by Blake Pierce
Team Chief Sanderson had been glancing at Division Chief Rigby. Riley sensed that he was becoming emboldened by his superior’s lapse in self-confidence.
“Nothing’s off the table,” Sanderson said.
“But we’d have to connect them to the other poisonings,” Rigby added, apparently trying to reassert his authority. “That is, if Amanda Somers was poisoned by the same killer.”
“What do you think, Dr. Shankar?” Rigby asked.
Prisha Shankar didn’t have to stop to think.
“I’m all but sure of it, since thallium was involved,” she said. “My team has been examining the cocktails used on the other two victims. They’re really quite sophisticated, and the killer varied the recipe both times. Margaret Jewell’s concoction included heparin, a blood thinner. Cody Woods’ mix included the hormone epinephrine. The killer was trying for slightly different effects and symptoms. Or perhaps delaying one death while bringing another along more quickly.”
Riley asked, “Any preliminary information on the cocktail used on Amanda Somers?”
Shankar drummed her fingers on the table.
“It’s too soon to say much about it,” she said. “But it did contain traces of suxamethonium chloride.”
“And what effect would that have?” Bill asked.
“It’s a muscle relaxant. It can cause short-term paralysis.”
Riley asked Shankar to spell out the name of the substance. She wrote it down. Then she turned to Police Chief McCade.
“Chief McCade, I assume that you’ve already sent cops to the houseboat. What have they found out so far?”
McCade looked over some notes.
“Amanda Somers’ floating home is in a gated community,” he said. “My people talked to the gatekeeper who was on duty yesterday afternoon. He buzzed in only one guest. Amanda had told him she was expecting a visitor. She just said a friend would ask for her and to let her in. She didn’t give the gatekeeper a name. We asked the nearest neighbors who might visit, but they had no idea. But we’ve still got other people to interview.”
“Did the gatekeeper give a description?” Riley asked.
“He said she was pretty nondescript—middle-aged, reddish-brown hair. She was wearing a jogging outfit.”
Riley tapped her eraser against the table, considering what to ask next.
“Did you get any images from surveillance cameras?” she asked McCade.
“The cameras on Somers’ houseboat were turned off. The cameras on the dock got grainy images. Just a woman wearing a cap, you can’t see her face. The gatekeeper’s description is more useful.”
Riley mulled this over. She’d been starting to consider Solange Landis a suspect but this didn’t sound like the nursing school head that she had talked to yesterday morning. At least, not unless she was wearing a disguise. Could Solange have gone from their morning chat over coffee to a murderous visit to a famous writer? It was a question she couldn’t answer.
Riley turned to Prisha Shankar, who looked alert and attentive as usual.
“Dr. Shankar, how does the visitor fit in with a time frame for a poisoning scenario?”
Dr. Shankar squinted in thought.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Thallium doesn’t normally work that fast. But the cocktail might have been designed to speed things up. Suxamethonium chloride might have accelerated the effects. It could have been the visitor, but it’s just as likely that the victim had already been poisoned by then.”
Riley wasn’t sure whether to address her next question to Sanderson or Rigby. The political tensions between them were as palpable as ever. Rigby was determined to stay at the top of the local FBI food chain, at Sanderson’s cost if possible. Sanderson was anxious not to get eaten. No matter which of them Riley addressed, the other was going to be offended.
What a pain in the ass, she thought.
She glanced back and forth between them, hoping to show no preference.
“Give us an overview of the case so far,” she said.
Rigby jumped in before Sanderson got a chance to speak.
“We’ve got three murders that we know of—all poisonings. The first was Margaret Jewell, who died at home in November. She’d recently been treated for fibromyalgia at Natrona Physical Rehabilitation. Cody Woods died a week ago. He’d gotten knee replacement surgery at South Hills Hospital awhile back. He checked himself back in because he felt unwell. He died there soon afterward.”
“And both appeared to have died from heart attacks,” Riley said.
“That’s right,” Sanderson said.
Rigby jumped back in. “And now Amanda Somers. She was also hospitalized for a procedure that is not usually life threatening. And she was also poisoned.”
Riley asked, “Has our technical analyst found any overlapping personnel between the hospital where Cody died and the rehab clinic where Jewell was treated?”
“No,” Sanderson said.
“Have him check again,” Riley said. “Include the hospital and the rehab facility that treated Amanda Somers. Tell him to go over the records with a fine-toothed comb. We’re not necessarily looking for physicians, nurses, and caregivers. Check out cleaning personnel, delivery people, social workers, visitors—anybody who might have come and gone without drawing a lot of attention. Tell him to keep an eye out especially for a woman who meets the description of Amanda Somers’ visiting friend.”
Sanderson jotted down the instruction.
Riley turned to Chief McCabe.
“Give me the address for Amanda Somers’ houseboat,” she said. “Agent Jeffreys and I will go over there right away.”
McCabe nodded and wrote down the address.
Riley scanned all the faces at the table.
