Now That She's Gone (23 page)

K
ATY

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE

M
adison King thought the half-dead coffee-roasting machine that her cheap-ass boss insisted was still “good enough” had finally given up the ghost when she arrived for work at 4:30
A.M
. at the restaurant in downtown Port Orchard that she'd worked at since graduating from college. Madison had wanted to get a job as a teacher, but her student-teaching experience that previous year had taught her a lesson of her own.

She could deal with the fourth graders at East Port Orchard Elementary just fine. Their parents, however, were another matter. They were either absent or so pushy that Madison was all but certain bruises would appear on her body like mini storm clouds the day after any encounter. When she dreamed of being a teacher she never considered the other half of the job—the dads who hit on her, the moms who wedged themselves into every activity, the social workers who could barely remember the names of the kids for whom they were responsible.

Opening up the Bay Street Café for the day was easy enough. She started her day early, which meant she'd end it while there was enough time in the day to chase another dream. There was a problem with that, however. Madison just wasn't sure
which
dream to pursue.

The whiff of what she thought was a burned-out coffee roaster assaulted her when she parked her car behind the restaurant. She'd been fighting a cold and sniffed a little deeper.

It wasn't burned coffee beans and motor oil. It smelled worse than that. It reminded her of the smell of burned hair and maybe something else.

Madison pinched her nose and went toward the café's back door. Movement filled her peripheral vision.

“Get!” she called as she turned toward a bunch of water rats that were swarming over something by the receptacle where several businesses along that waterfront hid their Dumpsters from customers' view.

Madison hated rats. When she was making her list of career options, she was sure that had never wanted to be a vet.

As the large-enough-to-be-completely-gross rats dispersed, Madison let out a scream. It was dark and she was alone but it took only a few seconds for Tim Boyle to reach her. Tim worked at Lunchbox Express, a food truck that catered to the foot-ferry crowd that crossed Sinclair Inlet on their way to their jobs at the shipyard in Bremerton.

“Maddie, you all right?” he called over.

Madison stood still as she kept her eyes on Tim, a big guy with a red beard and two gold earrings.

“What is it?”

“Over there,” she said. “Look!”

The light was dim that time of morning, but Tim had no problem seeing what the young woman had discovered.

He didn't know who it was, of course. But Janie Thomas had been found.

 

 

Kendall Stark stood next to Birdy Waterman as she conducted the forensic exam and autopsy of the middle-aged female they were all but certain was Janie Thomas. The smell of burning flesh filled the air of the basement autopsy suite. Janie had been naked except for a nylon bra that had melted onto her breasts and a pair of jeans, unbuttoned and pulled down to expose her blackened lower torso.

“It's her, isn't it?”

“All but certain,” Birdy said, swiping a light over the teeth. “She had an implant on the front tooth. Cracked it when she was fourteen.”

“Must have been a car accident or something,” Kendall said.

“Not sure about that,” Birdy said. “Records indicate several implants.”

Kendall leaned in as Birdy pointed to the right top front tooth. It was white, while the others were darker.

“Porcelain doesn't change with heat,” she said.

Kendall thought of the time when Steven had taken them camping and had tried to heat a mug of coffee next to the campfire. The mug exploded, but when they put out the fire before they left, the shards of white sparkled against the sooty remains of the logs they'd used to build the blaze.

“It's her,” Kendall said.

“Yes.”

“God, I'll have to tell Erwin and Joe. They'll want to know how she died. Can you tell?”

Birdy pointed to a vent-like opening on the right side of the charred neck.

“She was stabbed in the neck. Looks like one clean wound. I'll check the lungs of course, but I'll bet you lunch that she died quickly and the fire was a cover-up.”

“Like Juliana?”

“Yes, the cover-up part. Seems like our favorite serial killer likes to mix it up a little when it comes to the killing part. Strangled Juliana, and Janie got a knife in the throat.”

“Call me when you're done, Birdy. I'm going to go see Erwin now. I don't want him to find out from the media that Janie's body's been found. Let me know if you turn up anything more.”

Birdy nodded and went back to her work. She did everything she needed to do. It was a lot harder to conduct an autopsy with a badly burned victim. The flesh didn't yield. The liquid in the body had dried and tox reports were more of a challenge. She took her time, letting Stan Getz take her on the journey of what the body could tell her. A couple of hours later, she was done. Photos taken. Janie rebuilt the best she could. Her melted bra, pants, and a keychain and some change in her pockets. All of it bundled up for the final report.

Cause of death: Homicide. Manner: A single wound to the neck.

The look in his eyes told Kendall that she was too late. Erwin Thomas had already heard the news.

“A reporter from the
Sun
called and wanted a statement.”

“I'm so sorry,” Kendall said. “I didn't want that to happen. Not at all.”

“Come in,” he said, letting her inside. “I thought it would end like this anyway. In fact, it probably sounds awful but I hoped it would. I couldn't ever trust her again. I couldn't be the husband sitting by her side at the trial. It would have dragged on for a couple of years with no real endgame.”

He led Kendall to the kitchen.

“Does Joe know?”

“He's not up yet. Late night, I guess. I'll tell him.”

“That'll be hard, Erwin.”

“I know. But we've talked a lot about his mother. Things about her life that he didn't know. I'm not ever going to defend her, but there are probably reasons why she ended up the way she did.” He stopped and offered Kendall water. “Ran out of coffee. Janie used to do all of our shopping.”

“I'm really sorry about all of this,” Kendall said.

“I know. But it isn't your fault. She didn't run off because of you. I've read the papers. I've seen the TV. I know that you had some kind of connection with Brenda too.”

Kendall didn't like the sound of that.

“Let's be clear. I didn't have any connection with Brenda Nevins. I interviewed her for a case. That's it.”

“Yes, but she was fixated on you. At least that's what the papers say.”

“The papers are wrong. You should know that better than anyone by now.”

“I guess so. Anyway, I don't really care anymore. Joe will want to know how his mom died. Do you know? I heard she was burned alive.”

“No,” Kendall said, still bothered by the notion that Brenda and she were connected in any way. “She died before the fire.”

“How? How was she killed?”

“She'd been stabbed. I'm sorry.”

“Was it prolonged?”

Kendall couldn't tell if Erwin was interested from a forensic point of view or if he'd been hopeful that Janie had suffered.

“No, it was quick.”

He nodded. “I guess that's a blessing.”

Kendall was unsure if he was saying the right thing just to say it, or if he'd been a little disappointed.

“You'll catch her, won't you, Detective?”

“The world is after her. She can't hide forever. Despite the lore that's being forged by the media right now, she's not that smart.”

Erwin nodded and got up from his chair. “I want to show you something before you go.” She followed him back to the living room where he retrieved a single sheet of paper.

“I gave a copy to the FBI,” he said. “I found it in Janie's things. None of it matters now. Now that she's dead.”

Kendall took the paper and started to read.

Kendall looked up from the paper. Erwin had moved across the room and was facing out the window.

“Was she writing about Brenda?” she asked, going closer to where he stood.

Janie's husband didn't turn around. He kept his eyes on the small grove of swaying birch trees in the yard.

“I guess so,” he said. “Hard to say for sure. It wasn't addressed to anyone. The FBI agent said she thought so.”

“I'm sorry,” Kendall said.

Erwin rolled his shoulders a little. “You've said that a couple of times today already.”

He was right.

“I have. None of what happened is about you, Erwin.”

“I've tried to believe that,” he said, at last allowing some emotion to seep into his words. “But when I read that note, I realized that I never knew how unhappy my wife of twenty-five years had been. I'd been blind to her suffering. That makes me feel stupid. Like crap. It dawned on me that I didn't really know her at all.”

Kendall felt the same way about Steven. She didn't know how he could just move away for a job. Leave her. Leave Cody. She thought that they were solid. Forever. Over the last few weeks she began to wonder if they'd be able to find what they once had.

“No one knows what's inside another person's mind,” she said.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-TWO

A
t first he didn't know what to think. Wyatt Ogilvie looked at the wad of cash he'd discovered in Pandora's travel bag. He'd had no business going there, but he needed some headache pills—or something stronger—and there it was: $20,000 in crisp, sweet-smelling thousand dollar bills.

He fanned it like a Vegas dealer and looked in the mirror. He wondered where it came from and, more important, if he was going to get a share. He had his eye on a new Armani suit and some Porsche eyeglass frames that made him look both cool and sophisticated.

Why hadn't she said anything?

Pandora was on the phone talking to someone when he returned from his accidental treasure hunt in the bathroom.

“Oh yes. That sounds good. Will Nan be there for makeup? I'm not doing it without decent makeup. My face looked flat as a pancake the last time I was beamed into America's breakfast rooms.”

She listened.

Wyatt stood there, hovering over her with a slight glower on his face.

“. . . If the car is late, I'll panic. I don't like to be late for anything.”

She hung up.

“What's gotten in to you? You look like you're going to hurl. God, I can't catch a bug now.”

“I am sick,” he said.

“Did you want me to call the hotel doctor?” she asked.

Wyatt knew her well enough to see the practiced concern she had on her face whenever she used it on show, mostly aimed at the parent of a missing child. It was a phony as a three-dollar bill. The thought brought him back to the real bills, the $20,000 that had raised his hackles. He squeezed the wad of cash in his palm, hidden from view.

“No doctor,” he said. “He wouldn't know the cure for being double-crossed.”

Pandora's face tightened.

“I don't get your meaning, Wyo,” she said. “What's bugging you now?”

“Pandy, where'd you get this?” he asked, holding out the money.

