Thomas Prescott Superpack (46 page)

Harold watched as the car sped away.

I yelled, “You didn’t go talk to her?”

Harold shook his head.
“I couldn’t.”

“You big weeny.”

He smiled. 

“So what did you do?”

“I ran to my car and followed them.”

“You followed them?”

“Sure did. Alcove Academy. A private women’s college.”

“What happened to Gwen?”

He hit a piano key down with his finger, its soothing sound rumbling through the small room, and said, “I never saw Gwen again.”

I laughed so hard my knees buckled.
Luckily I was sitting down.

Harold turned to me and asked, “You like polka?”

Chapter 34

I took a long run in the rain.

Back at the house, I grabbed a glass of water, gulped it down,
then went back for a second. Days earlier, I’d noticed a phone jack underneath the cabinets just to the right of the faucet, and I’d taken the liberty of transplanting Lacy’s pink phone. Then while rummaging around in the basement, I’d stumbled across an antique answering machine. I’d hooked this up to the phone. A large button at the bottom right corner of the machine blinked red. I hit the button, then went back to the faucet for a third glass of water.

The mechanical voice said, “
December 31
st
, 2:36
P.M.
” A moment later Lacy’s voice came on. “
You got an answering machine! Yay! So, I haven’t talked to you since Christmas. Hope you enjoyed the game. Saw that they won. Anyhow, I’m headed out; we’re hosting a party at the gallery. Starts in about half an hour. Just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year. No need to call me back. Talk to you next year
.”

I smiled at the sound of her voice.

The answering machine wasn’t done.
“
December 31
st
, 2:47
P.M
.
. . .
Hi Thomas, it’s Riley
.”

I didn’t recall giving Riley my telephone number, but then again, she did do a couple things to me for which I would have given up Anne Frank’s hiding spot.
She’s in the attic. Don’t stop.

“
. . .
anyhow, I thought if you weren’t busy this evening you might want to join me for some New Year’s festivities. I’ll cook us dinner, we could drink some wine, nothing too glamorous. I know this is sort of last minute, and if you already have plans then no worries. Talk to you later. Go Seahawks
.”

I could think of worse ways to ring in the New Year.
I’d planned on ordering pizza, drinking a six-pack, and maybe doing a back flip off the balcony.

A third message began to play.
“
. . . 31
st
, 3:12
P.M
.
. . .
Hey, Mr. Prescott
.”

It was Erica.

“. .
. if you aren’t doing anything tonight, a bunch of us are going over to this bar over on Third called Markey’s
.”

I hit pause.
I knew Markey’s. It was an Irish pub with an identity crisis on Cherry Street. It had changed hands so many times all that was left of its original heritage was a Guinness mirror and a couple shamrock urinal cakes. Of course, this was eight years ago. I remember the place usually having a decent crowd and I’d even spent a couple New Year’s Eves there.

I hit play.
“
. . . it should be fun. Anyhow, if you’re looking for something to do tonight, that’s an option. See ya.”

Interesting.

I wondered if Erica was just being polite or if she was trying to secure a midnight kiss.
I’d heard of women who lined up three or four backup plans just in case one didn’t work out. No woman wanted to be the girl stuck kissing her brother, or her friend, or another girl, or worse yet, no one at all.

I blew out a long breath and made for the refrigerator.
The mechanical voice came on one last time and I turned around.

Talk about Mr. Popularity.

The message played, “
. . . 4:45
P.M.
”

I looked at the clock above the stove.
5:23
P.M.
Whoever it was, called right around the time I hit mile three of my jog. A voice came on. This time it was a man’s. “
Thomas, sorry I missed you
.”

It was Ethan.

“
. . . Hey, I never got a chance to thank you for that little piece of detective work you did with the surveillance tapes. Top of the line, Thomas. Top of the line. Although, I briefly remember telling you that I didn’t want you coming near this case. Do you remember that conversation, Thomas? Do you? It went a little something like this: ‘You better watch your ass, Prescott, or I’m gonna make sure someone at county watches it for you.’ Ring a bell
?”

I hit pause.
I remember him saying this. I also remember wanting to rip out his larynx after he said it.

I hit play.
“
. . . I’m just calling to make sure that in the new year you don’t do anything stupid. I’ve got the go-ahead from the boys upstairs to arrest you for just about anything. You fart and I smell it and you’re finished, you piece of shit. I told you to leave as quickly as you came. You should have listened to me. Oh, and one last thing, you prick. Stay away from Erica. You come near her, I’m not going to arrest you, I’m gonna shoot you . . . Hey, Happy New Year, pal
.”

