“You told her, didn’t you? About Olivia’s dad. Did she already know about Winters, too?”
JB held up his hands in surrender.
“That’s why I’m going to San Francisco.”
“Listen, City Boy, you should be thanking me. This is how you get out of the friend zone with Olivia. You show up and be the hero.”
“You’re kidding, right? Olivia just lost her dad and I’m supposed to put the moves on her? Real gentlemanly, JB.”
JB parked himself in his desk chair, wiggled his eyebrows. “Hey, I never claimed to be a gentleman. Love is guerrilla warfare. And I fight dirty. Ask Tammy.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Will grabbed the keys to the Crown Vic, ready to hit the road to Knotted Pines, so they could speak with Grimaldi face to face. “Did you happen to get the name of that homicide inspector from SFPD? In case I need a point of contact.”
“Homicide inspector, huh? You San Francisco folks are real fancy.” When Will gave him an impatient look, he added, “I left it on your desk.”
He followed JB’s finger to the scrap of paper tucked partway beneath his mouse pad and his stomach dropped.
Amy Bishop.
“Shit.”
“Funny. That’s the same reaction she had.” JB grinned at him. “You never told me your ex-fiancée was a cop.”
Eight
Squeezing her father’s safety deposit box key in her hand, Olivia paced outside the double doors of Golden State Bank and Trust while Emily sat on the hood of the rental car, biting her fingernails. Five more minutes till opening.
Olivia pressed her nose to the glass. Every strike of the second hand on the oversized clock inside the lobby stung like a lash to her skin.
“I can’t imagine Dad coming here.” Olivia kept talking, trying to distract herself.
“To downtown San Francisco? It’s only a few minutes from the Double Rock.”
“To a bank. The only money he saved went straight into a boot box under the bed.”
Olivia had never actually seen her father put cash inside the box, but she’d snooped inside it once or twice when he was out. Until the time she’d found a gun buried at the bottom, alongside several plastic baggies of white powder.
When the clock in the lobby read 9 a.m., Olivia released a breath, then gulped it right back up when a woman appeared in the doorway, dressed in a navy skirt suit as tight as her pinched smile. “Good morning. Can I help you, ma’am?”
“We need to look in a safety deposit box.”
“Right this way.”
Olivia followed the woman into the expansive lobby, Emily trailing behind. Olivia pictured her father traipsing across the cold marble in his hulking black motorcycle boots. His tattooed arms resting on one of the fancy wing armchairs. A total fish out of water.
At the counter, the woman examined Olivia’s driver’s license. After confirming Olivia had been authorized to access the box—along with Louise, her mother—she jotted down the details in neat script, and Olivia signed where directed.
“Could I take a look at that entry log?”
“Not much to see, I’m afraid.”
As Olivia examined the entries for Box 19, she heard Emily gasp over her shoulder.
Martin Reilly had been here only once. May 2, 1992. The day before he’d been arrested for murder.
The woman placed Box 19 on the table and left them alone.
“What do you think is in there?” Emily pushed the metal box toward Olivia, designating this as a big sister job.
“Whatever it is, we handle it together.” But already she cursed herself for bringing Em here, for getting her involved. Her hands trembled as she inserted the key, lifted the metal cover and peered inside. Her initial reaction was disappointment – expecting a photo, a letter, something sentimental – then she remembered that Mad Dog had packed this box, not Martin Reilly. Her father had changed over the years, even if she’d been too hardheaded to admit it.
Olivia removed a stack of receipts, each one identical, stamped at the top with the SFPD logo, and paid to Confidential Informant 983 in the amount of $200.
Emily flipped through the stack, her mouth twisting. “These are all signed by Dad.”
“I know.”
Olivia had already recognized her father’s messy scrawl, penned on the RECEIVED BY line. Her eyes drawn to the other signature, the name printed beneath in neat block letters. She placed her finger on it before she said it out loud, her voice cracking. “Detective Henry Decker. That’s Deck’s father.”
