He shook his head against all the images. Don’t get paranoid. Keep your eye on the ball and not on the game.
He looked at the cell phone’s screen, concerned that, somehow, he’d missed an incoming call. But the display gave no indication that he had. It did show him the time, an ominous 11:48. The thought of the calendar turning to another date while Sheila was unaccounted for bumped his panic level up a notch.
He locked up and climbed back into the woodie. As he drove north, he debated whether his decision to return to the fishing village was a wise one. What if he did, and Sheila was still in Seattle? But what if he didn’t, and she was over there, across the water?
He replayed every piece of information that had been revealed, no matter how trivial it had seemed at the time. He went over conversations and sorted through snatches of dialogues. He envisioned computer screens he’d seen over the last several days, tried to remember what he’d seen on which monitor, what he’d heard from which speakers, who had been present. Images flashed across his mind like flickering frames from silent-movie reels — people, lures, odors, sounds, fish, dolls, scents, waders, spears, roads. He went over questions and answers, and questions without answers.
That’s when it hit him. A constant. Something with a common denominator, if only he could remember . . . He couldn’t get it to click into place, but he knew that he had to go back.
The answers lay somewhere in the sleepy little community across the water.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bait the hook well: this fish will bite.
—Shakespeare
Much Ado about Nothing
The town was laced up tight as a Victorian corset when Jeff slowed at the only traffic light in the community. He took advantage of the minute between red and green to punch in the sheriff’s cell phone number. Had anyone told him a week earlier that he would soon, and suddenly, come to rely on cell phones, he would have laughed in his face.
He hit Send and waited.
“Yeah?” McIvers answered, not wasting any time.
“It’s me. I’m here, working my way north.”
“Take it easy. This fog’s moving in fast.”
“Right. Did you get hold of Tanya Rhodes?”
“Afraid not. I’ve called, driven out there, checked with just about everybody I know. Finally found out she’s on a nip-and-tuck holiday, won’t be home till Sunday. Gave her maid the week off.”
“We may not need her. Can you meet me at Coop’s?”
“Sure. Matter of fact, I’m pulling in now.”
“I see you,” he said, then added, “The science of cellular technology.” He punched End, pulled in behind the sheriff’s cruiser.
The parking lot was empty, except for a black pickup in front of the door. The sheriff pulled in beside it, and Jeff parked next to her.
“Coop’s truck,” the sheriff said. “He’s probably staying the night. Does that as often as not.”
“Lucky for us.”
The sheriff tried the door, discovered that it was locked, then pounded on it.
“Hang on,” a voice bellowed from inside.
Coop swung the door open, greeted the two with a double-barrel shotgun.
Instinct made Jeff reach for his pocket, then stop.
“Coop, put that damned thing away before I do it for you.” The sheriff stepped around him and into the bar. “We need to pick your brain.”
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow? I’ve gotta get the cash drawer to balance, then get some shut-eye. Monday Night Football wears me out.”
Jeff stepped inside. “It’ll just take a minute.”
Coop glanced at the sheriff, who was already perched on one of the barstools. “Like I could stop that gal, God love her.” He closed the door. “Got some coffee left over, if you want it.”
“Sounds good,” Jeff said.
As Coop poured, Jeff got the conversation rolling. “Vanessa Valentine told me that she and Bill were here a few weeks ago. He was showing her how to use the Internet on your computer?”
Coop chuckled. “Yeah. I doubt it stuck, though. Val’s never been one for technology.”
Jeff smiled. “She told me that, too. But she did say that Bill shot out of here in a hurry. Do you know why?”
“Can’t say as I do. I just figured he and Val had had a fallin’ out.” He raised a brow. “Know what I mean?”
Jeff nodded. “So, neither of them said anything about it later?”
“Nope. To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it till you mentioned it. I’d even intended to check on that auction, see what happened with it. But things got busy, then Bill got killed, and —”
“What do you mean, ‘auction?’ “ Jeff leaned forward.
