Now That She's Gone (10 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

P
andora used her real name when she signed in at the W in downtown Seattle. Carol Kirkowski didn't like to make a fuss about who she was; she preferred the chance encounter with a fan that let her play up the fact that she was the psychic Pandora of TV fame. Her chance came where it almost always did—at the front desk.

“You look a lot like that ghost chick, I mean lady,” the young clerk said. “The one who talks to dead people on TV.”

“I get that a lot,” she said, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. She presented her credit card and the man, a chin-stubbled twentysomething with two gold hoops in one ear, took it.

“Someone close to you isn't feeling well,” she said.

He looked up at her. His eyes were wide open. Stuck open. He couldn't even blink.
It was her.

“You know about my aunt?”

Pandora signed her birth name. “Sometimes it's like just a bunch of noise in my head and sometimes the signals come in very clear. Your aunt is very ill, Kevin.”

“How'd you know my name?” He asked.

She looked at his name tag.

“Oh, that's how,” he laughed. “But wait a second, how did you know my aunt had cancer?”

“She's a fighter, Kevin, but she won't win this battle. I'm sorry. You'll see her on the other side.”

A bellman loaded the cart and Pandora went off to her room on the top floor. She loved that little mind game. Sometimes it felt so good to just take a stab at something as easy as someone close to another being ill. Missing someone was good too. Wanting something that seemed unattainable was also a good one.

“Something you've dreamed about for a long time is about to come your way. Don't miss the chance to grab it.”

That could mean anything. It could be a new car, a washing machine, a new job, a cure for an illness. It was whatever the mark had wanted to be true. Pandora, Carol Kirkowski, was good at reading her marks. She always had been.

She used her personal cell, not the company's, to make a call.

“Baby,” she said. “I've checked in.”

“I had a feeling you were near,” a man's voice answered.

“Do you have the feeling that I'm horny?”

“You're always horny, baby.”

“When are you coming up to see me? I'm on the top floor.”

“I want to get on top of you.”

“You can be so corny. But that's okay. I've always liked corny.”

“Got some things to do. I'll be over when I can. Get in bed. Tell the front desk I'm coming and to leave a key for me.”

“I'm completely naked now,” she said, though she hadn't even unpacked.

“I'm completely aroused,” he said.

“Hold that thought. Then I'll hold you.”

“Now who's being corny?”

They both laughed a little and hung up.

Pandora was married. Her husband, Bob, was the cameraman who followed her when she did a walk through the haunted feed store, house, crypt, A&P store, or whatever it was that had brought them and the others from
Spirit Hunters
to the Pacific Northwest. She had bigger dreams than a cable show. She'd created a skin-care line called Vanish that was supposed to make all wrinkles disappear, but the FDA wouldn't approve it—at least not when Pandora had presented it as a cure for eighty-year-old wrinkles. She'd had a deal with QVC all lined up and when the skin cream vanished, she schemed for some other product. She had the idea of a home séance game, but that fizzled when a Christian group threatened to boycott the show. For a psychic, Pandora was not very good at seeing what was in her own future.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

C
ody was asleep when Kendall got home. The sitter scurried out the door for a late date and the detective put her focus on a few household chores that the sitter could easily have done—how hard is loading the dishwasher?—and once that was done and the counters were wiped down she assessed herself in the mirror. Was she TV ready? Should she even care? And what should she wear for her not-so-big moment? She looked in her closet and selected a dark blue suit with a light gray blouse and the circle pin that her father had given her mother for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She played with her hair a little, but gave up. It always had a mind of its own. If she made too much of a plan, it would decide to go the other way.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and called Steven. To her surprise, he answered.

“I was wondering when I was going to hear from you, babe,” he said.

“It isn't that I haven't been trying. I feel like you're never around.”

“I had that deal in San Jose to go to. It was last minute.”

“You could have texted me,” she said.

“I'm sorry. I should have. You have no idea how hard this is. Everyone is so . . . so young. They expect me to be a leader, but they know more than I do.”

“Cody's fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Jesus, Kendall. Are you mad at me?”

“No. Not mad. Just irritated. I have a lot going on here and you're not around. You're not even available on the phone.”

“Is something happening in the Brenda Nevins case?”

Kendall loosed her grip on the phone. At least he was aware of what she was working on—or part of what held her time in a vise grip.

“No. Nothing on that.”

She told him all about the
Spirit Hunters
show and how angry she was that she had to do it.

“Sounds like you didn't have much of a choice there, babe,” he said.

