Dana smelled the scent of pine on the breeze. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
Logan swiped a finger across the car hood, leaving a streak in the thin dust. “It’s secluded.” He took her arm and helped her up three wooden steps—logs split in half—to a porch. “You should have an easier go of it up here.” He picked out a chunk of the mortar from between the logs. “Needs a lot of work, and there’s not a lot of amenities.” He pointed to an old-fashioned hand pump in the yard. “No running water or electricity. Was your brother handy?”
She laughed. “My brother? James needed directions to change a lightbulb.”
“Well, if he was looking to get lost, this is a pretty good place to do it.” He unlocked the front door with the spare key Georges had provided, and stepped aside.
Dana stepped into a kitchen, wincing at the aroma. “Smells like someone got carried away with the lemon Pledge.”
Logan stepped in behind her. A stack of wood was piled against the back wall near a wood-burning stove. On the other wall was a deep washbasin with no faucet and an old-fashioned icebox. A table draped with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth and two chairs were positioned beneath a four-pane window that looked out on the valley of tall grass. An arrangement of flowers in a wine bottle had wilted.
They walked through the kitchen into the main room, which had a beamed ceiling with a bearskin rug and pine floors. Two crushed brown leather chairs and an equally worn couch faced a river-rock fireplace. Stones stuck out from the mortar to form a mantel. On it someone had placed vintage copper pieces—a teakettle, pot and spoon, and two oil-burning lamps. Dana examined the spines of several books: Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. “These were James’s,” Dana said.
Logan continued through a doorway to the left of the fireplace. Dana followed him into a bedroom. The fireplace extended through the wall. “Central heating,” Logan said.
A bed frame made from stout tree limbs stripped of their bark faced the fireplace. A goose-down comforter covered the mattress, with a hand-knitted quilt folded at the foot of the bed.
“Your brother was a romantic,” Logan said. Then his cell phone rang, and he excused himself and stepped out of the room to answer it.
Dana walked around the bed to an unfinished pinewood nightstand and opened and closed the drawers. They were empty. She opened the closet door and found an extra blanket and pillow on the shelf. Wire hangers hung on the bar. She turned back to the bed, dropped to a knee, and pulled up the comforter. When she sat up, Logan stood in the doorway looking down at her.
“Whatever it is you’re looking for, you’re not going to find it. Whoever was here wiped this place down clean.”
She stood. “What do you mean?”
He held up a plastic bag that appeared empty, then held it to the light from the window. “Magnetic powder. There’s trace amounts throughout the cabin. It’s an iron base compound used to lift fingerprints. That smell in here? That’s ammonia. It’s a base in the cleaner used to wipe away the powder. My guess is that Detective Daniel Holmes, whoever he is, dusted this place for fingerprints, then wiped it clean. The only fingerprints in here now are probably yours and mine. Care to talk about it over dinner?”
19
THE ALL-PURPOSE store in town sold staples like soap, toothpaste, and toilet paper. The window displayed the same kind of antiques as on the mantel in the cabin. Logan hoped the man behind the counter might recognize James Hill from the photograph Dana carried in her wallet. He didn’t. After leaving the store, they walked along a wood-plank sidewalk. It felt like being on the back lot of a Hollywood movie studio—the mining town re-created to attract tourists. In their business attire, Dana and Logan looked out of place. She felt a noticeable drop in the temperature and crossed her arms against the cold.
“You want my jacket?” Logan asked.
She declined. He pushed open the glass door to a café. A string of bells alerted the entire clientele to look up from their plates. A woman behind the counter motioned for them to take a table near the window. It provided a view of the street, which included a hitching post for horses. After a moment the hum of voices again mixed with the ting and clatter of plates and silverware and food sizzling on the grill. Dana smelled bacon. It made her mouth water. The woman behind the counter handed them each a single-page handwritten menu before departing with a promise to return with two cups of coffee. While they waited, Dana called home to confirm that her mother would pick up Molly from day care. As five o’clock approached, and an hour-and-a-half drive ahead of them, she’d never get back in time. Next she checked her messages at work. Grant had called. She thought it interesting that he would leave her a message at work rather than call her cell phone. He did his best to diffuse the fact that a woman had answered the telephone in his room, explaining that “the stupid receptionist” had given Dana the firm’s “war room.” It was another lie. When Grant started making excuses, Dana knew he was lying. She dialed the number for the hotel as the waitress arrived with their coffees.
This time Grant answered. “Dana. Hey. They said you called earlier. Why didn’t you leave a message?”
“I didn’t want to bother you.” She noted his use of “they” instead of “she.”
“You should have left a message. The team is floating from room to room here. We have documents spread out everywhere.”
She closed her eyes and visualized the lie punching another hole in her paper heart. When Dana was a young girl, her grandmother had once used a paper heart to show her how each lie and hurtful word punched a hole, leaving less and less of the heart. Dana wondered how much heart she had left. “How was court?” she asked.
It seemed to catch Grant off guard. He sounded relieved to change the subject. “We have them on the run. The judge granted nearly all our motions in limine and denied most of theirs. We took a couple on the chin, but we delivered a lot more blows than we absorbed.”
