by Lisa Jackson
“Hey, boy,” McCrae said as he gathered up his wallet, Glock, and keys. He didn’t need to wear a uniform these days. Mostly it was slacks and an open-collared shirt, though he kept a suit coat and tie in his locker at work in case he had to conduct an interview. People were usually both alarmed and respectful when an officer showed up in a suit. Anything less and they were likely to think the officer didn’t mean business.
Fido looked at McCrae balefully. The dog knew he was being left behind, as ever. He was not a police dog, and while McCrae was at work, the dog stayed home. The same as when Fido lived with Bailey.
“Take care of things while I’m gone,” McCrae told him as he headed into the garage and his black Explorer. Fido, apparently over being left behind, emitted an enthusiastic bark, a kind of “Yes, sir!” that brought a brief smile to McCrae’s lips. The West Knoll Police Department had a couple of navy-blue Trailblazers with stylistic gold stripes stenciled with the name of the department on the sides that the officers traded around. McCrae preferred his own vehicle, but like the dressing-for-success rule, people liked to see police officers show up in police vehicles. He didn’t blame them. With all the scam artists and grifters and cheaters and overall crooks trying to separate you from your money or your life, it was hard to know whom to trust, but he was glad, nevertheless, that he was in the Explorer this morning.
McCrae stopped by Smith & Jones, the local grocery store owned by Delta Smith-Stahd’s parents. They had a counter in the back with a half-dozen stools and an array of doughnuts, coffee cakes, and general baked goods for their morning customers, along with some decent serve-yourself coffee from an electric urn. McCrae ordered a cruller to go from the girl behind the counter and poured himself another cup of coffee in a disposable cup, then headed for the door. He didn’t see either of Delta’s parents, which was just as well. Though a part of him wanted to ask about Delta, he was undoubtedly going to see her very soon. They’d barely scratched the surface on the events of last night in the ensuing chaos. Today would be the day.
The West Knoll Police Department was a one-story, U-shaped building that looked out at a whole lot of nothing. Empty fields that had once been part of a large farm, the land sold and parceled into lots, the lots used for building homes . . . well, two or three of the houses had sold before the whole project had gone bust and the land turned fallow and choked with weeds. Some enterprising student of agriculture had taken advantage of the fact that the land was just sitting there and had planted row upon row of onions. McCrae had watched him tend to his crop, assuming, like everyone else, that he’d leased the land for farming. Not so. After several years of bumper harvests, the land finally sold, and that year’s onions were plowed under. Turned out the would-be farmer had never had any legal right to use the property, but that didn’t stop him from suing over his lost crop. McCrae wasn’t quite sure where that lawsuit currently stood, but since then, the land had turned back to weeds; maybe it was still going through the court system. You had to give the guy credit for the balls it took to run a scam right behind the police station and get away with it for years.
McCrae polished off the cruller and drank most of the coffee long before he entered the station and stopped by Quin’s open office door. Bailey’s father’s gray hair was clipped short in a circle around his head, and his bald pate gleamed beneath the overhead lights. Ninety percent of the time, he wore a hat. Now, he swiveled in his chair and said, “We shoulda brought her in last night.”
“How’s Tanner doing?” McCrae asked, ignoring that. If there’d been a change, he would’ve been notified on his cell, but he wanted Quin’s take.
“Alive. Not awake. Corolla’s outside his room.”
Jed Corolla was close to thirty, acted like he was fifteen, looked like a cop from the seventies with a huge mustache and a kind of swagger that made McCrae smile inside. Guard duty was one of his few specialties.
