Cold River Resurrection (33 page)

Preview to Dear Departed

Death Becomes Her

Stephanie appeared to be sleeping, crumpled on the bed, lying on her side, her arm flung over her head, the lights in the adjoining bathroom illuminating the bottom of the bed, and then the walls shouted color at Natalie, bright red walls above the white and gold headboard.

“Stephanie . . . oh God!” Natalie cried. Her knees buckled, and with tears streaming down her face, she knelt by the end of the bed. She put her face in her hands. She didn’t approach her sister – wanting too –
needing
to – but she knew it wouldn’t do any good, because she had seen dead people before. Lots of them. Natalie Collins was a detective sergeant in the homicide unit of the Portland Police Bureau.

But this was family, and she couldn’t move . . .

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Praise for Enes Smith and
Fatal Flowers

“A CHILLINGLY AUTHENTIC LOOK INTO THE BLACKEST DEPTHS OF A PSYCHOPATH’S FANTASIES . .  READ THIS ONE ON A NIGHT WHEN YOU DON’T NEED TO SLEEP!”

Ann Rule, bestselling author of
Small Sacrifices

DEAR DEPARTED

ENES SMITH

Kindle Edition

DEAR DEPARTED

Printing History

The Berkley Publishing Group

Diamond Edition

December 1994

Enes Smith Productions Edition

December 2010

Kindle Edition April 2011

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

DEAR DEPARTED. Copyright 2010 by Enes Smith. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover design by Kent Wright

FOR MY MOTHER

MARJORIE BERYL SMITH

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Departed was my second novel, and there were many people who contributed to this story and the novel seeing the light of day: Ann Rule, with constant encouragement; literary agents Joe and Joan Foley; and my editor at Berkley, Melinda Metz.

Dear Departed was first released in December, 1994 by the Berkley Publishing Group, with their Diamond imprint.

This new edition reflects changes in technology and society since I wrote the story; other than that, the story remains unchanged.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There have been many people who have contributed time and effort to get this new edition of Dear Departed on its way:

Nancy Spreier, friend, consummate researcher, and constant believer, owed more than I can write, a person with unlimited knowledge of the works of fiction; Barbara Lambert, for typing and work on the manuscript; Annie Hausinger, for typing, editing, and copyediting, and most of all, encouragement and friendship; Kent Wright, for technical advice and cover design; and Deb Walker for manuscript assistance.

Part One

“I never got married until I was sixty-five years old, that’s why I lived until I was one hundred sixty-five.”

SHIRALI MISLIMOV 1805-1973

Caucasian Mountains

Russia, Hamlet of Barzavu

And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty-nine years, and he died.

THE BIBLE

Genesis

Chapter 26

Prologue

He
could smell the night smells from the room down the darkened hall. A room he moved easily in, even though this was his first visit. Cold cream. A bath powder. The smell of sleep.

He heard the sounds of slow, deep breathing. Sleep sounds. Two women lived here, and he was comfortable with their odors, their sounds, their . . . things.

Two women. One was gone. One was sleeping.

But not long.

It was time for her to awaken.

He moved slowly, the covering on his shoes whispering softly to him as he moved across the carpet. He walked  to the large windows and looked at the water below, smoothing his face as he glided quietly across the room and into the hallway. He walked to the end and stopped at the open doorway where the sleep sounds were, his pulse and breathing quickening. He looked at the sleeping form on the bed and then moved past, unhurried, relaxed here, and entered the second bedroom.

He moved to the dresser, the odor of the powder biting, tickling the mask. This one might be home soon, but he had time to move slowly. A dim, diffused light came from the half-open bathroom door down the hall, and with the lights from the far bank of the river shining through the bedroom window, he could see the photos on the dresser.

A man in a blue police uniform, a veteran with stripes.

A woman with the same uniform, younger, youthful, athletic with short blond hair.

This was her room.

