Old Chaos (9781564747136) (32 page)

Though the board had its own clerk to deal with the minutes of its meetings, Inger would have been responsible for its records. That was what it boiled down to. No wonder Lt. Prentiss had gone directly to her office when he looked for a suspect.

I’m getting nowhere, Meg thought glumly and clicked Home. For some reason, the role of commissioners was not clearly defined on the county website. They had statutory duties, of course, and she could have gone to the state website for details, but she wasn’t in the mood to read statutes. The bios provided were minimal, with Catherine Bjork’s vaguer than the other two because she didn’t have a day job. Hank was a real estate agent, Karl a dentist.

The voters’ pamphlet for the special election that had put Cate in office included a concise statement of values that stuck to the Sierra Club line without sounding unduly contentious. She opposed “unrestrained building and population growth,” spoke quite fiercely about clear-cutting and strip mining, and came down on the side of strict enforcement of drug laws.

She favored the preservation of natural amenities, and “beautification,” whatever that might mean. In the Gorge, the natural beauty was such that it was a little hard to concentrate on other things like going to work and doing the dishes. To invest heavily with a local developer, then turn around and insist that the county restrict building seemed a bit hypocritical, but hypocrisy is a national pastime.

Cate’s opponent had stressed creation of jobs and universal health care, which were worthy goals, but health care for the uninsured wasn’t a problem that could be tackled locally, and jobs almost always involved the building of large, smelly plants that intruded on one’s view of Mount Hood. Meg had voted for Cate’s opponent, but she hadn’t been heartbroken when he lost. Anyone would have been an improvement over her predecessor, Hal Brandstetter.

Annoyed, Meg called up the California newspapers and searched the archives for information on Lars Bjork. After all, he, not his wife, had been Drinkwater’s backer. She started fifteen years before, about the time he must have married Cate. Two hours later she had a stack of printouts and was almost out of copy paper.

“It was self-indulgent,” she admitted at breakfast the next morning.

Rob slurped hot coffee.

“I felt like a scandalmonger, reading all the dirt about that divorce. They fought over everything. And Cate was the classic Other Woman. I’m sorry for her, even if she did take the old boy away from his wife. She had to sign a pre-nuptial agreement waiving any claim to his estate. Of course, she got a large settlement first.”

“All about money, was it?”

“And power and social position. The ex-wife sounded repulsive. On the other hand, so did Lars. I wondered if he was that nasty on the job, so I checked out the financial news, too. At the time of the divorce he was at the height of his power, the man to go to if you wanted start-up money for a new company or whatever. He was famous for investing in unlikely projects and making out like a bandit. A couple of years later, though, he began to lose his touch. He was senior vice president of the bank. When he turned seventy they forced him out.”

“Not surprising.”

“No, but it grates on me that they let him lose pension funds and private savings but didn’t even try to curb him until he lost the bank’s money. And they gave him a golden parachute.”

“Incompetence must be rewarded.”

Meg’s coffee was cold. She poured it out and refilled her cup. “As far as I know, he did nothing illegal, but the whole mess stinks. After his ouster, he moved his personal fortune north to Seattle. That’s where he met up with Fred, who was putting in a lot of cheap con-dos for people who worked for Microsoft and Boeing. Some of the structures were built on land that’s threatened by Mount Rainier.”

“Nisqually.” Rob swallowed coffee and looked at his toast.

“Oh, you know the territory?”

He slathered a piece of toast with lemon curd. “If Mount Rainier erupts the way Mount Saint Helens did, pyroclastic flows and mudslides will take out the whole Nisqually River valley and everyone in it. Worst case scenario.”

Meg shuddered.

“Lady, you lived in LA.” He chewed. “You know about optimists who build on impossible sites—earthquake faults, hillsides that alternate brushfires with mudslides, eroding coastlines.”

“Well, yes.”

“Nancy Reagan had it right,” he mumbled through another mouthful of toast.

“What?”