“I know. I know. But even so.”

“I've never seen the show, but I bet it's a piece of crap.”

“You'd be right about that, Steven. It is crap and it's turning this place upside down. I just know they are going to portray the department—and me—as a bunch of bumblers.”

“It wasn't your case, Kendall. Nick Mayberry's the one who's going to look stupid if there's anyone they are going to target. Why don't they interview him and leave you guys out of it?”

Kendall had already tried that tactic. “That's what I suggested, but the show said they can't afford to fly to Idaho.”

“Talk about cheap. Now that we've settled that, how is Cody doing?”

“He misses his father. I miss my husband. And honey, I'm kind of scared about us. About where this is all leading . . . Where is this leading?”

“Kendall, don't worry. It's not leading me away from you and our son if that's what you're getting at. I'm yours. I'm never going anywhere. At least not for very long.”

“What was that last part?”

“At least not for very long.”

“That just kind of struck me. Is there something you need to tell me, Steven?”

There was a slight pause before he answered.

“I'm getting to that. I have to go to Santa Fe for a company retreat next week. I'll be gone a week and there will be no way for us to communicate. It's one of those New Agey things that is supposed to bring the team together.”

Kendall didn't like what she was hearing.

“While it rips their families apart?”

“That's not fair and you know it.”

“Steven, I don't know anything anymore.”

“I love you. You know that. Right?”

This time Kendall thought before answering. She really didn't know. He seemed so far away.

“I guess so. I know I love you.”

“I will call you as soon as I get back from the retreat.”

“This isn't one of those sweat lodge things, is it?”

Steven laughed. “No, but I understand hot coals are involved.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. You too. In fact, I bet you'd rather walk on hot coals that do
Spirit Hunters.
”

“I love you. Good night.”

“Night.”

 

 

In her office in the back bedroom of her home on Beach Drive, Birdy Waterman's answering machine blinked its weary red eye. There was only one message on the old, shoebox-sized machine, a relic from the days before voice messaging, cell phones, and texting. Elan had taken to stacking the day's paper on the corner of the desk where the machine stood with its almost-always-empty memory. He noticed the flashing red light, but thought nothing of it. No one called for him anyway. He set that day's
Kitsap Sun
on top of it, leaving Brenda and her message in the dark.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

W
yatt Ogilvie came with a well-known history. He also came with very expensive shoes, and a suit that had to cost more than two thousand dollars. His glasses were Gucci and his tie was Fendi. Kendall had no idea how she could spot any of those details with a cursory glance, but she chalked it up to a mother who subscribed to all of the best lifestyle and fashion magazines. It didn't matter that she couldn't afford the finer things; she told her daughter one time that what was important was to be able to know the difference between good and great. With Brad James standing beside her in the courtroom they were using for the shoot, Kendall watched as Juliana applied makeup on Ogilvie's forehead—a forehead that didn't look nearly as high as it once had.

“He had micro scalp-hair restoration. No doll-hair look for him,” Brad said.

“What a relief that is for the other dolls,” Kendall said.

Brad, completely humorless, stood there like a statue, watching the process.

“I always wanted to be on TV,” he said. “That's why I went into communications as WSU. I thought I could get a good job at one of the Seattle stations.”

“What happened?” Kendall asked, glad for the diversion and glad that Brad James's life hadn't turned out exactly as he'd hoped. He was so full of himself there was barely enough room for him and Wyatt Ogilvie in that big courtroom.

“They said I didn't have the look. To me, that meant that I was too white for what they were looking for. That's why I went for this job. I thought, well, a white guy with the gift of gab—because that's a PR man's gift—was perfect for law enforcement.”

Kendall wanted to know how that was perfect, but before she could say anything, Wyatt Ogilvie and Juliana Robbins were swarming her.

“You're right, Juliana,” he said, pretending not to look at Kendall and training his eyes on his producer. “She's lovely. The prettiest cop I've seen in a long time.”

“I suppose that's a compliment,” Kendall said.

“And she has a spark. Just like you told me. I'm going to have to be like our PR lad Brad here and charm her into submission.”

“Maybe you can start by addressing me directly, Mr. Ogilvie.”

Juliana cut in. “Larger than life, Detective. Doesn't Wyo—that's what his fans call him—live up to my assessment?”

If Juliana had mentioned the sexist and annoying mannerisms at dinner at Cosmo's, Kendall would have answered with a resounding yes. Instead, Wyatt did his own living up to the hype. He tried to charm.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I'm exhausted and a little punch-drunk from the interviews we've been doing in your charming burg.”

