Utah: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 7)

by J. J. Henderson

  "Nothing happened. You don't need to know. Ellen ended up riding out here with me, that's all. I decided to...well, I think I've said enough."

  "What are you going to do? I want to...to help you and Ellen, Lucy. I..."

  "I'm not sure yet. But I'll let you know when I do. Hey, I'm sorry we had to, you know, meet like this too. The world got in the way, didn't it? Well, c'est la fucking vie, as they say in Paree. Oh, sorry, I guess words like that probably rub you the wrong way, don't they? Anyways, I'm on Bainbridge Island for the moment, and I will stay in touch. I promise."

  "Can't we meet somewhere? I want to..."

  "I'll call you back when I've figured out what to do. Stick around if you really want to, or leave your home number with my mom. Bye, Loretta." Lucy hung up. Loretta waited an extra second for the giveaway click, then hung up herself.

  "Well, she's telling the truth about at least one thing," said Larsen. "The call definitely came from Bainbridge. Somewhere right in the middle of the island."

  "You didn't get any closer than that?" asked Devereaux.

  "Not this time. Not with them thinking we're on the line. She calls again, we'll pin her down."

  "So what about her Utah story?"

  "Well, I don't know. She was told we were listening."

  "I know, but...don't you get the feeling she was telling the truth?"

  "So where does that leave us? The girl just ended up in her truck? What does that mean?"

  "She's a runaway. Hitched a ride. I don't know, but..."

  "Whatever. Either way we've still got to find them, right?"

  The next morning Lucy checked her e-mail on Claire's computer, and sure enough, per her request, Harshman had come through with a name of an attorney—a guy he'd gone to school with at Columbia University—practicing in the State of Washington. Said he was hands down the most aggressive defense attorney in the state. She looked him up in the phone book, and discovered that he had phone numbers listed in both Seattle and Bainbridge Island. She tried the Bainbridge number first.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hi...is this the office of..."

  "Jack Yates. Actually it's my house but I got an office here, and any chance I get to not go into the city I take it. What can I do for you?"

  "I got your name from a friend of mine in New York, said you were..."

  "Lucy Ripken?"

  "Yeah! How did you..."

  "Harsh Johnnie Harshman called me at about the crack of dawn today, said you might be in touch. I've been reading about you and...your friend...in the paper. Interesting situation. Sounds like you've dug yourself a nice-sized hole. So what's your plan?"

  "I...I don't really know, Mr. Yates. I..."

  "Call me Jack. The police are after you, you know that, right?"

  "Yeah. The FBI and everything. It's not real fun being a fugitive, I tell you."

  "So what do you want to do?"

  "You tell me...I mean, I would like to meet with you and try to figure it out, know what I mean?"

  "What about the girl?"

  "I think I'll leave her out of the first meeting, if that's all right."

  "It's your call, Lucy. So where are you?"

  "On the island."

  "That's convenient. Another excuse not to go into town. Hmmm...I know. There's a restaurant on the other side of the island, out by Pleasant Beach. Do you know your way around at all?"

  "No, but I can figure it out."

  "OK. Look it up in the phone book and get directions. Its called the Four Crows. The owner never reads the paper and doesn't even own a television, so he sure as hell won't recognize you. I'll meet you there at...twelve-thirty."

  "Today?"

  "Well, yeah," he said. "It's not like you two have time to waste."

  "You're right...more so than you know. So..how will I..."

  "I'm six feet seven inches tall, Lucy. You'll find me."

  "You'll be alone?"

  "No, I'm bringing my friend J. Edgar Hoover. What, you think I'd call the cops on you? Give me a break, woman! I'm on your side."

  "OK, OK. Sorry. Four Crows, twelve thirty today. I'll be there."

  Lucy parked the bicycle on a rack outside the front door of the wisteria-draped restaurant, which looked like an English country house with a pebble-covered beach behind it. The beach led down to water maybe half a mile wide. On the other side, the Kitsap Peninsula presented itself as a wall of dark green interspersed with waterfront houses. Inside the restaurant Lucy found a small, woodsy bar with four seats, one occupied by a man who seemingly stretched from floor to ceiling, even seated. She checked him out briefly from behind. Longish gray-brown hair, buckskin fringe coat, black leather pants, cowboy boots. Pretty damn flashy version of the cowboy country lawyer. He was drinking coffee. The woman behind the bar looked up at her. He turned. "Mr. Yates?"