“Somebody should just say no.”

“Then you agree with Cate?”

He looked over at her. “I thought she was a tad less dishonest than her opponent. I voted for her.” He popped the last morsel into his mouth.

“You may live to regret it.”

“I already do.” He wiped his lips, set the napkin down, and told her of Cate’s venture to Two Falls. He’d spent a lot of time with Maddie on Saturday.

“Museum prices! That’s gross.” Meg scowled at her cooling coffee. “I guess I won’t let the commissioner endow a branch library after all.”

Rob laughed, as she had meant him to, and stood up. “I’m going to my office. No Sundays for the wicked. I’ll probably find a report from Jeff on my desk with the same information less vividly expressed. Beth and I will confer with the prosecutor this afternoon at my house. Any other tidbits I should know about?”

“Cate was a P.E. major.”

He smiled at her. “That’s not a crime.”

“No. Just a tidbit.”

He laughed again and left. Meg considered going over to the main branch of the library. Sunday was always a big day, with lineups at the computers and books flying in and out, but none of the branches opened until one o’clock, thanks to budget constraints. She also couldn’t go to the pious liquor store, which was closed on Sunday, thanks to the state’s obsolete blue laws. So she decided to bake oatmeal cookies, with and without raisins.

She was measuring out the dry ingredients when a thunderous knock sounded at the front door. Nobody thundered at Meg’s house. Nobody kicked the door either, but she heard something horribly like wood splintering.

She grabbed her cell phone and started to dial 911, then thought of Charlie, who was closer. His cell number was on the speed dial, so she hit that and peered around the arch into the hall that led to the front door. A huge shadow blocked the light from the window in the door.

After four rings a sleepy voice answered.

“Help me,” Meg shouted. “Somebody’s breaking in.” Glass shattered.

“Coming!” He broke the connection.

She slid out the kitchen door and edged around the house. A very large man was smashing at the front door with his fists and feet. Meg loved her front door. The window was beveled glass. Had been.

She retreated to her driveway, flipped the phone open again, and called 911.

As she was explaining things to the dispatcher, Charlie stumbled across the street in jeans and unlaced boots. His shirt was unbuttoned, and he hadn’t bothered with a coat.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“I think it’s Inger Swets’s husband. He’s a big man.”

“Drunk? Armed?”

Meg shivered. “I don’t know. I didn’t get close enough to talk.”

All along the street, doors opened and people peered out. Tammy and Towser stood on the sidewalk. Marge Barnes emerged from the coffee stand on the corner, where Sunday business was slow, and stood by her solitary patron’s open car window, talking. Beth’s daughter Dany came out as far as Rob’s front gate.

It was a good thing to have neighbors. Meg’s racing pulse began to slow.

Larry Swets, if that was who the man was, peered in the broken window, yelling something. Meg heard Rob’s name. As she watched, the man gave the door a last kick, turned to go, stumbled, and fell down on the porch. He must have cut his hand on a glass shard. Meg saw blood. He raised his hand to his face, stared at it, and hunched over with his shoulders heaving.

Charlie said, “I’m going to talk to him. Stay back, Meg.”

“Is he crying?”

Charlie didn’t answer. He walked slowly up to the porch, stood for a moment, then sat beside the shuddering hulk. By the time the patrol car wheeled up with its light revolving, Charlie was holding the weeping man by the shoulders and talking to him quietly. As she watched, Larry gave Charlie something. It looked like a small sheaf of papers.

Meg went to the patrol car. It was a city car and the young driver got out with exaggerated caution. Meg didn’t blame him.

“I think the worst is over,” she said.

“You never can tell. Who’s that with him?”

“Neighbor across the street.”

“Oh yeah, the geologist.”

Everybody knew everybody.

Meg explained the situation as well as she could. The EMT van arrived with a single yelp of the siren. She repeated her explanation. Her phone rang. It was Rob.

“Are you all right?”

She explained again. She asked him if he was giving serious thought to the possibility that Larry had killed his wife.

