Rogue Justice (37 page)

"Yeah, so I've heard. Then what?"

"Well, I managed to scramble out of the water somehow. That's when I discovered my colleague over there, lying in that very spot. It was absolutely horrifying."

Steiger nodded. "I understand. Listen, does your colleague have a name?"

Freeman seemed paralyzed by the question. He looked off, continued to talk. "In hindsight, I suppose it was pretty stupid, right? I mean I knew he was a goner, no way
anybody
could've survived an attack like that. But in the heat of the moment, it never occurred to me that one of those creatures might come back. Obviously, I was wrong." He paused, sighing deeply again. "You know, detective, that structure was designed to withstand hurricane force winds. But look at it now, crushed like a piece of tinfoil."

"I can see that, Mr. Freeman," Steiger said, letting the other question slide for the moment "So what about that star performer of yours?"

"Samson? Why he escaped, of course."

"Escaped?"

"That's right. I still can't believe it."

"Well, now, isn't that convenient?" Steiger added, hiking an eyebrow. "Let's get back to that colleague of yours, okay? I need a name."

Freeman rallied a bit, sat up straight. "Oh, sorry, sure. It's Tradd, Preston Tradd. He works for a consulting firm we use here at the park from time to time."

"Which firm?"

"I'd rather not say."

"And why is that, sir?"

Now for the big one.

"It's confidential. I'm not at liberty to disclose anything beyond that right now."

"Listen, Mr. Freeman, we've got a dead guy down there. Deader than
hell
. And me and my colleagues need to figure out exactly what he was doing here, why he ended up in several pieces. So you might want to reconsider your answer."

"I'm sorry," Freeman said. "I think it best if I speak with our attorneys first."

"Then I'd be wasting my breath to ask about Dr. Katrina Kincaid?"

Freeman's face registered no reaction. "Yes, I heard about what happened to her. Another terrible tragedy. She'd been treating Samson, you know, doing a great job. He was—"

"Only now she's dead," Steiger interrupted, his words quiet but hard as steel. "And the whale's gone. Come to think of it, lawyering up may not be such a bad idea after all."

"What's that supposed to mean, detective?"

"You tell me, Mr. Freeman. You tell me."

Chapter 39

4 April, 6:15 AM PDT

Puget Sound, Washington

The
Northern Star
steamed north at ten knots in light winds, running hard against the current. Zora's exhausted crew had bunked down soon after leaving the park in Seattle, all except Houdini. He sat motionless on the aft deck, his legs crossed, the backs of his hands resting on his thighs. Was he brooding? Meditating? Zora wasn't sure. She set the autopilot, stepped to the starboard side of the bridge, and leaned against the windowsill. The water was calm, deep blue, and the sun poked through wispy clouds with promises of a fine new day. She could feel its warmth, yet a cold chill crept up her spine.

She was thinking about all that had happened in the past week, how her endless adventures had brought her to this place that now seemed so dark and lonely. First, there was college, then her world travels, and finally, the biggest challenge of all, conquering the macho world of commercial fishing. Now, maybe it was time to recalibrate her priorities. She'd made money, sure, but not much of a difference. She would be thirty-seven in less than a month, had never married, never even experienced a satisfying, long-term relationship. There'd been no shortage of men along the way, yet she tended to go for the charming, dangerous types. "Bad boys" cut from the same cloth as her father, betrayal hardwired into their DNA. No future there, not after watching what it had done to her mother, unraveling her life piece by agonizing piece. It was late in the game for kids too—though not too late—and she sometimes imagined what it would be like to raise a rug-rat or two.

So... where to from here? Hell, she couldn't fish forever.

As she pondered that thought, the handsome face of Mickey Kincaid lodged in her mind. She wondered how he was holding up, how he was dealing with the loss of his sister, the pain, the sadness, the anger. Zora's thoughts then turned to her mother. She picked up the framed photo and clutched it to her chest.

I miss her. I miss her so much.

At that same moment, Zora heard stirring down below, caught a whiff of freshly brewed coffee wafting up from the galley. She stepped back to the wheel as Lapenda yanked open the pilothouse door. He was carrying two mugs in his left hand. "Hey, Skip, figured you could use some joe. High octane stuff, made it myself."

"Great, thanks, Rico."

"Hope you're hungry, too. Cassidy's cooking up a skillet of his famous disaster omelets. He threw everything in there this time,
including
the kitchen sink."

"Sounds good. I had a Pop Tart earlier, that's it."

They stood in silence staring out the window, sipping coffee. Zora felt like she'd hit a wall, everything exposed, raw. All she wanted now was to return Mack's boat, hop on a plane, get to Utah as soon as possible—and hold her mother's hand.

She was startled by the sound of her phone, surprised there was even a tower within range. She picked up. "This is Zora... yes, of course I remember you." As she listened, her bottom lip began to tremble, her face turned pale, and tears welled up in her eyes. "What do you mean she just walked out the door? Yes... yes...
what
man? In her room? What the hell are you talking about?" There was a minute or so of silence, then, "Oh my God. No!" The coffee mug slipped from her hand, crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces. "But how... how could you let her... never mind. I'll get there as fast as I can."