  "You must be...John Harshman's friend," he said, flicking a glance at the bartender.

  "Right," said Lucy, incognito. "How are you?"

  "I'm good." He stood, and Lucy involuntarily crouched, for fear that he would hit the ceiling. He was a mile high and really skinny, too, with a gaunt, sculpted face, like Abraham Lincoln without the beard and with a suntan. Fortyish. He offered a hand. She shook it. Warm and dry, even delicate. "Cal me Jack. Wanna take a walk? I got my dog out in the car and he needs to cut loose."

  "Yeah, sure. What kinda dog you got?"

  "Thanks, Jenny," he said, tossing a dollar on the bar. "Black lab. 80 pounds of pure energy." They walked outside. Lucy tried to ignore the squeaking of his leather pants, the swishing of his jacket fringe. He looked like an aging sixties rock star of the northern California persuasion. She followed him over to a black Lexus. He opened the back door. "Let's go, Rufus," he said, and the dog leaped out, charged across the road, and ran down onto the beach. They followed.

  "You like Bainbridge?" Lucy asked.

  "I love this island," he said, picking up a stick. "Yo, dog," he called. "Check it out, Roof." He threw it out into the silvery waters. The dog bounded in, headed out. "So, Lucy Ripken, seems that you've got yourself a problem or two."

  "Yeah, seems that way. How much do you know about my situation?"

  "Only what I read in the paper, and what Jack told me. Which adds up to my feeling that you had nothing to do with the dad's death. So..."

  "The girl did it."

  "What do you mean? What's her name...Ellen...she killed her father?"

  They stopped by the water's edge. "He was fucking her, Jack. Molesting her on a regular basis. She tried...she talked to a counselor, and...no one would do a thing about it. So..."

  "Mormons look after their own...or so I'm told. Maybe even their own molestors, I don't know. You know anything about professional basketball?"

  "Huh? Not really. I mean, I know the New York Knicks, and..."

  "Well, anyways I played in college with this guy Wayland Reid, and he's playing back-up center for the Utah Jazz now. Can't hardly stand Salt Lake, he says. Course he's a homey grew up on the streets of Oakland, played for years in LA and then Atlanta, so it would be hard to take for him." He looked at her. "Sorry. My point being that it is a very closed town—a closed state!—in a lot of ways, unless you’re LDS." He threw the stick again. "Go get it, pup." They walked along the shore. "So...basically you're telling me this girl killed her dad because he was molesting her and she didn't feel she had any other choice about how to stop him."

  "That's about the size of it."

  "What about you? How the hell do you fit into this picture?" She told him the short version of the whole story, from Denny's in Utah to the Bainbridge cabin. By the time they finished they'd found a huge driftwood log to sit on. They faced the water, quiet for a moment. "Would she lie for you? No...never mind, that's too..."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You could plead ignorance, and..."

  "Only to a point. I mean they know I know they've been after me for a couple of days now, so..."

  "Right, right. Well, a
nyways, the first thing you should know is that you and Ellen are going to need different lawyers, because..."

  "No way. I'm in this with..."

  "Forget it, Lucy. What if she decides to...say you did it—killed her dad—and kidnapped her?"

  "Give me a break, Jack. I know this kid. She's..."

  "Maybe. But she could get real desperate, if she isn’t already. And I bet she is, even if it isn’t showing. But regardless of that, you've got to separate yourself from her, legally speaking, Lucy. She's going to be extradited, I can guarantee that, but I think you'll probably be able to avoid it...cop a plea to, I don't know, aiding and abetting something or other. We'll figure it out. I..."

  "Jesus, Jack Harshman said you were aggressive...man, I don't want to cop a plea. This kid had reason to run, and reason to...kill, damn it!" Lucy said.

  "You really think that?"

