The Fear in Her Eyes

by Grant McKenzie

  “Her husband?”

  “We’re separated, but this is an emergency. There’s been a threat on her life. I have the police here with me if you need to talk to them.”

  “You’re not kidding?”

  “No, here, hold on.”

  Ian handed the phone to Jersey, who explained who he was and recited his badge number. “You can call Homicide and verify,” he added before handing the phone back to Ian.

  “Is she in trouble?” asked the woman.

  “She’s been threatened. That’s all we know for now.”

  “Do you know her condo?”

  “We’re here now. Helena’s not here, but someone else has been.”

  The woman gasped. “This is terrible. Who would want to—

  “Do you know where she might be?”

  “Probably at her, err, boyfriend’s.”

  “‘Her boyfriend’s’?” Ian turned his back on the police, not trusting the expression on his face. Helena had never mentioned that she was dating.

  “Yeah, it’s meant to be a big secret, but—

  “We need to know,” urged Ian. “It’s life or death.”

  “His name is Rolando Aguilar. He’s a deputy district attorney with—

  “Yes,” Ian interrupted more hastily than he intended. “I know who he is.”

  25

  Deputy District Attorney Rolando Aguilar owned a one-bedroom condo less than a mile from Helena’s. Located in what was once an abandoned 130-acre industrial brownfield alongside the Willamette River, South Waterfront had become the largest and most expensive redevelopment effort in Portland history with plans to turn it into a $2 billion high-rise neighborhood as dense as parts of Manhattan.

  Standing in the hallway outside the apartment door, Jersey glanced over at Ian. “You sure you’re OK with this?”

  “I need to know she’s safe.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “What are you, my mom? Just knock.”

  Jersey knocked.

  When there was no answer, he knocked harder and with more insistence.

  “Yeah yeah, hold on. Who is it?”

  “Police, Mr. Aguilar. We need to talk to you.”

  Rolando Aguilar opened the door wearing a hastily buttoned pair of dress pants and no shirt. His hairless chest glistened as though they had interrupted him in the middle of a rigorous waxing session. His annoyed glare slid off Jersey’s shield and narrowed upon Ian.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Looking for my wife,” said Ian. “Is she in?”

  “I- I-,” he stammered before growing angry. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Is Ms. Helena Fairchild with you, Mr. Aguilar?” asked Jersey. “It’s important.”

  Before Aguilar could respond, Helena stepped into the hallway behind him. She was wearing her boyfriend’s missing shirt and little else. As relief washed over him, Ian couldn’t help but notice that her legs still looked great.

  “Having a waxing party?” he asked before he could stop himself, instantly knowing it sounded lame, cheap, and bitter. “Sorry,” he added quickly before the barb could sink in. “I was worried about you.”

  “Worried?” Helena moved closer to stand directly behind Aguilar. “Why?”

  Jersey explained what they had found at her apartment. The description of the bathtub made the blood drain from Helena’s face and her hand moved to cover her mouth as though she was about to become sick.

  “I need to sit down.” She turned and headed toward the living room, but then quickly veered off to her right and slammed the powder room door behind her.

  Aguilar looked at the two men in confusion about what to do.

  “We’re coming in,” said Ian. “Best to invite us so that Detective Castle doesn’t feel awkward.”

  Jersey winced apologetically as Ian stepped across the threshold before Aguilar was halfway through his reluctant two-word invitation.

  In the main room, Ian took in the sixty-inch plasma TV, discreet surround-sound system, reclining leather couch, and glass coffee tables. Two bottles of wine were opened on the center table. Both reds, both Chilean, one empty. The lone bookshelf was crammed with legal texts rather than fiction, and the sound system was an elegant stainless steel and vacuum-tube contraption designed for an iPod rather than a turntable.

  A small balcony beyond a set of sliding glass doors in the open kitchen overlooked a green belt that led to the river. There was no barbeque on the balcony, one of the biggest downsides to apartment living, even when you owned.

  Aguilar cleared his throat before lifting a glass of wine from one of the smaller tables and taking a large swallow. He kept the glass in his hand as he turned to Jersey. “Is Helena’s life in danger?”

  “A threat has been made,” said Jersey. “We don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Who made the threat?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Aguilar’s voice rose in pitch. “Well, why not?”

  Ian snorted loudly. “Because if the bitch had left a name, we would be chasing her instead of disturbing your fine evening, now wouldn’t we?”

  Jersey held up a hand in silent reprimand. “Let me handle the DA’s questions, OK?”

  “Deputy DA,” corrected Ian as he left the living room and walked back toward the front door. Before reaching it, he stopped and tapped on the door to the small powder room. “Hey, Scrunch,” he called softly. “You OK?”

  “Don’t call me that.” Helena’s voice was small, but still sharp. “You’re not allowed to call me that anymore.”

  “OK, sorry. Can I come in?”

  After a moment, there was a tiny click of a lock, and the door swung open a crack. Ian entered and closed the door behind him. Helena was sitting on the toilet with her face in her hands. There was no other place to sit except for the sink, so Ian squatted to bring his face level with hers.