“You know, online auction. I was curious. At least I thought I was, but since I never got back to it . . .” He shrugged. “I guess I figured it could wait. Anyhow, Bill had left in such a hurry that he didn’t log off. When I went back to disconnect, there was this auction page on the —”
“How were you going to check back on it?” Jeff set his cup down. “Did you make a note of the website?”
“You don’t know much about storytelling, do you, son?”
“Sorry, Coop,” the sheriff interjected, “but this could be important.”
Coop’s interest level appeared to go up. “Do you think it’s got something to do with Bill’s murder?”
“Chance of it,” the sheriff said. “Looks like somebody’s got a theft ring going. Talbot’s wife has been abducted,” she added, nodding toward Jeff. “We’re trying to see if it’s all interconnected.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Coop loped to the back, Jeff and the sheriff at his heels. “I bookmarked the damn thing.”
The office wasn’t much, a windowless cubbyhole with cheap paneling and a strip of track lighting on the ceiling. Coop took a seat in a squeaky chair in front of the computer screen, punched a key to connect. When it did, he scrolled through the Favorites list until he found the link. He clicked it and waited.
The screen that popped up had the bright eBay logo at the top. An inch or so below that was a sentence typed in red letters which read, This auction has ended. Coop scrolled down until he came to the image of a lure. To its right was a paragraph giving a detailed description. Above it, in red block letters, was the name. It read: The Weedless Widow.
The sheriff pulled a folded sheaf of papers from her jacket pocket, flattened them on the desk, and flipped to the last page. Jeff recognized the pages as Bill’s inventory list. “Bill was a stickler for organization, so these are in alphabetical order . . . here it is!” She stabbed the paper. “Says ‘Heddon, 1928, bullfrog, bucktail conceals single hook, two steel wires extend over back to provide weedless feature.’ ”
She leaned closer to the computer screen and added, “Notice anything different about this one and your typical finds, Talbot?”
“Yeah. The same thing I found on all the bucktail lures in Bill’s collection.” Jeff tapped the screen. “His identifier. The red thread hidden in the center of the buck’s tail.”
“Coop,” Jeff grabbed a notepad and pen, “what does the site tell us about the seller?”
Coop maneuvered the mouse, moved to the top of the page. “Says here that he’s in the Washington region. He’s got a new screen name, too. See these?” Coop used the cursor to point out a pair of dark glasses next to the nickname. “These shades mean it’s a new nickname, hasn’t been using it for more than thirty days.”
“Keep the screen where it is while I call in with this information.” Jeff punched Gordy’s number. When he answered, Jeff read off the pertinent information.
“Now we’re cookin’ with gas,” Gordy said after he’d verified the facts. “I’ll call you back.”
Jeff and the sheriff thanked Coop and went out to lean against the cruiser in the parking lot.
“Has anything developed over here since we spoke this afternoon?”
“Yeah, actually. Remember
that species that Raven said lasts only ten minutes or so out of water?”
“Pacu, wasn’t it? Or, was it pleco?”
“Pacu. The plecos can last, like, an hour. Anyway, I’ve been going over there to feed the survivors. When I went tonight, I saw a pacu in the tank. Must’ve been hiding behind something before.”
Jeff considered this new information. “So, the murderer could have left as little as a few minutes before we got there?”
“Sounds like it.”
The fog had thickened and they stood silently for a moment, listening to the night sounds that seemed magnified by the thick haze.
“This will be one for the record,” the sheriff said. “The murderer was caught by a fish.”
Jeff rubbed his eyes. “This is killing me, Sheriff. Not knowing where she is, but knowing that there’s a lead here somewhere and I can’t get it to click. Now Sheila’s been dragged into it, and I’m letting her down. If they hurt her, I . . . I don’t know how I’ll deal with it.”
“Try to hang tight. You’ve got a lot of people working on it, right?”
