Lie Catchers (18 page)

Ivor shook his head. “Everett had three million plus in the Grand Caymans? Where the hell did he get it?”

“Good question,” said Nilson. “Tuck Barber vacationed in the Caribbean; we know this from his ledgers. Others could have ‘visited’ that account, as well.”

Pointing to the number, Parker said, “To further analyze the account, protocol calls for us to take the CA and the first two numbers and transfer them to the right hand side of the number. Now we convert all the letters of the alphabet to integers, with A equal to 10, B, 11 and so on. At this point we have to apply a module 97 and do some intricate calculations. If the number we extract, finally, is 1, we have a bona fide account number.”

“So there’s 3.2 million in the Cayman Bank?”

“The U.S. government doesn’t use IBAN numbers,” said Nilson. “The Feds can easily find out the holdings of American citizens in this country, but our hands are mostly tied when it comes to money owned by Americans in foreign countries.”

“You mean we aren’t sure if Everett’s name was on that account in the Grand Cayman bank?”

“Nope,” said Nilson, making a derisive noise in his throat. “But if we have good cause and if the Caymans want a favor from the U.S., sometimes we can barter for bank account details.”

“And are we?” Ivor asked. “Going to barter for the information?”

Parker exhaled. “Not yet.”

“Why? He had the number.”

“But we don’t know how he got the money to put into the account.”

“And,” said Nilson, dramatically.

“And?” asked Ivor.

“And,” said Parker. “We don’t know how many other good citizens of Petersburg contributed to the off-shore stash Everett Olson intended to confiscate.”

By the time she and Chet dropped in on her mom’s, Liv had worked herself into a quiet funk. Seeming to sense Liv’s need to be alone with her thoughts, Harriet put her to work at the stove stirring the
rommegrot
. “Don’t let it burn,” she admonished with an eyebrow up in warning. “I’m going to teach Chet how to barbeque salmon on cedar planks.” Looking happy and young, Harriet had made drinks and pulled Chet out to the patio for his lesson, while Liv remained in the big family kitchen, a gas fire dancing merrily in the river-rock faced fireplace.

Liv stirred the sour cream, butter, and flour concoction, a favorite of her father’s. He liked it warm, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Strange how having Chet in the house made Liv miss her Dad more, not less.

And Parker. Chet’s presence underlined his son’s absence. Did she wish Parker were here? Yes and no. Yes, for the look of him, tall and broad-shouldered and heart-stopping handsome. Yes, for the chance to talk to him about Chet and Harriet’s budding relationship. No, for his antagonist role-playing and intense gaze, in search of her hidden self.

We’re allowed to keep some things to ourselves, aren’t we?

Roasting cedar wafted into the kitchen, mixing with cinnamon, cardamom, and cooking potatoes. Liv gazed at the leather recliner, her father’s favorite chair, reminded of the simple life he’d lived, focused on fishing and the routines of daily living. A man comfortable with children who were seen, not heard. No sass. No questioning of adults. Toe the line set by the head of the family, even if he were absent half the year.

Ivor was inculcated with Dad’s principles and by the time her brother was eleven years old and Liv was only five, Ivor took it upon himself to teach Liv how to behave. “They’re wrong, Ivor,” she’d said, in the quiet of the basement playroom. “We stayed at the Matthews in Ballard for two days, May 11
th
and 12
th
. I remember how the sun shined both days and I played with my Barbies outside. They think we visited the Matthews the week after.”

“Shut up,” he said. “Who cares what days we stayed with them? Who made you the calendar expert anyway?”

“I just know it, Ivor. I’m sure my dates are right and Dad’s wrong.”

“Well, keep it to yourself, nimrod. Dad doesn’t like it when you argue with him.”

“Why?”

“If you know what’s good for you, shut up. For one thing, you’re only five. For another, you’re a girl,” he said in a smug voice.

When she started school, she discovered her classmates had dim recollections of events they shared in common, but they argued about details anyway. At first, Liv would weigh in, fighting for correct times and dates. When they disregarded her, she stopped offering, altogether. In fact, all her life she’d encountered people who confused dates or lied about them. Liv learned from her brother and her dad to keep her opinions to herself. She made more friends if she kept her mouth shut.

“No!” she said aloud.

“No, what?” her mother asked as she walked into the kitchen.

Liv smiled. “I was thinking about Dad. There was a lot about him I didn’t know and vice versa. Typical Tlingwegian, hmm?”

