The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6)

by Sibella Giorello

“Fritz. He was at the Inn?”

  “He’s always there. But he was acting weird. All sweaty and stuff. Johann and Helen were at church. I knew Annicka ran the Icicle trail on Sundays, so I drove out there.” He squeezed the white sheet between his fingers. “Kaffee was running down the road.”

  “Her dog.”

  He nodded. “The leash was chewed off. And his eyes … bulging. Scared. I’ve never seen him like that. I stopped and picked him up. He was shaking. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t with Annicka—he always stayed with her. And he knows that trail, so he wouldn’t get lost. But …”

  “But, what?”

  His whisper was urgent, panicked. “When I parked at the trail, Kaffee jumped out of my truck and took off. I ran after him but I couldn’t keep up. Until he stopped.”

  My pen hovered over the page. “The dog stopped, where?”

  “The cave.” Mason stared at the wall across from his bed, a distant expression in his glazed eyes. “Kaffee was standing there. Howling.” He reached up, pressing his palms against his ears. “God, that howl.”

  I wrote down the information and waited for him to calm himself. He kept his hands on his ears, but I figured he could hear me. “Was Annicka in the cave?”

  He nodded. “In the water.”

  That familiar chill went down my arms. “What water.”

  He lowered his hands but stared at his fingers.

  “Mason, what water?”

  “A pond. In the cave.” He looked like he might vomit. “So much blood.”

  Pieces fell into place. Annicka didn’t have stress fractures—she took her run and made it all the way to the bottom, only to find her killer waiting. “What did you do next?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Mason.”

  “I carried her—up the trail.” His voice was dull. “Got the shovel.”

  His description of her death matched the coroner’s report. Annicka didn’t die in that grave. But was Mason clever enough to throw false clues? “You didn’t tell this to the police.”

  “And if I did, they’d believe me?” He pointed to his side. “Look what just happened. I’m the number one suspect.”

  “Not telling them made it worse.”

  He held my gaze.

  I felt inclined to believe him. For one thing, he couldn’t have killed Esther, too. And he didn’t seem incapable of delivering a perfect kill shot to a forehead with the thin end of a shovel. And the water, that was another item. Nobody had mentioned water. But it explained what coroner noticed about her skin. And finally, the lividity. That bruising showed Annicka died face down, not face up.

  Mason Leming looked at me, almost pleading.

  “If you want anyone else to believe you,” I said, “you better start telling me everything. And I mean everything.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Standing in the rain outside the hospital’s entrance, I called Culliton.

  “We need to talk,” I said. “In person.”

  He gave me directions. It took forty-three minutes to drive seven miles. The wet roads were choked with commercial trucks, RVs, and infuriated Oktoberfesters who couldn’t party in the open air beer gardens but couldn’t go home either.

  On the north end of Blewitt Pass, I found Culliton directing traffic. In head-to-toe rain gear, he stood in front of a jackknifed semi. The empty cab was tipped into a culvert of rushing water. An EMT truck was parked beside it.

  When Culliton saw The Ghost, he gave me one of those hand signals that stewardesses use to indicate the location of emergency exits. I parked behind one of two county cruisers. A deputy got out of the first cruiser and replaced Culliton’s position. The detective jogged for the other cruiser.

  I grabbed the two binders, tucked them under my jacket, yanked up my hood, and told Madame I’d be right back.

  “Promise,” I said.

  Rain fell in thunderous applause. In just twelve feet from my car to the cruiser, I was soaked. I jumped in, yanked back the wet hood, and said, “We’ve got a serious problem.”

  “Lawyered up, did he?” Water dripped from the brim of his hat. “I knew it, Edwina—”

  “Mason didn’t kill her.”

  Culliton stared at me. The dark eyes were almost shotgun. “What’d you expect him to do, confess?”

  “Oh, he confessed. He confessed to burying her body. But he says he didn’t kill her. And I believe him.”

  Culliton looked like he suddenly doubted my sanity. I pulled my notebook from my jacket, my damp fingers sticking to the cottony paper. I read Mason’s statement. When I finished, the windshield was fogged.

  “And you believe him?” Culliton asked.

  “I don’t want to believe him. But what he’s saying matches the autopsy.” I lifted the binder with Annicka’s name on it. “Her skin. It’s waterlogged. Macerated, as the coroner called it. And Mason said there’s water inside that cave on the trail. Probably a water table fed by the river.”

  “So what?”

  “So Mason claims he found Annicka’s body submerged in that water. She was already dead.”

  Culliton moved his jaw side-to-side. “He killed her there. Then moved her up the trail.”

  “That’s possible. But you were there when they recovered her body?”

  He nodded, grimly.

  “Was she face up or face down?”

  “Up.”

  “Okay, look.” I flipped through the binder to the post-mortem photo. “Look at the lividity on her legs.”

  He stared down at the photo.

  I said, “We both know that kind of blood pooling means she died face down. Mason told me he thought she’d drowned. Because she was face down in the water. He thought she’d hit her head and drowned. When he rolled her over, he saw her throat was slit.” I paused. “He retched when he told me that part.”

  Culliton’s voice boomed through the car. “Why the hell didn’t he tell us!”