  She paused for a moment. "Yes, I believe I do," she finally said. He didn't answer. "Oh, the other thing is...I forget to tell you...she's pregnant."

  "With..."

  "Yeah. His kid. But he's her adoptive father, not her real father, so..."

  "Does that make a difference?"

  "To me it does," Lucy said. "Maybe that's stupid, but..."

  “It’s still incest. So what does she want to do about it?"

  "She doesn't have a clue. I've been encouraging her to get an abortion, but then my sister appeared on the scene and..."

  "Your sister? You didn't tell me anything about a sister."

  "I left that part out too, didn't I? I have an anti-abortion right wing Christian fanatic sister I just met for the first time, and she's in Seattle sticking herself way deep into this whole business, trying to rescue Ellen's fetus from my evil little hands."

  "God, you're a walking, talking talk show, aren't you?"

  "It's not like I planned it this way, Jack. I was minding my own business, trucking cross country to start my groovy new life in Seattle, when she landed in my life. Now I'm The Fugitive."

  "Well, the first thing we need to do is start dealing with the feds. What the kid does about the pregnancy is really a side issue at the moment. She’s got some time I’m assuming.”

  “Yeah. It’s still early.”

  “Where is she now?"

  "She's back at the cabin we're staying in, waiting."

  "Well, listen. If it's OK with you I'm going to call a friend of mine who works for the DOJ—the Department of Justice—and see if I can work out some arrangement whereby you guys turn yourselves in and get the thing rolling without too much bullshit. But tell me, Lucy," he said, standing up and carefully straightening out his black leather pants. "Are you ready for this?"

  "I don't know, but something's got to give, right?"

  "I'm afraid so." They walked back up to the car. "In the back, Rufus. You need a ride?"

  "No, that bike came with the cabin. It's just a mile or so away. I'm cool."

  "So call me in a couple of hours. I should have something worked out by then." He got in his car and took off. Lucy contemplated going into the bar and shooting down a couple tequilas. Instead she climbed on the bike and pedaled back to the cabin. Where she discovered that Ellen had gone, taking all of her stuff and the moped.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ON THE RUN

  As soon as Lucy left for her meeting with the lawyer Ellen stuffed everything she had into her pack, put Claud in the cabin, then rolled the moped into action and headed into town. She planned to catch the next ferry to Seattle, and when she got there she wasn't sure, maybe hitchhike north out of town. Canada still sounded like a good shot; or maybe south, back to Tacoma or some other town where she might get lost. Where didn't matter all that much, mostly she just wanted to be on her own like she originally planned. She wasn't stupid and she knew Lucy didn't really want her around. Plus no matter what Lucy said about it, she didn't want to get an abortion. Besides Lucy was too nice. Too willing to accommodate her even when she obviously didn't agree or like what she was doing. The thing about Mom and Dad was that no matter what she did they didn't like it, so she did everything on the sly. Living a double life was second nature to her. Or a triple life, counting what Daddy used to make her do. With Lucy it couldn't work like that.

  She decided at the last minute to take the moped on the ferry rather than leave it by the terminal like she planned. Could be she'd need it over there. She could always stash it somewhere and write Lucy later, tell her where to find it.

  There weren't many people on the early afternoon ferry. Once the boat left the dock she put the moped up close to the front, then went upstairs to get something to eat. She was dressed in nice clothes—clean new jeans and a grey sweatshirt—and had pulled her hair back into a pony tail and wore a Mariners baseball cap she'd taken from the cabin, so as to blend in with the Seattle people. This morning she'd noticed her stomach had expanded a little, and so the sweatshirt covered that. She ordered a cheeseburger and fries and a soda, then scanned the headlines on somebody's paper while she waited for the food. Neither she nor Lucy were on the front page. She sat down with her food in the cafeteria area and began to eat. About halfway through the burger uncontrollable tears began flowing out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She stopped eating, sat back, and gained control of herself by searching out that cold place in her head and heart—that place she'd found when it had dawned on her that her only chance was to kill daddy. After a moment she stopped crying. She wiped her face with a napkin, then finished her food and went outside to watch the skyline as the boat approached the city.

