by Lisa Jackson
“Maybe he’s just cooling off?”
“According to her, they fight, he leaves, and he always comes right back within twenty-four hours. It’s just their way.”
“Sounds like the body’s him,” Lang agreed.
“Could very well be. Description matches. Got his picture from the DMV.”
O’Halloran seemed to be holding back something, something important. Lang thought a moment, then said, “Exactly when did this guy take off?”
“About six o’clock Friday night.”
“And he drove right past Halo Valley Security Hospital on his way to the coast from Salem. That puts him right in harm’s way.”
“It’s a theory,” O’Halloran allowed.
“God damn it. He was Justice’s ride!” Lang was running with it. “How was he killed?”
“Blunt force trauma to the head. Talk to Delaney.”
“I will,” Lang said with meaning. He was already ahead of himself, putting the pieces together of Justice Turnbull’s escape. “So, Turnbull took the van, then dumped it right away. Why?”
O’Halloran snorted. “You wouldn’t have to ask if you saw it. Damn thing’s painted all over with flowers and leaves and shit. Hippie stuff. He’d need something a little less conspicuous.”
Lang thought a moment, his mind spinning with different scenarios, then settled to the only conclusion that made sense. “The woman strangled at the nursing home. Justice found a way to take her car after he unloaded the van.”
The sheriff sighed. “You think he picked up her car at the same viewpoint?”
“Or close by.” Lang shook his head. “Why not just kill her and leave her?”
“She would have been found sooner. Let’s just hope she wakes up and can ID the bastard.”
“Hell,” Lang muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. The woman was near death when he’d left her, the EMTs refusing to give any prognosis as they tried to transfer her to a hospital. “We’ve got to find out who she is. Someone must be missing her. I’ll get a picture on the news. Who is this woman? If you recognize her, call the TCSD. Something like that.”
“Do it,” O’Halloran said.
Lang strode out of the sheriff’s office and nearly ran over Savannah Dunbar, who was looking a little white-faced. “What?” he asked.
“She . . . died.” Savannah exhaled heavily. “The Jane Doe at Seagull Pointe. About twenty minutes ago.” She let out a long breath. “The EMTs thought they’d save her, but . . .” She shook her head. “She was DOA at Ocean Park.”
“Damn!” He thought of the comatose woman he’d seen at Seagull Pointe, how young she was, and he wondered about her family. If she didn’t have kids of her own or a husband, she was someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s sister.
“They might have saved her if the caregivers at the nursing home hadn’t been so incompetent,” she whispered harshly.
“There’ll be an investigation into their practices.”
“And hopefully charges leveled!” She was seething. Upset.
“Why do I think you’ll see to it?”
“’Cuz you can read me like a damned book.”
Lang nodded. “This is all the more reason to find out who Jane Doe is. I was going to put her picture on the news.”
“Crime scene techs took photos of the scene. They got Madeline Turnbull and Jane Doe, while she was still alive.” She was shaking her head.
“There may be one of her we could post.”
“Maybe,” she said and met his gaze with her own troubled eyes.
“This isn’t your fault,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” Her lips tightened. “Seagull Pointe’s staff missed the obvious signs, and they know it. The nurse and director were busy covering their asses.”
“If you’re right, there will be an investigation.”
“Damned straight.” Her smile held no mirth. “I’ll see to it.” She was already walking toward her desk. “I’m going to write up a report.”
That should take care of any flaws with Seagull Pointe. Savvy wouldn’t let their incompetence go unnoticed. He passed several deputies in the hallway, one who nearly ran into him, sloshed her coffee, and sent him a pissy glance.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” she said, then muttered something under her breath about stupid jerks.