“Any talk of settlement?”
“Not anymore. Our demand is off the table. Fuck ’em. I gave them the chance to die gracefully. Now they’re going to have to pay. Listen, I have to run. The team is having dinner. We’ll be working late, so don’t call. I’ll call you if I get a chance.”
“Right,” she said. “I’ll talk to you then.”
“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”
“I don’t think you’ll need it,” she said. “I have no doubt you’re going to get lucky.” She disconnected and put the phone down on the table, looking out the window at the alpenglow coloring the mountaintops red and orange. Nearing dusk, the town took on a dull brown appearance.
“Everything okay?”
“What?”
Logan spoke from behind the porcelain cup, casually reviewing the menu. He glanced up at her. “With your daughter. Is everything okay? Do you need to get home?”
“No. Everything is fine, Detective.”
“Mike.” He put down the cup and the menu. “I’m Detective Logan by day. After hours, I’m Mike. You’ll make me feel old.”
Dana turned off her phone and put it in her purse. She picked up her menu as the waitress came back to take their order. “How you folks doin’?” She wore tight blue jeans, a colorful glass bead necklace, and a sleeveless blouse revealing surprisingly muscular arms for a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties.
“Just fine,” Logan said.
The waitress looked back at the counter to see if any dinners had come up from the grill. “What can I getcha?”
Dana turned the menu back and forth, in search of something appealing. “What do you recommend?”
“Fried chicken is the best you’ll find,” the woman said with noticeable pride. “It comes with garlic potatoes, side salad, and bread roll.”
Dana grimaced. “Do you have something low-calorie?”
The waitress thought for a moment, then said, “I could fix you up a
nice salad.”
Dana nodded. “That will be fine. Could you bring the oil and vinegar on the side?”
The woman looked to Logan, who said, “Well, I’m not about to pass up the best fried chicken in Washington. Do the mashed potatoes come with butter?”
The waitress smiled. “They can.”
He handed her his menu. “Is that apple pie I smell?”
“Fresh-baked. You have a good nose.”
“Is that also the best around?”
“I’d like to believe so, but I am biased.”
“We’ll take two slices after dinner.”
“Not for me,” Dana said quickly.
Logan winked at the waitress. “Just bring the slices. They won’t go to waste.” He patted his stomach. “Or maybe they will.”
The waitress laughed. “Coming right up.”
When the woman left the table, Dana said, “You charmed her.”
His eyebrows arched. “This appears to be a one-horse town, and judging by your brother’s cabinets at his home and cabin, he wasn’t much on shopping or cooking. I’m hoping he stopped to eat here. Let me have his photograph again.” Dana handed him the photograph of James holding Molly on his shoulders. Logan put it on the table. “So why do you think your brother would come all the way out here, Ms. Hill?”
“Dana,” she said. “Since it’s after hours.”
“Dana. Pretty name.”
“Thank you.” She found herself more pleased by the compliment than she should have been. “It was my grandmother’s name.”
“So, Dana, why do you think your brother would choose a cabin way out here?”
“Privacy, I guess.”
“Didn’t he live alone?”
Dana stirred her cup of coffee and lifted the mug to her lips with both hands, blowing at the surface. After a sip, she set it back down on the table. “You know he did.”
“Was your brother gay?”
“No.”
“So do you know who the woman was?” Dana looked up at him. “I don’t know a lot of guys who would go to the trouble to drive two hours for a romantic interlude by themselves. The flowers on the table, the books on the shelves … usually, when someone goes to this much trouble for privacy, there’s someone else involved.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t know who it was.”
“But you knew he was seeing someone.”
Dana shook her head and picked up her coffee. “No. I don’t know that, but I suspect he was.”
Logan took a sip of coffee. “Another secret your brother was keeping?”
Dana put down the mug, opened her purse, and handed Logan what she had found beneath her brother’s bed. Logan held the earring up to the light. Multiple diamonds surrounded a large blue stone, and below it hung a teardrop-shaped diamond. Both were so large that Dana had initially thought it was costume jewelry, something James had bought for Molly, who liked to play dress-up. Upon closer inspection, however, she grew convinced the earring was real. “I found it under my brother’s bed,” she said.
“Just one?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t find the match.”
“That’s what you were looking for under the bed in the cabin?”
“I figured it couldn’t hurt to look.”
Logan’s eyes widened. “Your brother must have been serious.”
“I don’t think he bought it. I went through his financial records—that’s how I found Montgomery Real Estate—but I didn’t find any transactions for jewelry stores or for large withdrawals. If he bought the earrings recently, it would have been a significant withdrawal.”
“So someone could have forgotten it?”
“Possibly.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“It’s an earring, and an expensive one. I don’t know a lot of women who would forget an earring, especially just one.”
“Maybe the person was in a hurry, couldn’t find it, and was going to get it later.”
“Maybe.”
“But you had no idea that your brother was seeing anyone.”
“None.”
“What about other family members, friends?”
“His closest colleague at the school didn’t know, and the neighbor never saw anyone. I asked when I returned her key.”
Logan sat back. “And you planned on telling me this when?”