  Lucy's first impulse was to look for her up past the Chevy at the doublewide dogpatch in the woods, but when a quick search revealed that Ellen had taken everything she owned with her and driven off on the moped, she decided otherwise. Ellen had not gone to the woods, she'd gone on the lam again. She called Jack Yates, who answered after one ring. "Hi Jack. It's Lucy. Lucy Ripken."

  "Hey, what's up? That was fast. I was just on the phone with my guy at justice, and..."

  "She's gone."

  "Who's gone?"

  "Ellen. The girl. Who else?"

  "Gone where? Where could she...?

  "She took this moped that belongs to the owner of the cabin where we're staying. I guess she decided she doesn’t like me either. Or doesn’t want to burden me anymore. My guess is she's on the ferry or waiting for one."

  "Meet me at the dock in ten minutes. Maybe we can..."

  "I don't have a way to get there."

  "Damn." He paused briefly. "Well, I don't think we could catch the one-fifty anyway. So...

  "What did your fed pal say?"

  "He was going to set it up for tomorrow. There's a couple FBI guys from Utah on your butts, but when I gave him your version of the story, he said once he brought them up to speed it would be a piece of cake. So..."

  "Maybe you'd better call him and see if he can get someone to meet that boat."

  "You want them to bust her? Bring her in?"

  "This kid is not equipped to handle her situation. I think it's best that she...hell, what else can we do, Jack?"

  "Get the next boat and try to find her ourselves. She can't go far. I'll call my guy and say it's off for the moment. You can always...Hey, what if she turns herself in now and claims she just escaped from your evil clutches?"

  "She won't do that."

  "I sure hope you got this kid figured right. So where are you, anyways?"

  "You know Clarence and Harvey, the old brothers with the..."

  "Oh yeah, everyone who’s been on this island any time at all knows those old coots. So you're up in the..."

  "I'll meet you by the mailboxes."

  "Ten minutes."

  Devereaux turned off the cell phone. "So Ripken's got a mouthpiece and is dealing for a meeting. The lawyer's a local hotshot name of Yates. Another local—this guy Bill Harris at Justice—knows Yates from law school, and claims he's a publicity hound with a lot of friends, Harris being one of them. He also says he's
real good at what he does."

  Larsen frowned. "So now what? We supposed to wait for the call, like wallflowers at the dance?"

  "I think we should head down to the ferry terminal, watch a few boats come in. Who knows, maybe they're heading in off the island to plan their strategy from the legal's office and we'll get lucky, catch them off guard. Be nice to bring them in on our own terms."

  "Sounds good. I've had enough goddamn espresso to fly me to the moon. Let's go." Devereaux followed Larsen out of the coffee bar onto First Avenue. They climbed into their illegally-parked government-issue sedan, pulled an illegal u-turn, and headed west downhill past the Alexis Hotel to the waterfront. Three hundred yards off shore the one-fifty ferry blew its horn to announce its arrival at the terminal. The agents nosed their car down into the taxi waiting zone across the street from the terminal. They ordered a griping, turban-headed cabdriver from New Delhi to move his Graytop out of the choicest spot, and moved in. Devereaux went up to track the pedestrian traffic coming off via the overhead footbridge while Larsen stayed in the car, watching the vehicles.

  Ellen nudged her moped in right behind the bicycles, and quickly pedalled into motorized motion soon as the restraining ropes went up and the bikes headed off. She followed the bikes across the parking dock and through the green light onto the street. She was halfway across the intersection when she saw the car: a pale green sedan at the front of a line of parked cabs. A black man in the driver's seat, looking attentive. Looking right at her. She could feel him make her from thirty yards away. He honked three times quickly then jumped out and called out to her, "Ellen, wait. Ellen Longford, I'm with the FBI..." then she saw him fumble with his coat as if reaching in for a gun. She jetted the moped into the parking alley running north, dodged around a truck waiting for a parking space, and wheeled back onto the main waterfront drag a block later, too scared to look back. She zipped up Alaskan, started into the waterfront parking lot just north of the last dock, and thought better of it. Instead she crossed the tracks and went up the hill to First Avenue. At First she saw a cop car at a red light a block north, and so turned back south.