Sinister Sudoku (15 page)

Liza began typing excitedly.
He did include a copy of the Mondrian painting. It’s on very fine paper, almost see-through.

The answer came just as quickly.
Try plaicing it over the note—rigth now!
Uncle Jim was usually a careful typist. The typos must indicate that he was excited.

This may take a little while,
Liza typed. She spread out the note and then the miniature painting. It was a lot smaller, half the size of the notepaper. She lined up the two upper left corners, squinted through the translucent paper . . . and didn’t find anything that made sense. She turned the painting upside down, then at a right angle, and then turned that upside down. Nothing.

Liza did the same thing at each corner of the notepaper. Steadily using more bad words to vent her growing frustration, she went through the process all over again, this time aligning the edge of the art reproduction with the text.

Slamming both pieces of paper down, she turned back to the keyboard.
I couldn’t get a coherent communication—or even complete words. The message is scribbled. It’s as if the tip of the pen never left the paper. And each line runs off at an angle.

Liza described everything she’d done.
But I can’t even get anything to line up.

Scribbled . . .
The words stayed on the screen for a while. Then a block of text appeared very quickly.

Liza began typing even as she read.
Great idea, Uncle Jim. I have to bring this note to the sheriff anyway. Maybe I can get a look at Dalen’s belongings.

An answer came almost as quickly.
Remember, the killer might have taken whatever it was.

Liza typed back,
Unless it was something Dalen got in his few hours of freedom, it had to be something he had in prison. I just hope I get lucky and identify it.

She thanked her uncle, logged off, and gathered up the note, the picture, and the envelope. Then she shrugged into her coat, got in her car, and headed back downtown. Although the clock said late afternoon, the overcast sky pretty emphatically said night. The guys at Castelli’s Market had finished with the dinner rush and were getting ready to close up when Liza popped in and used their coin-operated copy machine.

The sheriff will probably take the originals,
she thought.
Better get a copy of everything.

Main Street was pretty quiet as she parked. At City Hall, the deputy on duty told her that Sheriff Clements wasn’t in. “We’ve got that statie in his office, though,” the officer said.

“Detective Everard?”

The deputy nodded. “I can call back and see if he wants to talk to you.”

Moments later Liza entered the office/interrogation room. Ted Everard looked up almost warily from the desk, where he was apparently filling in some sort of form. “You wanted to see the sheriff?”

“I was up at the Killamook Inn today, and this came in the mail for me.” She handed over all of Chris Dalen’s posthumous post.

Everard used his pen to open the note on the desk. “Let me guess,” he said. “All your friends had to touch this, too?”

“I suppose so,” Liza admitted as the detective transferred each item to a separate plastic evidence bag. She mentioned Uncle Jim’s suggestion about the possibility of secret writing.

“So now we’re going from cheap detective fiction to spy novels, are we?” Everard paused. “Or is this the uncle that Clements told me about—the spy?”

“I can’t say,” Liza replied stiffly. “I’ve never asked.”

“And I suppose he’d never tell.” Everard gave her a wry smile, and Liza found herself relaxing a bit.

“I thought one thing in that letter was kind of weird. He asks me to help Mrs. Halvorsen find the painting—”

“First decent thing I’ve heard about him,” Everard said.

“But he just seems to take it for granted that I’d find it,” Liza finished.

Everard shrugged. “Maybe he had a higher estimation of your detective abilities than I—” He broke off. “Than other people do,” he ended somewhat lamely.

“Suppose there was something else, some clue, and he never made it to me to pass it along,” Liza said.

“Well, there were no maps, no detailed sets of instructions, nothing in his address book with a star or a dollar sign beside it.” Everard got up. “At this point, I’d be glad for a map of Oregon with a circle and a note saying, ‘Somewhere around here.’ ”

“You’re that hot to recover the Mondrian?” Liza asked.

“Only as it relates to the murder,” Everard said. “If we find someone digging it up, chances are we’ve also caught whoever killed Dalen.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she admitted.

“Well, I have, and that’s why I figure it wouldn’t hurt to sit here with you and go over his personal effects.” Everard stepped away. A moment later he returned with a large cardboard box.