Zora dropped the phone on the chart table, staggered backwards, her face a horrid pallor.

Lapenda reached out with his free arm to steady her. "Skip, what is it?"

"My mother," Zora said, haltingly. "She's..."

"What?"

"She's dead."

"Dead!" Lapenda gasped. "How?"

Zora slumped against the pilot's seat, her mind numb. "She froze to death. An orderly found her a few minutes ago, lying on a bench inside the gazebo."

"On the property?"

"Yeah, next to a small lake. Mother loved that spot. We'd sit there and talk for hours when I visited. Sometimes she'd even remember who I was."

"But how does that happen? They lock up those places tighter than a drum, don't they?"

"Good question, Rico," Zora replied, her voice trembling. "That was the owner of the place. She's not exactly sure what happened. She said a janitor stepped outside to take a smoke break and left the back door unlocked. Next thing they know Mother's gone. Apparently she'd been complaining about a strange man in her room. Everyone thought she was hallucinating, though, or talking to ghosts again."

"The goon who took her picture," Lapenda said. "Has to be."

"Yeah. Anyway, the cops apparently looked everywhere except where she was. Jesus, I..."

Lapenda set his mug down, wrapped Zora in his arms. "I'm so sorry, Skip."

Zora buried her head in his chest, reached for her mother's picture again, a rage now burning deep inside her. She wanted to throw something, break something, lash out, anything but steer this boat. For a full minute, she stared at the photo without speaking. Then she took a step back, brushed away the tears, and screamed, "Mitchell fucking Chandler!" The loud shriek nearly caused Lapenda to jump out of his skin. An instant later, she dug into her pocket and found the DA's card. She grabbed her phone and drilled in the number he'd written on the back. Angrily rocking from one foot to the other, she waited for the other party to pick up.

Finally, after several rings, he did.

And Detective Cloyd Steiger got an earful.

Chapter 40

4 April, 6:45 AM PDT

Kingdom of the Sea Oceanarium,

Seattle, Washington

After clicking off, Steiger sat for a long moment in stunned silence. He then made a call of his own. He hadn't spoken with Jefferson County Prosecuting Attorney Scott Rosekrans since Rosekrans had been ordered by SIU to steer clear of the Katrina Kincaid investigation. Now, however, there were two more deaths connected to these seemingly interconnected cases of blackmail and murder—the mangled consultant, Tradd, and Zora's mother. He could no longer sit on the sidelines.

The conversation was brief.

Steiger told the DA it was imperative they meet, that important new information had come to light on both cases. He didn't elaborate. They agreed on a time—ten o'clock. Before leaving the chaotic scene at the park, however, Steiger briefed the captain on his conversation with Colby Freeman. He did not mention Zora Flynn or the disturbing phone call he'd had with her moments earlier. After hitting the road, he tuned in an all-news station broadcasting nonstop coverage of "an alleged terrorist plot at KOS-Seattle." Despite repeated denials from a police spokesperson, breathless reporters continued to push for any kind of statement that might suggest Armageddon.

Steiger soon tired of the endless drivel, punched off the radio, and drove on in blessed silence. Less than three hours later—after a lengthy delay at the Edmonds ferry dock—he rolled into Port Townsend. He slowed as he passed a collection of ornate Victorian mansions that dotted the craggy bluffs towering over Water Street, the town's main artery.

Moments later, he pulled into the driveway of a yellow charmer with a wraparound porch and million dollar views of Admiralty Inlet. Steiger and his wife had been eyeing the lovely three-bedroom gem since it had first come on the market. It needed some major work, which was reflected in the relatively modest price. They planned to retire here, a prospect that felt infinitely more real to him than it had just a few days earlier. During his long career as a cop, he'd gone off the grid too many times to count but never with the stakes this high, never with the governor's hacks lurking in the shadows.

He stepped out of the black Caprice, walked to the edge of the bluff, and sat down on a rickety wooden bench. From here he could see the thriving business district below, a charming three block area that carried on the Victorian theme of the stately homes above it. Steiger had been to this same spot once before, remembered clearing his head during the heat of a particularly baffling homicide investigation. Now the face of Captain Zora Flynn swam into focus and with it, the pieces of an even more disturbing puzzle—the computer printout that linked Dr. Kincaid to KOS-Seattle and perhaps Mitchell Chandler... the mind-bending assault on the park by the rogue whales... his interview with a harried Colby Freeman... and, finally, his most recent conversation with the captain. Steiger felt terrible about the death of her mother, but the revelation had also confirmed his hunch that Freeman was lying about his star performer. A whale had indeed escaped from the sea-pen, a whale that was clearly
not
Samson.

A few minutes before ten, Steiger arrived at the Courthouse. He parked in front of the building, hiked up to the third floor, and was ushered into the Prosecuting Attorney's office. Scott Rosekrans was standing behind his desk, his eyes drifting slowly over a stack of documents spread out in front of him. He looked up, the two men shook hands, and exchanged some small talk. Steiger didn't have to ask what the DA was working on. He could read the cover page of the preliminary investigation report himself: