Last Girl Standing

by Lisa Jackson

  On the drive south, he thought over the information he’d learned about Tanner Stahd’s attack and subsequent death, letting his mind free-associate. He thought of Delta, the elder Dr. Stahd, the personal nature of stabbing someone, the possibility of divorce with an undoubtedly looming custody battle, and the victim himself, Tanner Stahd and his purported womanizing, from high school right on to the present. From there, he thought about Bailey and Penske and Carmen . . .

  McCrae looked through the windshield at the passing landscape, fields on either side of the freeway that cut down to the Willamette Valley.

  He thought about Jed Corolla, who’d allowed Ellie, Amanda, and Zora into Tanner’s room.

  “They didn’t do anything, I swear,” the earnest younger officer had said, catching up with him just before he left for Eugene. “The three of them . . . I was right there. They were just standing back, four feet or so, when Stahd had the heart attack that killed him. They never even got close. He just sat up and yelled, ‘Dee,’ and then dropped back down, unconscious. The staff tried to revive him, but he never came back.”

  When McCrae had absorbed that, Corolla added, “That redhead looked like she knew what that meant.”

  The redhead. Ellie O’Brien.

  “What about the others?” McCrae had asked.

  He shook his head. “They all were herded out of the room, and I followed them out. They left.”

  McCrae followed his GPS into Eugene and a street a few blocks outside of campus but close enough to get some foot traffic to the Duck-Duck Inn. He’d been given the information on Carville from a series of current and previous coworkers at Lundeen’s who kept sending him from one person to another until he finally learned of Carville’s whereabouts.

  The Duck-Duck Inn was undoubtedly named for U of O’s mascot, a Donald Duck replica that had apparently been grandfathered in by Disney to allow for the university’s use. There were Donald Duck caricatures involved in various stages of comic high jinks decorating the otherwise rough board walls. McCrae doubted the image was sanctioned by businesses outside the university grounds, like the Duck-Duck, but no one appeared to be complaining.

  He sat down at the end of the bar and ordered a beer. It was about 1:00 p.m. No sign of Carville. Maybe the information was wrong, or maybe he was slated to work later. McCrae turned to his phone, checking e-mails and texts. Nothing new. He’d hoped Delta would contact him, but she’d been radio silent since he left her off with her parents.

  Dee, he mused, thinking of Tanner’s last word. Sure, “Dee” could be for Delta, but there were other possibilities as well. Coach was Dean Sutton, he could be the “D.” Or . . . Zora DeMarco. And it certainly didn’t have to be somebody’s name.

  After he’d been at the bar about twenty minutes, he called the bartender over, a young woman in a sleeveless shirt with arm tattoos covering nearly every square inch of skin and a series of tiny red stones pierced into an arc around one nostril. “I’m looking for somebody,” he said.

  “You a cop?” she asked.

  McCrae was in jeans and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was almost offended that she’d made him so quickly. “This is outside my job, and the higher-ups would not appreciate my being here.”

  She looked interested. “Could you get fired over it?”

  “Entirely possible.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  “James Carville.”

  “The old man. Huh.”

  “The old man?” McCrae repeated.

  “Gray hair, ponytail?”

  McCrae nodded. That was exactly how he would’ve described the man he’d met five years earlier, though he’d thought the man had just grayed early.

  “He’ll be in around two. Punctuality isn’t his strong suit. Mine neither, but then nothing really gets going till later.”

  McCrae forced himself not to look at the time. “Maybe I’ll have something to eat.” The early-morning stale muffin he’d shared with Fido wasn’t cutting it. “What’s the favorite around here?”

  “Duck burger. Made with beef,” she added, clearly a point that had needed to be mentioned more than once. “The usual suspects—tomato, onion, lettuce, and avocado, and pepperjack cheese, too.”

  “Sold.”

  She went through a swinging door presumably into the kitchen to place the order. When she returned, she refilled his beer, though he protested he didn’t need a second.

