Authors: Chelsea Cain
“No,” Henry said. “The actual Rose Garden.The one with the flowers.”
Gretchen had murdered a woman and left her in the Rose Garden in 2003. “That makes two repeat locations,” Archie said. “The Rose Garden and PittockMansion.” Archie buckled the belt. It buckled a notch tighter than it had the last time he’d had it on.
“I know,” Henry said.
“Just give me a second,” Archie said, dropping a shoe and slipping a foot into it.
“You’re a civilian,” Henry said. “Remember?”
Archie looked up from tying his shoe.
Henry handed him his house key. Then he looked over Archie’s shoulder. “Here comes your ride.”
Archie twisted around to see Susan Ward walking down the hall toward him. She was wearing red jeans, a white T-shirt, black boots that laced up her shins, and was carrying a giant red purse. And she’d dyed her hair purple.
“Hi,” she said, touching her hair.
Susan Ward. Archie hadn’t seen her since he’d checked in. But he’d known that she was out there, in the waiting room, most mornings. He’d refused to see her. But if he allowed himself to acknowledge it, the truth was he liked knowing she was just on the other side of the wall.
“You shouldn’t involve her,” he said to Henry.
Henry was checking a message on his BlackBerry. “She’s already involved,” he said.
“I’m doing a story on the murdered inmate,” Susan said.
“Patient,” Archie said with a sigh. “Not inmate.”
Henry looked up from his BlackBerry. “Take him to my house,” he said to Susan. “Okay? Go inside. Lock the doors.” He turned to Archie. “I’m sending a patrol car to sit out front.”
The way he said it, Archie wasn’t sure if the patrol unit was supposed to keep Gretchen out, or Archie in.
“Did you get the pot brownies my mom sent?” Susan asked Archie.
“I didn’t hear that,” Henry said, walking away.
C H A P T E R 27
It had been two months since Susan had laid eyes on Archie Sheridan. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been in a hospital bed with forty stitches in his neck and a belly full of Vicodin. He looked better than that. But there were people in hospice who looked better than that.
“So how’s it going?” Susan asked lamely.
They were in her Saab, heading out of the hospital compound. Susan had no idea where Henry lived, so Archie was navigating.
They had just turned east onto Glisan, and the on-ramp to I-84 had cars backed up for half a mile. Archie squinted into the late morning sun. “What’s all the traffic?” he asked.
No “Hey, how are you. I missed you. Sorry for making you wait in the lobby all those mornings”? “The freeway’s jammed,” Susan said. “People trying to get out of the city.”
They were passing the billboard advertisement for the upcoming episode of America’s Sexiest Serial Killers starring Gretchen Lowell.
She noticed Archie’s gaze linger on it as they drove by.
“What is wrong with everybody?” he asked.
Susan slid a look over at him. “I want to write a book about it—our cultural obsession with the Beauty Killer. Maybe Henry told you?”
Archie reached down under his foot and lifted up the pink envelope. “What’s this?” he asked.
Susan rolled her eyes. She’d tossed all the crap from her in-box on the car floor. “Some kind of dorky valentine,” she said. “It was in my box at the Herald. I think it’s from Derek. I mean, who gives someone a valentine in August? I guess it’s sort of romantic, but Jesus, right?”
Archie flipped it over and examined the return address. Susan hadn’t recognized it. Some street in Southwest Portland. He pulled the card out of the envelope.
“Are you going through my mail?” Susan asked. She didn’t really care. She’d already opened it. There wasn’t writing inside—just some blank, ugly old-fashioned card with two hearts connected by a gold chain.
Archie reached into the backseat and pulled his overnight bag onto his lap, dug into it, pulled out a card, and showed it to Susan.
It was the same card.
“Someone dropped this off at the hospital for me yesterday,” he said. He pointed at the return address on his card. Three-nine-seven North Fargo.
“That’s where I found the body,” Susan said.
Then he pointed at the address on her card. It was in the same handwriting.
“We need to go to this address,” Archie said.
Susan shook her head. She had copy to write. She didn’t have time to be murdered by Gretchen Lowell. “You’re out of your mind,” she said. “You should call Henry.”
Archie reached back to the floor and came up with that morning’s edition of the Herald. Susan really needed to keep her car cleaner. He pointed to the sketch on the front page. “It’s where this guy lives,” he said.
“How do you know that?” Susan asked.
“Trust me,” Archie said.
“What about Henry?” Susan asked.
“We’ll call him after we check it out,” he said. “If we tell him now, he won’t let either of us go.”
Great. First the anonymous call. Now letters. Body parts all over town. It was like a scavenger hunt for psychos. Running after clues with a half-deranged, serial-killer-obsessed, recovering-addict cop was not a good idea. She knew that. Then again, the more time she spent with him, the more time she’d have to talk him into cooperating with the book.
“Okay,” she said.
“On the way, I want you to tell me everything you remember about the body in the house,” Archie said.
Susan pulled out of traffic onto a side street so they could turn around and head west. “I dyed my hair purple,” she said.
She thought she saw Archie smile. “I noticed,” he said.
C H A P T E R 28
Agathering crowd pressed against the police perimeter at the Rose Garden. There were plenty of microphones and notebooks—Henry had counted twelve news vans on his way up the hill—but mostly it was just rubberneckers.
Portland seemed divided into two groups of people these days—people who wanted to get as far away from Gretchen’s crime scenes as possible, and people who wanted to rub up against her corpses.
Henry parked his car and got out and ducked under the tape. “Whatley,” he yelled to a red-haired patrol cop. “Get these people out of here.”
Whatley looked around helplessly at the crowd.
“Move the tape,” Henry said. “Use pepper spray if you have to.”
Claire met him at the entrance to the park and led him to the crime scene. She was wearing a T-shirt with an image of the state of Alaska on it. Henry’s third wife had bought it for him. They’d gotten dressed quickly when the call came in about the murder at the psych ward. The T-shirt almost came down to Claire’s knees. She’d scrunched it up on one side, so she could clip her gun to her waist, along with a pair of red Ray-Bans.