By Familiar Means (22 page)

“What's that got to do with anything?” said Val. “Is it a clue? Did Jimmy Upton wear a hat?”

Julia shook her head. “At this point there's no way to tell, unless Anna remembers something?”

I tried. I frowned at it. I even furrowed my forehead at it. But nothing came, except a vague prickling on the back of my neck, and the very strange, very uncomfortable feeling I was being laughed at. Again.

But who in this room would be laughing at me? Even the dogs had gotten suddenly serious. In fact, Leo had drawn back his mouth to expose one very white, very sharp tooth, and he and his brother skittered across the floor, all the way to the front door.

Julia looked after them but did not call them back.

“Nothing,” I murmured. Except that wasn't quite true. I knew I did not like that drawing. It wasn't quite as bad as the visceral reaction I got to the shooting above it, but it reminded me of something, and I couldn't quite put my finger on what.

“So what do we do?” asked Val. “Do we try again?”

“Not tonight,” said Julia firmly. “Anna needs to rest and recover.” For once, I did not feel like arguing with her. I was suddenly, deeply, severely tired. What I wanted most was to head upstairs and crawl into bed.

“What about this?” Val touched the last sketch. This was
the outline of a telephone. “Did you get any impressions about this?

It was nothing much, just a quick doodle of an old-fashioned desk phone. It had a rotary dial and motion lines around the receiver, like the phone was ringing.

“I . . .”

I didn't get any further, because right then, the phone on the wall did ring, and we all jumped. Grandma touched my hand, in concern or maybe reassurance, as I edged past her to go answer it. Alistair bounded over ahead of me and plunked himself down by the wall.

“Hello?” I said as I picked up the receiver.

“Anna?” Frank's voice answered. “Sorry if I woke you.”

His voice was tense and he sounded out of breath. I felt my stomach sink down to my shoes. “You didn't,” I told him. “What's happened?”

“I'm on my way to the police station; I thought you'd want to know. They've just brought Jake Luce in, and they're charging him with the murder of Jimmy Upton.”

24

“And if it isn't Miss Britton,” drawled Lieutenant Blanchard, as Frank and I barged into the police station. “How nice of you to save us all the trouble and come in voluntarily.”

Grandma B.B. had the keys for the Galaxie out almost before I'd hung up the phone, and all of us, dogs included, had piled in. Only Alistair stayed behind, pacing anxiously across the front porch. I assumed he'd show up under his own steam if he felt the need.

My grandmother broke at least half a dozen traffic laws racing through the (mostly) empty streets and nearly clipped a mailbox turning the corner onto Market Street.

“You haven't changed, Annabelle!” shouted Julia, who was clutching the dashboard and the dachshunds.

“Just hang on!” Grandma shouted back, and I swear it sounded like she was having the time of her life. I'm not sure if that was from the speed or getting to watch Julia turn green as we swooped down the hills.

All this questionable speed meant we got to the station just as Frank was climbing the steps.

We'd agreed that I'd be dropped off here, while the others drove to Miranda's. At least they would as soon as Val had finished calming down Roger and assuring him that she was still fine, there were no contractions, and she'd be home as quickly as she could. I assumed no one was going to mention Grandma B.B.'s driving habits to Roger.

“Lieutenant Blanchard,” I said as I struggled to get my thoughts and my attitude together. The station lobby (waiting room? entrance room? I needed to look up the proper term), with its plastic chairs and tables and community bulletin boards, was empty, but Lieutenant Blanchard stood at the desk behind the reception window, next to a very unhappy-looking uniformed officer. One of the industrial fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like a bored housefly. “I was hoping—”

“I'm sure you were.” Blanchard cut me off and his square face sagged into a mock-serious expression.

The door to the interior of the station opened, and Kenisha walked through, with Pete Simmons right behind her. I glanced urgently at Kenisha, but her only response was to set her jaw. Pete, though, tucked his hand in his pocket and jingled his keys once. His droopy eyes traveled slowly from me and Frank to Lieutenant Blanchard, and back again.

