The Killing Game (38 page)

“Maybe I should have driven,” he said as Andi’s wheels touched gravel.

“Sorry. I’m fine.”

She drove with concentration the rest of the way back, but once they were in the cabin, she accused him, “You don’t think the Carreras are behind the notes.”

“Do you?” He’d crossed the room to switch on the television. The midday news was just starting.

It took her a while to answer, but then she said, “No. But I don’t know what that means. Who else has a grudge against me?”

“Quade’s certainly got it in for the Wrens.”

Andi shook her head, but then she remembered the threat he’d hurled on his way out. That he knew something about the Wrens. Emma had referred to him as a lake rat, someone who hung around with the wealthy lake crowd, feeding off the crumbs left to him.

Luke stripped off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch next to his bed roll.

Andi tried to calm down, to get a grip on herself. She was home. Safe. With Luke. She flopped onto the couch and inhaled the aroma of this morning’s coffee, which still lingered in the air. It mingled with the faint smell of smoke from a fire built days before and should have provided her comfort. But not today, not after the bedlam that had been the meeting at the office. Running her fingers through her hair, she tried to sort it all out. Of course that was impossible.

Luke pulled the latest plastic-encased note from his pocket and eyed it.

On the television, Pauline Kirby’s face appeared. The local reporter was outside, standing near a huge river, the sky as leaden as the gray depths of the water.

Luke said, “I want to talk to the police. Detective Rafferty, not Thompkins. I’ve dealt with his type a lot of times. They don’t like being pushed and they become intractable. Until it’s his idea that Trini’s death was a homicide, he’ll drag his feet. And I don’t know if he’ll get there in time. We need some momentum on this case. If the bird messages involve Trini, we gotta move. Find out who’s doing this before something else happens.”

“Something to me, you mean.”

“Just because I don’t think the Carreras are behind the notes doesn’t mean I’m forgetting about them. Blake scared Emma. He thought he could get her to do what he wanted, but she ran from him. I want to know why she’s so damned sure the Carerras were behind your husband’s death. Is that just fear talking, or did Blake say or do something that convinced her the Carreras are killers?”

“Do you think Scott’s behind the notes?”

“Or Mimi, because they’re directed at you.”

Andi shook her head slowly. “I don’t think she’s faking how undone she is. It’s too calculating.”

He nodded but said, “I just don’t want to be blindsided.”

Andi flicked a glance at the television, where Pauline stood near the water’s edge . . . some lake?

“It’s the timing of everything that bothers me. At the time of Greg’s accident, Wren Development had been okayed on the lodge, and that pissed off the Carreras. We already know they wanted the land. So maybe they decided to retaliate.”

On the television Pauline was droning on, her hair caught by a strong wind. “What do you mean? By killing Greg?”

“Greg’s death threw you all into chaos. Everyone involved was upset. If Carter hadn’t kept pushing, the project might have failed because Emma has own problems and you were lost in grief.”

“I was a walking zombie,” she admitted.

“That’s the kind of thing the Carreras do,” Luke said grimly.

“So what happened to Trini? I’ll never believe she just didn’t read the label on that energy bar.”

Luke’s attention was on the TV, where a body bag was being loaded into an ambulance. Pauline was staring directly into the camera’s eye, saying, “. . . Police refuse to ID the woman until next of kin is notified, but we’ve learned that a woman from the Gresham area is missing. Christine Tern Brandewaite. She goes by the name Christine Tern. She worked late last night but didn’t show up this morning.”

“We need to find the boyfriend,” Luke said, his eyes glued to the screen. She realized he wasn’t really listening to Andi anymore.

“What is it?” Andi asked, but Luke didn’t answer, so she tuned into the program to see what had riveted his attention.

A bird wheeled over Pauline Kirby’s ravaged hair, crying out. “This is a possible homicide because we have confirmed the victim was tased several times,” Pauline was saying. “She may have been unconscious or unable to save herself when she went into the water. If anyone has any information on Christine Tern, please call the police or our station.”

“Tern . . .” Luke said, shaking his head as if to remove dust.

“You know her?” Andi said, her heart somersaulting uncomfortably.