“That's all right. How long is this going to take? I have a pretty good caseload that needs my attention back at the department.”

This time Brad butted in.

“No worries, Detective. We've got your back here. You take as much time as you need to do a proper interview. This is very important to the sheriff and to me.”

Kendall didn't care that it was important to Brad at all. And, if she'd had a chance to call the sheriff while he was cruising the Inside Passage somewhere around Sitka, Alaska, she would have.

Juliana complimented Kendall on her attire.

“I forgot to tell you no patterns, and yet here you are in a perfect solid.”

“I read the press kit and letter you sent,” Kendall said.

“Great!” Juliana said as she started toward the jury box, where a sound guy and cameraman stood waiting. The sound tech acted a little bashful when his slid the microphone cords down her back and hooked the transmitter to the waist of her A-line skirt.

“Sorry, ma'am.”

This day had barely started, Kendall thought, and it had just taken a dive. No woman wants to be called ma'am in her early thirties. She wondered if she'd crossed over from MILF to ma'am and hadn't even noticed.

“She need a little powder on her crow's-feet,” the camera guy said, peering through the lens.

Wyatt Ogilvie stood on a steel case just outside of the jury box. He was short, but not that short. Kendall figured that he needed the extra height to look more commanding throughout the interview.

Juliana stood a few feet away and whispered into a microphone, which Kendall was pretty sure went to the earpiece of the expert interviewer.

The camera was on. Silence reigned for a few minutes for the sound tech to capture the ambient noise of the room. Then it started. Juliana did her part. She asked Kendall to state her name, spell it, say what her job was, and state her connection to the case.

“Do you want me to look at the camera or at you?”

“Neither. You'll need to focus your attention on Wyo. He's going to ask the questions, though I might have a few of my own to make sure we get all we need for the story line.”

“Detective, you're a lifelong resident of Port Orchard. What sets this town apart from others in the area?”

Kendall gave a rambling answer that she was pretty sure made her sound very, very provincial. It was all about the fabric of the community, the sharing that goes on between neighbors, and the natural beauty that was not equaled anywhere.

“Can you do that again?” Juliana asked. “Try to keep it short. Mention Port Orchard in your bite.”

Kendall thought of the mommy blogger and how the producers seemed to put words in everyone's mouth, a story line they had already created, and how they were looking only for sound bites to fill in the gaps between reenactments they'd stage later with cut-rate summer stock actors looking for a little exposure.

“If Norman Rockwell had ever ventured out here, he would have found his paintings come to life. Without the snow, of course,” she said.

“Good answer! That's what we like. Short. Snappy. That's just what we're looking for. Are you sure you've never done this before?”

Kendall knew she was being patronized, but she just wanted to get it over with.

“I'm far from perfect,” Wyatt Ogilvie said. “People know that. So when I say this, know that I'm not tossing shade on you. I've been there. You guys really screwed up on Katy's investigation, didn't you?”

Kendall wasn't about to fall in a trap. “I don't get what you mean, Mr. Ogilvie.”

“Come on. I know you didn't do the investigation yourself, but you have to admit that it was pretty half-assed.”

Kendall glanced over at a horror-struck Brad James.

“I can't comment on what was done by someone else, only how I'd handle it myself today.”

Wyatt shrugged. “That's easy to say. But what do you say to the mirror at night when you think about the hell the Fraziers have endured because Kitsap County didn't have its act together four years ago? I mean, you know that's why I'm here. I'm here to right a wrong.”

He was chewing the scenery. Kendall wondered how much of that little soliloquy would end up on the air.

“Look, I'm doing this show to be helpful.”

“Then just answer the questions.”

Kendall felt like she was in the witness box being grilled by a prosecutor just then.

“I didn't hear a question, just a blowhard's statement.”

Wyatt put his hands up in the air. “Whoa, now we're into name-calling. That's how we do things in this town. Blame everyone but yourself.”

“Can we focus on the case?” she asked.

“I'm trying to. I've been working this case for almost a week. I've talked to everyone who knew Katy. I'm going to solve this on my own, or with Pandora's help.”

“Fine. It is a tragedy. It deserves to be solved. We don't know what happened to her.”

“I have an idea. I think she was murdered.”

“What evidence do you have on that?”

“The blood at the scene.”

“It wasn't hers.”

