Unspeakable (30 page)

Olivia watched him duck into another one of the rooms, where the overhead light was already on. With trepidation, she stepped into his file room and flipped open the folder on the card table. The first document in the thick pile was a negative copy of an arrest record for fifteen-year-old Wade Grinnell. He'd been charged with housebreaking and assault. From the comments, which were illegible in spots because of the primitive copy, it looked as though Wade had climbed into the kitchen window of a house where a classmate had been babysitting. He'd tackled her and tied her up—along with her charge, a five-year-old boy. A neighbor had seen him skulking around outside the house and telephoned the police. When the cops arrived, Wade had maintained it had all been a prank. But the traumatized girl hadn't thought it was too funny. From what Olivia could tell, it looked like the charges had been dropped.

A yellowed index card was stapled to the arrest report. On the card was a handwritten list of names with phone numbers and job titles—like
Seattle City Councilman
,
Assistant Chief of Police
, and
Police Lieutenant.
One name in the middle of the list didn't have a job title:

Olivia pulled a pen and an old envelope from her purse, then copied it down. Of course, this contact list had been created back when Orin had considered writing that follow-up article in 1966. So this
current
information was older than she was. Still, it was something.

“I should warn you,” Orin called from down the hallway. She heard him shifting and dragging things around in the neighboring room. “That file might have some pretty gruesome photos in it. What is it they say on TV?
Viewer discretion advised. . . .
”

“Okay, thanks,” she replied. Olivia looked back over her shoulder toward the dark alcove beyond the doorway. “What's going on over there anyway?”

“I'm just trying to get something to work here,” he replied, his voice slightly muffled. “Give me another couple of minutes.”

She thought about checking in on him, but got distracted by some old postcards and mini-brochures of the hotels where the Rockabye Killings took place. Each one featured a photo of the hotel, of course—but some also had pictures of their pool, or their Space Needle view:

Beneath the brochures, Olivia found the photographs he must have been talking about. They were black-and-white eight-by-tens. The first one showed a teddy bear with S
EATTLE
W
ORLD'S
F
AIR
emblazoned across its chest. The stuffed animal was on the floor by a bed—with rumpled bloodstained sheets. At the bottom corner of the photo, someone had written in block letters: B
ED
O
F
K
IM
F
REITAG,
5 Y
RS
O
LD
– E
L
M
AR
H
OTEL
7/9/62.

The next photo made Olivia gasp. It showed a woman lying facedown on a blood-soaked bed. Her nightgown was torn and covered in blood. The close-up shot went from her shoulders down to the top of her buttocks—and focused on her hands, tied behind her back. S
AILOR
K
NOT,
it said. B
ETTY
F
REITAG,
31 – E
L
M
AR
H
OTEL
7/9/62
.

While her host kept moving things around in the next room, Olivia forced herself to look at some more of the awful pictures. They included shots of the charred, burnt-out suites at the Hotel Aurora Vista and the Pioneer Motor Inn. There was also a high school portrait of Wade Grinnell at age fifteen. He had slicked-back hair and half-closed eyes. He wore a bolo tie with a jacket. Olivia studied another photo of him— with a brunette who had a big beehive hairdo. A cigarette dangled out of his mouth, and he had his arm around her. They posed in front of a Seattle restaurant that had closed ages ago, the Twin Teepees. Olivia turned the photo over and saw someone had scribbled on the back:

Then Olivia came across some postmortem photos of the naked, slain newlywed couple in the morgue. That was too much. She closed the folder. She wanted to run upstairs and be outside again—in the fresh air and daylight.

Suddenly, it turned quiet in the next room.

“Mr. Carney?” she called nervously. “Orin, are you still there?”

She heard a click, and then a weird humming sound. Olivia poked her head out the doorway and stared down the hall. A shadow spilled across the floor—two doors down. There was another click, and someone talking. The sound of his voice made her shudder:
“Yeah, well, dig this, I've seen that crummy hotel, but I've never set foot in it, man. You've got the wrong guy. . . .”

