Wicked Lies (58 page)

It had been hours since Laura had seen Harrison, and in that time she’d formulated her shortsighted, if necessary plan, eventually calling in sick to work, then loading her car and driving back to Siren Song.

“You don’t have to do this.” Catherine’s face was grim, the lines in her face more pronounced than ever, and her hair, in the drab day, was an equally drab gray.

“Something has to be done, and I’m the only one who can contact him.” Laura said it without inflection, and the older woman gazed at her in worry.

“This has been such a nightmare.”

“Hopefully now it’ll be over.”

Catherine didn’t appear convinced as she reached into a pocket of her voluminous skirt and came up with an old box of bullets. “God help me,” she whispered, handing over the ammo and folding her fingers over Laura’s. “Please, be careful.”

“I will.” She forced a smile.

“If you’re not calling the police—”

“I’m not.” She wasn’t going to spook Justice before she had the chance to confront him.

“Then, please, take that reporter, Harrison Frost, with you. He seems strong and sturdy, and Lord knows he loves you.”

Oh, Catherine, if you only knew.

Laura nodded because she knew there was no way Catherine wouldn’t keep harping at her until she agreed. The older woman frowned, obviously wondering at Laura’s quick capitulation, but Laura left her to her thoughts. “I’ll see you soon,” she promised and hugged the woman who had tried her best to raise her.

“Take care.”

Laura released Catherine and hurried away, along the puddles of the pathway to the main gate, where Earl waited to bolt the gate after her. She climbed into her Subaru with the rubber raft strapped to its roof rack, an earlier purchase, one she’d made on a whim but one that could very well prove to be a necessity if she kept with her plans.

She knew facing Justice bordered on lunacy, but she didn’t care. This had to end. And it would. Tonight.

Harrison watched as Zellman was led away, his hands cuffed behind his back. It had taken fifteen minutes to read the psychiatrist his rights and haul him out of his place of business, but now Harrison and Detective Stone were alone in the doctor’s tidy office.

“How did you know?” he asked Stone.

“Same as you. The domestic violence charges were dropped, but there were the accusations. Zellman’s half nutty himself. Thought his wife was having affairs when she wasn’t. And then the knife wounds on Brandt and Patricia Zellman? Inconsistent with the wounds on the two women at Siren Song.”

“So Turnbull was attacking the women at Siren Song while Zellman attacked his own family?”

Stone was nodding. “The timing seemed too close, so we had to start looking at Zellman as the possible doer. He planned it all along. I even checked with his physician. He was faking his injuries, or at least making them appear worse than they were. He pretended he couldn’t talk, then mimicked Turnbull on the phone when he called you. We did find the phone. In a garbage can near the Drift In Market, close to where the last call was made according to the cell phone company tower records. I’m betting my badge the only prints we find on it are the doc’s.”

“You came at the right moment. I think he was going to claim I was attacking him and he shot me in self-defense.”

“How’re you feeling?” Stone asked.

Harrison moved his arm, which was down to a dull throb. “Electrified.”

Stone smiled thinly. “Good thing you don’t have a weapon on you. Or a recording device, because we wouldn’t want anything to compromise nailing Zellman for his wife’s murder and his kid’s assault.”

“Good thing,” Harrison agreed with a straight face. “I can’t believe the bastard attacked his own kid.”

“He never meant to really hurt him. It was a cover. He had to make sure the kid didn’t get up during the attack. But Brandt didn’t sustain any deep cuts. He didn’t recognize his dad, either, as he was attacked in the dark while he was sleeping. Or, at least he says he didn’t. By the time he was conscious and thinking, Zellman had barricaded him in the room by shoving a hall dresser in front of the door. Brandt was too weak to get out and then passed out, we think. Still working on that.” Stone exhaled heavily. “Zellman had to have had a pretty bad moment there, at the house, when it looked like Brandt was hurt worse than he thought.”

“Good,” Harrison stated coldly.

They were walking across the skyway. From the glass crossing, Harrison looked down on the parking lot, where emergency vehicles and police cruisers were parked, lights flashing, the night settling in. An officer was helping Zellman into the back of a car.