Frowning, Harriet asked, “Is this uncomfortable for you, having Chet around?”

Liv held up her hand. “Absolutely not. I’m happy you’ve found a new friend, Mom. Really.” She dug the wooden spoon across the bottom of the
rommegrot
pan. “Dad was such an introvert. Am I the same way?”

Harriet threw ice cubes into her drink. “You are a writer, which makes you positively loquacious compared to your dad. Why do you ask, dear?”

“Parker. He thinks I keep stuff to myself.”

Harriet squinted at her. “I thought you were on the outs with him.”

“I am. His criticism of me is one of the reasons.”

Pointing to the pudding, Harriet ordered, “Stir.”

Liv turned down the burner and did what she was asked.

Harriet took a swallow of her drink and picked up Liv’s empty glass. At Liv’s nod, her mother added ice to Liv’s drink and poured in gin until Liv gestured for her to stop. Harriet patted Liv’s cheek. “You have a thing about dates.”

Liv stopped stirring until her mother pointed to the pan, a silent order to keep at it. “I learned to keep quiet about them.”

With a sigh, Harriet said, “Your dad didn’t like being corrected by a child.”

“He was horrible at remembering dates.”

Harriet shrugged.

“Why didn’t you back me up, Mom?”

She exhaled, heavily. “He was raised to believe he had to show strength and leadership as a father, doubling those efforts since he was gone fishing half the year. When he came home, I liked to step back and let him play his role.”

Liv nodded, memories storming into her consciousness. “Once we went to the Juneau electronics store to return a radio without a sales slip. I remember the exact date we bought that radio, because I was with Dad that day. I was twelve years old, Mom, not a baby. But when I tried to convince him of the real date and time, he looked exasperated and waved me away as if I were some irritating gnat.”

“He got his money back.”

“Mom, you can’t imagine how it feels to be disregarded that way. I mean all through school I had to keep my mouth shut about details I was sure of. I thought I was a freak.”

“We all have our areas of expertise. I happen to have a second sense about cooking and gardening; your dad could always locate prime fishing holes; you remember dates. Doesn’t make you better than me or your dad, just smarter in an area that’s become more and more important in modern life than gardening, say. What I mean by that is, a skill for growing food for a family used to be vital; today, it’s kind of a hobby, as is cooking.” She paused. “I always wondered why you didn’t go to law school, where your ability to sort dates could come in handy.”

“You never told me.”

“It’s not how we do things, honey. You live your life the way you want to.”

“Come on, Mom. I could have used some help handling my so-called expertise.”

With an eyebrow up, Harriet asked, “Did you know Dad loved you?”

“Yes.”

“Was he proud of your grades in school, all the way through college?”

“He was.”

Harriet stuck a fork in the boiling potatoes. “Done. Drain those, please. I better check on Chet.”

“Mom?”

With a hint of exasperation in her voice, Harriet said, “You developed other skills, honey. You became a writer and you’re expanding our business with the salmon oil pills.” She took a swallow of her drink. “There’s a little part of your brain that’s more exacting about dates than anyone else in Petersburg. You learned early on that your righteousness irritated people, like my innate skill at making
rommegrot
bugs you. You hate having me hover over your work at the stove, don’t you?”

Liv nodded.

Giving the thickened mixture a measuring glance, Harriet said, “It’s done and let’s rest this case. Your dad loved you as I do. You steam over my inaccuracy with dates; I hate the way you stir the porridge. Live with it. Now, turn off the burner, cover the
rommegrot
so the top stays soft and I’ll go out to check the salmon.”

“The last time we had
rommegrot
was September 14
th
, an overcast Saturday. I wore coral,” Liv said as she switched the gas to ‘off.’

Harriet chuckled. “And the pudding was perfect. Remember that, too.”

****

“Ice,” Parker said as he watched a hunk of ice, a bergie the size of a piano, flowing south on Wrangell Narrows. Chilled by an early morning breeze, Parker zipped his coat and picked up his pace. “Now that we’ve read over Tilly Grant’s ledgers, I’m interested in the cannery’s ice sales to the fishermen, quantity as well as the mode of payment.”

Nilson hurried to match Parker’s stride. “You’re thinking Olson sold ice and kept the money? I’m not sure that would add up to much.”

“From what I understand, only the big fishing boats make their own ice; all the rest buy it. We’re talking tons of ice.”