“I don’t know how she spells it, but a tern is a seabird.”

“Oh God.” Andi stared at the television.

“It makes no sense,” Luke said. Then he was in motion.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling Detective Rafferty.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Where’ve you been?” Gretchen asked September as soon as she returned to the squad room.

“I was in Hood River, following up on the Pattens. The renters whose son had the addiction problem.”

“I know who they are, but what about the body in the quarry?” Gretchen demanded. “George said you were working on that one.”

September shot a look at George. He was riding his chair, still engrossed in whatever he saw on his computer screen. “It’s the Sheriff’s Department’s case. I just followed up for them at Sirocco Realty.”

“Where you and I went last weekend,” she pointed out. “The body at the bottom of the quarry is their receptionist.”

“We were working an entirely different case.”

“Were we?”

“Yes. And I tried calling you yesterday,” September said, knowing where this was going. “I was just helping out the Sheriff’s Department.” She brought Gretchen up to speed, telling her about Tracy’s hidden box of what they believed to be keys, and how Realtor Edie Tindel believed Tracy had been using the keys to gain access to clients’ houses. She finished with, “But that one’s out of our hands. You want to talk new cases, George is the man to talk to.”

“I told you you could have that case,” George reminded her coolly over his shoulder.

“Yeah, and I’m making traction on the Aurora Lane case,” September snapped back.

Gretchen ignored September and turned to George. “What’s your case?” she asked him, which really pissed September off.

“You want to tell her, Nine? Be my guest.” George wouldn’t look away from his screen.

September tamped down the smart response that sprang to her lips with an effort. The cutbacks and threatened job security had ruined all their attitudes. Instead she succinctly told Gretchen about the death of Trinidad Finch, which appeared to be from anaphylactic shock from eating an energy bar made out of cricket flour.

“Cricket flour?” The disgusted look on Gretchen’s face was comical.

September added, “Crickets are part of the shellfish family and she was apparently highly allergic to shellfish.”

“Evidence isn’t conclusive that it was a homicide,” George put in.

“Well, what do you think?” Gretchen asked September.

It was rare that her bullheaded partner took the time to really pick her brain, so September considered her answer carefully. “Do you know Luke Denton? Detective Ray Bolchoy’s ex-partner?”

“I’ve heard the name. Saw him interviewed by Pauline Kirby once.”

“Nine’s our media darling,” George said. “A few times on television and now Kirby asks for her. They’re BFFs.”

“You got a problem, George, just spit it the hell out,” September said.

He jerked as if surprised and finally dragged his eyes away from the computer. “Somebody’s damn touchy today,” he muttered

Gretchen groaned. “Somebody just tell me what’s going on.”

“When the ME says the Finch case is a homicide, it’s a homicide,” George declared, drawing his line in the sand.

September turned her shoulder to George and said to Gretchen, “Denton was on scene at the victim’s apartment: Trinidad Finch. He’s the one who reported her death to nine-one-one. He’s working for the Wrens of Wren Development . . . have I got that right, George?”

“So far.”

“Anyway, one of the Wrens was a friend of the victim.”

“Andrea Wren,” George put in helpfully.

“She tried to reach Finch and failed,” September continued, “so she went to her apartment and found her. George can tell you more.”

“There isn’t any more until forensics come back,” George said.

“What are you doing now?” Gretchen asked September, who’d started writing on her computer’s word-processing program.

“Transcribing notes.” She glanced down at her open notebook. “I’m working up a time line for Lance Patten. He disappeared right after his senior year of high school.”

“The druggie?” she clarified.

“I asked his parents about his drug use and they didn’t want to classify him as an addict, but they’re his parents, so they may be putting a positive spin on it. He used marijuana and occasionally harder drugs. He was friends with Tommy Burkey, who called him Laser. Still don’t know why exactly, but I’m pretty sure Laser and Lance are the same person. Maury Patten said Lance hung with a group of friends who may have used that nickname. Lance sometimes rode their horse over to Schultz Lake and had friends over there. I also asked about Davinia Singleton, but both parents played deaf, dumb, and blind.” September shrugged. “They don’t want to hear anything bad about their son.”

“You should have taken me with you,” Gretchen said.