She shrugged, gripping the mug of coffee as if warming her hands. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
Logan thought for a moment. “There are a lot of hotels and motels closer to your brother’s home, if he was looking for privacy. It seems to me your brother was looking for something more; he wanted atmosphere and seclusion. He cared.”
“Maybe it’s somebody who lives here,” she suggested.
“Then he wouldn’t have needed the cabin.” Logan put an arm along the back of the booth. “Unless the woman was married.”
Dana felt a twinge in her stomach and picked up a spoon to twirl her coffee. The waitress returned with Dana’s salad and Logan’s fried chicken. The potatoes were steaming with butter. Logan closed his hand around the earring and spoke to the waitress. “You didn’t lie. This looks great.”
He had a boyish charm about him. Dana had to admit the chicken looked good, particularly in comparison with her plain salad.
“Are you Fae?” Logan asked the waitress, referring to the name of the diner.
“Fae’s my mother.” The woman refilled Logan’s cup. “I named the diner after her, since most of the recipes are hers. My name is Bonnie. Where’re you folks from?”
“Seattle,” Logan said.
“Well, you make a sharp couple, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Dana laughed. “We’re not a couple.”
The stream of coffee stopped in midpour. “I’m sorry. There I go jumping to conclusions. You just have that look to you.”
Logan picked up the photograph from the table. “Actually, I’m a police officer. I was wondering if you might be able to help me.” Logan held up the picture. Bonnie took it, putting the pot on the table. “Have you ever seen this man before?” Logan asked.
Bonnie studied the picture, her eyes shifting between it and Dana.
“He’s my brother,” Dana said. “He may have had a beard and a little longer hair.”
“I can see the resemblance,” she said. “Is he missing or something? Are you trying to find him?”
Dana looked at Logan, who nodded for her to go ahead. She looked up at Bonnie. “He’s dead.”
“Dead? You mean he was killed?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“We’re trying to retrace his steps,” Logan said. “He used to rent a cabin out past the cemetery.”
“The Wilbur Ranch? I’d heard someone was there. The place hasn’t been lived in for years.”
“That’s the one,” Logan said.
Bonnie looked at the picture again, studying it. She nodded, almost imperceptibly at first, then with growing confidence. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do remember him. Did he wear glasses?” She made a circle in front of her eye. “Oval-shaped, like a writer or something. Wire-rimmed.”
“Yes,” Dana said.
“Yeah. He came in once or twice that I can remember. Nice guy. Polite. Good-looking. His hair was longer.”
Logan smiled up at her. “I thought you might remember him. You strike me as the type of person who has a good memory for faces. Did he ever come in with anyone?”
Bonnie handed the picture back and put a finger to her lips. After a moment she said, “No. Can’t say he did, although I guess someone could have been waiting in the car. He used to come in and order food to go. We talked a bit once while he waited. Nothing particular, just ’how you doing’ and stuff like that. Like I said. Nice guy. Do you think the person killed him?”
Logan looked across the table at Dana. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
20
MARSHALL COLE RECLINED against the pillows, legs sprea
d, hands gripping the sheets. The woman’s head bobbed rhythmically between his knees. At the foot of the bed, the television glowed blue in the dark motel room. Cole groaned, but it was more from frustration than from pleasure. Since the incident in the motel, with Larry King getting shot and all, Cole had been unable to relax, unable to stop looking over his shoulder, unable to close his eyes without seeing the man with the black sunglasses, unable even to enjoy a good blow job.
The woman sat up to catch her breath and massaged the muscles in her jaw. She grabbed his erection with her hand and roughly stroked him as she reached down the side of the bed to retrieve her longneck Budweiser. “You think it’s gonna happen anytime this century, Marshall?” She took a pull off the beer, and a stream rolled down her neck between pert breasts.
Unable to see the television, Cole grabbed her head and lowered her back onto his erection, trying to concentrate. The beer had not dulled the throbbing pain in his ankle from the fall out of the bathroom window or helped him forget the haunting image of the man. He reached for his bottle on the nightstand and finished it while listening to the newscast. The goddamned weatherman was blathering on about the forecast for the rest of the country. Who gave a shit? How many people in Washington really cared that it was 85 degrees in Los Angeles or balmy in Hawaii? Talk about rubbing everybody’s noses in it. Cole figured they could cut the forecast by two to three minutes and give the extra time to sports, which always came last and was always jammed for time. If he owned the station, he’d put sports first. Hell, it was the only part of the news that wasn’t bad news.
“Come,” the woman said with aggravation. “Come, Marshall, come. I can’t go all night.” Cole lowered her head back in place.
When the weatherman finished, Cole opened his eyes, but the station had cut back to the two newscasters, a man and a woman behind a desk having a fucking yukfest. Cole closed his eyes. Another news story—what they called a “filler” before the sports. Blah, blah, blah. What Cole cared about was whether the Mariners were still three games back of the Angels in the American League West. The boys had won six straight, and Cole wanted to know if the streak had reached seven. The Mariners were about the only thing he cared about in Washington. Rained too fucking much. He was going back to southeast Idaho, where it was dry, even in the winter, when it snowed.
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