Olivia hurried to the doorway to find Orin in a small storage room. Folding chairs leaned against shelves full of boxes. There were old lamps, stacks of magazines, and even an old dollhouse. He had an archaic reel-to-reel tape recorder propped on a small stepladder. The reels turned and squeaked as the young man continued to talk in a defiant, self-satisfied tone. The machine was plugged into the base of the light fixture overhead.

“This is the second half of the police interrogation of Wade Grinnell,” Orin explained, over Wade's voice. “The interview took place the day before Wade was killed running from the police. I had a friend on the force who copied the recording for me. Between you and me, I don't think they were even supposed to be recording him—without a lawyer or an adult guardian present. That part you heard earlier, where he says he never set foot inside the hotel—well, he's going to contradict himself later and mention something about the ‘ugly blue bedspread.' Like I told you earlier, it's almost as if he wants to give himself away. Just listen. . . .”

Olivia braced a hand against the doorway to the storage room. “This is crazy,” she whispered. She couldn't breathe right. She wasn't listening to what the young man was saying. She was listening to his voice.

She'd heard that exact same voice talking to her in her office last Thursday night.

“W
hat the hell is with the parking around here this afternoon?” muttered Olivia at the wheel of her VW. She searched for an open spot along a side street three blocks from her office. After all her prep work for her session with Collin Cox, she'd be late for it now. She hadn't counted on spending over two hours with Orin Carney. Any initial strangeness she'd felt about him had evaporated by the time he'd walked her to his front door. He'd been incredibly helpful.

She found a parking spot at last, locked the car, and hurried toward her building. It was dark, and the streetlights were already on. Outside the antique store, she glanced at her wristwatch. She still had two minutes until her appointment time with Collin. Pushing open the glass door to the vestibule, Olivia suddenly stopped.

Someone was waiting for her in the small lobby.

“Clay?” she murmured.

He wore the tan jacket she liked. “I'm sorry to ambush you like this. But I really had to see you.”

She let the door close behind her. “I—I have to meet with a client. He's probably in my waiting room right now.”

Clay shook his head. “I was just up there five minutes ago, and the place was empty.”

“Well, I guess you figured out where my offices are. What do you want, Clay?”

“Corinne's not pregnant.”

Olivia numbly stared at him. “What?”

“She says she miscarried. She told me after the service on Saturday. She says it happened right before we got the news about Sue and Jerry—only she wanted to give us both a few days before telling me.” He shook his head. “I have a feeling she was never really pregnant. I think she might have had a hysterical pregnancy. Or maybe she's just been lying through her teeth all this time. I never got to see a sonogram.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Neither one of them said anything for a few moments. Olivia finally sighed. “Well, I'm sorry about Corinne and the baby—if—if there actually was a baby.”

Clay took a step toward her. “Don't you see what this means?” he whispered. “It means she doesn't have a hold on me anymore. I'm not under any obligation to stay with her. Technically, you and I are still married.”

“Yes, so?”

He gently touched her face with his hand. “Olivia, I've been an idiot. Don't you see? There's nothing keeping us from being together again—except maybe some bad history and the horrible way I treated you. I'm asking you to think about us for a while, look into your heart and see if you can't forgive me. I swear, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. . . .”

He leaned in like he was going to kiss her. She could feel his warm breath on her lips.

But Olivia pulled away. “This is all coming at me a little too fast,” she said. Her heart was pounding wildly. “In practically the same sentence you tell me Corinne isn't pregnant and that you want me to take you back.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I've wasted so much time.”

The door opened slightly behind her.

Turning, she saw Collin. He had his school backpack slung over one shoulder, and wore a navy-blue hooded sweater. His wavy black hair was sort of a mess.

She quickly stepped aside so he could come into the lobby.

“Hi,” he said, eyeing Clay—and then her.

She worked up a smile. “Hi, Collin. Why don't you go ahead upstairs? I'll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

He nodded. “Okay, thanks.” He shot another look at Clay and lumbered up the stairs.

Clay watched him, and then turned to her. “Isn't that the same kid you were talking to after the memorial service?”

“That's right. He was friends with Gail. Now he's a new client.”

Clay glanced toward the stairs again. “Why does he look so familiar? I was wondering that on Saturday.”

