Knowing

by Laurel Dewey

  CHAPTER 12

  They rolled into Trinidad just after noon. Jane hugged every single side street she could find, sliding between vans and trucks whenever she could to avoid being detected. She had no clue where this house was located but she figured it was close to town and in a middle-income neighborhood. She came to a crossroad and didn’t know which way to turn. Instead of locating a needle in a haystack, she was looking for a blue picket fence in a sea of houses. Jane stared at the flyer again. It was slightly blurred, but behind the house, she could see what looked like the top of a steeple on a church. Based on the point of view and assuming the steeple wasn’t Photoshopped into the image, Jane cruised closer to the main drag and found the church. But she felt exposed out there in her ice blue bullet and quickly diverted down several side roads that led directly to a small, neat, middle-class neighborhood that looked identical to her vision.

  She warned Harlan to stay down in the backseat as she drove up and down the streets. After five minutes, Jane pulled over to the curb to check the location of the church steeple. Three houses up, a woman walked out to her mailbox. She wore a silky pink dressing gown rimmed with faux feathers on the collar and sleeves. Her long black wavy hair flowed freely down her back, in stark contrast to her exquisite porcelain skin. There was a vibe about her that Jane instantly recognized.

  Jane waited until the woman returned inside her house before inching the Mustang closer. There it was. A beautiful vine of tiny pink flowers draped over a blue picket fence. Jane backed the Mustang up and parked it a block away in a strip of greenbelt and hidden within a tight grove of spruce trees. Without even being asked, Harlan offered Jane his wrist.

  “Better lock me in again. Just in case he gets the urge to roam.” Jane clamped the handcuffs on Harlan’s wrist and secured him to the gearshift. “What’s your plan, Jane?”

  She thought about it for a second. “I don’t have a clue.” Her gut starting gnawing, signaling her nerves going on high alert. She grabbed her badge and tucked it into her leather jacket. Reaching under the passenger seat, she rummaged around until she uncovered her Ruger .380 pistol snapped into its holster. Weighing fewer than ten ounces, it was the perfect concealed weapon and she’d looked long and hard before she found a holster that fit perfectly on her cowboy boot. After checking the clip and racking the slide, Jane attached the pistol and holster to her right boot. Harlan watched the whole thing.

  “You think you’re gonna need that?” he asked.

  “Remember me, Harlan? I’m that annoying boy scout with O.C.D.” Rummaging through the plastic bag from the previous day’s shopping excursion, she removed the blond “Diana” wig and slid it over her hair. Tucking her brown hair under the wig, she gave the short hairstyle a quick once over before turning to Harlan. “What do you think?”

  “I think you look like my ninth grade gym teacher. And that ain’t a good thing.”

  She walked down the block, canvassing the neighborhood continually like an owl on sentry duty. The closer she got to the woman’s mailbox, the easier she saw the name on it: Nanette Larson. Jane reached out and rubbed the three last letters, “s-o-n,” moving back into the memory of what she saw the previous night. Scanning the front yard, it was immaculate and filled with romantically inspired statues of reclining fairies, tinkling metal chimes and multi-colored metal globes that reflected the blue sky. Rose bushes, still dormant, lined the clean, brick pathway that led to the white clapboard house. Above the front door was a wooden valance of carved roses—another purposeful romantic touch. Putting everything together, Jane understood Nanette’s intention and the closer she got to the front door, the more she understood the woman who resided there. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment to get into the vibe and then knocked on the door.

  It took about a minute before she answered, swinging the door open with gusto. “You’re so early, sweetie!”

  The minute she locked eyes with Jane, Nanette’s visage went from false enthusiasm to trepidation. Her long black hair was still slightly wet from the shower and her face moist from the cream she had just applied. A sweet, aphrodisiac perfume of Jasmine oil wafted toward Jane. Romance and sensuality oozed off of Nanette’s body, from her triple D breasts to her delicate feet that hugged pink, metallic beaded slippers. Jane figured she was about thirty-two and in exceptionally good health. This woman was not the town bicycle nor had she been passed around like a Netflix rental. She was a stunning goddess who made every single man believe he was the only one.

  “Nanette Larson?” Jane said.

  She froze. “Yes.”

  Jane quickly flashed her badge. “I’m with the local Sheriff’s Department. We’re investigating a crime and I’d love to ask you a few questions.”

  Nanette regarded Jane with growing fear.

  Jane moved toward the door. “May I come in?”

  Nanette stood to the side but her reluctance was apparent. “I have someone showing up here in a few minutes,” she said in a quiet, nervous voice.

  Jane knew whoever was showing up wouldn’t be there in “a few minutes” because Nanette had already given herself away with her effusive greeting. The woman was scared and it wasn’t because she was afraid of getting busted for her chosen profession.