Her face relaxed. “Oh, that,” she said like it was nothing. “I forgot to mention it to you. I got it from Brit.”

Wyatt could feel his blood pressure rise. “You told me she gave you five thousand dollars,” he said.

She didn't go as far as yawning, like she was bored, but the look on her face was one of complete dismissal.

“I don't think I ever said that,” she said.

“You did.”

“I really don't think so, but maybe. A lot has been going on this week. A lot on my mind. I'm sorry, babe. The usual split, okay?”

He sat on the chair opposite Pandora. The view looked out at the city. She reached over and patted his hand.

“I would never cheat you,” she said. “We are partners, babe. Everything we do, we do together.”

Wyatt sat there, very still, thinking,
knowing
that he'd been had.

“I don't think so,” he said. “I don't know that I trust you anymore.” He watched her reaction. She had none. Not that he could really discern. That was unusual. Pandora was always an eager emoter.

“Who was that you were talking to just now?” he asked.

Pandora ran her fingers through her hair and applied a fresh coat of her trademark dark red lipstick—the hue that haters online said looked like she'd been punched in the mouth.

“A producer,” she said. “They want us to do the
Today
Show.”

“When?”

“I didn't commit. I don't think we should do
Today
. They are number two and I am top-tier talent.”

He noticed the omission and his face telegraphed it.

“We are,” she said. “We are a duo. I won't make a move until we discuss it further.”

“I don't believe you,” he finally said. He'd seen her work people before. He wasn't blind. No matter what she thought of herself, Wyatt Ogilvie was absolutely certain that she would never be Emmy-worthy.

Her face turned to granite. “Wyo, you are being so ridiculous and I don't like it one bit. It makes me feel uncomfortable. When I'm uncomfortable I can't do my job. You know that.”

He did. She was worse than the most demanding '80s band when it came to her requirements for a shoot. Four bottles of Pellegrino—nothing else—and pity the poor assistant producer who delivered Aquafina. That kid was working as a weather assistant in Sioux Falls. She needed bedsheets of 800 count in her hotel room, a request that was no problem at a place like the W. But in the middle of Alabama farm country, the local Comfort Inn had no idea what 800 thread count meant. She also needed a bottle of Dom, chilled and ready, alongside a welcome basket of black grapes and nectarines.

Wyatt needed her more than she needed him. Nothing was more clear to him. Pandora was making things happen and if he was able to hang on for the ride he'd manage to fill his closet with Armanis.

“I know this has been a hard shoot for you,” he said.

“It has. I looked terrible in the footage.”

“I meant Juliana. I know you two were close.”

She looked out the window. “Yes. I'm sick about what happened to her. I've been trying to grab something that is passing through my mind. About what happened.”

“What have you been getting?” he asked.

“I don't know. You know how I've told you that things are sometimes so dark and grainy that I can't quite make out what's going on.”

He'd heard that a thousand times before. Whenever Pandora missed his cues, the research that he'd done to lead her where she needed to go, she complained that things were grainy.

“I'm so damn frustrated,” she once screamed at him on a show. “I can see it. I can almost see it. Someone is trying to show me something!”

“Were you really going to give me the money?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Is there any more to be had?”

“Oh, babe, there's always more. Remember Wheeling?”

Of course he did. The father of a dead mother of three pleaded poverty and offered her a $2,000 check for a private consultation. He was adamant that his daughter's husband had killed her.

Pandora looked at the check.

“Two things,” she said. “I don't do checks. I also don't even turn around for less than five thousand dollars.”

“I don't have it,” the distraught father said.

Pandora shrugged. “Then you'll never know what happened to her,” she said.

His eyes flashed, puddled with tears. “Are you holding some information hostage?” he asked. “That isn't right.”

Pandora ignored the man's frustration, his genuine emotion. His complete despair.

“What isn't right is your being so cheap when it comes to your dead daughter,” she said. “Honestly, sir, don't waste any more of my time. Move along. Get on with your life.”

“But I don't have any more money.”

She was in predator mode just then. Wyatt had seen it before when she got the assistant producer fired for bringing her the wrong brand of water.

Pandy the Predator.

“Sell something,” she said to the girl's father. “I don't care. I'm not a charity. The truth might set you free, but the truth sometimes comes with a price tag.”

The man pulled it together. He would not cry. He would not beg. He gave in.

“All right. I'll get you the money.”

“When?” she pushed.

“Now. I have it in my safe.”

Pandora shook her head and her eyes met Wyatt's.

“I don't like being deceived,” she said, without even the slightest trace of irony in her voice.

Wyatt replayed that moment in his head. He'd seen what she could do. He'd known she was one step above the criminals he'd apprehended when he was a detective in San Francisco. There were times when he hated her. Times when he couldn't wait to be with her. But there was never a time when he trusted her completely.

“Are we good?” she asked.

“Solid,” he said. “Solid as a rock.”