He carefully reached out and took the picture in his hands, reassured by the slow, even breathing coming from the next bedroom. There were small figurines on the dresser, children’s toys, he thought, but there had been no mention of a child.

They were Disneyland artifacts, old ones, Mickey and Minnie Mouse, an orange dog with long ears and a stupid expression, some ducks. Molded plastic. He picked up a small figure with big black ears and a polka-dot dress.

A mouse.

He put it in his mouth and took it with him. He held the picture of the woman up, squinting, staring at her eyes, trying to know her, looking for what she knew. He carried the picture with him to the other bedroom and watched the sleeping form.

She’s not the one, but she might know something of what I need.

He woke her up to inquire, and when it was done . . . he waited.

Friday, September 15 and Saturday, September 16

Minnie Mouse

One

On the night Stephanie died, Natalie Collins had the cab drop her off up on Front Avenue, two blocks from her riverfront apartment. She loved to walk the last few blocks of the hill down to the river. The buildings and skyline of downtown Portland rose up behind her, the upper floors of the buildings a bright halo in the dark rain.

She walked a few steps and then stopped as the cab pulled away. The broad expanse of the Willamette River was in front of her, lined with condos and apartments. The double-decked Marquam Bridge was upriver and to her right, up high in the rain and mist, lighted with streetlights and cars. Down river, she could make out the top of the steel bridge, a black grid framework from another era.

The rain fell softly, almost a mist, and she pulled the hood up on her trench coat, watching the way the lights from the marina made glistening halos, silent and alone. The river was dark, broken only by the lights on the east shore and on the bridges. The street going down to the river was busy, with people leaving the floating restaurant and the seafood restaurants on the waterfront. The BMW’s, Mercedes, and cabs passed her on the street, but she had the sidewalk to herself. The street scene was a small community, reminding her of a European village. There were shops on each side of the street, ending at the river in a circular drive. She walked past a microbrewery, with northwest beers and ales advertised in the window on colorful banners. The yeast smell of the beer followed her for a few steps.

Natalie walked under a canvas awning, and once she was out of the rain, she threw the hood of her glistening, black trench coat to her shoulders. She pulled the belt loose, letting the coat fall open, warmer now as she walked toward the river. Natalie wore a sleeveless black evening dress that fell to mid-calf, with a front slit, black nylons, and black high heels. She looked alluring and sophisticated tonight, and when she thought about it, she knew it.

Natalie walked the last block down the hill to her apartment, pausing to look in the windows of the small shops she passed. A door opened in front of her, a small figure leaning over the lock to secure the door. She slowed when she saw who it was.

“Hi, Mr. Barker.”

The figure rose suddenly and stepped back, fear in his face, an aging shopkeeper wearing a hat and overcoat, vulnerable, locking up late at night.

“Natalie?”

“Yeah.” She grinned at him.

“You’re out late in the rain, young lady.” He leaned closer, relieved, and smiled. He was equal to Natalie’s height at five feet four. She was five feet four when she was wearing heels.

“Hey, big date, all dressed up to kill,” he said.

Natalie laughed. “No date, symphony tonight with friends.”

Mr. Barker shook his head. “Boy, those young guys you work with, they don’t see you like this. You should grab one of them.”

“Yeah, any day now.” They both laughed.

“Hey, saw your sister today. She came in for a sandwich.”

“Stephanie.”

“Yeah, Stephanie. Hey, you hungry, I can open and fix a sandwich, open a bottle of wine.”

“I’d better not.” Natalie laughed. “I’ve had enough chardonnay, and you feed me too much as it is. I’m already running three miles a day so I don’t blow up.” She put her hand on his arm. She had an easy friendship with Mr. Barker, who was forty years older.

“Come in tomorrow, try my new soup.” Mr. Barker looked around, his grin fading. “You get home and lock your door, what with all that goes on these days. But I guess you know that, what with the work you do.”