  He placed a hand on her bare knee, his thumb automatically stroking the smooth flesh. Her skin was cold, and he wished he could offer her a pair of socks or soft, fuzzy slippers. Even when completely naked, she always liked her feet to be warm. He had often teased her that it was like making love to an Inuit, as he always imagined that taking one’s boots off in the frozen tundra of the Arctic Circle was never a good idea.

  “Is this about Emily?” she asked.

  “It’s connected, but we don’t know how yet.”

  “How did they know about—” Her voice broke. “About—

  “I don’t know. Hospital records?”

  “My father had all the records sealed. There were no police reports, no media leaks. Nobody knew except for—

  “Hospital staff, paramedics, the first officers at the scene, your parents, nosey neighbors, us. When you think about it, it’s a miracle the press didn’t find out.”

  Helena reached down and grasped his hand. At first, Ian thought she was merely removing it from her knee, but instead she lifted it to press his palm against her tear-stained cheek. He felt her eyelashes brush the tips of his fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry you had to go through that again. It couldn’t have been easy.”

  “No,” Ian said. “It wasn’t.”

  “Do you know who’s behind it?”

  “Not a clue, but I’m going to find out.”

  “And when you do?”

  Ian’s eyes locked on Helena’s. His were clear and bright, while hers—despite being red-rimmed and bloodshot—still pierced deep into his heart.

  “They’ll wish I hadn’t.”

  THE TWO friends walked across the dark tarmac to the dozen open-air stalls reserved for visitor parking. The residents’ vehicles—too expensive, European, and babied to brave the salty Oregon weather—were safe and snug in their heated underground chambers for the night.

  “You OK with her staying here?” Jersey asked.

  Ian shrugged. “She’ll be safe at least, not like I have a say. The only thing left to do
in our marriage is get the divorce.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I do. I wish it wasn’t that way, that I could turn back the clock and make everything all right, but that’s not possible. Our marriage ended the day Emily was killed. I was just too selfish to see it.”

  “I wouldn’t call it selfish,” said Jersey. “You were grieving. She’s still the woman you married—

  “And I’m the man who let her baby die.”

  Jersey, too far out of his depth, stopped talking until they reached the vehicle. “I’ll drop you back at your car.”

  Ian opened the door and slid inside. He had nothing more to say either.

  My Dearest Darling:

  I played a little game. It was rather naughty, but also rather delicious to see the reaction on our Mr. Quinn’s silly, ugly face. To get me back, he played a trick of his own. I waited patiently for him to arrive home tonight, but he failed to show.

  My new African beast was rather displeased, for I promised him something special at the conclusion of his task. I shall not tell you what it is, for you will not approve, but sometimes such things must be done.

  I know you liked this man, but we cannot abide liars. And you must agree that I gave him every opportunity to walk away before this moment, but he simply would not take the hint.

  He may as well have stabbed that awful criminal himself. It is, after all, completely his fault that Mr. Hogg needed to be removed. Not that anyone shall mourn his passing, except perhaps a circus of fleas.

  Oh dear, that is simply awful of me, isn’t it?

  Ah, but do I hear giggling in the dark with velvet covers pulled up to just beneath your twinkling eyes? You do so like it when I become silly, don’t you?

  I am troubled, however, my dearest. The garden has become infested with weeds. Every time I dig up one, two more sprout to take its place. I am afraid that I may need to scorch the earth and begin again in a new patch of soil. It is a shame for I do so love the salty air and being forever close to you, but I believe the time is right. You know that I have always wanted to try Manhattan or perhaps a return to Paris.

  You would adore Paris.

  Until we are together again,

  may your eyes forever shine.

  xxx

  26

  The piercing beep beep beep of a garbage truck reversing out of a nearby alley wasn’t enough to bring Ian fully out of slumber until it clipped the edge of a dumpster and all hell broke loose. Something large and metallic clattered to the ground, brick crunched, glass shattered, and two men began swearing at each other in full bellow.

  One of the men was Polish and his vocabulary of American curse words was limited to sonbitch, muddafuck, and fuckYOU. His partner’s repertoire, despite at least ten years of public schooling, wasn’t much better.

  Ian sat up to rub the sleep out of his eyes and wipe the crusty corners of his dry mouth. For a moment, he couldn’t quite remember why he was sleeping in his car or where he had parked, but one glance across the street brought the night’s events creeping back.

  Mary Curdy’s Country Kitchen was a popular Salem eatery for the breakfast crowd, and, according to an overly chatty woman working the switchboard at Oregon State Penitentiary, a regular part of Angus Lamb’s preshift routine.

  After climbing out of the car, Ian stretched his back and shoulders, tucked in his shirttail, and darted across the road. Inside the restaurant, he made a beeline for the washroom. When he reappeared and grabbed a table by the window, his face was freshly scrubbed and his hair sported the best he could do with fingers for a comb.

  The waitress was nineteen, cute, and about five months pregnant. On either doctor’s orders or something she read online, she had stopped dyeing her hair, and dark roots were slowly reclaiming territory from the false blond infidels.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Please. And water.”

  After she filled the cup and glass, Ian held up one finger for her to wait. Then, he downed the water in one near-desperate swallow.