“There’s not much,” he warned. “It’s not as though you go into the joint with a trunk full of belongings.” There was a small suitcase, a package of underwear, socks, a new shirt still in its plastic wrap. It even had a price tag from a chain store stuck on.

“He picked this stuff up in Portland,” Everard said.

From his prison days, Dalen had some sort of handmade arts-and-crafts piece of art—perhaps a gift for his sister. And there was a dog-eared copy of a book on sudoku. Liza made a mental note of that. She had the same book at home and could check against Chris’s sudoku puzzle to see if it was some sort of book code.

“This is the stuff Dalen had on him.” Everard held up an envelope marked PERSONAL EFFECTS and spilled it onto the desk. Liza saw a handkerchief, some change, a wallet, and a ring of keys.

“The wallet has a bunch of expired cards—credit, library, driver’s license,” Everard told her. “No photographs, no written material. As for the keys . . .” he shook his head. “God knows what they open.”

Liza stared down at the little pile.

“Not much in the way of clues,” Everard said.

She nodded. “Not much in the way of a life.”

The police-band radio in a corner of the room suddenly crackled. “Car two,” an excited voice came over. “We got a dead one—”

A new, older-sounding voice came on. “Ah, control, that’s a ten forty-nine.” The voice went on to give an address. Everard repacked the box. “I’ll have to go over there.”

“Another example of major crime?” Liza tried to joke, but Everard definitely wasn’t laughing.

Well,
she thought,
if crime stats are his life . . .

Everard flew off. Liza left City Hall more slowly. By the time she reached her car, though, she’d come to a decision.

The address from the police scanner was a small strip mall on the way back to Killamook. The place had a reputation as bad-luck retail space—stores there opened and promptly went out of business. As she pulled up, she saw that half of the storefronts were empty. A rental car stood in what would have been a dim corner, except that now two police cruisers were shining their headlights on it.

The glow also illuminated another rental car. Liza braked sharply as she recognized Alvin Hunzinger, lawyer to the stars, being very messily sick on the front fender.

“Alvin! Alvin, are you all right?” Liza rushed over to the pudgy lawyer. A second later, she felt about ready to add to the mess on Alvin’s fender.

Liza had finally noticed the man sprawled at a crazy angle across the backseat of the other car. He had very broad shoulders, and a face like a lizard—a rather surprised lizard.

The guy exactly matched Buck Foreman’s description of Rod Carlowe—except for what looked like a small bullet hole in his forehead.

Liza took Alvin by the arm, turning him away from the mess on his fender—not to mention the one in the other car. The pudgy little man was shaking, and he leaned heavily on Liza for a couple of steps.

Ted Everard suddenly appeared beside them. “What are
you
doing here?” he demanded in barely restrained fury.

“I thought I would drive by and see what was up,” Liza replied. “And I saw a friend in trouble. Are you okay, Alvin? Can I get you anything?” she asked.

Like, say, a lawyer?
she asked inside her head.

“A sip of water might be nice.” Alvin was still a bit green in the face, but he seemed to be recovering himself.

Liza gave Alvin’s arm to Everard. “Don’t let him fall,” she warned. “He’s obviously had a nasty shock.”

The detective looked as if he’d like to step after her— probably with the intention of strangling her—but Alvin stumbled. So Everard got to stand fuming, supporting the guy he probably thought of as his prime suspect, while Liza ran to her car for a water bottle.

“It’s been sitting in the car for a while,” she warned. “So it’s pretty cold.”

Alvin twisted off the cap, brought the bottle to his lips, and tipped it back. He swished water around in his mouth and spat it out. When he went to hand the bottle back to her, Liza shook her head. “Alvin, it’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, and then shuddered. “I had just found the—the—Carlowe—when the first police car arrived. There’s a difference between examining even the most grisly crime-scene photos and seeing the real thing.”

Liza’s stomach squirmed in sympathy. “I know what you mean,” she said fervently.

