvin’ up his women.”
“White boy?” September lifted her brows. “No chance he’s black?”
Pelligree snorted. “This is your people kinda crazy shit. No offense.”
“None taken. Are you serious?”
He nodded once. “I know a lot of brothers who do a lot of bad, bad things. Drugs, killin’, rape . . . as bad as it gets. But this carvin’ writin’ thing. That’s a different kind of sick. Gotta be a white boy, for sure.”
“You sound kinda racist, Wes.”
“I’m just sayin’ . . . we got our shit, you got yours.”
“I’m not going to actually agree with you, but I’ll take your point.”
“And it’s Weasel, not Wes.” After a moment, he added, “Nine.”
She laughed.
“Why’re you called that?” he asked. “What kinda nickname is that? I’m Weasel ’cause my brother named me and it stuck.”
“I heard that. You sure it’s not because you weasel out of things?” she asked.
“Ah, ah, ah.”
He wagged a finger at her and she smiled and said, “I’m surprised you don’t know about the Nine thing, since you’ve worked with Auggie.”
“Your brother doesn’t tell me nothin’. And he’s been outta here for months bustin’ Cordova’s ass.”
“Okay, well, I was born on September 1. Right after midnight. The ninth month, so I’m Nine.”
He looked disappointed. “Must be somethin’ more to it. Nobody calls Auggie Nine, and he’s your twin. Born the same day.”
“We were born within minutes of each other,” September agreed. “Auggie’s real name is August, as you undoubtedly know.”
“Nobody calls him that.”
“My family does.” She made a face. “Don’t get me started on them. But here it is: my brother—August—was born at eleven-fifty-seven on August 31. I was born six minutes later. We’re twins, but we were born different days and different months.”
He gazed at her in mild horror as her words sank in.
“I know,” she agreed. “It’s—flukey. To make matters worse, my father insisted we each be named after the month we were born.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Wha’d I say about white people havin’ their own weird shit?”
“I won’t condemn my whole race,” she said, “but my family? They definitely have their own weird shit.”
“How many of you Raffertys are there?” he asked.
“Five. Oldest brother, March. Then my sisters May and July. Then Auggie and me. My mother died in an automobile accident when I was in fifth grade and my sister May was killed in a botched robbery. My father’s still alive.”
She stopped suddenly and he eyed her cautiously. “The way you say that doesn’t bode well for daddy-daughter relations,” he observed.
September let that one go by. She’d said about all she wanted about her father. “I suppose Auggie’s nickname could have been Eight.”
“Knew a guy named Crazy Eight once.”
“Drug dealer?” September guessed.
Weasel’s smile was faint. “Close enough.” He pressed a finger to one of the photos and moved it to the side. Septembe
r glanced past the array to the folder on the right side of his desk. It looked like an older homicide report; the print on the corner of one page that was peeking out was from a typewriter, not a printer.
Wes caught her look. “D’Annibal asked me to research the killer who strangled women around Rock Springs and Malone in the eighties and early nineties.”
“What for?”
“Don’t know. Got the impression someone asked him for it.”
“Who?”
“Maybe Crazy Eight?”
“If you mean Auggie, I wouldn’t be calling him that. What would he want with that information?” September mused, thinking hard. Then, “Please don’t tell me it has something to do with Olivia Dugan. I’ve got this wild idea that he’s falling for her, losing perspective.”
“Nah,” Weasel said, but something in his careful expression made her realize he was just placating her. She sensed he might have already had these thoughts himself.
Peachy.
She picked up the picture of Sheila Dempsey. “You knew her? Or, met her, somewhere?”
“She was a semi-regular at The Barn Door on Highway 26, on the outskirts of Laurelton, headin’ toward Quarry.”
“I know it,” September said, recalling the red barn-shaped building with the white trim and the sliding door that entered into a shit-kicker bar complete with mechanical bull and wood shavings on the floor.
“They have that seventy-two-ounce steak. You eat it all, it’s free. Course you have to eat the potatoes and green beans that come with it, too.”
“Don’t tell me you tried that.”
“Sure did. Ate it all, too. Threw up right afterwards in the alley behind the place and woowee, did it ever piss off my old lady. I was apologizin’ for a month. But Sheila was right there, cheerin’ me on with some of the other regulars. Afterwards, she clapped me on the back and said I was a man, regardless of the spewin’. I got an earful about her from Kayleen all the way home that night. Two weeks later, Sheila’s body turns up in that field.”
September glanced at the crime photos from this morning and suppressed a shudder. “Are you going to take over this case, then?”