Stone said, “I’m not kidding, Frost. Don’t mess up my arrest, okay? Zellman may be crazy as a loon, but he’s still wealthy, can afford a good lawyer. This case has got to be pristine. If you have a recording or notes, I don’t want to see them. Ever. In exchange, once it’s over, you’ll get first crack at interviews with the department and Zellman.” He slid a glance at Harrison. “And this conversation never happened. You need to come down to the department and make a formal statement.” Then he walked swiftly away, calling the elevator.

Harrison waited until he saw Stone in the parking lot; then he reached into his pocket, withdrew the micro-recorder, tossed it onto the floor, and squashed it with the heel of his boot.

That accomplished, he picked up the pieces, stuffed them into his pocket, and pushed the call button for the elevator.

He glanced at his watch. Seven p.m. Now that Zellman was behind bars, he had to concentrate on Turnbull.

He thought of Laura, of course, but didn’t go there. Not yet.

Once outside, he jogged to his car, turned on his cell phone, and read through his texts before he got behind the wheel.

The message that made him take notice was from Buddy, sent fifteen minutes earlier.

Blond chick here with info on Manny Rojas killing at Boozehound.

He stared at the screen, disbelieving. The anorexic blonde? Was this some kind of a joke? The same “skinny blonde” who had stopped into the Sands of Thyme and talked to Kirsten? That was who that was? The one with information on
Manny’s death?
He felt that quick little rush of adrenaline pump through his blood he always felt when a story was coming together. And this one, about his sister’s husband, was more than just something he found interesting. It was life changing. For Kirsten. For Didi. For him.

Sliding behind the wheel, he called Buddy, who answered on the second ring. “Is the woman still there?” he demanded.

“Yeah, but it’s late, y’know? I convinced her to wait, but we’re trying to go home here.” Then, “She is kinda hot, though, in that super-skinny model way.”

“Is she legit? I mean her story.”

“You tell me.”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” he said. “Tell her I really want to talk to her.” He hit the gas. Was this possible? After all this time, she just came forward?

But there had been a thin blonde the night of the shooting. . . .

He slid into a parking spot at the newspaper in fifty minutes, then hurried inside. Sure enough, seated in front of Buddy’s desk, wearing a short skirt, boots, and a long-sleeved T, was a really thin woman with platinum hair feathered around her sculpted face, which had a bored expression. The smell of cigarette smoke surrounded her as she saw him enter. “You’re Harrison Frost,” she said, and Harrison knew, from viewing the tapes from the security cameras surrounding Boozehound, that this was indeed the woman who’d witnessed the murder of his brother-in-law. “I’ve been following what’s been happening with you.”

“And your name is?” he asked.

“Marilla Belgard. I was at the club that night, and I know who killed your brother-in-law.”

“You would make a statement to the police?”

“Sure.”

“Why now?”

She snorted. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah. It does.”

“Guilty conscience, I guess. I saw that you lost your job and well”—she fiddled with the gold cross danging from a chain around her neck—“the Lord found me and I’ve been atoning . . .”

Harrison grabbed his notepad and said, “Go.” After a halting start, she gave him the whole story, which included admitting to knowing Bill Koontz, working for him as a party planner, overhearing him talking one night about how to “get rid of Rojas.” She hadn’t known he’d planned to have Manny killed until the shooting. She’d disappeared after the doer shot himself, afraid for her life; then, finding a new faith, she’d decided to come clean to Harrison.

“I should have done it earlier,” she said, still fingering the cross that dangled between her protruding collarbones.

“Let’s just deal with the here and now. I’ll call Detective Langdon Stone with the Tillamook Sheriff’s Department. He’s a friend of mine.” Well, that was probably stretching the truth a bit. “It’s not his jurisdiction, but he used to work with the Portland Police Department, so he’ll know where to steer us.”

“You’ll . . . you’ll be with me, though, right? I’m not really cool with cops.”

“Isn’t Jesus?”

Marilla eyed him speculatively. “Are you making fun of me?”

Harrison shrugged. “I’ll call Stone and we’ll head down in my car together.”

She relaxed a bit. “If you let me smoke in your car.” She looked at him ingenuously. “I’m not kidding. Cops kinda freak me out.”

