“Siding against Daddy.”
“That should make for fun holiday gatherings.” I digested this new information while we drove. “Did you get a chance to meet the heirs apparent?”
“I did. I take it you did, too. Or at least, I’ve got a feeling the ‘nosy lawyer bitch with the great tits’ was an oblique reference to you. Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced in my direction, but he seemed more curious than judgmental.
“I was trying to forget. The only thing I got out of them was an overwhelming need to shower. Did you get anything?”
“Bud the gambler has an alibi. He was losing his shirt at the Tulalip Casino. Apparently a pretty regular thing, since the blackjack dealer I talked to knew him by name. Most of the waitresses knew him, too. A couple have the handprints to prove it. He bother you when you met him?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Hmm.” We rode in silence for a mile or two, measuring the likelihood that we wouldn’t agree on what I could handle. He let it go.
“Stewie has no alibi. Neither one has a nice thing to say about their father, and both seem like pretty good candidates for incarceration to me.”
I couldn’t agree more. I’d personally sleep a lot better knowing they weren’t out pouncing on unsuspecting women. “You get anything else?”
“I asked my investment buddy about the lawsuit and what Burke’s role might be. His best guess is that Burke was doing a valuation of Jepsen’s stock and/or the company.” The city slipped away in the rearview mirror and the landscape became rural. The windows let in a warm breeze, and the view soothed me. We came to a small town and slowed for the speed limit. It was like a dozen towns bisected by the highway leading to the mountains. They were Mayberry in appearance, two-pump gas stations and tiny post offices.
“We should stop,” Connor suggested.
“Are you hungry?”
“I could eat. It’s probably also a good idea if we wait until it’s dark. I assume we aren’t on a guest list for this place?”
We pulled into the parking lot of a local diner. “That would be an accurate assumption.”
I followed him into the restaurant. Definitely Mayberry. There was a long chrome counter with matching stools. A grizzled old man sat on the last stool, drinking coffee and shouting small talk at the kitchen doors. There were booths along two walls, covered in red Naugahyde and scarred with age. Three small tables filled the center of the room.
We made our way to a booth near the back and sat down. An instant later a beehived waitress in her early sixties set water and silverware in front of us. I couldn’t look away from the platinum blond hair. It added a good twelve inches to her five-foot frame.
“Hey. How you doing?” She wore a starched blue uniform covered by a white apron with the name Vera stitched over the pocket. She moved with the grace of a dancer, offering an easy smile with the menus.
“We’re fine. How are you?” Connor asked.
“Happy to be waiting on somebody with your smile, honey.”
His cheeks flushed and his eyes dropped to the table briefly before he glanced up at me, mischief dancing in his eyes.
“You’re gonna hafta watch this one, sugar. Imagine flirtin’ with me while he’s out with you. This one’s a bad ’un, all right. I always liked that in a man.”
“Please don’t encourage him. He already knows he’s cute.”
“Cute?” Connor choked on his water.
“Them’s the most dangerous ones. Now, what can I get you kids?”
“What do you suggest?” I figured she would steer me away from anything questionable.
“Meat loaf for you, sugar. I know it’s hot as a griddle cake out there, but there ain’t nothin’ like Dave’s meat loaf. I married the man for his meat loaf. ’Sides, a skinny li’l thing like you can use a bit of cushionin’, you gonna hold on to a man like him.” Her hair nodded toward Connor while her head seemed to stay still. I was awed.
“And what can I bring you, darlin’?”
“The same. And a couple of lemonades.”
“You drivin’?”
“Yeah.”
“Smart boy.” Her crayoned lips smiled. “Two meat loaves, two ’ades comin’ right up.”
She turned and walked away to greet a family of four as they took their place at one of the center tables. Connor spread the fax pages on the table between us.
“This is all there was?”
“Yep,” I conceded. “If you have a one-car accident in a hick town you get a county sheriff and a coroner who doubles as the funeral director.”
“Great.”