S
HE FIRED ME!” The small man, his hair in a bright yellow crest, perched on Rob’s visitor chair like an indignant parakeet. “After a year and two months!”

Rob said cautiously, “Mrs. Bjork fired you, so you came to me. Why, Mr. Schwenk?”

“Because that woman deputy asked me who I worked for.”

“Sergeant Ramos?”

“Her. I don’t see why I should do Madame any favors, not now. I’ve worked for her all that time, keeping her husband clean, doling out his meds, sitting with him hour after boring hour, listening to the old fart ramble on about how rich and important he is.”

“You worked a night shift?”

“I like working nights. Gives me half the day to myself. I’m a wind surfer,” he added, surprising Rob, but why shouldn’t small men surf? “Well, not now. It’s too cold, but in the season.”

Rob knew what he meant. The season was nearly eight months of wind and water perfection. It made the Gorge a magnet for wind surfers from all over the county.

“Early evening’s best for surfing. The wind picks up then. If I get in a good run on the river, I’m all charged up for work.”

“I see.”

“Anyways, I come in to work last night like usual, and she tells me she don’t need me no more, she’s found somebody more reliable. By God, she better not say that to anyone else. I’ll sue her for slander, libel, whatever. Sure, I was late once in a while, but I showed up, didn’t I?” He spluttered on, obviously outraged.

At the first pause, Rob asked him about Lars Bjork’s medications. Schwenk gave Rob the name of the prescribing physician. Rob asked whether quetiapine, the medication which had been found in Drinkwater’s blood, was among the drugs prescribed, and Schwenk frowned, puzzled.

When Robert repeated the question, using the proprietary name, Schwenk nodded.

He looked defiant. “We give it sometimes when he can’t sleep. He sleeps a lot these days.”

“Who orders his prescriptions renewed?”

“Mrs. Bjork. She picks them up, too. She locks the pills in this cupboard out in the hall when we’ve taken out what we need for the shift. Like we’re going to sell loose pills on the street.” Resentment thickened his voice.

Rob changed the subject. “Did the commissioner use your telephone?”

“My cell phone? She lets me charge it. Some of our clients won’t do that. In the den.”

“The den?”

“Liberry. Book room. It’s across the hall from the old man’s suite. She won’t have a phone in the suite, says he calls out and orders stuff. That’s a lie. Maybe he did that in the early stages, but not now. He’s beyond that.” He reflected. “There’s a baby monitor in the suite. If I need help I just yell.”

“Do you keep your telephone records?”

“Sure. File em away. Why?”

“Could she have used the phone without your knowledge?”

Schwenk stared at him. “What for? I come on at ten o’clock at night.”

“Some people like late-night conversations.”

“Kinky sex?” He snorted. “For sure she’s not getting any from the old guy. Yeah, she coulda used my phone. The door to the suite is closed and so’s the door to the den. And Lars usually wants the TV running. Old movies.”

“For the record, did you call Fred Drinkwater at any time from your cell phone?”

“No. Never heard of him before your sergeant asked me the same question.”

“Did you ever phone Inger Swets?”

“No.” Schwenk stared at him. “That the county clerk?”

Rob went over everything again, thanked the care-giver for coming, closed out the interview, and shook hands.

“Will I, like, have to testify?”

“Probably. We’ll let you know. Secure your telephone records.” Rob showed him out, returned to his desk, and pulled the list of phone numbers he had culled from Jeff’s report. Then he called Linda, who was at the Swets residence going through Inger’s belongings, and asked her to find the cell phone bills.

Larry had given permission for them to examine Inger’s records the day before, when Rob brought him the news of her death, though Prentiss had already taken some of them, along with her personal computer. Larry was now in the hospital under sedation, so Karl had had to let Linda into the house. The episode earlier that morning, when Larry tried to break down Meg’s door, had shaken Karl out of his mood of fixed hostility. It had shaken Rob, too.