“Anna,” Pete said. “Hi, Frank. A little late, isn't it?”

“Too late, you mean, Detective Simmons.” Blanchard gave us all a big, crooked grin to make sure we appreciated the fact that he was joking. I noticed his teeth were square and white and perfectly even.
Camera ready,
I thought. “Miss Britton, I'm afraid your boss has already been booked.”

“He's not my boss,” I said, more or less reflexively.

“Oh, right.” Blanchard nodded. “My mistake. That check he wrote you does not make him your boss.”

For a second I felt dizzy. How did he know about that? Then I realized, if there was an arrest, there was a warrant, which probably gave them permission to check Jake and Miranda's bank records.

I was about to point out (again) that the payment was for the murals I was being commissioned to paint, but I gritted my teeth around the words. Partly that was because Frank
stepped on my foot. Probably he just meant to remind me that anything I said to Lieutenant Blanchard at this point would be used as evidence against, well, everybody.

Now that he'd delivered his not-so-subtle reminder, Frank had strolled up to the reception window. He'd also pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Just what are the charges against Jake Luce, Lieutenant Blanchard?” he asked.

Blanchard shook his head heavily. “Sorry, Hawthorne. You can wait for the press conference with everybody else.”

“I see.” Frank made a note about this. “Then can I assume you have no comment regarding the accusations that Jake Luce is being targeted by the department as a favor to a rival developer over the property at 943 Market Street?”

Well.
Clearly, Frank had been doing more digging about Shelly Kinsdale and Dreame Royale properties. Were they targeting the site of Jake and Miranda's new coffee shop for their “luxury boutique hotel”?

Kenisha was staring at Frank and at me. Pete Simmons started jingling his keys in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Now, why would I have any reason to comment on something you made up on the spot, Hawthorne?” Blanchard's face remained bland, and he folded his beefy arms across his barrel chest. The desk sergeant turned to his computer and began resolutely tapping away. I sympathized. I didn't like the way that low flush was spreading up from under the lieutenant's collar either.

“So, no comment.” Frank made another note. “And what about . . .”

“What about you get out of my station?” Blanchard said softly. “Before you, your bleeding heart and that little notebook all get locked up with your drug-dealing hippie pal?”

I looked to Kenisha. She didn't say anything, but she did flick her hard, direct eyes toward the door. This I interpreted to mean I should go ahead and get out of here, so she could meet me outside and we could actually talk.

I nodded once.
Gotcha.
“Um, Frank, maybe we'd better go,” I said. He turned toward me, one eyebrow raised in a silent inquiry.

I caught and held his gaze.

Listen,
I said to him with my eyes.
Kenisha and Pete want us gone. We are making their lives harder standing here, and Kenisha wants us to know she can meet us outside and give us an update, which might have some actual information we can use, okay?

This is a lot to try to crowd into a look, but Frank must have picked up on at least some of it. Or maybe it was my expression of precisely mixed anger and panic that got to him. Either way, he nodded and stashed his book in his pocket.

“I'll be back,” he said to Blanchard. “For the press conference,” he added, just in case anybody thought he was quoting a certain ex–California governor. “Thank you as ever for your cooperation, Lieutenant.”

Blanchard politely informed Frank where he should not let the door hit him on the way out, and we left.

“Did you find something about Jimmy's sister and Dreame Royale?” I demanded as soon as we reached the sidewalk.

“Nothing definite,” Frank said. “But, yeah, there was some talk at the city zoning board about the old drugstore. That was before Jake and Miranda bought it, though.”

“That's still awfully interesting.”

“Isn't it?”

I shivered. It was probably around midnight. When I'd run out of the house with the others, I'd grabbed my purse but not my jacket. I'd be in for a grandma scolding later.