“It gets worse. The regular coroner is an MD, which I gather is pretty rare. It’s an elected position. No medical training necessary if you’ve got the votes. Unfortunately, he was away when Burke died. So his replacement, the local funeral director, answered the call.”
“So, we think a mistake is not out of the question,” Connor said.
“It doesn’t seem like a huge stretch to me.”
Connor leaned back as Vera placed our drinks in front of us. As soon as she was gone, he leaned forward conspiratorially, resting his arms on the table.
I reread Burke’s file, taking my time. The first page was a police report dated March 1 listing a single-car accident on Highway 2 at approximately nine p.m. The weather was described as snowing with bad visibility. Under road conditions, there was one word: Ice. Page two was a medical report. Mitchell Burke was described as a Caucasian male, forty-five to fifty-five years old, five-seven, and a hundred and fifty pounds. The cause of death was listed as traumatic head injury. Toxicology was listed as negative. Page three was a towing report, which showed that a Mercedes registered to Mitchell Burke was removed from the accident scene on Highway 2 and towed to the impound lot in Leavenworth at eight seventeen a.m. on March 2. There were two photographs, both on the same sheet, rendered almost indecipherable by fax. One showed the broken barricade through which the car had apparently plunged before dropping two hundred feet into the ravine below. The second photo showed the car resting against a rock, its nose crumpled, its sides pleated, the windows shattered by the impact. The last page was a two-paragraph final report written by the officer called to the scene, with his conclusion that the accident was an accident.
“So, in Leavenworth, somebody dies and all he gets are two lousy paragraphs?” Connor looked at the gritty photos.
“He actually died outside of Winton, but you’ve got the rest right. It was a busy night. Two fatal accidents. One with kids. There were at least a dozen follow-up stories to the other accident, but Mitch wasn’t a local. There was the bigger obituary in the Seattle paper, but he didn’t rate much interest from the hometown cops. The two paragraphs he did get seemed like an imposition on Officer Laura Stanley.”
The smell of meat loaf announced Vera’s arrival with our dinner. The plates were heaped with the entrée, creamy mashed potatoes, and peas. All the comforts of home.
“It looks delicious. Thanks.”
“Don’t let that boy’s sweet whisperin’ distract you from your dinner, honey. I got a feeling you’re gonna need all your strength.”
I laughed, embarrassed myself this time.
“She sure is,” Connor agreed.
Vera laughed in delight. “He’s a bad ’un, all right.”
“So, how do you know the cop thought it was an imposition?” Connor ate his meat loaf plain. I drowned mine in ketchup, then forked up a large mouthful. Vera was right: The cook was definitely a catch.
“I talked to Officer Stanley on the phone. I also talked to an Officer O’Neal.”
Connor moaned softly, clearly savoring the mashed potatoes. I took a bite of my own. We lifted our glasses, clinking them together in mutual appreciation of the cuisine.
“Let me guess. Officer O’Neal is a guy.”
“You had a fifty/fifty shot.”
“Actually, I was pretty confident.”
“Because I have Jean Harlow�
�s voice?” I gave my breathiest impersonation.
“Maybe.”
He finished his dinner and began to eye my remaining potatoes. I curved my arm protectively around my plate. He smiled, picking up his lemonade and draining it. I set my own fork down long enough to toast him mockingly with my lemonade before finishing it as well.
“So, if we’re going to do this, we ought to run by the local grocery store.”
“Why?”
“Supplies.”
“Right.”
Connor signaled to Vera. “We need another order of meat loaf and the check.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
“Let me guess; felonies make you hungry.”
We drove through deserted streets. The setting sun skewered dark shadows with rays of light. The houses were small, the yards littered with abandoned toys. It was apparently an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of place, although I detected the gleam of televisions behind the picture windows. Connor and I didn’t talk. I tingled with adrenaline. This sneaking-around-on-the-verge-of-being-caught stuff was incredibly seductive—addictive, even. I wondered if Connor felt it, too. I turned to look at him, tugging at the seat belt as it cut across my throat. Compared to his real life, breaking into an impound lot was probably as interesting as watching paint dry. This case was the most exciting thing that had happened to me . . . well, ever, with the possible exception of meeting him. I let my eyes linger, my thoughts shrouded in the deepening gloom. Meeting Connor was definitely the exception.