“I suppose so. I mean, there are friends, and cops, and friends who are cops — FBI, anyway. We’ve all made phone calls, pulled strings . . .”
Phone calls. Was there something about a phone call? He played the last five days over and over in his mind, casting about for the elusive something that fluttered there. He chased after it, tried to snag it. And just as he cornered the thing, his cell phone rang.
He jumped, practically knocking the sheriff off her feet, and fumbled the phone out of the shirt pocket located over his pounding heart. He punched a button.
“Talbot.”
“Jeff, it’s Gordy.” He sounded out of breath. “We tracked down the guy from the webpage, sent a good cop–bad cop team to his place south of Tacoma. Didn’t take long for him to give them the name of a corporation he was working for. I’ve pulled more strings than a puppeteer, but the upshot is that I’ve got a certain investor’s name. Jeff, you’re not going to believe who it is.”
“Try me.”
Gordy spit out names, dates, statistics, as if he were writing up one of his infamous shorthand lists. Jeff knew the codes. He’d been trained by Gordon Easthope, had learned from him, and retained all he had learned.
Gordy’s information confirmed Jeff’s suspicions. It had finally come together in his brain. The common denominator was nothing more than a sound, a sound that had been eating at his thoughts, a sound that, when it had traveled over the phone wires, was at once familiar yet totally out of place.
Jeff opened the driver’s door of the cruiser. The sheriff caught up to speed quick and hopped behind the wheel. Jeff rode shotgun, told her where to head, then finished the conversation with Gordy. “You call the state, tell ‘em where to find us.”
“Got it. And, Jeff? Be careful. Don’t let him present a case that will muddle your good senses.”
“Don’t worry.”
As the sheriff drove down the long stretch of highway, straining to see through the dense fog that had moved in, Jeff pieced together a scenario, a working hypothesis, so that he might plan his approach.
Likely, the abductor had gone to the Talbot house with the hope of sweet-talking Sheila, had used some excuse in order to see the links Jeff had forwarded, had told her that he was playing a role in the investigation and needed to verify the online information.
But something had gone wrong, and Sheila had been forced to go with the deceiver. Jeff hoped the person had done this only as a way to buy some time while he determined what his recourses were, to throw Jeff off a trail that Jeff himself hadn’t realized he was on.
It was beginning to make sense. The mysterious woman wearing a caduceus. A nurse. Someone had thought ahead, had known that Sheila wouldn’t leave without a struggle. Therefore, he had gone prepared to sedate her, erase the files, use what was likely the nurse’s maroon Buick rather than one of his own vehicles, and abduct Sheila for as long as it took to wipe out the technological trail that led to him.
Only he had missed one thing. He hadn’t known about Vanessa Valentine’s computer lesson at Coop’s Tavern. If he had, both Coop and Val would have been in danger as well.
He filled the sheriff in on Gordy’s report and his own thoughts, then laid out his plan. It was the only approach that might prevent their suspect from panicking.
As the sheriff drove along the empty highway, Jeff reached in his jacket pocket, verified that a small yet significant item was still there. It was the one thing that might mean all the difference between success and failure. It was the key to unlocking the mystery, and he’d had it with him all along.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
People who fish keep secrets.
People who gamble tell lies.
People with something to hide from their peers
Are dressed up in Satan’s disguise.
— Jeff Talbot
He instructed the sheriff to park the cruiser on the shoulder of the highway. The fog was heavier now, had fallen over the area like a net. Concerned that they might not maintain a sense of direction, he grabbed the sheriff’s hand, gave it a quick squeeze, and held on to it as they made their way blindly down the lane.
They were almost upon the cabin when they caught first glimpse of a dim shaft of light cutting its way through the fog, reaching for the pine needles that carpeted the ground in front of the porch. It was coming from the window off the dining room, and Jeff recalled seeing that same light four nights earlier as he returned from his first visit to Bill Rhodes’s home. It emanated from the lamp that typically served as the night-light.