  “It’s on me. Gotta keep in good with the cops,” she said.

  “I’m not from around here.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Karma works everywhere.”

  A few other customers started trickling in. McCrae nursed his second beer and worked on the piled-high hamburger and fries Marla, as she told him her name was, put in front of him. He was impatiently checking his phone every five minutes when Carville walked through the door, his ponytail a good deal longer than it had been five years earlier.

  He noticed McCrae right away and looked like he wanted to bolt.

  “Remember me?” McCrae asked, though he’d only seen the man once before the investigation was co-opted by Hurston.

  “You were with that cop’s father.”

  Ah, yes. He’d been with Quin, and Quin had been sick with grief, alternatively silent and seething or loud and explosive.

  “Didn’t get to talk to you much before the investigation moved to another investigator.”

  He made a sound of disgust, low in his throat. “That bullshit asshole who directed my answers.”

  “How do you mean, ‘directed’?”

  “I mean, like, he said, ‘You saw no evidence that he’d roofied her, correct?’ and then when I said, ‘I’m pretty sure I did see him dump something into her drink,’ he said, ‘Well, it was dark and you couldn’t see,’ and I said, ‘It wasn’t that dark’ and ‘Yes, I could see,’ which he didn’t like, and so we went around a few times. Spooked me.”

  “That why you left?”

  “That, and I was losing my apartment. Landlord was jacking up the price, but that cop was the last straw.”

  “So you did see Penske put something in the woman’s drink that night.”

  “Yeah . . . if that’s his name, Penske . . . pretty sure. She didn’t know about it. I was going to tell her, but then they went outside, and they seemed all right. I don’t know . . . I kinda shrugged it off. You see a lot of stuff at a bar.” He made a face. “We all left when the placed closed. Didn’t think about the car at the far back of the lot. People leave ’em in the lot all the time. I didn’t learn till the next day they’d been shot.”

  “Anyone else notice them that night?”

  He shrugged. “I was the one serving them. That cop talked to everybody.”

  “The investigator.”

  “Yeah, him.” Carville’s lips tightened. “Nobody wanted to talk to him.”

  McCrae could well imagine. Hurston had his narrative set before he started and was trying to make the facts fit it, not the other way around. “Anything else? Anything you can remember? Something small . . . an anomaly? Anything.”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot. Tracy said she thought there was a guy who came in and looked at them but then left.”

  “Tracy’s another employee?”

  “She was only there a few weeks before I left. She kinda made up stories, so I wouldn’t put too much faith in what she said, y’know?”

  McCrae recalled the staff very clearly, had committed their faces to memory as a means of preserving what he knew personally of the case. He’d been too much of a junior officer to be put in charge, and Quin was Bailey’s father, so Hurston had been plopped into the case. McCrae had planned to revisit it when he could, had expected it to be earlier than the five years that had passed, but at least he had some traction now. The problem was Corinne had sicced Hurston on him and Quin.

  “Was Tracy the blonde or the one with the long brown braid?” McCrae asked.

  “Long brown braid. Tracy Gillup. We used to call her
Giddyup.”

  After that, Carville didn’t have much more to say. McCrae thanked him and slid off his stool, checking his texts and voice mail again. Nothing from Delta. He called Quin, who wanted to know every detail about what he’d learned, then informed McCrae that Hurston was at the station.

  Jolted, McCrae asked, “How’s that going?”

  “He wants to know about you. I said you were working on the Stahd case, which you are. I think he’s too busy campaigning to try to hijack it from us, but . . .”

  “Yeah?” McCrae said when Quin trailed off.

  In a low voice, he added, “He might be worrying that you and I haven’t given up finding Bailey’s killer.”

  “I’m going to look for this Tracy Gillup next.”

  “Good.”

  There was a moment of silence between them, then Quin said, “And Delta called and asked when the clinic could be opened again.”

  “I’ll look into it,” he said again as he hung up.