“Beats me,” Olivia lied. He probably hadn't yet figured out that he'd seen Collin in the movies. “Anyway, he's waiting for me. So I should get going.”

Clay took hold of her arm. “Olivia, I want you to think about what I've told you.”

“Yes, I'm thinking about it, and it's pretty disgusting,” she said, pulling away from him. “I can't believe you're talking about ditching your girlfriend less than two days after she told you about her miscarriage.”

Clay frowned. “I don't think she was ever really pregnant—”

“It's awfully convenient for you to think that way, isn't it?” Olivia said. “But it's possible she's telling you the truth about losing the baby. And all you can think about is how that gives you license to dump her now. I don't care how crazy she is. It's still a lousy way for you to treat a person—any person. I'd say I didn't know you could be so selfish and uncaring, Clay. But I
do
know.” She sighed, and then patted him on the shoulder. “Now, you need to leave me alone. And I need to see my client.”

She turned away from him and started up the stairs.

“I'm not giving up that easily,” she heard him say.

Olivia said nothing, and just kept walking up the stairs—one step at a time.

 

 

Corinne Beal sat in the lounge of Gene Juarez Salon. Thumbing through an issue of
Vogue
, she wore a smock with the GJ logo emblazoned all over it. The woman behind the desk had just set a cup of herbal tea in front of her.

She'd told Clay that she was seeing friends this afternoon. But as soon as she'd found out they were coming to the Seattle area for the memorial, she'd made this appointment. She knew after a weekend with Clay's relatives, she'd be ready for some “me” time. She'd scheduled a manicure, a pedicure, and facial.

Corinne figured the sooner she started feeling good about herself again, the sooner she'd drop the extra weight from her hysterical pregnancy. She'd known for six weeks now that it had all been a false alarm. But she'd managed to make it work to her advantage.

Now that she had Clay, she wasn't letting go. She had to think of other things—besides the promise of a baby—to help her hold on to him. There was always sex, of course. Maybe while she was here she'd get a bikini wax—and then surprise Clay with the Brazilian look. The thought made Corinne smile.

Her cell phone rang. Tossing
Vogue
on the glass top table, she reached inside the pocket of her smock. She glanced at the ID screen. It was an unknown caller.

Corinne ignored it. She took a sip of the tea and picked up a copy of
W
from the table. She flipped through it until her phone chimed to signify she had a text message waiting. Corinne checked it. The message had a photo attachment.

She frowned at the text that popped up:

An image came up on the screen. It was a slightly blurred photo—but unmistakably Clay, and he was about to kiss his soon-to-be ex on the lips. They were in a vestibule someplace—standing by a glass door. The bastard wasn't exactly discreet about it. The photo looked like it might have been taken across the street from wherever they'd had their rendezvous. The date and time were in the lower right corner of the grainy photo:
10/8/12 4:59 PM.

Tears stung Corinne's eyes as she gazed at the photo—taken exactly six minutes ago.

 

 

“Who was that guy in the lobby with you?” Collin asked. He pulled off his backpack, set it on her sofa, and then sat down. “He was at Gail's memorial service, too, wasn't he?”

Olivia switched on the desk lamp and tossed her coat over the chair. “Yes, he's Gail's uncle. Mrs. Pelham was his sister. And he's soon to be my ex-husband. ‘It's a small world after all.' ”

She was still rebounding from the episode with Clay down in the lobby. When had he become such a jerk? How had it happened? He hadn't been that way when she'd married him. She had to remind herself to focus on Collin.

Hunched forward on the sofa, he seemed nervous. He was so gangly-handsome and sweet-looking. After just seeing the handiwork of Wade Grinnell, she couldn't fathom how Collin could have this other persona inside him.

“Sounds corny,” he said. “But I was thinking about it on the way here. It's almost like you were meant to help me out. One of the last things Gail told me was that I should see you and get some therapy.”

Olivia grabbed her notepad and sat down. She had a brief flashback to the summer before last, when Gail had stayed with her and Clay. The three of them had eaten out at Stanford's in the Lloyd Center mall. Their cute server had flirted with Gail, and while waiting for dinner to arrive, Olivia had started to teach her niece a little about hypnosis. She hadn't realized at the time just how happy they'd been.