  The living room looked like an ode to the antebellum period. Lampshades were adorned with clear crystals, a fainting couch upholstered in crimson and gold threaded fabric sat by the ornate white fireplace while the walls were wallpapered in a soft pink fleur-de-lis design. Two purple silk folding screens separated the front room from what looked like a small kitchen. But based on the carpet wear, the permanent pathway led from the front door and into a side room that Jane assumed was the bedroom.

  Jane stood in the center of the room. “This won’t take a long time, Nanette.”

  She closed the front door and kept her back to Jane, as if she was contemplating her next move. It was obvious to Jane that Nanette was a gentle soul who didn’t want any trouble.

  Nanette turned. “I really do have someone coming.”

  Jane nodded. “Yeah, I know. You mentioned that already.”

  Nanette tensely studied the floor where the sheepskin rug lay in front of the fireplace. “Coffee?” she suddenly said, as if the idea was original.

  Jane realized that a cup of java would taste pretty damn good. “Sure.”

  Nanette pulled her pink dressing gown around her chest, suddenly becoming chaste, and walked between the two screens and into the kitchen. Jane followed her. The small white kitchen was banked with windows that flooded the room with sun and warmth. A back door led out into a small grassy yard rimmed with planting beds and more metal chimes that swung softly in the spring breeze. Nanette crossed to the coffee maker where a full pot of hot java was waiting.

  “You like cream in your coffee?”

  “No. I take it black.”

  “Okay. Then here you go.”

  With that, Nanette clutched the glass coffee pot and spun around. Jane quickly ducked out of range right before she launched the burning brew in her direction.

  “Goddamnit!” Jane screamed, feeling the sting of a few hot sprays of coffee hit her hands. She backed up, hoping to avoid slipping in the puddle of brown liquid that now covered the kitchen floor.

  Nanette quickly reached around and pulled out a steak knife from the wooden block. She lunged toward Jane, screaming in a strange, wispy tenor. Jane easily blocked the attack by grabbing Nanette’s wrist and slightly bending it backward.

  “Drop the knife!” Jane yelled.

  Jane pushed hard on Nanette’s wrist, trying to get her to drop the blade. But Nanette followed through with a hard slap to Jane’s face with her left hand. Jane’s instincts kicked into gear as she forced the knife to the floor and slammed Nanette up against the kitchen cabinets and held her in an easy chokehold.

  “What in the hell are you doing?!” Jane
screamed, inches away from Nanette’s terrified face. “I just need to ask you some questions, for fuck sake!”

  Nanette was breathing heavily as sweat beaded across her upper lip. “You’re not from the Sheriff’s office,” she stated in a muted tone. “I know everyone who works at the Sheriff’s office. The Undersheriff is my next appointment!”

  Suddenly it made sense why Joe Russo used Nanette’s house to define “Neighbors” in his colorful flyer. Nanette was working under the Undersheriff. “I’ll let you go if you promise you won’t attack me!”

  Nanette’s eyes filled with tears. “And let you kill me?”

  “I didn’t come here to kill you,” Jane said, carefully removing her hand from Nanette’s throat.

  Nanette rubbed the delicate skin around her neck that was quickly starting to bruise. “Then what do you want?”

  “I need to ask you some questions…” she hesitated, “about Gabriel?”

  Nanette’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “Please! I beg of you! Don’t hurt me!”

  “Am I fucking stuttering? I didn’t come here to hurt you!”

  “Then how do you know Gabe?”

  “I don’t! That’s what I need to talk to you about!” Jane noticed the bruises getting more colorful on Nanette’s neck. “Put some ice on your neck, would you? I don’t want Joe thinking that your last client got too rough.” She backed up to give the woman access to the freezer.

  Nanette quietly brought out the ice tray and pressed a few cubes against her neck. “Where is he?” she asked Jane, her lower lip trembling.

  Jane suddenly felt very sorry for the woman. It was obvious she was fond of “Gabe.” “He’s dead.”

  She put her hand to her mouth in shock. “Oh, my God. When?”

  “About nineteen months ago.”

  Nanette bowed her head, clearly upset.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “It’s been just over four and a half years,” she replied, daintily wiping her tears with her ring finger.

  Jane was dumbstruck. “Jesus, the way you’re acting, he must have made quite an impression on you.”

  “He captured my heart,” she whispered. “He was a really wonderful man even though…” She bit her lip.

  “Even though he did bad things?”

  Nanette looked at Jane. For the first time, she relaxed. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I was hired by his family to look into his murder.”

  “His family?” she regarded Jane with suspicion.

  “Yeah. Why does that surprise you?”

  “He told me he’d had no contact with his family for years. After he joined Delta Force, he said they wanted nothing to do with him. I think they’re pacifists or something.”

  Jane’s mind did somersaults. “Yeah, you’re right. They are pacifists. But they still want to bring his killers to justice.”

  “I don’t understand how you found me or what I have to do with any of this.”

  Jane was asking herself the same damn questions. But the clock was ticking before Joe Russo showed up for his “nooner.” “I need you to remember everything you can about Gabe as quickly as you can remember it.”