Quin was the unofficial head of West Knoll PD since they’d lost their chief to the county sheriff’s department. McCrae was the unofficial second in command. They’d both been recommended for permanent titles by the mayor’s office and were slated for a swearing-in ceremony neither particularly wanted. West Knoll was large enough to require an additional two officers and some administrative personnel, but small enough to be completely in the hands of the mayor, a stocky woman with a big smile and a heavy hand when necessary. She didn’t like Quin much, McCrae even less. She’d worked hand in glove with the last chief, and now seemed to feel he’d been promoted away from her, lessening her power. Since the last chief’s departure, Mayor Kathy had been taking this “demotion” out on Quin and McCrae. Luckily, Quin was impervious. Bailey’s death had made him immune to any sensitivity to criticism he might have once felt. He had another daughter, Lill, whom he saw occasionally, but their relationship had never been the same as his with her sister. Since Bailey’s death, he’d just moved doggedly and relentlessly forward, catching “bad hombres” and bringing them to justice.
McCrae wasn’t much troubled by Mayor Kathy, either. He was diligent at his job and didn’t let her know about any delving into outside investigations he might be doing.
A bigger problem was the relationship he’d had with one of the women in West Knoll PD’s administration, the one that had lasted less than a year. Corinne had grown tired of the “no ring on my finger” nature of that relationship, and after their breakup, she’d moved on to a new guy within a month. To date, she treated McCrae with cool indifference, though he’d felt the weight of her stare more than once as soon as his back was turned. She was a little intense, and he was relieved she was with someone else. He’d made a mistake dating her. He knew better than to see someone within the department, and he’d done it anyway.
Briefly he thought back to Ellie O’Brien. They’d had that one night together at the barbeque, which might have been the kind of memory that gave you a smile afterward, but it had been forever tainted for McCrae since Carmen’s death. Seeing Ellie at the reunion had ruined that memory some more. She’d become more of what she’d been in high school: serious, intense, and wearing a chip on her shoulder. He’d felt he needed to say something to her, and it had gone okay, with him teasing about her being the Channel Seven weather girl. She’d been trying to make the leap to full-fledged reporter, chasing stories around Portland and all of Oregon, for that matter, though she still didn’t get much camera time. Whenever he’d caught her on screen, she looked good, though it seemed she was always forcing a smile. That intensity that drove her still showed. At the reunion, he’d thought about talking to her some more, but had ended up leaving shortly after Delta and Amanda had; he’d been uncomfortable with the guys that night, most of whom were diving deep into regression while they were there, especially Tanner.
McCrae sank heavily into his desk chair, feeling the weight of his sleep-deprived night. He’d stayed at the Stahd Clinic into the morning hours with the tech team and made sure, along with another officer, that Tanner’s business was secure before he left. Tanner Stahd. He shook his head. What had happened last night? Who’d stabbed him so viciously? What, if anything, had Tanner done to incite such violence?
McCrae grimaced. He’d never been particularly close friends with Tanner or either of his toadies, Penske and Sumpter. At the reunion, Tanner had gravitated to Amanda, who, in the midst of divorcing her husband, had gravitated right back. He had left Delta to hang with her friends, the remaining Five Firsts, Ellie, and others, while her eyes traveled time and again toward her husband and Amanda. It had been noticed by everyone and had pissed off McCrae. He’d felt for her. It was hard to pretend to be having a good time when your significant other was drunk and all over your nemesis. There were still those rumors floating around the reunion from those last weeks of high school, when Amanda was supposedly pregnant and it was Tanner’s child. Whatever the truth of it, Delta, as Tanner’s girlfriend, had put on a brave face and dealt with them in her own way.
Amanda and Tanner . . . may
be they’d hooked up after the reunion, even though she’d left early . . . maybe not.
But Bailey was with Penske that night.
And then Bailey was killed, by Penske, and Penske turned the gun on himself?
There was a hell of a lot more to that story.
And now Tanner’s been stabbed to within an inch of his life.
McCrae picked up the cell phone he’d laid on his desk and checked the time. 9:30. He got to his feet and headed back to Quin’s office, but found it empty. Walking down the hall, he turned right into the break room, where Quin was looking dispiritedly through the windows of the revolving vending machine and its less-than-appealing choices.
“I’m going to stop by the hospital, then I’m going to see Delta,” McCrae told him.