  “Refill?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  This time, Ian drank half before settling back in his seat and stirring a splash of cream into his coffee.

  “Know what you want?”

  She hadn’t offered him a menu. All of the restaurant’s offerings were written on a large blackboard above the open hatchway to the kitchen. The accompanying illustrations were limited to flowers with twisting, vinelike stems and curiously colorful bunnies with large anime-style eyes. Several of the bunnies had kangaroo pouches on their stomachs, containing baby bunnies in cute Kilroy pose.

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Everything’s good, but people enjoy our special. Eggs, bacon, two slices of Mary’s toast, hash, and fried tomato.”

  “Perfect.”

  “How you like your eggs?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “The last time a fella asked me for a surprise, I told him I was pregnant. Shoulda seen him scamper.”

  Ian winced. “Sorry.”

  “Ain’t your fault. We wasn’t screwing.” The waitress paused and narrowed her eyes. “Were we?”

  Ian choked on his coffee, causing the waitress to laugh.

  “I’m just joshing. You ain’t from around here, are you?”

  Ian smiled, enjoying her humor. “I’m meeting a friend. Maybe you know him? Angus Lamb.”

  “From the prison?”

  Ian nodded.

  The waitress glanced up at the clock on the wall. “He’ll be here in six minutes. You can set your watch by Angus.” With a wink, she refilled his coffee cup and water glass before heading to the kitchen to place his order.

  Six minutes later, Angus Lamb walked into the restaurant and floated his lazy eye across Ian’s table in the corner. It was soon followed by a smirk and the full attention of his good eye.

  “You waiting for me?” he asked.

  Ian shook his head. “Coincidence.”

  “Yeah, right.” Angus walked over. “Shelly on switch called to say you had been asking questions. She felt guilty about mentioning this place, but according to her, you sounded ‘dead cute and harmless’ on the phone.” He took a seat. “Don’t worry, I set her straight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Angus smirked. “You’re also paying.”

  The waitress reappeared, carrying two breakfast specials in one hand and a pot of fresh coffee in the other. Her smile for Angus was both dazzling and genuine as she placed his food in front of him and filled his coffee cup. Ian received the fading afterglow with his plate and a warming splash for his coffee.

  Mary’s toast turned out to be French toast served with a dab of melted butter, a sprinkle of coarse sea salt, and a zebra pattern of real maple syrup. Both men dug in as though neither had eaten in a week.

  After the plates were cleared, Angus leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee.

  “OK,” he said. “I’m listenin’.”

  Ian wiped the grease and dripped syrup around his mouth on a paper napkin. “If Tyler Young was murdered, who’s the most likely suspect?”

  “Nothin’ like easing into it.”

  “I received a phone call,” said Ian. “The caller made it quite clear that Young’s death was not by his own hand. Plus his former cellmate was killed yesterday at his halfway house before I got a chance to talk to him.”

  “Hogg did have a knack for makin’ enemies.”

  “And it was just coincidence that we chose the same place for breakfast this morning.”

  Angus grinned over the rim of his cup. “My number one suspect would be Tosh Rollins.”

  “Can you get me in to see him?”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  Angus inhaled sharply. “You don’t ask much.”

  “But you know why I’m asking.” Ian held out a card with his cell phone number written on it.

  Angus’s eyes crinkled as he accepted the card and stood up. “Leav
e a good tip,” he said. “Girl’s feedin’ two on a salary that barely covers one.”

  THE CALL arrived within the hour.

  “Tell ’em on the gate I have your pass inside,” said Angus.

  “Tosh agreed to see me?”

  “Sure. It breaks up his day, and I tol’ him you’d bring a large bag of those red licorice strings. They’re his favorite. But whether or not he’ll talk to you, can’t say.”

  IAN MADE it through the prison’s front gate without any problem after the guard verified his information with Angus. At the reception desk Ian handed over the jumbo bag of candy shoelaces and went through the standard security procedure of locking his keys and phone in the small locker.

  Escorting him down the hall, Angus said, “I received permission to stick around during your visit.”

  Ian looked up at him. “You worried about me?”

  “Ever watch Shark Channel?”

  “Didn’t know there was one.”

  “Sharks are interesting creatures. They never stop movin’, can’t. They kill to eat, and any scientist will tell you that’s just nature, that they don’t take any pleasure in it. But I say they’re wrong. You spill blood in the water, and a shark’s nature changes. Lunch becomes a frenzy, and all the other sharks can’t wait to sink their teeth in. That’s not hunger, that’s need. Tosh is a shark. He’ll kill for money to feed his habits, sure, but he also spills blood to fill a need, fuel the frenzy. I never take anythin’ he does lightly. Not even conversation.”

  Angus absently stroked the area around his lazy eye, the flesh slightly discolored and oddly tight, and Ian wondered if there was something more to the story. But before he could ask, Angus unlocked the door to the visiting room and showed him inside.

  Tosh Rollins had the look of a scarecrow that’s been left out in the field too long. His flesh was more gray than pink, and every muscle was clearly defined beneath a covering of skin as thin and brittle as parchment. Even his hair had taken on the color and texture of straw, and his eyes were the deadest Ian had ever seen in a living being.