  “He’d be gone for months at a time and then he’d call me and we’d see each other. He always brought me a gift from wherever he’d been.”

  “Like what?”

  “He brought me frankincense oil from Egypt once. Then there was the prayer rug from Iran. And the kilt,” she said with a soft smile.

  “The kilt?”

  “Yes. He spent a lot of time in Scotland during the last times we were together.”

  Jane tried to make sense of it. Egypt, Iran and Scotland? “Approximately what time period was he in Scotland?”

  She thought back. “Right around four and a half years ago, give or take a month or so.”

  “Right around the time before he stopped seeing you?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes drifted to the refrigerator.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing…”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s silly. He had cases of this special ale shipped to me from Scotland. It’s the only alcohol he’d drink when he was here. I still have the last case in that closet,” she pointed across the room. “And one in the fridge all this time, thinking he might just show up one day.”

  “What made that beer so special?”

  “He told me it wasn’t made with hops. It’s made from an old Scottish recipe where they use pine needles to ferment it.”

  “Pine needles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever tell you why he drank it?”

  “Gabe always talked about how nothing is what it seems. How that if everybody found out what was really going on in the world, it would blow every single belief system apart. He told me once that everything we cling to is really an illusion that’s manufactured by people who want to control us.”

  “This is the kind of pillow talk you guys would have?”

  She smiled. “Sometimes…” She bowed her head again, clearly still affected by Gabe’s death. “He was his own man. He didn’t answer to anyone. But more than anything, he didn’t want to be controlled, by any thing or any person. That’s why he told me he only drank that beer.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  Nanette gathered her thoughts. “He said the first beers back in the 1500s were made from pine and other herbs that were…stimulating.” She suddenly looked oddly embarrassed.

  “Okay…”

  “Apparently, they made men more talkative…more energized…more sexual.”

  “Really?”

  “Gabe said that pine needles helped a man’s testosterone while hops made a man tired and passive. And he said it was all by design. I remember the story because he told it so well. He said that five hundred years ago, the priests noticed how aroused and focused people were who drank the pine needle beers. And they weren’t just sexually charged, he said, they were lively and a force to be reckoned with.” Jane could see that Nanette took some comfort in the re-telling of the tale. “But the priests couldn’t control them and the Church needed to take back that control. So, one day a priest noticed that the workers who were picking hops in the fields were always falling asleep and they were also impotent.”

  “How would the priest know the workers were impotent?”

  She arched her well-plucked brow. “Do the math,” she said succinctly.

  Jane nodded. “Ah, right. The hypocrisy has landed. Go on.”

  “I guess the word came down that all beer from that moment on had to be made only from hops. If anyone made beer with pine needles or other energizing herbs, they were in violation of the Church’s law and they were against God.”

  “The ultimate control,” Jane said. “That story had an impact on you, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But I remember a lot of Gabe’s stories. He was the most intriguing person I’ve ever met in my life and I was honored to call him my friend.” She moved a step toward Jane. “He was a thinker. You don’t run into those kind of people anymore, do you?”

  Jane shook her head. “No, you don’t.”

  Nanette checked the time. “Joe’s going to be here any minute—”

  “Where did Gabe live?”

  “He didn’t have a permanent address. He said there was no point. But his parents lived in Colorado, as you obviously know. Being pacifists, I don’t think he related to them at all. And since he was an only child, he was good at being a loner. Gabe didn’t need people around him. He was more like an island that was completely self-sufficient.”

  Jane wanted desperately to ask her if she knew the family’s location but since she’d sold the ruse that they’d hired her that was off the table. “How’d you find out what Gabe did
for a living?”

  She studied the floor again. “One day when he was in the shower, I looked in his duffel. I found ten different passports, with ten different names.”

  “Do you remember if any of those names was Werner Haas?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I remember names with word associations. Helps in my line of work. I’d remember Haas because I like Haas avocados. I know that sounds strange—”

  “No. Actually, I get it.”

  Nanette nervously licked her lips. “He knew I snooped in his bag. I don’t know how he knew, but he did. But he didn’t get upset at me for doing it. He seemed to know intuitively that I would never do anything to hurt him. He did tell me, though, that I needed to be careful. He used to sweep the house every time he’d show up. He said that if anything ever happened to him…” her throat caught with emotion.

  “What?”

  “That someone might come after me. Something about, ‘cleaning up the loose ends’?”

  That was a familiar requirement, Jane reasoned.

  “And watch out for the ‘gingers.’” Nanette added.

  “The gingers?”

  “Red heads. He told me to be cautious.”

  It seemed like a strange comment to Jane. Gabe sounded like a guy who was beyond the typical stereotyping and pigeonholing. The superstition about “gingers” being soulless and ruthless was born from the Vikings who purposely placed red headed soldiers on the front line because they were purportedly bred to be fearless and merciless when it came to killing the enemy. Jane was just about to discount Nanette’s statement when she flashed on the red-haired creep from the bus explosion who had the strange crimson mark on his hand.