“You got the bag?”
“Felony implements. Check.” I lifted the bag we’d gotten at the all-night convenience store we’d stopped at on the way. I lifted the yellow rubberized gloves and waved them at Connor.
“We don’t want to leave fingerprints.”
“Or have dishpan hands.” I emptied the bag, setting the items inside between us: duct tape, two flashlights, and Ziploc bags. I picked up a small plastic case. “Eye shadow? What’s this for?”
Connor parked behind a gas station a couple of blocks from the impound lot, far away from its lights.
“Fingerprint powder.”
“Cool.” I grinned at him. “How do we get in?”
I looked past the gas station to a high fence, beyond which sat hulking vehicles in a variety of shapes. Of course, why would anyone put high-tech security in for a few broken-down cars? A tall fence would be plenty of protection.
“The old-fashioned way, right?” I answered my own question. “I haven’t climbed a fence since I was a kid.”
I threw our tools back into the bag, popping out of the car and striding to the fence, while Connor rummaged in the car. I looked left and right furtively, humming the tune of “Secret Agent Man.” I looped the bag’s handle over my arm and reached for the fence, pulling myself up and scrambling toward the top. It wasn’t as easy as it had been when I was twelve.
“Sara, no, wait.” A harsh whisper.
“C’mon.”
“Sara.”
Just then a fast-moving shadow separated itself from the others and, with a deep-throated growl, launched itself at me.
“God.” I yelped, propelling myself off the fence and landing with a thud. The ground was hard and I knocked the wind out of myself. My attacker barked his head off.
Connor dropped down beside me.
“Sara? Are you okay?”
“You should see the other guy.” My head hurt, my butt felt bruised, and both elbows stung like mad. Not my best moment. The dog continued to sound his alarm.
“Connor, the dog. We’ll have the entire neighborhood out here. We’ve gotta go.” I began to struggle to my feet.
“No, just sit. Take a minute.”
Connor got up and picked up the Styrofoam container he’d gotten at the diner. He walked toward the fence, murmuring to the dog, who abandoned barking for a menacing growl. Connor opened the container and tossed it over the fence. The dog sprinted out of the way, dropping to its haunches and keeping both the man and box in sight. The dog eased its way closer to the white plastic, its growl now barely audible. I sat up and then stood, ignoring the shooting pain in my left elbow. I brushed myself off and looked around for the bag, spotting it twenty feet away. I retrieved it and moved closer to Connor, close enough to see the dog wolf down the meat loaf dinner Dave had so lovingly prepared. Mashed potatoes, even the peas were consumed. I never knew dogs ate vegetables.
We stood and watched the dog for several more minutes. He continued to growl intermittently, staring at us with a fixed gaze from four feet inside the fence. He let out a halfhearted bark and dropped abruptly to a lying position. In another minute he was snoring.
“That explains the cold medicine, I guess. It won’t hurt him, will it?”
“He’ll be fine. Do you still want to do this?”
“Sure. Only bruised my pride. How did you know they’d have a dog?”
“In my experience, everybody’s got a dog.”
“Any more educated guesses I should know about?”
“The dog was it. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Let’s do this.”
Connor took the bag from me and we moved to the fence. Getting over it was a lot easier without the ferocious flying dog. Connor managed it in half the time with a fraction of the noise, but I refused to be irritated by his easy competence. I dropped inside the fence and took a long, careful look at the dog. Summoning my courage, I took a couple of steps closer, crouching over the prone animal, not convinced he wasn’t playing possum. Reaching out, I poked him, prepared to run at the first twitch. He didn’t move. Not even a little.