  “Because he knew he’d be the prime suspect. He’s no idiot. Would you have believed this story?”

  “I’m not sure I do now.” Culliton wiped impatiently at the condensation on the windshield. “And I don’t suppose he’s got any suspects for us to look at?”

  “Random killer, he said. Or Fritz.”

  “Right.”

  “And he knew nothing about Esther Heller. He claims he didn’t live here then.”

  Culliton’s sigh obliterated the windshield’s clear spot. He looked over, shotgun shells ready to fire. “I am not cutting him loose.”

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  “He knew it was a murder.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “He should’ve told us.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “He’s an accessory after the fact.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you going to do anything—besides say absolutely?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “What I always do.” I watched the clouded windshield.

  “Which is?” he asked.

  “Keep looking until I get the answer.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The next morning, I tidied up the Stephanson’s cabin, washed the pot, and ignored the note on the refrigerator.

  At the edge of Leavenworth’s commercial district, I found a Safeway. The exterior was designed to look like an Austrian lodge. I bought two cans of Coke, one bag of dog treats, and stood in the check-out line, tapping my cell phone for the Washington Department of Transportation website.

  “One lane, that’s what I heard,” the checkout girl said to the man in line ahead of me.

  “I heard it’s real slow over Steven’s Pass.” The man slid a bank card through the payment machine. “But it’s moving.”

  I glanced at the DOT webpage.

  One lane open over Steven’s Pass, the advisory read. Expect delays.

  Small towns.

  Where news travels faster than WiFi.

  * * *
<
br />   Six hours later, I pulled into Eleanor’s driveway. She wasn’t there. I took a shower, changed clothes, and left her a note. Madame ate real dog food.

  Back in the car, we arrived at Western State five minutes before visiting hours began. I signed the visitor’s sheet and carried the dog up the empty stairwell. Her small heart thudded against my fingertips. When the door opened at the top of the stairs, the nurse named Sarah poked her head out.

  “I’m sorry, Raleigh,” she said. “She only wants to see the dog.”

  I handed Madame to her. The dog gave me a pleading gaze.

  “Also,” Sarah whispered, “Doctor Norbert says he can see you now.”

  “See me, for what?”

  She gave that sympathetic smile. “To help you.”

  “Right.”

  Wrong.

  * * *

  I walked out the front door. When I glanced back at the hospital, the gray stones seemed to melt into the dreary October sky. This sad place. This holding pen for tortured souls, built decades before Washington even became a state.

  Because crazy’s always been with us.

  I circled the campus and found a familiar narrow path that led to a small building with peeling beige paint. The front door was unlocked. I stepped inside, listening. The air was stale and bitter. A small appliance rattled in the makeshift kitchen to my right.

  The brown carpet was worn to burlap threads. I followed it to the main room where taupe-colored curtains covered the four walls. The piano waited to one side, smothered with dust. On the other side, a cardboard box spilled identical pamphlets, the bright headlines asking, Are You Depressed? Thoughts of Suicide?

  Twelve folding chairs formed a circle in the middle of the room. Two paperback copies of the Big Book for Alcoholics Anonymous sat on one of the chairs. The pages were dog-eared.

  I sat on the dusty piano bench and listened. The refrigerator sounded like it was dying. Outside, a car passed by slowly. I thought about what the nurse Sarah said. Dr. Norbert wanted to help me.

  But I’d already heard Freud’s great remedy.

  Stop feeling guilty.

  Really great advice. Super. Thanks, doc.

  Just one problem.

  Sometimes we deserved our guilt. Sometimes we earned it. Stop feeling guilty?

  It didn’t work like that.

  I stood and pulled back the curtain. Dust flamed the air. I closed my eyes, coughed, waved my hands, and when I looked up, it was still here.

  Here in this little building that once was the chapel, the wooden cross waited. I lowered myself beneath it and leaned forward, listening.

  Another car passed. The refrigerator rattled.

  And then, silence.

  When the invisible found me, it came like water. Water that flowed over my sadness and my pain. Water that spread over the barren landscape of my heart and flooded the rocky remains. Deep called to deep, and water turned into a river, wave rushing upon wave, sweeping away what I couldn’t remove from my soul. I saw the river crash over the rocks and the waves break gray and their sound became a song. Only this song had no words, only melody. A tune that harmonized with the water, the deep, the invisible.

  I knew this song by heart.

  It was called Forgiveness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I left the chapel feeling twenty pounds lighter.

  Until my cell phone rang.

  I checked the screen. Unidentified Caller.

  Maybe Johann, wondering if I got out.

  “Hello?”

  “Harmon.”

  “Jack.”

  “Which side of the world are you on?”

  “The downside.”

  “At least you have momentum.”

  “Picking up speed even as we speak.”

  I was crossing the campus, when the hospital’s main door opened. Dr. Norbert stepped out. I spun an about-face and hid behind an oak tree. When I peeked from behind the trunk, Freud was walking toward the parked cars. He wore a tidy brown sports coat, dark slacks, and polished black shoes. His gait was clipped, tight. My diagnosis? Anal retentive.