Grandma. What were she and the others doing now? Had they made it to the Luces' yet? Was Miranda okay? I rubbed my arms, trying to smooth out the goose bumps. Frank saw and slipped out of his sports jacket. “Here.” He held the jacket out to me.

I shook my head. “I'm fine.” I shivered again.

Frank snorted, and before I could step out of range, he draped the jacket over my shoulders. It was warm, and it smelled faintly of Old Spice, because Frank was a guy who appreciated the classics.

“Thanks.”

I waited for the teasing reply, but there wasn't one. There was just a softening of his expression. He lifted his hand, but before he could finish the gesture, whatever it was going to be, my phone rang.

I smiled apologetically and turned away, uncertain whether to be relieved or annoyed. I fished the phone out of my purse and hit the button with one hand, because I was clutching Frank's jacket around my shoulders with the other.

It was Kenisha and she was not in the mood for chitchat. “The Friendly Toast,” she told me. “Now.”

And she hung up.

Frank looked at me expectantly.

“The Friendly Toast,” I told him. “Now.”

*   *   *

The Friendly Toast was a diner down near Market Square. It was decked out with vintage Formica-and-chrome tables with lots of kitschy knickknacks, toys and posters hanging on the walls. It also happened to be my favorite place for breakfast in Portsmouth. I'd never pictured it as Pete's kind of place, but then, it did have great pancakes, which should make it just about everybody's kind of place.

It was also open until two a.m., and since the dining room was longer than it was wide, there were plenty of tables in the back where we would not be seen by anyone passing on the street. Not to mention a back door that would let us in discreetly from the parking lot. And yet, because we were in a public diner, nobody could easily accuse us of clandestine meetings if we were seen.

Kenisha and Frank explained most of this to me later.

Frank and I took advantage of that discreet back door and came in from the parking lot. The diner was mostly empty. A bunch of loud, burly kids I took to be fraternity brothers filled up one long central table. Past them, up toward the front, on the far side, a couple of middle-aged women in skirt suits sat in a booth by the wall, drinking coffee and examining papers over half-eaten omelets and hash browns.

I recognized one of them, and I missed a step. So did Frank.

W
hat is Kelly Pierce doing here at one in the morning? And who is that she's with?

We both looked to the women at their crowded little table, and we looked at each other. By mutual, silent consent, we casually but quickly slid into the old-fashioned high-backed booth with Kenisha and Pete.

“Frank, Anna,” said Pete. “Thanks for coming out so late.”

“Hello, Anna,” said Kenisha. “Frank.”

“Hi, Kenisha,” I said, trying not to let my gaze wander toward Kelly Pierce and her friend up front. I wasn't sure if I believed that thing about how if you stare at someone, they will eventually feel it, but now was not the time to experiment. “Thanks for the call.”

Kenisha shrugged but didn't add anything. All kinds of uneasy feelings spread through me.

Our waitress was a college-aged girl with red-and-white-streaked hair and a gold ring in her nose. She brought us menus, which we ignored, and coffee, which we did not.

“What happened, Kenisha?” I asked as soon as the waitress was back behind the counter and hunched over a battered copy of
Anna Karenina
. “Why did they arrest Jake?”

“Lieutenant Blanchard put together Jake's past record with the cash that was found on Jimmy Upton's body and that trapdoor in their new building,” she said. “It gave him enough to make an arrest.” My heart thumped once, hard, but Kenisha didn't add anything about Chuck or the hidden attic of the old drugstore.

“Will the charges stick?” asked Frank.

“Depends.” Kenisha shrugged and added a second pack of sugar to her coffee. She had exchanged her uniform for jeans, a black T-shirt and a bright pink hoodie, which meant she was off duty. Pete still wore his rumpled sports coat and checked shirt. I had never seen him in anything substantially different, but then, Pete was one of those men who never really went off duty.

Kenisha stirred her coffee, sipped and reached for more sugar. “Probably, he's going to get out on bail. But if we can't come up with a better story than the one Blanchard's got, who knows what'll happen after that?”