“God, Connor, I think you killed him.” I leaned closer, kneeling as I put my face close to his snout, one hand resting on his fur. His side rose on a deep intake of air, reassuring me an instant before his doggy breath assaulted me. He might not be dead but he could kill people with that breath. I almost preferred when he was attacking me physically. Straightening, I waved my hand in front of my face to dissipate the reek, my yellow-gloved hand flapping.
“He’s okay. Let’s start at the back,” Connor whispered, handing me a flashlight.
“It’ll be quicker if we split up.”
“We are not splitting up.”
“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat. The dog’s been disabled. Do you actually think there are psycho killers lurking in remote impound lots?” I peered at him in the gloom. His testosterone-induced overreaction was taking some of the fun out of the adventure. We started down the wide center path together.
“There’s no reason to chance it.”
I directed my light, chasing looming shadows. The cars were parked in neat rows, the center aisle splitting the lot into distinct halves. My beam skimmed along the hulking shapes, caressing expensive imports and old beaters. I fixed the light on a faded red number in front of an old pickup truck.
“Too bad we don’t know which slot it’s in. We should split up. You take the left side; I’ll take the right.”
“We should stay together.”
“Connor, you’re being ridiculous. No one is out here waiting for us. No one knew we were coming. Let’s start at the back and move forward,” I whispered. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, but paranoia was so contagious.
“Sara . . .”
“That was our deal, remember? I’m working the case. You’re along for the ride.”
“I’m sorry I ever agreed to that stupid deal.”
“Be sorry after we find the car. It’s a black Mercedes. License plate 857 HJZ.” I checked the cars along the way, counting the rows as I went. Twenty-six in all.
“Right.”
“No, you’re left. I’m right.” I nudged him. The back fence glinted as we neared the last row. I turned my beam toward the cars to my right, starting down the row.
“Yell if—”
“If I run into anyone lurking between cars, I’ll do my best screaming meemie. Go.”
The gravel crunched behind me as he mov
ed away.
I checked one side of me as I walked, quickly realizing that I could make better progress if I didn’t keep jumping from one side to the other. The lot was pretty full. Many of the cars looked like they’d followed Mitchell Burke off his steep cliff. Some appeared perfectly fine. Drug seizures? DUIs caught before they had an accident? Why would anyone leave a perfectly good Jaguar moldering in this lot? I turned and retraced my steps, checking out the other side of the row. A flicker of illumination showed Connor’s progress as he turned the corner toward the next aisle.
Picking up my pace, I stopped a couple of times to identify cars so badly damaged I had no idea what make they were. Back and forth I walked. A dog howled in the distance and the hair on my arms rose. Pressing my back against a hulking SUV, I flashed the light toward one end of the row, then the other, making sure the Doberman wasn’t coming at me from behind. It took a moment to realize the sound had come from much farther away. Taking a calming breath, I fought the shudder that worked its way up my spine. I walked faster, counting the rows as I moved toward the front. The Mercedes was in the tenth row, nestled between a rusting station wagon and a truck perched on wheels the size of small buildings.
“Connor,” I called, cringing as the sound carried loudly into the night.
I approached the car from the driver’s side, mentally matching it to the one I’d seen in the photographs. The front end was smashed and the windshield was a spider’s web of broken glass. Both windows were missing from the driver’s side. The headlights were broken. I walked slowly around the car, carefully examining every inch, letting the flashlight play along each scrape. Dropping off a cliff made for some pretty extensive damage. I rounded the trunk and returned to the driver’s door. I reached my arm through the window and studied the passenger side, then the backseat, probing the shadows. The seats and footwells were littered with shards of shattered glass. The light strobed against their irregular shapes.
“Sara?”
I jumped, choking on a scream as I slammed my arm against the inside of the car, dropping the flashlight. I pulled my arm free, cradling the throbbing limb against my stomach.
“Must you keep sneaking up on me? You could’ve given me a heart attack. Not to mention breaking my arm.”
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