The sheriff tapped his arm, then pointed at the corner of the house. He could barely make out the fender of a vehicle. It looked maroon.
Stealthily, the pair climbed the steps and crept across the porch to the front door. A board creaked quietly under Jeff’s foot, and he cursed silently. He motioned the sheriff to one side of the doorway, while he took position on the other side. They waited. No noise came from within, yet an unmistakable sound on the porch convinced Jeff that his puzzle pieces fit. As he slid his key into the hole on the knob’s back plate, a cricket chirped in the silence, his song reverberating in the still night.
It might have been the same one Jeff had heard over a cell phone, a hundred years ago a phone that he had thought was in downtown Seattle. It was funny what you heard and didn’t pay attention to.
He prayed that the tumblers clicking into place wouldn’t echo as the cricket’s song had. He moved in slow motion, unlocked the door, steadily, carefully, turned the knob.
Simultaneously, he pushed the door open and reached for his weapon. Stepping through the narrow opening, he scanned the dining area, the kitchen, and the half of the living room visible to him. He pivoted to secure the rest of the room and found himself staring into the feral eyes of Judge Richard Larrabee.
“Put the gun on the table,” the Judge ordered.
Jeff ignored him. “Where is she?” He started toward the hallway.
The Judge waved the gun.
Jeff stopped. “She’d better be okay, or I swear, Judge, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
“She’s fine. I had no intention of hurting her. But if you kill me, the person guarding your wife will kill her. Don’t doubt me on that.” He steadied his aim. “The table. Now. And empty your pockets while you’re at it.”
Jeff’s training told him not to relinquish his weapon, and in a rush he understood why you didn’t get involved when a loved one’s life was at stake. It helped him to know that the sheriff was outside, and that she undoubtedly had put a plan into the works. Finally, he followed the Judge’s instruction, regret consuming him as he laid the gun among his personal effects.
“I underestimated you, Jeff. How did you find me?”
“Let me see her.”
“You will, in due time. But first, I need to make sure you understand why she’s here. I had to prove that your picture-perfect lif
e isn’t as neat and tidy as you thought it was. Your wife isn’t as safe and sound behind those walls as you’ve fooled yourself into believing. Do you see that you’re not immune to the outside world? Do you realize that I — or anyone else, for that matter — can come into your so-called haven and take from you what matters most?
“You have a choice,” he continued. “You can either do as I say, and forget everything you know about Bill’s lures, or you can become as paranoid as your wife. Just back off, stop pursuing those Internet sales, and you and I can go back to business as usual.” He shrugged, smiled. “You see? It’s as simple as that. If you don’t, then I’ll have to come back for your wife. You’ll never have any peace, always worrying about what’s going to happen to her. Now, really, Jeff, is her life worth a few stolen lures?”
“Was Bill’s?”
The Judge’s face registered regret. “He called me Wednesday, said he’d tracked down a company that was selling his stolen lures. He’d even come up with several screen names in order to bid on his lures and find out who was shipping them. I told him to sit tight, that I’d take a look at what he had when I arrived for the weekend.
“When I got to the bait shop, Bill had been doing his homework. He named the company — the company I had invested in — and I knew it was only a matter of time before he pieced things together.” The Judge wiped sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “I thought I could fix it. I swear to you, I never intended to kill him.”
Jeff needed to steer the conversation away from the murder, try to keep the Judge from hitting the panic button again. “Why did you do this to Sheila?”
The Judge appeared to regain his composure. “I doubt she’ll remember what’s happened. I told the nurse to use a strong sedative. Bringing Sheila over here was nothing more than an insurance policy, a means of getting you to back off. It’s worth it, isn’t it? You leave me alone, and I’ll leave her alone.” He laughed nervously. “Don’t make me have to go through this again, Jeff. But know that I will if I have to. And, I assure you, it’s not that difficult to find a woman who never leaves her house.”
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