Lang ignored her bad mood and thought about going to his own desk to call retired homicide detective Sam “Mac” McNally, who Johnson had said had finally gotten back to him. The next second he changed his mind, choosing his cell instead as he headed back outside to his Jeep, giving Johnson a hand lift of good-bye, to which she managed a nod. Placing the call, he was frustrated when he got McNally’s voice mail yet again, but this time he asked him to phone his cell instead of the department. McNally had been the lead investigator out of the Laurelton Police Department, the city where Justice’s last rampage had begun. McNally knew Justice Turnbull as well as anyone, and he’d worked with both Fred Clausen and Clausen’s ex-partner, Kirkpatrick, who’d since moved on, leaving a position open at the TCSD, the position that Lang now owned.
Clausen had told Lang that McNally was an “okay guy,” high praise from the terse and generally gloomy detective. Lang had wondered if Clausen might be feeling a bit overlooked since O’Halloran clearly expected Lang to be the lead dog in this investigation, instead of the more senior Clausen. Clausen, however, didn’t seem to mind. He’d told Lang to call McNally, and Lang had, only to learn that Mac was now retired and on a weekend camping trip with his son. The Laurelton PD had given Lang McNally’s cell number, and he’d phoned and left a message on the man’s voice mail. Mac had apparently picked up that message sometime during the camping trip and had called back, but now it was Lang’s turn to keep up with their telephone tag. And all the while Justice Turnbull was at large.
As he pocketed his phone, he caught a glimpse of Clausen behind the steering wheel of his vehicle as he drove into the back lot. Lang circled the outside of the building on foot to meet with the older man. Clausen was just climbing from his department-issue Jeep, a twin to the one Lang drove, when Lang reached him.
“Hey,” Fred said, stepping out and into a deep puddle up to his ankle. He swore for a full minute, and Lang said mildly, “Not to be an ass, but that’s why I park out front.”
“Yeah. Well.” He stepped gingerly around the monstrous puddle, which had also dampened his pant leg. “You are an ass. Just for the record.”
Lang grinned.
“You seen the Breeze?”
“Glanced at it,” Lang said.
Clausen snorted. Shook his foot. Swore again, then said, “Harrison Frost is playing big shot reporter again. Seaside PD busted this ring of high school students that were invading and burglarizing houses, but Frost took credit for giving them the tip. Whole article’s about the kids calling themselves the Deadly Sinners, or something. Seven of ’em. Frost got to know ’em, apparently.”
“This the same Harrison Frost who was with the Portland Ledger?” Lang asked. He knew enough about the man from when Lang was with the Portland PD. Frost had gotten into hot water over the shooting outside a Portland club called Boozehound. “He was related to one of the owners of Boozehound and practically accused the other one of instigating the homicide of his partner.”
“Ye-up. Same guy. Works for the Seaside Breeze now but can’t stop stirring up these big stories. He’ll be dogging us before you know it.” Clausen slid Lang a glance as he walked toward the building, his shoe still making a sloshing noise. “Turnbull’s escape is just the kind of news he wants to report.”
“He’s left us alone so far.”
“’Cuz of these kids.” Clausen snorted. “Damn West Coast High teens. My stepson knows one of the Bermans. Britt Berman. Her dad lives in Tillamook, and she’s at some of our games. Bermans kinda think they’re better than everyone down here.”
“She one of the seven Deadly Sinners?”
“No.” Clausen waved a hand at him
as he pushed open the door. “Could be, though, I guess. She fits the profile. But she’s the victim, in this case.” He sounded almost disappointed, and Lang figured his stepson had been snubbed by the girl, or something like it, to elicit this response from Clausen.
“You’re not a fan of Frost,” Lang observed. “Any particular reason?”
“The guy just wants to make mountains out of molehills.” Clausen seemed about to say more, then changed his mind. “But he’s right about the West Coast High kids. That place is a breeding ground for entitled, selfish, ungrateful kids.”
“Sharp as serpent’s teeth,” Lang said.
“Huh?”
“Shakespeare. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ ”
Clausen looked at him as if he’d sprouted alien antennae. “Sure,” he said but obviously didn’t get it.
“Learned that one from my mother,” Lang said lamely. “I think I was a bit of a thankless child.”
Clausen did not know what to do with that. “Kids, huh,” he said and brushed past Lang as he headed toward the restroom.