“I don’t need to tell you that we’ve got a mess on our hands,” she said. “Amanda Somers’ death makes this case personal for millions of people. Things are going to keep right on getting tougher. We’ve got three victims now, and those are only the ones we know about. There may have been others. There are going to be more unless we put a stop to it.”
Riley made eye contact with Rigby and then with Sanderson.
“We’ll have no more press conferences if we can possibly avoid them,” she said. “That means no more rookie mistakes. Understood?”
The two FBI chiefs nodded. Neither of them looked at all pleased. Again, Riley detected a slight grin on Prisha Shankar’s face.
“This meeting’s over,” Riley said.
As everyone left the conference, Bill leaned over to Riley.
“Well done,” he said quietly.
But Riley wasn’t in the mood for congratulations. Now that the meeting was over, she realized yet again that Amanda Somers was gone, and that she’d never read another book by her. Even if new books supposedly by her came out, they’d probably be just patched together by ghostwriters and editors. The thought made her terribly sad.
Snap out of it, she told herself.
She had to keep her head in the game.
Next, she would get a look at that houseboat where Somers had died. She hoped to find something there that others had missed.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Mount Rainier was never out of sight as Bill drove them to Amanda Somers’ home. Riley gazed out the car window at the snow-covered peak, so beautiful in the sunshine. It seemed a picture of majestic tranquility—not what it actually was, an active volcano that might erupt at any moment.
It struck Riley as a fitting image.
Just like this case, Riley thought. Ready to explode.
Of course, if Mount Rainier were to erupt, it could easily destroy a large part of the city. A series of murders seemed paltry by comparison, but murders were the one thing that she could put a stop to.
Riley was glad that she and Bill had commandeered an FBI vehicle of their own today, instead of riding along with Wingert and Havens. She was sure that the two local agents were just as glad to be rid of them.
As Bill wended their
way past several waterfront communities, she saw houseboats of various types and sizes clustered closely together along shared docks. They were colorful and lively looking, with people bustling about obviously engrossed in everyday matters. Farther out in the water, small sailboats took to the breeze.
Soon they arrived at the gate for the community where Amanda Somers lived. Bill braked to a stop, and the gatekeeper stepped out of his comfortable-looking shack. As he walked over to the car, Bill opened the window.
“You must be from the FBI,” the man said.
Bill and Riley introduced themselves and showed their badges. He was a tall, lanky man with a good-natured face. Riley guessed that he was about her own age.
“Come right on through,” the gatekeeper said. “You can park just inside.”
The man opened the gate, and Bill drove past it and parked in the private lot. The man was standing nearby when they got out of the car and he shook hands with each of them.
“I’m Evan Highland,” he said. “I was working here yesterday afternoon, and—”
He stopped short and slouched awkwardly. Riley could tell that he was having trouble processing what had happened.
She’d recognized his name right away. The local police had interviewed him shortly after the discovery of Amanda Somers’ body. He hadn’t been on duty when the body was found, but he had been here when the visitor had arrived.
Before leaving the hospital, Riley had read a transcript of his description of the woman. He was an observant man, and his description was very nicely detailed.
Even so, Riley wanted to ask him just a few more questions.
“I wonder if you could tell anything more about the visitor you buzzed in yesterday,” she said.
A pained look crossed Highland’s face.
“Do you think she might have been the killer?”
Riley was sorry to have to bring it up. She didn’t want to tell him that he might have let a murderer into Amanda Somers’ home. Besides, Prisha Shankar had expressed her doubts. According to her, it was likely that Amanda Somers had been poisoned before the visitor arrived.
“We really don’t have any idea yet, Mr. Highland,” Riley said. “Has anything occurred to you about her since you talked to the police?”
Highland shook his head.
“I can’t think of anything else,” he said. “She had the most ordinary face you could imagine. Ordinary lips, chin, eyes, nose. I remember thinking that at the time—‘this is the most ordinary-looking person I’ve ever seen in my life.’”
He chuckled sadly.
“Kind of a contradiction in terms, huh? How can you look more ordinary than everybody else?”
Riley jotted his words down.
“Was she wearing makeup?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do you think she was wearing a wig?”
Highland paused for a moment.
“Maybe. Her hair was reddish-brown, like I told the cops yesterday. It was hanging straight and she had bangs. Yeah, maybe it could have been a wig. A good one if it was.”
Riley was picturing Solange Landis in her mind. With a simple disguise, she could probably fit the description. But it was still a rather dim possibility.
Bill asked, “Are you sure she didn’t have any other visitors that day? Earlier than the visitor you described?”
Highland shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t buzz in anybody else to see her.”
“How about visitors to see other people?”
“It was a quiet day. Just a couple of people, but nobody that I didn’t know.”
Riley knew that FBI agents had already thoroughly checked everyone who had come through that gate on the day of the murder. And they had questioned all the neighbors without turning up any suspects.
Now another possibility occurred to her. If the killer wasn’t a neighbor or a visitor, it appeared that only one other person would have had access to Amanda Somers.