  “You need a ride to Leavenworth tomorrow?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Freud climbed into a two-door Toyota sedan that was the same dreary gray as the hospital.

  “Harmon?”

  I watched him drive away. Bon Voyage, Freud.

  “I don’t know if I need a ride because my murder suspect is no longer a murder suspect.”

  “What? What about the shovel?”

  “Oh, he’s guilty—of burying her body. But I don’t think he killed her.” I described Mason’s confession. “The coroner’s report described a really precise blow to the head. Then her throat was slashed. Then she was laid in water. The boyfriend found her in water, already dead.”

  “That doesn’t entirely rule out the boyfriend.”

  “No. Anyone can do anything.”

  “Harmon, you know what I mean.”

  “This boyfriend’s an impulsive type. Nervous. Emotional. Whoever murdered Annicka Engels was cold and calculating. Same with Esther Heller.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m never sure.” I leaned against the tree. “Apparently there’s a pond in the cave.”

  “The cave you wanted to explore.”

  I recalled that day, the horrible stench leaking from that cave. I’d told Jack that all caves smelled bad. Now my stomach knotted. “I’m hoping to check it out tomorrow.”

  “So you need a ride,” he said.

  The tree bark scratched my spine. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got it covered.”

  He said nothing.

  “But you could help me out another way,” I said. “Remember that list?”

  “The list.”

  “The list with names of the guests who stayed at both hotels.”

  “I gave you a copy, Harmon. Where is it?”

  “Not on me.” It was in my office at the Smith Tower. After this morning’s long drive, I didn’t want to motor into the city to get it. “You must’ve made a copy.”

  “You think I’ve got it just sitting here,” he said, “waiting for you to ask me for it?”

  “No, I think you’ve got two copies sitting there.” Because every piece paper in the Bureau got copied in triplicate. “Since you gave me one copy, that means you’ve got two—”

  “Ezra Sugarman.”

  “So the list was right there.”

  “Right,” he said. “Just waiting for you to call.”

  He hung up.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Madame and I got back on the road just in time for rush hour. The slow crawl of traffic gave me time to watch her. She was panting. Her fur was falling out.

  Crazyland.

  “I’m so sorry.” I scooped her into my lap. “So very sorry.”

  Nearly an hour later, I caught the 405 heading northeast. Traffic wasn’t much better, but The Ghost growled to the city of Redmond where I found the address for Ezra Sugarman. It was a quarter mile past Microsoft’s main campus, in a conglomeration of condominium and apartment buildings that looked so identical they could’ve been built by an erector set on autopilot.

  “You deserve a break,” I told the dog. “I’ll be right back.”

  I opened the glove compartment. Back when I left the Bureau, Jack loaned me a Sig Sauer. I didn’t carry the gun often, because my concealed-carry permit was still awaiting approval. But sometimes a girl had to risk jail in order to avoid nasty surprises. Although Jack hadn’t turned up anything on Ezra Sugarman, that didn’t mean the guy was entirely safe.

  I tucked the gun into the back of my jeans and headed for the apartment buildings. Night had fallen and it turned out apartment 37F was located in the complex’s farthest corner. Outdoor stairwells zigged up the building and linked to open hallways that zagged across back. I walked down the third floor hall. Kids were yelling behind one door. Someone else was cooking dinner that smelled of curry and on
ions. I walked to the end of the hall. 37F.

  I listened. The window to my left was covered with slatted blinds but I could hear water was running, maybe in a sink. I knocked. The water stopped.

  After a notable pause, a man’s voice asked, “Who’s there?”

  “I’m looking for Ezra Sugarman.” I looked up, into the door’s peephole. “Is he here?”

  “What do you want?” The voice was now right behind the door.

  “My name’s Raleigh Harmon.” I smiled into the peephole. “I’m with the Leavenworth Hotel Association.”

  Not a total lie. The Engels ran a hotel. So did the Hellers. In Leavenworth. And we were associated. Right?

  I looked up again, feeling his gaze. “Could I speak to Mr. Sugarman?”

  The door opened. The short man standing there wore a black apron that said SHMUTZ HAPPENS.

  “You’re with the Leavenworth hotel association?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Are you Ezra Sugarman?”

  He had dark eyes and wild black hair, parted down the left side and slicked into place. Like a burnt marshmallow was secured to his head.

  “Do you have a card?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. I left them in my car. And it’s parked way over there.” I pointed down the long hallway. “Are you Ezra Sugarman?”

  He glanced past me, checking the hallway, the ground below, even the next building. He eyed me as though expecting an accomplice.

  “I parked on the wrong side of the building,” I said. “I’m not really familiar with this area.”

  His eyes were sharp, intelligent. The glance came fast—I lunged, catching the door as he swung it shut. I shoved my foot against the bottom, both hands gripping the edge of the door. He pushed. I pushed.

  “I’m calling the police,” he said.

  “You do that.” I pushed harder. “Tell them why you made all those trips to the Eiderdown and Waterhaus.”

  His startled gaze was inches from my face. I felt the door give a fraction of an inch.

  “I did nothing wrong!” He leaned his body into the door. “Why are you here?”

  “You really want to do this out here—so all your neighbors can hear?”