“Yes, she was a sweet girl,” Olivia said, a little tremor in her voice. Then she cleared her throat and looked at the notes she'd been writing over the weekend. “Okay, Collin, let's get started. Have you ever been to a counselor or therapist before?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“And the only time you've been hypnotized before was with Gail?”

“Right.”

“You said you saw some hypnotists before you came to me. How many? And were any of them able to put you in a trance?”

“There were five, and none of them worked.”

Olivia consulted her notes. “Are you a righty, lefty, or both?”

He shrugged. “Lefty. What does that have to do with anything?”

“According to some studies, people with multiple personality disorder tend to be ambidextrous, and they're said to be easily hypnotized, too. I'm trying to determine if what's happening to you is some type of multiple personality disorder. Play along with me here, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay, sure.”

She asked if he had any history of substance abuse or seizures or blackouts.

Collin just shook his head.

Did he recall any childhood abuse—sexual or physical?

“My mom wasn't exactly a candidate for Mother of the Year, but she never let anything like that happen to me,” Collin answered. “Nobody while I was modeling or acting ever tried anything weird with me. Everyone was pretty nice.”

“How often do you get headaches?” she asked.

“Once in a while, I guess. I take an aspirin and the headache usually goes away.”

“Did you have any imaginary friends when you were a child?”

Collin nodded. “Dave. He and I were outlaws together—like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Only we were Dastardly Dave and the Shilshole Kid
.
Shilshole Bay is where we had our hideout—this shack in the woods by the beach. In fact, the last time you hypnotized me—and when Gail hypnotized me—that was my safe place. It's where I went in my head. . . .”

“Yes, I remember. Let's get back to Dave for a minute. How real was he to you?”

Collin shrugged. “I always sort of knew he was made-up. But I still pretended Dave was around when I was alone or scared. I guess that sounds kind of psycho, huh?”

“Not really,” Olivia said. She decided—with the possible exception of Dave—he showed no signs of dissociative identity disorder. “Having fantasy friends during childhood is a fairly normal thing.”

Frowning, he shifted a bit on the sofa. “I don't know if this is important or not. But the night my mom and her boyfriend were killed, I had a dream with Dave in it.”

“How often does he show up in your dreams?”

“I can't remember any other times—at least, not recently. Do you think it means anything that I dreamt about him that night?”

“Possibly. It's really too soon to deduce anything from it.” Olivia scribbled in the margin of her notes. “Okay, Collin, moving on. You said in our first session that you'd never heard of Wade Grinnell until Gail hypnotized you. How much do you know about him now?”

He sighed. “Well, I went online, and read this article about the World's Fair from ten years ago. It had a timeline of events—”

“Yes, I think I read the same article,” Olivia cut in. “It had little paragraphs explaining what happened on certain dates, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that's the one. Plus I drove to Leavenworth last Monday and talked with Mrs. Pollack-Martin, who survived the hotel fire.”

“She's still alive?”

Collin nodded again. “She was last Monday. I hope she still is. After what happened to Gail and Fernando, I'm not so sure about anything—or anyone.”

“Was Mrs. Pollack-Martin able to tell you something about Wade?”

“Just that he flirted with her seventeen-year-old niece at the fair—and then she spotted him again at the hotel, right before the fire broke out.” He leaned forward on the couch. “But here's the thing you should know. She said I looked just like him. In fact, she almost fainted when she first set eyes on me.”

“Really?” Olivia murmured, staring at him. “Collin, have you seen a photo of Wade? Do you know what he looks like?”

He shook his head. “All I know about him is what I read in that timeline article.”

Olivia decided not to say anything to him for now. Obviously, he wasn't aware of the two other hotel murders and the second fire. And he had no idea Wade didn't resemble him at all physically. She wondered what Mrs. Pollack-Martin had seen in him that had almost made her faint.

“What can you tell me about the 1962 Seattle World's Fair?” she asked.

“Well, I know from the timeline article that Elvis Presley visited—”