I wanted to call Ethan and tell him the last time he threatened me he ended up with a broken nose, but then I’d be buying into his macho bullshit.

I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and contemplated my four phone messages.
Then I took a well-deserved nap.

Chapter 35

Riley’s cabin was tucked back deep in the Cascades seven winding roads past the U.S. Fish and Wildlife building.
It was made of logs and square. I think I’d built the prototype with Lincoln Logs when I was seven.

I parked behind Riley’s Jeep, grabbed the bottle of wine off the passenger seat and strode to the door.

I hadn’t known exactly how to dress for the occasion so I’d gone with a sweater.
And a bad one at that. It was between my dad’s holiday sweater collection—of which three lit up and one sang—or one from his Cosby collection. I’d chosen one from the latter and my sweater looked like it was sewn by a blind lady with an affinity for triangles.

I knocked on the door and Riley pulled it inward.
She looked me up and down and said, “Nice sweater.”

I brushed at it and said, “Dr. Huxtable at your service.”
I would have gone directly into my Cosby Pudding Pop bit, but I was a tad rusty.

Riley got a giggle out of this and said, “Did you find the place okay?”

This question really annoys me and I was tempted to say, “Um, if I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t be here,” but Riley wasn’t wearing much and I put my wiseass remarks on screen saver. I said I found the place just fine.

For the record, Riley was wearing an apron.
That’s it. The apron was pink and said in wide lettering, “
No Bitchin’ in My Kitchen
.”

I told her I liked her apron.

She lifted the bottom of its skirt and twirled.

I nearly dropped the bottle of wine.
Not to mention poking a hole through my favorite sweater.

I followed her inside and set the brown bag holding the wine on the counter.
Two fish were laid out on a white cutting board. The scales were still oily and the eyes glassy. Come to think of it, they looked a lot like those stupid fish people hang on their wall that sing, “Take me to the river.”

I commented, “Nice looking fish.”

“Bass.”

Billy Bass.

She said, “Caught them this morning.”

“Give a man a fish, he eats for a day.
Teach a man to fish, he eats every day.”

“Right.
Which are you?”

“I eat waffles.”

She laughed. Then she opened the refrigerator, bent down (gulp), and handed me a Miller Light. I took it from her, we clinked beer necks, and both took a drink. Riley scooted me out of the kitchen, demanding that I take a look around while she filleted Billy and Bonny Bass.

She took out a large knife and said, “Beat it.”

She was really living up to that apron.

So I walked the small cabin. And I had that stupid song in my head which is quite possibly worse than an arrow.

Take me to the river.

Throw me in the water.

Stick a gun in my mouth.

Blow my brains out.

The cabin was small, one bedroom, small bath, living room, small dining room.
I walked into the small bedroom and pushed my hand down on the bed. It wasn’t a Sleep Number by Select Comfort, but it would do. There was a small window and I peeked out at an angle. It was a darkness only known to the deep mountains. I thought I saw a sputter of light in the distance and pushed my face against the cold glass. It’d been just the faintest of glows, like the flickering of a lighter. I watched for another minute but didn’t see the anomaly again.

I was a bit on edge.
I thought I’d seen a car following me on the highway. I’d been expecting Ethan to put a tail on me at some point, but I didn’t figure too many guys would be volunteering for overtime on New Year’s Eve.

Anyhow, by the time I made it full circle, the bottle of wine was open and breathing.
I couldn’t help but notice Riley had taken the liberty of pouring herself a small glass.

I said, “Thanks for waiting.”

“I’m not really the patient type.”

I, of course, had learned this firsthand.

She slid two large seasoned fish fillets into a pan and they began sizzling.
She looked up at me and said, “They take about six minutes a side.”

“Six minutes, huh?”

Funny.
That was my average.

She picked up her glass and chugged the remaining inch.
Then she undid her apron and let it drop to the floor. It was the couch the first time. Then she went to flip the fish. Then it was the kitchen floor.

After we’d eaten, Riley said she wanted to drink wine and watch me do the dishes.
Kinky, I know.

At eleven-thirty we cuddled up on the couch and watched
Dick Clark’s New Years Rocking Eve
. Which had actually been over for nearly three hours, and no doubt Dick Clark was already under the covers, or in his hyperbolic chamber, or frozen, or hanging upside down in his cave.

We were under a blanket, Riley lying backward against me.
I rubbed her firm belly with my right hand. She scratched my arm.

I was in lust.
Again.  