At The Smiling Coho, Parker pushed the store buzzer, which also rang in Liv’s apartment. Through the glass of the store’s front door, he watched her descend the stairs at the same time she put on an Australian-type raincoat, oiled for shedding water. She opened the door, a little out of breath from rushing, and her face pinked up
.
But this morning he couldn’t study her, admiring her smooth, shiny hair or watching her clever, slim fingers button up her coat, set her collar just so, and push her hood up over her head. Not if he was to keep his distance. He conjured an all-business tone. “Thank you for joining us, Liv. We wouldn’t have bothered you during your writing time unless it was important. Tilly won’t let us talk to her without your presence.”

Her eye contact with him was so brief that Parker almost missed it. “I don’t mind. You have questions about her accounting, I’m guessing,” Liv said as the three walked abreast toward the cannery.

“Yes. We’ll start with Tilly, then ask the same questions of Robert Halley. You won’t have to stay for our visit with Halley.”

“Have you noticed any changes in the way Ms. Grant has spent money lately?” Nilson asked.

“You mean big purchases.”

“Trips. Jewelry. Dinners out, more than usual,” Parker said.

“No.” She chewed on her lip. “We shopped together in Seattle, but she didn’t buy much those two times. No new wardrobe or recent vacations, that I know of.”

Nilson and Parker stepped aside to let Liv lead the way, single-file, on the raised walkway to the cannery. Liv took her time, taking care to land on the composition roof tiles with every step. Parker was second-in-line, poised to help her if she caught a boot heel in the gaps between the planks. Nilson trailed behind Parker.

“What’s my role with Tilly?” Liv asked.

Nilson made a dismissive sound. “Try to lower her hostility level.”

“You know her, Liv,” Parker added. “Watch what questions make her uncomfortable, when she’s hedging, how her statements about events don’t jibe with your reckoning of them.”

Liv came to the big glass doors of the cannery office and turned around. Parker was so close to her he could smell her perfume and see a few drops of rain on her face. His urge to thumb away the moisture was so strong, he made himself place both hands on the door, jostling her a bit in the process. Her eyes opened wide for a moment, then she smiled, probably guessing his discomfort. Then she said, “Well, special agents, I don’t relish playing secret lie catcher with my friend while I watch you bad-cop her. But we all want the same things: to find the person who shot me as well as the person who might have ended Everett Olson’s life. Let me go in to see Tilly first. You knock on the door in five minutes,” she said without checking for their assent.

Parker opened the front door for Liv and ushered her in. The receptionist, smiling nervously, lifted the section of the counter hinged for entry so Liv could walk through the opening to Tilly’s office.

She paused at Tilly’s Do Not Disturb sign: “I WANT TO BE ALONE WITH MY NUMBERS. DO NOT ENTER!” and knocked on the door. “Tilly?”

No answer.

Liv frowned and with a “what’s up?” gesture to the receptionist, knocked again and said “Tilly?” louder.

She turned the knob and opened the door slowly. “Tilly?”

Parker’s trouble-antennae went up.
She knew we were coming at 8:00.
He shouted, “Don’t go in, Liv!” but she barged in anyway and was well into the room by the time Parker wrenched up the hinged counter section and sprinted for Tilly’s office.

“Oh, hell,” Parker said at the sight of Liv on her knees next to Tilly’s body.

“Call for an ambulance,” Liv shouted.

He yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and made the call, tortured all the while by the sight of Tilly sprawling on the floor in a pose he recognized from his past.

Liv turned from Tilly’s body to Parker, her agonized expression stopping his heart, the same way life seem to stop for him that day two years ago when he watched Bernadette die.

****

Oh, Tilly. Why?

The three-word refrain took root in Liv’s brain and wouldn’t go away the whole time Parker administered CPR, tag-teamed five minutes later by two paramedics. Ivor served as gatekeeper. “This could be a crime scene, people. No one comes in except the paramedics. Period.”

Ivor watched with Nilson, Liv, and Parker as the paramedics struggled to bring life back into Tilly’s limp form. Liv prayed Tilly would jump up, snap her gum and say “Pah! I was just messin’ with you!” But this was a rag doll version of Tilly, arms and legs flapping unnaturally as they worked on her, eyes open and mouth stretched wide, seeming surprised that her heart wouldn’t pick up a beat, her lungs refused to suck air, and her bladder released, filling the air with the odor of urine, mixed noxiously with Tilly’s tropical air freshener. When the paramedics packed up their bags and cleared out of the room, Liv began to cry.