* * *
I head to the station. Dalton’s there, doing paperwork. One huge advantage to working in Rockton is the lack of paperwork. It’s a running joke with law enforcement that our job looks so much cooler in TV and movies, where we’re constantly on the move, out in the field solving crimes. The TV audience doesn’t want to see us stuck behind a desk, two-finger typing endless reports. Down south, besides reports for our supervisors, everything must be detailed, as meticulously as possible, in hopes of an arrest and trial. Or, if we fail to find a suspect, we want those notes for future investigators.
In Rockton, my only supervisor is the guy sitting at the desk. There isn’t an aspect of my cases that I don’t verbally share with him. The council doesn’t require reports or documentation. They don’t give a damn. There are no prosecutors to worry about either. Dalton, Anders and I are the entire judicial system. The only people we need to document anything for is ourselves. That’s what Dalton is doing. He’s handwriting a report on Garcia’s death for our files. I’ll add to that as the investigation proceeds.
Dalton writes while Storm snoozes at his feet. He doesn’t look up when I come in. I put a coffee and a few cookies in front of him. The coffee is in a travel mug. The cookies are in a Tupperware box. That’s another oddity to Rockton living. You won’t find the ubiquitous cardboard cups, cookies in a paper bag or even cookies wrapped in a disposable napkin. We are the most eco-friendly town in the world, I suspect. For us, it’s pure practicality. We can afford the water and the manpower to wash dishes far more than the cargo space to fly in disposable items. By the door, there’s a blue recycling box with an assortment of mugs and plates and plastic containers. Every other day, someone from the dishwashing unit will stop by to grab it. The contents will be cleaned and put back into circulation.
Dalton sips his coffee and absently takes a cookie. He still says nothing. Anyone else might raise a finger or murmur “Just a sec.” For Dalton, that is implied by the fact he’s not acknowledging my presence. Sheer efficiency.
I sit on the edge of the desk and wait. When he finishes, he pushes the pages aside and tugs me into a kiss. After that, I hop from the desk and pick up my coffee and the box of cookies. I want to talk to him about Diana, and that means going out back. Not for privacy but because that’s where he’s more comfortable. He’ll write his notes indoors. Otherwise, though, he’s out on that deck, if the weather’s halfway decent. And his version of “halfway decent” only means “temperature above freezing.”
He grabs his mug and a hide blanket, and we go out. There are two Muskoka chairs, where there used to be one. He tossed the blanket onto mine, for cushioning. Storm lies between us as Dalton settles in. There’s an oversized tin can below his chair, almost filled with beer caps. I remember the first time I saw that, how my hackles rose, fearing it meant I’d walked into the kind of police station where officers drank on the job. It’s true. Dalton has no problem cracking open a beer midday. If we weren’t both in need of caffeine, that’s exactly what he’d be having now. But if Dalton didn’t drink while on duty, then he’d never crack open a beer. He’s always working, and he never drinks more than one. If I pick up that can of caps, I’ll see that beyond a layer or two, they’re old and rusted.
We sit and sip our coffee for a few minutes. He’s in no rush to get my report, and I’m in no rush to give it. He knows what that means—I didn’t come away from Diana with any hot leads.
“She didn’t tell anyone,” I say. “She didn’t mention that she’d even met Garcia.”
Dalton just nods. He doesn’t ask whether I believe her—he won’t—but I still add, “She isn’t lying. I pretended her alibi was in question, and she was our main suspect. She’d have given up names if she could. She didn’t.”
Dalton nods and takes a bite of his cookie.
“I don’t know what to make of that,” I say. “We didn’t tell anyone. Diana didn’t tell anyone. Yet someone knew there was a gun in that house.”
“People knew,” he says.
I look over. “I know Diana is a lying bitch, but I really do believe her here, Eric. Yes, that probably means I still don’t want to think the worst of her—”
“Nah. If anything, you’re the first to think the worst of her.”