Nine
Knotted Pines Retirement Home rose up on the cliffside, nestled in a grove of redwoods just across the Oregon border. Will took his time up the cobblestone path to the entrance, inhaling the crisp sea air.
“A man could get used to this view.” With a relaxed sigh, JB dropped into a rocking chair on the porch before a nurse came out to greet them. Behind him, a picture window provided a view of the spacious lobby. “It ain’t a bad place to wait on the Grim Reaper.”
“Hello there, I’m Nurse Thornton. Are you checking in, sir? Or just here for a tour?” The nurse placed a slick brochure in JB’s hand. When he stared at it blank-faced, she gestured to Will. “Is this your son?”
JB sprang to his feet, quick to flash his badge, and Will bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“Ma’am, I’ll have you know I’m still on the good side of sixty. I don’t even qualify for the senior discount at the Hickory Pit. And believe me, I plan to take full advantage of that ten percent when the time comes.”
“Please accept my apology. I just assumed—well, we don’t get too many detectives around here. One of our residents is convinced he’s a Russian spy, though. Doesn’t speak a lick of Russian, but he sure is good at hiding his roommate’s dentures.”
“Sounds like an interesting fellow,” JB said. “By any chance, is his name Max Grimaldi?”
“Grimmy, you mean?”
“If you say so.”
“No. Grimmy doesn’t have a roommate. He didn’t get along so well with the last one. Let’s just say there was an unfortunate incident in the dining hall involving a walker and some mashed potatoes. Since then, Grimmy eats all his meals alone. He hasn’t had any visitors either. Not after his daughter, Caroline, moved to the East Coast.”
“How long ago was that?” Will asked.
“Ten years, give or take. Unlike a lot of our patients, Grimmy’s got a sharp mind. But sometimes forgetting can be merciful.” Amen to that, Will thought, wishing he could take a blowtorch to some of his own memories.
“So, it sounds like he’s a credible witness?”
“Credible but not exactly cooperative. He can be a real handful.” Though they were completely alone, Nurse Thornton lowered her voice. “Just between you and me, don’t sit too close. When he gets mad, he’s been known to bite.”
As they followed her inside, Will smacked JB on the shoulder and fought off a smirk. “Sounds just like you, Dad.”
Max Grimaldi’s bright pink gripper socks poked out the bottom end of his bedsheet, his wiggling feet the only part of him that didn’t look unhappy. His hands were clenched at his sides and the crepe paper skin draped over his arm bones resembled the surface of a distant planet. He had grunted and grumbled through most of Nurse Thornton’s introductions. But, after she’d wished them luck and left them alone, he turned to them with his rheumy blue eyes, and waited, curious enough not to send them away.
JB took the plush sofa by the window, leaving Will the folding chair nearest the bed. He slid it out of Grimaldi’s reach before sitting down. Better safe than sorry. “Mr. Grimaldi—”
“Everybody here calls me Grimmy.”
“Grimmy it is then. We need to ask you some questions about the cabin you owned a while back in Fog Harbor. Do you remember it?”
Grimaldi scrunched his face in confusion and scratched the top of his head where only a wisp of white hair remained. “Fog Harbor? Where’s that?”
>
Will suppressed a groan. “Uh…”
“Gotcha. Of course I remember. This old noggin is a steel trap. But I’m not sure how I can help ya. I sold that place a while ago.”
“According to property records, it was 1993.”
“Sounds about right. I had to dump the place when my production company, Obscura, went bankrupt. We just couldn’t compete against those blockbusters with their big name actors and silly plot lines. Who wants to see a snarky brat fend for himself at Christmas?”
JB chuckled. “Apparently, a lot of people. They made a sequel.”
“Sure did. It came out the year before Obscura went under.”
“You ever think maybe Obscura wasn’t the best choice for a studio name?”
Will cut his eyes at JB. They needed to keep Grimaldi happy to get him talking. “It’s named after the Camera Obscura, right? Over by Ocean Beach in San Francisco?”