“You’re on about the soup, and I’m fine, Mr. Barker,” Natalie reassured him. He stepped off the curb and turned to wave, taking careful steps across the street to his car. Natalie continued down the sidewalk, her heels clicking on the wet surface. Her right heel came down and she lurched forward, took a quick step, caught her balance, and stopped, looking down at the black heels. Natalie hummed the melodic line of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, feeling better than she had in months. A major case had finally sifted together today, and tonight had been the opening night of the symphony season at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. Natalie had dined and wined with friends downtown. She laughed aloud and then looked around to see if anyone heard.

“Need to wear these heels more often,” she said, and then laughed again, feeling a little giddy with the wine. Kirby had remarked about her black high heels when she changed at work today, grinning at her and telling the others that the boss had a hot date. She laughed again and looked up at her reflection in the window of a pastry shop. Not bad for an old woman of thirty-six, she thought. Blond hair, cut short, stylish, like Princess Di. Natalie had a small nose with a hint of freckles that she had hated until it didn’t matter anymore, a few small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that her dad said she got from squinting up at him and always asking, “Why?” She was called cute, but she supposed it was more for her size than for her face. In truth, she knew it was for her attitude, her personality, her way of looking at things with humor, even when things got bad, really bad, as they sometimes did at work. Natalie winked at her reflection and tried a couple of poses. She stuck her tongue out at herself and laughed again.

The street ended at the riverbank in a circular drive, above the small marina and floating restaurant. Up the street behind her, the lighted skyline of Portland glistened through the rain. When she reached the circular drive, Natalie turned to her left and walked on sidewalk amid the tables and chairs of the delis and shops.

She saw movement in front of her then, a shadow in the shape of a man, a shadow leaning against the railing. As she approached the gate to her sidewalk, she shifted her purse to her left hand and dug out her keys. A worn figure of Minnie Mouse dangled from the ring. She glanced down the sidewalk at the shadow, and shivered. The shadow was wearing a sweatshirt in the rain, a soaked sweatshirt from what she could see, and a thought hit her that he was not from here, a stranger, with no raincoat or a jacket with a hood. He appeared to be waiting, as a father might wait for a child, but more nervous somehow, waiting, knowing
that something’s going to happen.

She’d seen it before, other times and places, the lone figure – a lookout.

Oh yeah. I’ve seen it before, once at a bank when everything turned to hell. It’s my job; it’s what I do.

You could tell a lot about people if you looked – though most people didn’t look. That’s how they got into so much trouble.

No obvious tattoos, beard trimmed a month ago, alert, confident stance; yeah, he’s waiting.

The second thought Natalie had about the shadow person, a man with a beard to hide his face and age, was that he was looking up at her apartment.

But my apartment is hard to see from the sidewalk.
She punched the security numbers on the gate and shut it quickly  as she walked through, feeling safer as she started up the steps to her door, two and a half stories above the sidewalk. The apartment complex was terraced above the river, with outside entrances to each apartment, with private decks and a view of the river. She passed doors sheltered by hanging plants, the walk often reminding her of trekking through a miniature jungle.

Natalie paused at her door and looked down, looking for the shadow figure on the sidewalk, but from where she was, all she could see was the marina. She shook off her uneasiness, put the key in the lock, and turned it quietly, thinking that Stephanie would be sleeping.

Damn! Stephanie hadn’t locked it. The door opened as she turned the knob. She entered and kicked the door closed and stood looking out at the stunning view, a ritual she’d faithfully observed since the first time she saw the apartment. She had rented the apartment for this, and it hadn’t failed to thrill her in the past three years.

The apartment was furnished with a mixture of new things and antiques, an eclectic collection that displayed her tastes and impulsive nature. She had a Japanese painting on the living room wall that she had spent a month’s salary on. She had worried about the cost for the next six months.

As she started across the living room, she pulled her trench coat off and kicked one of her heels toward the kitchen. A faint odor came to her then:
gunpowder and blood.