“I—”
“I don’t mean that how it sounds,” he says, shifting in his seat. “You have every reason for not trusting Diana. She earned that. What she did to you is unforgivable. The problem is that you don’t want to cut yourself slack. If you don’t suspect the worst of her, then you feel like you’re making excuses for yourself. Making excuses for why you were friends with her. You don’t need excuses, Casey. You were good to her. You were a friend. She repaid you by being a backstabbing bitch. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you. I might have no fucking clue how you can care about a person and do that to them, but I can see that she cares. She’s proven it. Over and over. She is on your side. She wants you back, as a friend. So she’s sure as hell not going to protect a potential suspect. I suspect the only person she gives a damn about is you.”
“But you just said—”
“I don’t mean Diana’s lying. I mean people figured it out. They knew Garcia claimed to be a marshal. A federal agent. If the guy’s a cop, he’s got a gun. So where was it? Why didn’t he pull it on me? Why’d no one see it? They’ll presume we took it from him earlier.”
“But I never announced that we had an encounter with him earlier.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s missing his gun, and he sure as hell didn’t drop it in the forest. Hell, whoever took it might not have even gone looking for the gun. They only needed to suspect we’d spoken to him and search our house for clues. Trying to figure out if we knew who he came for. The gun was right there in a drawer.”
“Next step, see if our neighbors noticed anyone coming around our house.”
He pushes to his feet. “I’ll handle that. Got something else for you.”
He heads into the station and returns with a paper bag. “Murder weapon. Straight from the locker.”
“Murder weapon?” a voice says. We turn as Mathias appears, with Raoul on a makeshift lead. Mathias looks at the bag. “Please tell me it is not a gun in that bag.”
“That’d be the murder weapon,” I say.
He sighs. “How terribly pedestrian.”
“The guy was shot, Mathias. What else do you think killed him?”
“I simply hoped that was not the cause of death. Perhaps you discovered that the bullet was coated in a rare poison.”
“Gun would still be the murder weapon,” Dalton says.
“Yes, it’s a boring homicide,” I say. “So unless you’re here to confess, I’m sure you have more exciting ways to spend your afternoon.”
“I have brought Raoul for a playdate.”
I look back at Storm. She’s on her feet, Dalton’s hand hooked in her collar as she strains for the wolf-cub . . . who hides around the corner of the building.
“I hope you’re joking,” I say.
“Yes, ‘play’ may be an exaggeration. But I do hope to begin the process of convincing Raoul to accept Storm as a pack mate. Canine socialization is extremely important.”
“I meant that I hope you’re joking about being here for that. We’re kinda in the middle of a murder investigation.”
“I realize that, and so I am multi-tasking. Our canines shall become acquainted while we discuss your case. I may have something of interest.”
Dalton passes me Storm. “As much fun as this sounds, I’m going to go interview our neighbors.”
He heads inside before I can stop him. The door opens again, but only enough for him to toss Storm’s leash outside for me.
“Thanks!” I call, and then grumble under my breath. I turn to Mathias. “You’d better have an actual lead, and not be using the excuse to socialize your damn mutt.”
His brows shoot up. “Damn mutt? I take it the investigation is not going well.”
TWENTY-THREE
I walk into the middle of the back yard and plunk myself down. Mathias scoops up Raoul and approaches. When the cub sees Storm, he convulses in a fit of panic.
“Watch out,” I say. “He’s going to—”
Raoul chomps Mathias’s arm. Mathias stops walking, calmly dislodges the cub’s fangs, holds his jaws shut with one hand and taps him on the snout with the other, as he says a firm, “Non.”
Mathias sits where he is, about ten feet from us. Storm whines and belly crawls forward, but when I put my hand on her back, she lays her muzzle on the ground and sighs, her jowls wobbling.
Mathias turns the cub around to face Storm. When Raoul tries to twist away, Mathias holds him there.
“You are safe,” he says in French. “I will protect you from the giant bouncing puppy.”