September nodded rather than argue that Gretchen would have tried to talk her out of the trip because the case didn’t interest her. “There’s something else,” September added.

“What?”

“The family that left in the RV were the Kirkendalls. They rented Mamet’s house directly before the Pattens. They had a daughter, Wendy, who was strangled and dumped in Schultz Lake. That crime’s never been solved.”

Gretchen frowned. “Something familiar about that.”

“I thought so, too, so I looked it up. Wendy Kirkendall was strangled with a willow branch.”

“That’s right! That’s what it was.” Gretchen narrowed her sharp blue eyes. “Is there some connection between Lance and Wendy?”

“I don’t think they knew each other. She was gone before the Pattens moved in. But I do think the bones are Lance’s, and if that’s the case, then there are two crimes connected to Aurora Lane within a short period of time. And that’s not counting Nathan Singleton’s
accident
, which is on the books as a murder/suicide.”

“Lance must’ve been the one screwing Davinia Singleton. The parents just don’t want to say so.”

September nodded but just said, “Maybe.”

“You don’t think she was satisfying her cougar’s itch?”

“The affair seems real, but Anna Liu referred to the boy involved as flirtatious, cheeky, entitled.... That just doesn’t sound like my picture of Lance. He used drugs. He befriended Tommy Burkey, who was much younger and on the mentally slow side. I’ve never heard he had a car. He rode a family horse in the fields behind their house. It doesn’t seem to add up to the same guy.”

Gretchen thought that over. “The real estate woman mentioned that the
druggie
hung around with other scruffy boys.”

“Kitsy.”

“Yeah, Kitsy. She said one of ’em supposedly had money, but that they all dressed alike in baggy jeans and hoodies.”

September nodded. “We need to learn more about Lance Patten’s buddies. And Wendy Kirkendall’s murder.”

She shot a look at George, who was their heavy hitter on research, mainly because he didn’t like to do fieldwork. His phone had rung while September and Gretchen were talking and he was engaged in a conversation that was mostly listening on his end. She heard the terms “game player” and “chess” and grew curious. Gretchen, too, paused, and both of them listened in unabashedly.

Finally, George hung up and gave them a baleful look. “I’m working,” he said, as if they’d criticized him.

Gretchen raised her palms in surrender.

George pursed his lips. “That was one of the regulars from Trinidad Finch’s Pilates classes. She said a few months back a new guy joined who clearly had a thing for our vic. He didn’t talk much, but he did mention that he was a game player. This gal asked him what he meant, and he said he played chess, among other things. He was flirty and she kinda thought he was cute, though he wore a toupee. . . .” He shrugged. “Some women don’t care, I guess.”

“Did he make a pass at Finch?” Gretchen asked.

“Maybe. They got together somehow. Apparently the hormones were raging.”

“What’s his name?” September asked.

“I checked with the club. He’s listed as Robert Fisher. He’s probably the boyfriend who was supposed to see her that night. Jarrett Sellers said she was stood up, so maybe that’s when he made his play. Andrea Wren, who just happens to be Sellers’s sister, mentioned Finch was seeing someone she called Bobby.”

“The name Robert fits. We have an address?” Gretchen asked.

“Only a fake one,” George said.

“Well, that’s suspicious.” September thought foul play was definitely in the picture. “We have a photo of this guy?”

“Uh-uh.” George shook his head.

“What about cameras at the club?” September pressed.

“There’s an outside one. I’m getting a copy of the last month’s video.” He sounded less than excited and September didn’t really blame him. Going through hours of security tape was tedious work.

“So you’re leaning toward homicide now,” Gretchen said.

George nodded slowly.

“All right, well, we’ve got our own to solve: Mr. Bones’s,” Gretchen said.

September’s brows raised. She was pleased her partner finally appeared to be back on their case.

Gretchen went on, “We need to find some thirtysomethings who used to be part of a scruffy band that hung out at Aurora Lane when they were teens sometimes.”

September grabbed up her bag and jacket again. “Sounds like they really hung out at Schultz Lake.”

“Where are we going?”

“To talk to the Kirkendalls. They live in Laurelton. No phone, so we’re just going to drop in.”