Natalie just as quickly dismissed it, her heart picking up a beat, and then slowing, as she reasoned that it was just an olfactory memory of odors she’d picked up from one of the many crime scenes she had visited.

Can’t be gunpowder and blood, not here in my home, and I’ve smelled them before, oh, yeah, I have.

To Natalie’s right, the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the east wall of the living room overlooked the river and east Portland. In the daylight, snow-covered Mount Hood rose up close enough for her to touch in the clean air. For many months the river was full of small boats with bright sails. She never tired of the view.

Natalie kicked off the other shoe and walked across the room, laying the trench coat and her small purse on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. She walked to the windows and stood with her back to the room. She heard a sound from hallway and smiled. It was good to have Stephanie home.

Stephanie, my beautiful, elegant Stephanie, running to me from her third broken marriage . . . now she’s beginning to heal.

Steph must be up to go to the bathroom.
Footsteps whispered on the carpet from the bedroom. Natalie turned around to see how Stephanie’s day had been.

Dan McClellan Harris shifted, uncomfortable in his wet clothes, watching the apartments from the sidewalk, the water dripping off his beard. He moved down the sidewalk toward the gate the woman had entered, and looked up at the terraced apartments. A light came on, two and a half stories above the sidewalk, and he thought it must be the woman who just walked up.

I know there’s a man in an apartment up there – a man looking to kill someone. I know him. I don’t know which apartment, maybe it’s the one the woman went to, but I will find him.

Dan moved closer to the wrought iron gate, knowing that he had to find the man. He had to get inside the security gate, but it wouldn’t be easy. The gate was at least eight feet tall, with sharpened iron spears on the top. He shook the gate and looked behind him at the seawall and then up and down the sidewalk.

No one was on the sidewalk.

The gate was locked. He took one more look around and began to climb.

Natalie stared at the river. From her window, she could see the tops of the masts of the sailboats moored at the dock below. The marina was directly beneath her apartment, a sheltered docking area with the floating restaurant at one end.

I need to move, to find the energy to make hot chocolate with a drop of brandy, and take a hot bath with a book.

She heard a soft
thump
from Stephanie’s bedroom, and she smiled, thinking that Stephanie might join her for some chocolate. She walked through the living room and entered the hallway. She stopped there, at the entrance to the hallway from the living room, a pungent odor stronger here, and she stood looking at Stephanie’s open bedroom doorway at the end of the hall, and then she knew what it was.

Gunpowder and blood. Oh, dear God – Stephie – gunpowder and blood.

There was something else Natalie couldn’t quite place. She jerked around, looking at the counter where her purse with her gun lay. Her heart pounded.

Don’t be stupid, this is your apartment.

That decided it for her. She started down the hallway, the light from the living room giving the walls a soft glow, her black nylons a mere whisper on the carpet.

Another
thump
came from the room at the end.

“Stephie?”

Natalie’s voice came out as a croak, and she called to her younger sister again.

Nothing.

Quiet.

You’re being stupid, Nat old girl, really stupid, still thinking of work, and she’s fine.

But Natalie had done this before, getting her gun and wandering around her apartment, the curse of paranoia of a police officer, chasing ghosts of the past, usually a night or two after a particularly bad murder case, and she knew that she was just being paranoid, extra paranoid during those times, but being paranoid could also keep you alive.

This is stupid.

Steph,
she thought, and then she said it, the silence greeting her call.

My purse is on the counter.

She looked back at the living room, the lights from the marina far below winking up at her in the rain. Natalie moved forward, slowly, creeping, and then stopped again just outside her sister’s door, the smell of gunpowder and blood stronger than ever. Her knees trembled and her hand shook and the fear for her sister rose up to meet her like a fist.

This is stupid. Stephanie just burned something on the stove, that’s all. That’s not gunpowder – not blood.

She almost went back for her gun then, but she heard a noise in the bedroom, and she remembered later that she thought it was Stephanie.

But it wasn’t.

She pushed the door farther open with her left hand, looking.