“That’s right. I grew up near there. Always loved that place. There’s something a little creepy about it. You know, I made my first horror flick there. Shot it on a Kodak Instamatic.” Grimaldi looked off toward the curtained window, his gaze frozen for a moment, caught in the amber of the past. “But, you got me curious now. Why would you two come all the way up here to ask me about a place I haven’t owned since Bill Clinton took office?”
“Did you ever let anyone stay at the cabin? A girl, maybe?”
“Is this about those trumped-up charges that no-good hussy Brenda filed against me? Those never stuck. The judge knew she was lying when she didn’t show up to court.”
“You mean, the forcible confinement charges?” Kidnapping and assault and battery too. But Will knew that if he said too much, it would shut Grimaldi up tighter than a clam shell.
“Kidnapping, my ass. Hell, is it a crime to pick up a lady of the night? Take her somewhere special? I give her an opportunity like that, and how does she repay me? She owed me a thanks for getting her off the streets and giving her a decent meal. Most guys are just wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Am I right?”
Will spoke fast, before JB could open his mouth and put his foot in it, as usual. “So, you brought this lady of the night to the cabin?”
“She agreed to it.”
“To all of it?”
“Every last bit. I’d even say enjoyed it. Right up until I refused to pay her double. That’s extortion, if you ask me. She should’ve been the one spending the night in jail. Anyway, when it came time for court, the cops couldn’t locate her. Typical broad. She’d told a whopper, and she had to save face.”
Will nodded, as if he agreed. Sometimes you had to trade your soul for answers. “Did you use the cabin often?”
“I rarely went there myself. Mostly used it for storage. My ex-wife didn’t like me keeping my props in the garage. Fake blood, monster masks, replica chainsaws. I can’t say I blame her.”
“Why Fog Harbor? It’s a pretty long drive from San Francisco.”
“One word, Detective. Atmosphere. I’d been hoping to use the place as a movie set. Plus, the real estate was dirt cheap. The San Francisco views without the jacked-up prices. That’s why I retired here in Brookings.”
Will produced the photographs of Jane Doe’s makeshift coffin. “Do you recognize this?”
Grimaldi fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, positioned them atop his hook nose. He shuffled through the photos, shaking his head in astonishment. “Well, I’ll be damned. Chained. This must be about that hooker then. Brenda. Did she get herself killed and stuffed in a barrel or something?”
“Excuse me?” Will swallowed hard, tempering the urge to cuff the old guy right then and there. “Did you say chained?”
“That was the name of the only flick we ever filmed up at the cabin. Real gritty stuff. I wrote the script myself. Employed a couple of wannabe actors, Brenda included, and shot the whole thing in one day.”
“Funny. We didn’t run across that one in your catalog. Did we, partner?”
JB shook his head. “I was partial to Cheerleader Massacre myself.”
“That’s because we never released it. After Brenda made a big stink, my attorney told me it would be best if I destroyed the copies.”
“When did you shoot the film?” Will asked.
Grimaldi tapped the side of his head, pondering it. “Summer of ’85. July, I believe.”
“Summer of ’85.” Will repeated Grimaldi’s words, giving JB a pointed look. “And what was the premise?”
“Husband has affair with secretary. Wife finds out and chains her in the basement.” Grimaldi grinned, revealing a fence of broken teeth. “I’ve got the only copy marinating in a box in my closet if you boys want to crack her open and take a look.”
Will inserted the unmarked tape and powered up the ancient VCR Nurse Thornton had lugged in from the day room. He drew the curtains and shut the lights, plunging the room into darkness. Behind him, Grimaldi’s eyes widened, his limbs stiffened with excitement.
“Haven’t watched this one in about twenty years. Not to sound like a braggart, but it was my best work. It was raw and unfiltered. Before I got too busy trying to pander to the masses.”
As the title credits rolled in bold, red letters, JB leaned in Will’s direction. “I’m getting a craving for popcorn. Extra butter.”
Grimaldi shushed him, pointing his bony finger at the screen. “It’s starting.”