Quin looked up at him. “Bring her in. Let’s both talk to her. Find out if she knows where his cell phone is.”
That was a peculiar piece of the crime scene: no cell phone. Either the attacker had taken it, or it was somewhere other than the clinic or Tanner’s car, which had been in the lot. Tanner could have left it at home, or somewhere else, but McCrae was betting the would-be killer had taken it with him, or her, and made sure it couldn’t be traced.
McCrae asked, “What about the chances of another assigned special investigator, given that we both know Tanner?” And Delta.
“You wanna do that again? I don’t wanna do that again.”
“No, I don’t wanna do that again,” McCrae agreed wholeheartedly.
“Well, I’m in charge, at least for the moment, so we’ll do it our way.”
The corners of McCrae’s mouth lifted. He hadn’t seen Quin so strongly determined since his daughter’s death had knocked the life from him. “Okay.”
“ ’Course, Stahd Senior’s been making phone calls. He thinks a lot of things should be done that we’re not doing and isn’t afraid to say so. He wants to control the information.”
McCrae nodded. Which was probably why Quin had taken such a proactive stance. All to the good.
Quin added, “Stahd suggested maybe the wife did it. I get the feeling he’s never liked her much.”
Or maybe he liked her too much.
Delta had always had that appeal, something earthy and real beneath her beauty. It had tugged at McCrae last night when she’d been so distraught. He could imagine that same appeal working on Dr. Stahd Senior, whose young wife who’d left him was far closer to Delta’s age than his.
Quin added, “Channel Seven hasn’t reported the stabbing yet.”
“They will.” Ellie would be on it at some level. And as soon as she found out, she would make a beeline for the West Knoll PD.
Quin grunted in agreement.
The break-room television was pretty much always on, but it was surprisingly dark this morning. No one had seen fit to turn it on, apparently, so McCrae grabbed the remote and pointed it at the screen. It was already tuned to Channel Seven, and the station was airing some kind of cooking show competition on which two women were chopping fast and furiously, screeching about the passing time. Not interested, McCrae switched it off and headed back to his office, a cramped space just big enough for a desk and a chair. He opened his computer and cleaned up a few e-mails, his mind still on Delta. Her hands had been bloody. She’d picked up the knife. Said she’d fallen on it.
And she’d been wearing a light, lemony scent that smelled of summer.
“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head at himself.
He checked his desk-phone messages, and lo and behold, there was one from Ellie.
“McCrae,” her voice said in that intense way she had. “Tanner Stahd was stabbed last night?” she accused, as if it were somehow his fault that she’d apparently just heard. “I’ve checked at the hospital, and they gave me the runaround. Call me. Let me know what’s going on. I’m about to storm that place if they don’t let me see him.” She left her number.
McCrae ran a hand over his face. Channel Seven had always used Pauline Kirby as their reporter at large, but Ellie seemed to be trying to take over her job. Pauline was older, nosy, autocratic, and somewhat deceitful in her pursuit of a story, a real pain in the ass, but Ellie . . . he sensed she could be worse. If anyone could breach the hospital’s defenses, it was her.
Well, it was time to check on the patient himself. He needed to see what Tanner’s status was in person, and if Ellie would be allowed to see him. He listened to his other two messages. The first was from Corolla, who’d turned away Ellie O’Brien—a reporter, his voice warned—when she’d tried to see Tanner. Well, that answered that, at least so far. The second was from Dr. Lester Stahd, who wanted to make sure West Knoll’s finest weren’t allowing Delta Stahd anywhere near his son; if they did and Tanner took a turn for the worse, he would hold West Knoll PD and Christopher McCrae personally responsible.