  It bothered him that Delta hadn’t called him directly, but then Quin would be more likely to know the answer to that question, given that McCrae wasn’t around.

  Are you being played?

  The thought stuck with him all the way back to West Knoll. He’d been Delta’s champion, believing in her all the way. And yet what did he know about her really? He’d always liked her, but in truth he barely knew her.

  He was pulling into the station around 4:00 when his cell rang. He braced himself, but once again it wasn’t Delta, it was Ellie.

  “Are you going to arrest her?” Ellie demanded.

  “I assume you mean Delta.”

  “Is there enough evidence?”

  “You should talk to the DA about it.”

  “I’m onto something here, McCrae. I’ve got momentum going. I don’t need a whole ‘on camera’ interview with you; just answer yes or no. Are you going to arrest her?”

  “You trying to make your move to anchor using Tanner’s homicide?”

  “Yes or no,” she snapped.

  “That’s pretty low, even for you.”

  “You are a piece of shit, McCrae.”

  “That may be,” he said amiably. “Just don’t get in the way of my investigation.”

  “Your investigation?” She snorted. “I’ve got leads on this, and I’m not going to squander them.”

  “What leads?”

  “Delta killed Tanner, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “Leave it to the police, Ellie,” he warned.

  “The police . . . meaning you and Bailey’s dad? You haven’t even been able to solve that mystery. Murder/suicide? Total bullshit, and you know it.”

  McCrae’s eye narrowed. Beneath her gibes, something was going on here. “What have you got, Ellie?”

  She snorted. “Thanks for nothing, McCrae,” she declared, and hung up.

  * * *

  “I could just pick him up at the pre-K for you,” Zora said. They were walking out of a lame romantic comedy that nevertheless had brought tears to Delta’s eyes.

  “No. My mom’s picking him up today, and only people on the list at the pre-K can pick him up, which is me, my mom, my dad, and . . . Tanner . . .”

  “I’m so sorry.” Zora’s hand shot out and touched Delta’s arm as they headed to their cars.

  “Thanks.” Delta drew a long breath. Worry had settled in, bone deep. She needed to do something. Act. Find out why her husband had been killed. Her mind was screaming along even while she was watching the hours pass in idleness. Maybe she should check with Woody, do a little investigating of her own.

  “You want to catch dinner?” Zora asked.

  “No . . . thanks. I really can’t.”

  “Oh, okay.” She sounded crestfallen.

  Zora was being awfully nice to her, which was weird in itself. Before the film, she’d confessed that her husband had said he was leaving her. “There’s somebody else,” she said, sounding lost. “He’s apparently loved her since the barbecue, and I think he’s talking to her all the time. He always says he’s talking to someone else, but I just have a feeling he’s lying.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.” She shot Delta a sheepish look. “For a while I thought it was you?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No, no.” She shook her head.

  “I’ve been faithful to Tanner all along. The whole time we’ve been together, even during college and med school.”

  Delta cut herself off then. There’d been rumors about Tanner with Amanda and Ellie and even Zora. She’d chosen to ignore all the noise and concentrate on loving her husband and making a home with him. When Owen came along, it was easier to shove that noise aside and concentrate on being a mom. When she thought about how much she’d hated Amanda, how it had consumed her for a while, it almost embarrassed her. Even so, she marveled that she was going to meet with her soon.

  But I’m over it. All of it.

  As if there’d been no break since their conversation before the film, Zora said miserably, “I thought Brian was saying he was in love with Clarice Billings at first, but now I don’t know. He really hung out with Anne Reade back then, and Amanda said Clarice was too ambitious for him anyway.”

  “You talked to Amanda about it?”

  “On the phone last night. But maybe he thought Clarice was out of reach, and so that’s why he was with Anne, because she was gettable. Maybe he loved Clarice from afar back then, and now with his inheritance, he has more to work with, y’know? Like he could get her now.”