At 11:59, Riley jumped up, ran to the kitchen, and emerged a second later with a bottle of bubbly.

They released the ball and it slowly started to move down the pole. The crowd started chanting and Riley began counting down with them. At six seconds she pinched my leg and in my best Hans impression I said, “ . . . Funf . . . vier . . . drei . . . zwei . . . eins . . . Happy New Year.” 

After she shook her head in utter dismay, we kissed.
And at that moment, in those first few moments of the New Year, Riley Peterson was my only thought. She stuck her arm through mine and we both chugged our glasses of champagne. Then we kissed some more. Then we rang in the New Year.

Riley didn’t have a kazoo, so we improvised.
 

Chapter 36

I opened my eyes and craned my head off the sofa. I wasn’t sure who would be knocking at my door at nine in the morning the first day of the year, and I was in no mood to find out.

The knocking subsided and I laid my head back down and closed my eyes.
I’d left Riley’s at some time around 3:30
A.M.
—considerably tuckered out—and I was yet to get my eight hours of required shut-eye. Riley had to get up early, not my early but her early, and I was happy for the excuse to sleep on my own couch. 

The knocking started back in and I rolled off the sofa and walked to the door.
I looked through the peephole. Whoever was out there was standing just inches from the lens and I couldn’t decipher much. But it did appear to be more than one person. Whoever they were, they were
persona non grata
on my doorstep. I smoothed out the sweater, went to unlock the door—but it was already unlocked—and pulled it open.

I stared at Erica and Ethan through half-open eyes.
I looked from one to the other, licked my lips, yawned, took a deep breath, yawned again, slammed the door and locked it, walked back to the couch, and flopped back on to it. This is about the time the knocking started back up.

It lasted five minutes. After ten I decided they weren’t going anywhere.
Maybe Ethan had come to congratulate me in person on my outstanding detective work. Then again, maybe he’d bought me some huge sunglasses, a bomber jacket, and a plane ticket to South Korea.

I rolled off the couch and made the trek to the door a second time.
As I pulled it open, I said to Ethan, whose hand was still in a fist and in the upright position, “If you stop banging your hand against the door, it will stop making that annoying knocking sound.”

He sneered at me and took a step back.

Erica stepped forward and said, “We need to talk to you for a few minutes if that’s okay.”

Ethan threw her a strained glance. I don’t think he appreciated her soft-spoken manner or the fact she was asking my permission. But it was obvious from their body language that they had planned on Erica leading the attack, whatever that might be.  

I could think of only a handful of reasons that would put Ethan Kates and Erica Frost on my doorstep nine hours into the New Year.
One, I was being arrested. For what? Well, there was the breaking and entering at Adam Gray’s place, but I found it hard to believe he would press charges after what I’d done for him. Then you had my overall involvement in the case, which in some circles they might call “harboring an investigation.” But I hadn’t done much harboring in the last couple days. In fact, since I’d taken my trip to the North Cascades, I hadn’t done much harboring at all. But Ethan had it in for me, and we all know when someone has it in for you, all the rules are thrown out the window. Which leads to the only other thing I could think of: there had been a break in the Ellen Gray case and Ethan and Erica were here to ask my advice. This option was slightly less believable than Scientology. So, in a nutshell, I had not the slightest clue, not an inkling, why an asshole, Erica, and two cops standing off in the distance were all staring at me like I had deviled egg all over my face.

I raised my eyebrows and said, “And what exactly do you need to talk to me about?”

“We just have a couple questions.”

The quicker I answered their questions, the quicker I could get back to sleep.
I said, “Fire away.”

Ethan said, “Where were you last—”

Erica held up her hand and he stopped midsentence. She nearly smiled and said, “So how did you spend your New Year’s Eve?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to divulge to Erica that I spent the majority of my night playing hide the pickle with Park Ranger Peterson. But I’d also asked variations of this question enough times to know that if you aren’t going to tell the truth, you need to say something that is nearly impossible to verify.
So I said, “I didn’t do much. Didn’t leave the house. In bed by one.”

Ethan said, matter of fact, “Does the name Riley Peterson mean anything to you?”

I took a step back. I gave a slight nod and said, “Rings a bell. Why?”

I noticed Erica staring at her feet in my peripheral.
I also noticed for the first time that Ethan was holding a manila envelope in his right hand. He opened the envelope and extracted a glossy photo.

He held out the photo and said, “She was found early this morning.”

The words “was” and “found” rattled around my brain. I snapped the photo from Ethan’s fingers and glanced down at it. Riley lay on her stomach on her kitchen linoleum. Blood pooled around her naked body.