“So, Raoul, huh?” I say. “Your wolf-dog’s name means wolf. Got creative, huh?”
“Wolf?” His brows arch. “I named him after a boyhood friend who had freckles, just like this.” He rubs the spots over Raoul’s nose, the one sign of his Australian shepherd heritage.
I shake my head. “Okay, so the pups are a safe distance apart, becoming accustomed to one another. What’s your lead?”
“I would not necessarily call it a lead.”
“Mathias . . .”
“Tell me about Petra.”
“What about her?”
“She is your friend. A good friend. You did not toss her into the cell because she beat you at poker. She has done something. A criminal act.”
“I don’t divulge—”
“I know it is criminal, because you would not incarcerate her for anything personal. Nor, given the chaos of the current situation, would you confine her to the cell for a misdemeanor. She has committed a felony. A serious one. Yet you released her two days later. So whatever she has done, you are in no fear of her reoffending.”
“I needed the cell.”
He waves off my excuse. “She committed a serious breach of town law, yet you do not deem her a dangerous offender. It is connected to Brady, yes?”
“Do you have a lead, Mathias? I don’t have time to satisfy your idle curiosity.”
“My curiosity is never idle.”
I look at him.
He shrugs. “Rarely idle.”
I keep looking.
“All right,” he says. “I have a curious mind, and to keep that mind from being idle—which is dangerous—I must pursue intriguing information.”
“Yeah . . .” I start to rise. “When this case is over, I’ll be happy to socialize our canines.”
“Yes,” he says. “I ask about Petra because I am curious. Very curious. I have, until now, dismissed her. She does not annoy me. She does not interest me. Therefore I have paid her little mind. But her arrest tells me there is more to Petra than meets the eye. She is not what she seems.”
“No one here is, Mathias.”
“Mmm, no one here is who they say they are. But most are who they seem. There is a difference. I prefer those, like you or William or Eric or Isabel, who do not claim to be anything at all. Isabel says, ‘I was a therapist’ and no more. Her entire past is summed up—like yours—in an occupation. You both allow yourselves to be judged instead on what you do here. Others make up an elaborate backstory and then attempt to fulfill it. Petra does neither. She was an artist, yes?”
“Comic book artist.”
“Do you think she really was?”
“Back to idle curiosity . . .”
“No, I’m posing questions that you’re already asking yourself. I am proposing, Casey, that you indulge my curiosity by using me to solve the problem that is Petra. I will investigate her for you.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“You are welcome.”
I glower at him. “Don’t pretend you’re doing this for me. You’re bored. I’m letting you take on a project. As for socializing Raoul . . .”
I tell Storm to stay. Then I march over and take the cub from him. I cuddle Raoul for a moment. He knows me—I was his nurse and keeper when he first arrived. He whines and wriggles and licks at my hands. As I pet him, I ease closer to Storm. Raoul notices and tenses, but he’s too busy accepting my attention to pay much mind. When I’m a few feet away, I kneel, saying, “Stay, Storm.”
She whines but does as she’s told. I take a strip of dried meat from my pocket. I break it in half, and then give Raoul one piece and Storm the other. While he’s chewing, I creep closer to Storm. I extend my hand, and she snuffles it. Then I pet her and let the cub smell my hand afterward. As he does, he peeks out at her while I hold him tight, reassuring him he’s safe.
Then I rise, hefting him, walk to Mathias and hand him back.
“He was curious,” he says. “He would have gotten closer.”
“I know. Always leave them wanting more. Step one accomplished. Now Storm and I have rounds to make.”
“Do you still want my lead?”
I look up at him. “You actually have one?”
“I may misdirect, but I do not lie. Not to you. I would suggest you take a closer look at Sebastian.”
Sebastian is that newest and youngest resident who popped out when Garcia began knocking on doors. He doesn’t have any contact with us—either by committing crimes or being quick to volunteer his help solving them. He works as general labor, so I don’t encounter him in the shops. Nor do our social sets overlap. He belongs in the fifty percent of Rockton’s population that I just don’t know all that well. Those who come and go, and never leave a mark, and considering they’re here to hide, I can’t blame them for lying low.