“I know. It was her killer's and if you'd have swabbed everyone for DNA samples back then you'd have ended the torture of a family that cannot move forward, a family that is haunted by the memory of a daughter taken from them too soon.”

Another big moment for Wyatt Ogilvie, Kendall thought. She wanted to bolt, but she'd made a promise to do the interview.

“Is there another question?”

“Yes, is it true that the original investigator had a gambling problem?”

“I wouldn't know if he did.”

“Do you think the case was given all the care that it should have had?”

Kendall thought about that one. She glanced at the camera then over to Juliana, who wasn't even paying attention; instead she was answering an email on her cell phone.

“No. Probably not. I would have done things differently.”

Juliana looked at her notes and Wyatt Ogilvie got off the steel case.

“You were awesome,” Juliana said.

“I feel used,” Kendall said, ripping the mic from behind her jacket.

“I didn't know they were going in that direction, Detective.”

It was Brad James, looking horror stricken, and no doubt on his way to the unemployment line.

“We'll talk about this later, Brad.”

“Honestly, Detective. You couldn't have been better. You were fire and ice. That's what we like. It makes for good TV.”

“I didn't come here to be good TV. I came to help the Fraziers find out what happened to their daughter. I stupidly thought that any publicity on a cold case would be helpful.”

Wyatt put his arm on her shoulder. “Hey, don't be mad. You're going to get your wish. I think this case is solvable. And that's not the TV star in me talking. That's the cop.”

“The cop who screwed a juror on one of his own murder cases?”

The room went silent. Back to that quiet they'd tested for before the interview started.

“That was a long time ago,” he said.

“Well, call me an elephant if you like. I'll never forget. Neither has anyone else in law enforcement. Just so you know.”

Wyatt looked like he'd been caught off guard.

“Now you're being mean,” he said. “You don't have to be mean, you know.”

Kendall wondered if Wyatt was playing her again. He seemed sad, a little lost.

Maybe even full of regret for something that he'd never be able to escape.

Juliana approached.

“Are you still going to come to the reveal? I mentioned it to Pandy and she thought it was good idea.”

Inside, Kendall seethed, but she tried not to show it. “I'll be there. Thanks, Juliana. See you later.”

“Let's get back to the office, Brad.”

Her tone showed complete control, though her adrenaline was pumping as hard as it ever had. She felt like she could lift up a Subaru at that point.

“I thought you were mad at me, Detective.”

They kept walking, around a corner to the room where jurors were processed before being assigned a case. Kendall poked her head inside. It was empty. She shoved Brad inside.

The veins on her neck were beyond being covered by any makeup artist's powder, hi-def or otherwise.

“You little shit. You don't even know what you've done, do you? You think this is going to help the department? Have you ever even heard of the thin blue line? Don't you get that we have to have each other's backs or we'll fail here? You set me up. Plain and simple.

“I swear, I didn't. I thought they would help us. They would spotlight us in a way that would bring goodwill to the department. You know that we care.”

Kendall wanted to throttle him.

“We do care,” she said. “We have
always
cared. About Katy. About everyone in this community. That's why it's called ‘protect and serve,' and if you'd bother to have grasped that you would have seen that this whole thing is going to blow up on us. This will all be on you.”

Brad's face reddened. “I didn't go on camera,” he said. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

Kendall
really
wanted to throttle him just then.

“You made a poor call, Brad, and the sheriff is going to hear from me the minute he gets back from Alaska. I'd call him now but this is the first vacation he's had in three years. I'm so mad at you.”

“You should be mad at Detective Mayberry,” Brad said, taking a half step away. “He's the one that screwed this up.”

“That might very well be true. But when the show airs it won't even mention him. It's going to be me and our sheriff and it looks like they did a . . . what was it that Wyatt called it?”

“Half-assed,” Brad said, his voice low. “A half-assed investigation.”

Kendall's eyes flashed. At least Brad was paying attention.

“That's right,” she said. “Half-assed. I bet that makes the air. I have you and the fact that no TV station would hire you to thank for that little gem of an assessment.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I wish you were. And one thing I think you ought to know. You didn't not get those jobs in Seattle because you are white. You didn't get them because you're an idiot.”

“Wyatt's right. You are mean.”

“You haven't seen mean yet, Brad. And you better hope you don't,” she said, opening the door.

“Did you just threaten me?” he asked.

Kendall's face relaxed. “Not at all,” she said. “Did you just trash the Kitsap County's Sheriff's Department? I think so. You're a mess. Fix your jacket and tuck in your shirt.”