Lang half smiled to himself and circled back to the front of the building and his own Jeep in search of Deputy Delaney and the dead body found outside Garibaldi.
Harrison checked the time on his cell phone as he returned to the Breeze with his follow-up article. Three thirty p.m. He hoped he could catch up with Vic this time, and was about to ask about the paper’s publisher when Buddy pointed at the phone on Harrison’s desk and said, “Channel Seven on one.”
“What?”
“That’s what they said.” He shrugged. “Look, I don’t have time to screen your calls, okay? I’ve got a story to write. The Tyler Mill fire. No one knows for sure, but it could be arson.” He appeared thrilled at the thought as he turned to his computer.
Punching line one, Harrison picked up the receiver. “Frost.”
“Mr. Frost,” a smooth, young female voice said. “Channel Seven is following up on the Deadly Sinners story. Are you available to answer a few questions?”
Harrison realized Pauline Kirby’s production team had found the story and was running with it. He wondered if she had any boundaries whatsoever. He was both flattered that it had caught their eye and irked because Pauline would usurp the whole damn thing if she could and take all the credit. “I’m around.”
“Is there a better number to reach you?”
“Nah. Call here. The paper’ll find me.”
He hung up and Buddy grinned at him. “Putting yourself on the map again with this story, aren’t you?”
Harrison said dryly, “Rich kids burglarizing other rich kids’ homes. Pauline Kirby loves that stuff.”
“And so do our readers and her viewers.” He watched as Harrison, who’d been shrugging out of his jacket, thrust his arms back inside the sleeves. “Leaving so soon?”
“Tell Vic I want to talk to him, when you see him. I just want to check in.”
“Sure. You following up on these kids some more?”
Thinking of Justice, he said, “That and other things.”
“If the entourage shows up from Channel Seven . . . ?”
“You’ve got my cell number. Call me. Just don’t give them the number. I’ll call ’em back later.”
“You’re a little nuts about giving out your cell number,” Buddy pointed out. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
It came from being hounded after his brother-in-law’s death and the debacle that followed. Giving Buddy a short wave good-bye, Harrison stepped back outside and into the fingers of fog that hadn’t quite dissipated from yesterday’s deep shroud.
CHAPTER 23
The dry toast Laura consumed in the late morning had carried her through lunchtime, but she still felt distinctly off and ended up taking an early dinner break, where she was able to handle a bowl of chicken soup, French bread, and a small green salad from the cafeteria. Still, she felt a little dizzy with the thoughts that plagued her throughout her rounds. She was pregnant and Byron suspected the truth. She’d thrown out a challenge to Justice Turnbull, and the psychotic killer was planning to attack her. She was feeling her way through a new and unexpected acquaintanceship with Harrison Frost that felt like it could turn into something more.
Where did that ridiculous thought spring from? A single kiss—two, counting the buzz she’d brushed across his cheek—did not a relationship make! She barely knew the guy, had met him just the other day, at the start of all this madness.
Oh, Lord, then why did it seem like an eternity?
Her world had been turned upside down since Justice’s escape on Friday night, and it was only Sunday.
Conversation buzzed, the ice dispenser clunked, and bored-looking cafeteria people waited while the staff and visitors hemmed and hawed over their choices. The smells of garlic and marinara sauce and day-old clam chowder reached her nostrils. Conversation flowed around her, but she barely noticed. She was stacking her lunch tray and turning to leave when Carlita Solano entered with one of the orderlies and headed toward the soda stand. As she passed, Laura heard Carlita say, “I’m not making this up! I know one of the nurses at Seagull Pointe. The police are trying to keep it under wraps, like they always do until every last living relative is contacted, but Jessica said they think that psycho killed his equally psycho mother! It’ll be on the news soon enough!”
The psycho could be only one person. Laura’s heart began beating a wild, adrenaline-fueled tattoo. She had to force her hands to remain steady as she set her tray down.
“Seriously?” the orderly said. “Wow.” He added dryly, “Great care over there, huh?”