Chained
Produced by Obscura Studios, 1985
Starring:
Victoria Ratcliffe as … the Vengeful Wife
Brenda Samson as … the Tortured Lover
Donald Eggerton as … the Unfaithful Husband
The cabin’s dirt basement came into view. The barrel pushed against the wall of the room, barely visible behind a stack of wooden crates.
Will pressed pause. “When you sold the place, what happened to your props? To the barrel?”
Grimaldi gave a beleaguered sigh. “I told the movers to pack up anything of value, things I could resell to offset my losses. The rest they could trash or take for themselves. It wasn’t worth the time or effort to ship it back. I assume it got tossed or left behind.”
“As far as you can remember, was the barrel empty?”
“I can’t say I ever looked. But I moved it in myself. Now, can you let a man enjoy his own genius?”
When Will pressed play, the camera began a slow and steady creep, homing in on a shadowy back corner where a girl struggled against the chains on her wrists, straining the wall brackets. Her torn clothing hung loose from her thin frame. Her brown hair framed a face contorted in terror. The dissonant chords of the soundtrack ratcheted to a high-pitched screech that turned Will’s blood cold.
“That’s Brenda,” Grimaldi whispered, and then, as another female entered the shot and lorded over Brenda with a look of sheer delight, “and Victoria Ratcliffe. Ain’t she a natural?”
From behind her back, Victoria raised a leather whip and brought it down hard against Brenda’s shoulders. Brenda collapsed to the dirt and turned her watery green eyes to the camera, pleading, but the woman struck her again. A few more lashes, and a red stain seeped through Brenda’s shirt.
“What the—” JB muttered. “Is that real?”
“It looks real, doesn’t it?” Grimaldi beamed with pride. “Fake blood packets. All part of the illusion.”
Will pressed pause, freezing Victoria mid-strike. “Mr. Grimaldi, would you mind if we had a closer look at this back at the station? We’ll return it to you as soon as we’re able.”
Grimaldi narrowed his eyes. “I’d rather you didn’t. We haven’t even gotten to the good part.”
“Can’t wait to see that,” JB deadpanned.
“Are you insulting my work?” snarled Grimaldi.
“Not at all.” Will intervened before JB earned himself a tetanus shot. “We’re working a case. We need your help. This video could be important evidence.”
“Then it’ll cost you.”
“We can get
a warrant.”
Grimaldi shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’m a forgetful old man. Always misplacing things. The tape might come up missing by the time you get back here.”
“How much?” JB asked.
“Three bags of Swedish fish from the gift shop in the lobby.”
JB nudged Will. “What are you waitin’ for, City Boy? Pay the man.”
Ten
A short while later, Will waved to JB from the tiny window of the old twin-engine Cessna—Fog Harbor PD’s fanciest toy—as the plane took flight for San Francisco, where Will hoped he’d get some answers from Chuck Winters. He fought off a smile as his partner flashed his middle finger, then blew him a kiss, then gradually diminished until he was just an ant on the runway.
Will turned from the window, the rippled blue canvas of the ocean beneath him, and retrieved the case folder from his bag. He went straight to the photos, tucked inside the evidence envelope. He’d all but memorized them since this morning, when the lab had processed the Nikon, developed the film roll, and delivered it to his desk. Still, when he tore into it, his heart sank again, as he flipped through the mostly blank images.
The victim had only taken six photographs. He laid them out in order on the empty seat next to him, studying each one and letting them speak to him, as clear and urgent as her voice from the grave.
The first, a bedroom Will recognized as similar to his own. The Weatherby cabin resembled all the others on Wolver Hollow Road, with its high ceilings and exposed redwood beams. The subject of the photograph, a handful of wildflowers stuck inside a pickle jar on the windowsill.
The next, a man. A bad man. Even if the second set of prints on the camera hadn’t revealed him to be Chuck Winters, career criminal, Will would’ve seen it in the sharp glint of his blue eyes, in the knife’s blade of his broad smile as he leered at the girl behind the lens from the cabin’s front porch step, his meaty hand gripping the banister.
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