My heart was caught in my throat.
I couldn’t believe Riley was dead. I’d seen her, all of her, every inch, just hours earlier. Now she was just a cold shell, lying in a pool of her own blood.

I said through clenched teeth, “Who found her?”

Erica was still looking down and spoke quietly. “Some guy she works with. When she didn’t show up for work and didn’t answer his calls, he drove to her cabin.”

“What time?”

“ A couple hours ago.”

“What
time
?”

“7:23
A.M.
”

Ethan couldn’t stand it. “If you don’t mind, we’ll ask the questions.”

I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself but held it in.

After a slight pause he asked, “Were you with the victim last night?”

“Would you be here if I weren’t?”

“No.”

Evidently, Ethan had put a tail on me.

“You had me followed, you piece of shit.”

“First off, if I wanted to put a tail on you it would be well within my jurisdiction. But, no, I didn’t.”

If Ethan hadn’t had me followed, then who had been following me and more important, how
did they know how I rang in the new year.

Ethan sensed my thought process and said, “We found a receipt for a bottle of wine in the trash.
You used your MasterCard.”

Right.

I looked at Erica and said, “Isn’t this a little out of you guys’ jurisdiction?”

Ethan said, “I pulled some strings.”

I bet he did.
I bet once he heard my name, he called in every marker he had out there. But then again, some of these smaller counties don’t even have a homicide detective on the payroll and wouldn’t hesitate to pass the buck.

Ethan broke my musings.
“Why did you lie about being with the victim?”

“Because it’s none of your business how, or with who, I spend my New Year’s.”
And I was trying to be somewhat of a gentleman in front of Erica Frost.

 
“This is true. But when a women ends up dead and you were the last one to see her alive, then it becomes my business.”

Touché.
But since I didn’t kill her, I highly doubted I was the last one to see her alive.

Erica asked, “You mind telling us about your night?”

Ethan gave Erica another harsh stare. He didn’t like that her approach ended with question marks. He was right. You don’t ask questions. You demand answers.

I shook my head and said, “Not really.”

Ethan took a deep breath and said, “Account for your whereabouts from the minute you left the house last evening to when you returned home.”

“No thanks.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we took a look inside.”

I took a step to the side and said, “Be my guest.”

He waved the cops forward and they strode past me. One of the cops snarled at me as he passed. I grabbed his arm and dug my fingers into his small biceps and said, “Be careful. I wouldn’t want to have to break anything valuable of yours.”

He ripped his arm from my grasp, threw me a look,
then ambled past me. That left Erica, Ethan, and I standing on the stoop and more or less twiddling our thumbs. You had Ethan, who hated my guts and had a good suspicion that I was a murderer. Then you had Erica, who was interested in Mr. Thomas Prescott but was a bit circumspect now that he might have killed a woman. And then you had Thomas Prescott, who could give half a shit about the two people standing on his porch because a woman he cared about was dead and she was never coming back.

Anyhow, no words were said.

After about thirty seconds, Ethan said to Erica, “I’d better get in there and make sure they aren’t breaking any of Thomas’s valuables.”

He walked past me. I wondered if it was coded in his DNA to be such an unconscionable prick.

At present, Erica was checking her shoes for scuffs.
She looked up and said, “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t specify what exactly she was sorry for.
But I assumed it was an all-inclusive sorry about Riley, sorry that we had to come here today, and sorry that it had to be like this. Or maybe it was a pre-sorry for what was still to come, my arrest, the sentence, and the prison anal raping. Then again, it could be a post-sorry, a sorry we ever met. Regardless, she was just doing her job. I gave a little nod.

Fifteen minutes later, Ethan emerged.
He made eye contact with Erica that said they hadn’t found anything.

I asked, “Did you stumble across my Gameboy?”

Ethan ignored me.

I asked, “Where’s Tweetledee and Tweetledum?”

He smiled and said, “Just tidying up a bit.”

They were probably taking a whiz in my ice trays and giving me an upper decker.

Five minutes later, the first of the officers walked out. He gave me an odd stare. Three feet behind him was his buddy. He shook his head at me and smiled. In his right hand, shielded by his body, was a clear evidence bag. He walked up to Ethan and said defiantly, “We found this in the flamingo room.”

Ethan held up the baggy.
In the evidence bag was a long, curved knife. I recognized it. It was the knife Riley had used to fillet the fish.   

Eight eyes trained on the knife.
Then moved to my chest.

Oh, bugger.