  “He didn’t say who it was?” Delta asked.

  “No. Except that it was someone at the barbecue . . . I think.” Her face clouded. “Maybe it is Anne Reade. I don’t know . . .”

  “He married you, Zora,” said Delta. She was starting to weary of the conversation. She had so many other, bigger problems.

  “I know, but . . . maybe I just got in there at the right time. Caught him just as he was becoming well . . . rich.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “Amanda told me I was younger and prettier than Miss Billings,” Zora said, looking at Delta sideways.

  Delta could see was angling for a compliment, so she gave it to her. “Amanda’s right.”

  Zora smiled. “Amanda also told me to tell Brian to grow the fuck up.”

  “Sounds just like her.”

  “I know you guys aren’t friends anymore, but I kind of want us to all get back together, the Five Firsts, you know? Is that dumb? A pipe dream? Completely out of the question?”

  There are no Five Firsts any longer.

  “Actually, I’m going to see Amanda today,” Delta said. “I want her to be my defense attorney.”

  Zora’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. My husband’s dead, and I’m a prime suspect. I need a lawyer, and I asked Amanda to be that lawyer.”

  “Is she . . . has she agreed to?”

  “I’ll find out.” They were at their cars, and Delta turned to her to say good-bye. “Thanks for coming to the movie with me.”

  “Oh, anytime. You know, I could I help you out tomorrow, too. With Owen? After pre-K,” she said. “You can go somewhere, or just take a nap, whatever you need, and I’ll get him dinner and play with him, give him a bath, put him to bed . . .”

  “I’m really okay, Zora. I—”

  “Please,” she beseeched. “I want to. I need to get away from my life for a while. What better way than with children? Brian and I were trying, you probably know already, but now that’s over.”

  “I don’t pick him up till around five.”

  “Great. I’ll be at your house at five-fifteen, okay?”

  Delta lifted her palms and dropped them in surrender. If Zora really wanted to come over, why should she fight it?

  * * *

  McCrae got a total rundown from Quin on Tim Hurston’s trip to the station, which had appeared to be a sniffing-around expedition and nothing more
. McCrae had almost asked Corinne about him but didn’t want her to know he’d even given the man’s visit a thought.

  With that in mind, he’d gone to his desk and immediately started a search for Tracy Gillup and got a hit for her address right away, only to learn that she was no longer there. He tried to find a cell number—or any phone number, for that matter—but struck out. He then looked up employment records and realized the girl was a roamer, out of one job at a bar or restaurant, then onto another, moving around after only a few months at any one place. He also realized she didn’t stray far from a certain nexus on Portland’s west side, so if she’d moved from her last place of employment, he could check with various bars in the area and see if he could find her. Since he had some time before he was supposed to meet Dean Sutton, he headed out of the station at about 4:30.

  “Where are you going?” Corinne asked.

  He hadn’t seen her as she was walking from the break room when he was pushing through the back door. It was odd for her to ask. Especially since they didn’t talk anymore.

  “Working a case,” he said.

  “The Stahd case.”

  He nodded. He didn’t have to tell her he was doing some digging into Bailey’s homicide before he met with Sutton. “Is there a reason you want to know?”

  “I’m sure you heard Tim was here today. He wanted to talk to you.”

  “Tim Hurston?”

  “You know who I mean.”

  “I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”

  “You don’t have to be so pissy about him, you know. You and I have been over a long time.”

  McCrae smiled faintly. “As long as he stays out of my business, he’s all yours.”

  “That’s the pissy attitude I’m talking about!” she called as he headed for his Explorer.

  McCrae actually laughed for the first time in a long time.

  * * *

  Delta pulled into the long drive toward Amanda’s house, which she’d inherited from her parents after the accident that had permanently injured her brother. Delta had occasionally wondered about how her parents could just up and leave Amanda and Thom, but hadn’t wanted to feel anything like pity for the woman who’d caused such trouble and misery for her and Tanner.