“What about him?” I ask.
“I do not like him.”
I roll my eyes as I walk back to Storm. “Really, Mathias? You don’t like ninety-five percent of the people here.”
“Not true. I have no interest in ninety-five percent. They are leaves passing on the breeze, making no sound as they go, not attracting my attention in any way. There are actually only . . . five people I dislike. No, make that four. Valerie is deceased.”
“So what does it take to incur your dislike?”
“Attracting my attention in an actively negative manner. For example, my neighbor, Ronald. He has sex. It is loud, and it is bad. One of those things would be acceptable. Both is very annoying in a neighbor. It is like listening to an amateur sex tape every weekend. I have considered ways to rid myself of Ronald.”
“Note to self: if Ron goes missing, arrest Mathias.”
“I would not kill him. That is wrong and unjustified. I simply mean getting rid of him as my neighbor.”
I rock my weight onto one hip. “Mathias, is there a point—?”
“There are others that I dislike because, in them, I see traits that remind me of my former patients.”
“The sociopaths and psychopath patients? Here’s a thought—if you notice that, maybe you should tell me.”
“I am. Sebastian Usher is a sociopath.”
When I start to sputter, he says, “Possessing some degree of sociopathy does not mean one is a dangerous killer. I myself score uncomfortably high on the scale.”
“Whew. Okay, that’s so much better, because I know you aren’t a killer.” I pause. “No, wait . . .”
“Your sarcasm is charming, Casey. Has anyone told you that? You have quite a gift for it. In this case, I deserved it. I misspoke. Sociopathy does not mean a person will kill without cause, or poor Ronald would have been dead months ago. A self-aware sociopath is able to form relationships and understand that murdering people without just cause is wrong. Also inconvenient.” He purses his lips. “Mostly inconvenient.”
“So Sebastian shows signs of sociopathy, and you didn’t think to notify me?”
“I would have, once I’d concluded my field study.”
“And told the council.”
“Yes, that is my role here, as you know. I am a mental-he
alth spy for the council. I report on persons of concern. However, I would have told you first. At one time, I naively presumed they passed my concerns on to Eric.”
“They don’t.”
“I realize that now, and I feel foolish for my naiveté. While I have been here nearly five years, and I have the utmost respect for our sheriff, we have never been what one would call friends. I am, to him, a very foreign creature. One he cannot quite understand. He is the same to me. I find him fascinating, but his ethical rudder is as unfathomable to me as mine is to him. Which is the long way of saying that I never expected him to discuss residents with me—and I presumed that he did not know who made those reports—so I never questioned whether they were being passed on. In fact, while I hate to defend my naiveté, there were several cases where he kept a particularly careful eye on residents that I had identified as potential problems. Likely, I realize now, because he has his own sixth sense for that.”
“And Sebastian . . . ?”
“I’m ninety percent convinced he’s a sociopath. I can give examples of his behavior that lead me to this conclusion, but I would prefer you to interview him without that. Draw your own conclusions.” He tightens his grasp on Raoul. “Come see me afterward. Oh, would you possibly do me a favor?”
“Maybe.”
“Take Dalton to that interview. I would be interested in his conclusions as well. A test of his sixth sense.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I will get Dalton to help me interview Sebastian. That’s not to satisfy Mathias’s curiosity. I’m not even completely sure what I’m looking for here. I know what sociopathy is, but it’s not an area I’ve studied in depth. Dalton knows more.
Finding someone in Rockton isn’t a matter of dialing a cell phone number. I know Dalton’s not “at work” in the station. I know he won’t be at home mid afternoon. Last I heard, he was going to talk to our neighbors. I’m heading to the bakery, where a couple of our neighbors work, when Sam catches up with me.
“Paul would like to talk to you,” he says.
I check my watch. “Where is he?”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 17