Another police cruiser pulled up, and Sheriff Clements stepped out. He didn’t look in the best of moods, either. “I hope that isn’t our guest of honor, not after that rookie reported a DB in the clear and Walters backed him up.”

Everard shook his head. “Nah. We got one in the back of the tan Taurus. And this gentleman was discovered on the scene.”

“Alvin Hunzinger,” Alvin said, extending his hand.

“We’ve met before.” Clements did not take up the offer of a handshake.

That’s right,
Liza thought.
Michelle dragged Alvin up here when she was being questioned about the murder during the filming in Maiden’s Bay.

Oddly enough, the sudden hostility from the police seemed to act as a tonic on the little lawyer. Alvin stood straighter and spoke more clearly. “The man in the Taurus is Rod Carlowe, a private investigator working for my law firm. He’d asked for a face-to-face meeting, and when I arrived, I found . . . what you see.” He shuddered again, losing some of his lawyerly assurance.

“Single gunshot in the forehead,” Everard reported. “Body’s still warm.”

“Through and through?” Clements asked.

“No exit wound, so the bullet is probably still in the skull. The entrance wound is small—probably a twenty-two or twenty-five caliber.”

The sheriff grunted. “Sounds like a Saturday night special.”

Then his eye fell on the two eavesdroppers. “I think that’s enough for now.” He leaned down to Alvin. “Mr. Hunzinger, we need a statement from you. Do you feel well enough to come down to the station and give it?”

“Of course I’ll be glad to assist the authorities.” Hunzinger looked about as enthusiastic as a man being invited for a session of root canal.

Clements rolled his eyes. He looked just as eager to tangle with a celebrity lawyer. “And Liza?”

Everard’s lips compressed into a thin line. “She came up shortly after I arrived.”

The sheriff glanced over at Liza’s car. “You get yourself a police band radio installed?”

“Ms. Kelly was down at the station turning in some evidence when she overheard the call,” Everard said stiffly.

Sheriff Clements looked at his colleague, a grin threatening to subvert the detached expression Liza considered his “cop face.”

“And you didn’t caution her about interfering?”

Everard’s lips got tighter. “I didn’t think it necessary with a reasonable member of the public.” His voice grew grim. “I’ll know better in the future.”

“I wasn’t interfering,” Liza protested. “As I told Detective Everard, I drove past, saw a friend, and went to help.”

Clements turned to Alvin. “Do you feel as if you need any further help, Mr. Hunzinger?”

“Ah—no, no,” Alvin hurriedly said. His plump face quivered as he shook his head. Whether that was from his quick movement or his terror at Michelle’s reaction if he got her partner dragged in for questioning, Liza couldn’t quite tell.

“In that case, Ms. Kelly, I think you’re done here.” Sheriff Clements had his official voice back, and there was no arguing with that.

Besides, I don’t need to be there while Alvin spars with the cops,
she thought.
If he’s done that once, he’s probably done that a thousand times.

“Okay, Sheriff,” she said meekly and headed back to her car, thinking over what she’d overheard.

Everard reported that the body was still warm. Although creepy, that was a good thing. Considering the bad blood between Buck Foreman and Rod Carlowe, it really was for the best that Buck had left town during the afternoon. He couldn’t be considered a suspect.

Holding on to that comforting thought, Liza drove home. She’d barely gotten out of her car when Mrs. Halvorsen’s door flew open.

But it wasn’t Mrs. H. framed in the lights of the entranceway. Instead, Michael peered out at her. “The TV news just had a special report. Rod Carlowe is—”

“Dead,” Liza finished. “I know. I was there.”

Mrs. H. appeared beside Michael. “We were going to invite you over for supper, but you were gone. Have you eaten, dear? Michael, why don’t you bring her some leftovers?” Moments later Michael appeared at Liza’s door, bearing a covered dish wrapped in a towel. Rusty was already sniffing the air eagerly, his tail wagging.

“Let’s sit at the kitchen table,” Liza suggested. She put a hand to her stomach. That lunch salad suddenly seemed like part of the distant past. In spite of the shocks she’d encountered at the murder scene—or maybe because of them—she was hungry.