McCrae snorted. People and families under crisis said a lot of things out of fear. He knew enough about Tanner’s father to think the man was a total prick, but he put that aside for the moment and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Glancing at the clock, he passed over his desk phone in favor of his cell as he phoned the number Delta had given him the night before. The call rang five times, then was sent to voice mail, where Delta’s voice said, “You’ve reached Delta Stahd. Leave a message.” At the beep, McCrae said, “Delta, it’s Chris McCrae. We’d like to get your statement about last night. Is it possible for you to come into the station today? I’ll be here late morning and all afternoon. This is my cell number . . .”
* * *
Delta stared at her ringing cell phone on her kitchen counter, not recognizing the number. She was paralyzed with fear. It wasn’t the hospital. That would show on the LCD screen. A reporter? A harasser? A supposed friend? The word was already out, and she had a number of e-mails or texts from the early risers, apparently, offering advice and good thoughts. “I’m so incredibly sorry, Delta. We’re all here for you. If you need anything, call,” from Miss Billings, signed Clarice, along with her number. “Tragedies are so difficult to comprehend. It takes time, but it gets better,” from Bailey’s mom and Principal Kiefer, husband and wife since Bailey’s death. She’d also heard, surprisingly, from Woody Deavers’s ex-wife, Crystal Gilles, who had her e-mail address from the reunion form Delta had filled out, apparently: “Don’t let the police bully you. They’re good at that” was her blunt advice. A number of do-gooders had also sent messages about God being on her side and “better days” coming.
Reluctantly, she pressed the PLAY button and listened to the message. McCrae’s voice. Come into the station . . . we’d like to get your statement . . .
Tears burned her eyes, and she dashed them away angrily. Last night she’d been in a state of shock. Today the weight on her chest felt like ten tons. Someone tried to kill Tanner! It was impossible. Impossible! But it had happened.
The memory of him lying on the floor, the blood seeping through his white shirt, made her whole body quiver. This morning, she’d stumbled into the shower on a still-tender ankle at the crack of dawn, before Owen was up, then had needed to lean against the wall to support herself. She was distracted by the scratch on her palm from the knife, almost forgetting to get Owen his breakfast. She gave up the idea of frying him an egg and let him eat cereal in front of the TV, something she was normally dead set against. But she was a wreck, barely hanging on. Owen had noticed something was wrong, so she’d told him she wasn’t feeling all that hot—which wasn’t a lie—and he’d accepted that and gone back to the cartoons. When he was finished with breakfast, she’d taken him to pre-K and had braced herself for the looks, stares, and maybe even some shunning from the staff, but they clearly hadn’t heard yet. Maybe they would understand that she had nothing to do with the attack on her husband? Or maybe they would think she was to blame? They knew some about the fact that she and Tanner hadn’t been getting along for quite a while. It was impossible to hide.
But all had gone normally at the school. On the drive over, Ow
en had asked where his father was, which had thrown Delta because Tanner was gone a lot, and usually Owen didn’t seem to notice.
“Where’s Daddy?” he’d popped out with.
Delta had looked at him in his car seat through the rearview mirror. His brown hair hadn’t been combed all that well and stuck up in places, and though she’d managed to get him into his jeans and his favorite T-shirt, the blue one with the shark on the pocket, there was something slapdash about his clothes as well. She was torn between telling him the basic truth, that Tanner was in the hospital after a terrible accident—she wasn’t about to say he’d been attacked—and covering up the whole thing until later this evening, when she could have him to herself for a few hours to spin some less-frightening tale. She chose the latter, telling Owen that her father was out of town for a while. If she told him his father was in the hospital, Owen wouldn’t stand for it. He would demand that she take him to see his father, and Delta couldn’t do that.
After dropping him at pre-K, she’d opted to drive to the hospital herself, only to be turned away by a policeman guarding the door. No visitors at this time, he’d said, eyeing her like he thought she might try to rush him. But he did inform her that Tanner was alive and being tended to. She’d tried to find a nurse to possibly glean more information, but apart from learning he was stable, she got the same runaround. She sensed no one wanted her near him, so she’d had to give up seeing him for the moment. Maybe she could call on McCrae later, see if he could help her get in, but for the moment it was a no go.