Laura couldn’t stand it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you talking about Justice Turnbull? And his mother?” In her mind’s eye she caught a quick image of Madeline as a younger woman . . . pretty and unsure, in a floral dress, standing near a shabby row of rooms in an old motel, her hair windblown, the hem of the dress floating around her calves as the sea, far below the motel perched on the cliff, roared and crashed on the rocky shore. She had sad eyes, Laura remembered, eyes that were dark with secrets. . . .
“That’s right.” Carlita turned in Laura’s direction. She looked happy that someone was finally listening to her with the right amount of interest. “And there’s some other woman, too,” she said eagerly. “He smothered them both. Or strangled them. Anyway, they’re both dead now.”
“They’d better beef up security over there. It just doesn’t look good when patients are murdered.” The orderly’s attempt at humor fell flat as he finished at the soda machine and the cola hissed and foamed over the ice in his cup.
“Who’s the other woman?” Laura asked through a dry throat. Oh, God, not one of her sisters! Surely Catherine wouldn’t let any of them out of the gates. . . . But there are ways to escape the walls of Siren Song. You know this. So do the others. Her sisters’ faces came to mind: Isadora or Cassandra or Lillibeth or—
“Probably some relative,” Carlita said with a dismissive “who cares?” shrug. “Isn’t that who he tried to kill before? I think I saw that on the news when he went nuts before and targeted those women at Siren Song.”
Because you called him. That’s why he went on his rampage! You should never have listened to Harrison. . . .
She caught herself up short. She couldn’t blame Harrison. She was the one who had mentally challenged Justice, dared him, sent him into a rage. If there was anyone to blame, it was she.
Her insides turned to water.
Had she made a mistake?
One that had cost two women their lives?
Hadn’t Harrison told her to go to the police?
But with what? A telepathic message?
She imagined how the detectives would have shared a look when she’d tried to explain about her connection, her mental conversation with the escaped mental patient.
“You okay?” Carlita asked and Laura s
napped out of it.
“Yeah,” she said, trying not to sound uncertain, even though “okay” was far from how she was feeling.
Carlita’s friend had grabbed a lid and straw and had moved farther into the cafeteria, so Carlita hurried to catch up to him. Laura’s heart twisted. Guilt burrowed deep into her soul, and she gently touched her abdomen, reminding herself of the baby growing within her.
Oh, Lord, what a mess.
She left the cafeteria on leaden feet as she walked back toward the first floor nurses’ station. Who was the unknown woman? Someone she knew? Again, she thought of her sisters; they were the most likely victims. Hadn’t he said he would kill them all?
She paused in the hallway and concentrated.
No, she told herself. It wasn’t someone from Siren Song. She would know. If not from instinct, then someone from the Colony would have tracked her down and delivered the news. Catherine would know if any of her charges had gone missing.
Still, two people were dead. At Justice’s hand.
Maddie and someone else . . . an unknown victim.
“Bastard,” she growled under her breath as she thought of him. “Murdering, soulless bastard.”
“Hey? You talkin’ to me?” a patient pushing an IV stand demanded. Balding, his hospital gown draping off one shoulder, he glared at her as he passed.
“Sorry. No.” Her head began to pound. She was still on break, so she turned toward the staff room and, once inside, blindly navigated to an isolated table at the back of the room. Lost in thought, she barely noticed two nurses huddled together over a crossword puzzle, and another watching the news while dunking her tea bag into a steaming cup. Laura stared at the screen as the facade of Seagull Pointe came into view and a reporter gave a few more details than Carlita had of the tragedy.
Did Harrison know what had happened at the nursing home . . . ? Surely he did. He worked at a newspaper, for crying out loud. Funny how her thoughts kept running to him.
When the story on the television flipped to a fire at an old sawmill, she’d had enough. Pushing back her chair, she walked out of the room and hurried to the bank of lockers where the staff kept their personal belongings. Twisting open her combination lock, she grabbed her cell and dialed Harrison’s number, without hesitation this time, aware how much she’d come to depend on him in such a short period of time.