That person was the gatekeeper himself.
Riley eyed him carefully, looking for any sign of anxiety. If he was the killer, she could surely detect some telltale sign of guilt.
In fact, he seemed to be quite unsettled. But Riley sensed that wasn’t guilt. This man was bothered by something more than the possibility of having failed in his professional duties.
“Can you think of anything else?” she asked.
Highland squinted thoughtfully.
“She was kind of plain, but she had a nice smile. She seemed—generous, I guess. Amanda—that’s what I called her—didn’t have guests very often. I was glad that someone nice had come to see her.”
Highland had a faraway look in his eye.
He said, “You know, I was one of the only people around here who knew who she really was. She was just ‘Amanda’ to her neighbors. I still don’t quite believe it. Whenever she came and went, she’d always stop and talk to me.”
Highland’s eyes filled up with tears.
Riley and Bill exchanged glances. She knew that they had both realized the same thing.
Bill said, “You read her book, didn’t you?”
Highland nodded.
“Years ago,” he said. “Long before I ever met her.”
“So did both of us—Agent Jeffreys and I,” Riley said.
Highland had trouble speaking for a moment.
“That book changed my life, made me see myself and the world in a whole new way. I should have told her, I guess, but … she wanted so much to be left alone, because this was the place where she didn’t have to be Amanda Somers. I thought it wouldn’t be right. So I never even mentioned it.”
He fell silent. Riley could see regret in his eyes—regret at never asking a world of questions, regret at never having thanked her for her wonderful book.
This man was definitely no killer.
“You did the right thing,” Riley said.
“Thanks,” he said. He didn’t sound very convinced.
Highland gave directions to Amanda Somers’ home, and Bill and Riley started walking toward the docks.
“He’s not our man,” Bill said.
“No,” Riley said. “He’s grieving, just like all the rest of her readers. And he’s struggling with guilt on top of that.”
Riley observed the neighborhood as they walked. She had heard the houses here described as floating homes rather than houseboats. Now she could see why. The houses were quite enormous, and some of them were architecturally elegant.
Off to the side, she could see much smaller homes—true houseboats, with pointed bows. They reminded Riley of RVs, except that they were on the water. Those obviously could move about on the water. She’d been told that the larger ones were permanently moored.
The floating homes were lined up along several interconnecting docks. Even in this expensive neighborhood, the decor ranged from kitschy to elegant. As they walked along, Riley saw potted trees, sculptures, and garden gnomes on the decks.
They found Amanda Somers’ home at the end of a dock. It was larger than most of the other houses, a big modern box shape. Riley and Bill stepped under the police tape and walked toward the front door.
Just then Bill’s phone rang. Bill checked to see who was calling.
“It’s Rigby,” he said. “I guess I’d better take this. You go on inside.”
Riley opened the door and stepped into the house. She had to catch her breath. The place looked even bigger inside than it had from outside.
A strange feeling came over her—a chill that went down to her bones.
She had been sad about the author’s death until now, but this was different.
She was filled with a peculiar and unsettling kind of awe.
I’m alone in the house where Amanda Somers died, she thought.
But somehow, the place didn’t seem completely unoccupied.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
A shudder ran through Riley’s body as she gazed into the large, sparkling living room with it
s big windows overlooking the water. Waves of emotion swept through her. She knew they were not her own emotions, but powerful sensations that seemed to fill the space all around her.
The most powerful emotion of all was loneliness.
The sheer size of the place added to that feeling. That Amanda Somers chose to live alone here seemed strange, and somehow terribly sad.
And yet she hadn’t been entirely alone during her last day alive. Riley still felt the visitor’s presence. Had Amanda’s last, rare houseguest been her killer?
That was what Riley hoped to find out.
Riley’s first impression of the place was that everything looked so startlingly pristine. The white sofa and chairs could only belong to a person without children or pets. It was also obvious that Amanda never expected to come in wet from water sports. Nor did she have guests who might do so. It was likely that she never went into the water for the fun of it.
It seemed ironic—to live in a floating home but have no interest in the water. Riley wondered what had attracted Amanda here in the first place.
Something else seemed odd to Riley. She’d been in writers’ homes before. She’d never been in one that was this neat. In her experience, creative people were at least somewhat disorderly. But this house was immaculate.
It made Riley wonder whether Amanda Somers had stopped writing altogether. Despite all the rumors about more books in the works, maybe she’d simply given up after writing The Long Sprint.
But maybe there was another reason for how the place looked.
This is where she came to escape, she reminded herself.
Perhaps Amanda Somers’ mansion up on Moritz Hill looked very different. If she did her writing up there, at least parts of it would be cluttered with evidence of creative outpouring.
Riley didn’t know, and it was pointless to wonder. After all, it was here that Amanda Somers had been murdered.
Keep your mind on the case, she reminded herself yet again.
Her eyes rested on an unfinished drink on the coffee table.
She picked the glass up and sniffed the stale drink.
A bourbon drinker, like me, she thought.