“It’ll be fine,” Harrison said, the bigger problem being the time that was passing and the fact that he was beginning to worry about Laura. He’d let his temper get the better of him, and now, after he’d been beat up by and lectured by Kirsten, zapped by Zellman, and confessed to by Marilla Belgard, he was beginning to cool off and realize how much he missed her, how much he worried about her.

Escorting Marilla to his Impala, he checked his phone, saw no message from Laura, and figured she had to be still angry. Well, she had a right, he supposed. As soon as he squared Marilla Belgard with Stone, he’d find Laura and they would work this thing out. Of course, he had a story to write, telling the truth about Manny’s death, vindicating himself. But that story could wait a few more days, once Bill Koontz was arrested.

But Justice was still out there, and Laura wouldn’t be safe till he was caught.

CHAPTER 45

H
arrison walked out of the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department into a cloud-filled June evening, feeling as if a final page had been written on a chapter of his life that was now closed. He’d introduced Marilla Belgard to Detective Stone, who had listened to her story and called his ex-partner at the Portland Police Department. It looked like Koontz would soon be arrested and finally, finally, Manny’s killer would be brought to justice.

Justice.

He felt a frisson slide down his back. The bastard may have been wounded, but he wasn’t dead. He was still out there, still on his mission. And Laura still wasn’t safe.

Harrison had called Kirsten and broken the news about the new evidence in her husband’s death. Kirsten had been overwhelmed, asking a million questions, and though Harrison shared her relief, he had to put her on hold for a while.

“I gotta connect with Laura,” he told her, and she reluctantly let him go.

He’d left Marilla in Stone’s care. The detective had promised to return her to Seaside and the car she’d left at the offices of the
Breeze.

Deciding it was time to eat a major helping of crow, he punched the speed dial button that connected him to Laura’s cell phone, but the call went straight to voice mail. “Hey, it’s me. Call me back. Please.”

He wondered if she would. A bad feeling settled over him, and he drove straight to Laura’s house. Her Outback wasn’t in its usual parking spot, and the house was dark. He stopped, anyway, and let himself in with his key, as he’d kept one after changing the lock in the place. But, of course, she wasn’t inside.

But she’d been there.

He recognized the T-shirt she’d slept in the night before, left on the foot of the bed, the small bag she’d brought with her on the bathroom floor, the clean scent of the perfume she wore lingering . . . So she was planning to stay here? Just went out to . . . grab a late dinner?

He searched the cottage, making note of the touches that were Laura, the books and plants, the comfortable furniture, eclectic lamps, a haven invaded by a madman. She wasn’t here, of course; he knew that. But he even searched the basement, going outside to the exterior steps, but there was nothing but old boxes and forgotten memories.

He tried to call her again, and got nowhere.

So where was she?

His mind raced to several possibilities, and he was locking up, wondering how to track her down, when his phone rang and his heart lifted.

Laura!

But the number printed on the screen of his cell was one he didn’t recognize. He answered, “Frost.”

“Oh, Mr. Frost,” a woman said, her voice uncertain. “I’m glad I caught you. This is Catherine Rutledge . . . from Siren Song.”

Harrison’s heart nearly stopped beating. His fingers curled over the cell. “Yes?”

“I was sworn to secrecy by Lorelei, but I thought you should know . . . she left here and . . .”

Harrison braced himself for the worst.

“And she’s taken off after Justice. She’s been gone about an hour. She’s heading to the lighthouse. She’s convinced that he’ll return there. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was adamant. Oh, dear, I really shouldn’t have let her go, but there was no talking her out of it. I . . . I, uh, just thought someone should know.”

And then she clicked off.

Low tide had exposed rocks and tide pools with starfish, barnacles, and mussels. Crabs scuttled away, toward the receding ocean, while the seagulls squawked and wheeled over the sand as they searched for their next meal on the exposed seabed. The rain had let up for a while. A crack in the cloud cover over the horizon showed the last rays of a lowering sun as Laura, hauling the small raft, headed for the island, a rocky ridge bearing the lighthouse, which hadn’t been used for years, except as Justice Turnbull’s lair a few years ago.