Wicked Tempest: A Kate Waters Mystery (Kate Waters Mysteries Book 2) (24 page)

A floorboard on the dock creaked. Both Wells and Thea heard it.

“Someone is coming,” Thea whispered.

Wells zipped up the bag, but didn’t have time to put it back in the cupboard. They had to climb down the ladder of the boat, fast, and without making the boat rock or water splash.

Something scraped along the doorframe and then a “chank” sound thumped against the shed. Wells knew that sound, had heard it before—the noise of someone cutting a lock. His heart pounded at the recollection that he had left his gun underneath his clothes on the dock since he couldn’t submerge it in water. He had no way of protecting himself or Thea if they were caught.

He motioned to Thea to get back in the water and swim toward the back of the boat in case they needed to escape.

Light spilled into the dark interior and someone stepped inside. Wells swam over to Thea, staying close to her side, gesturing to her with his finger to his lips to be quiet. A flashlight waved around the space. Footsteps creaked along the boards. Wells observed the person’s shadow on the wall, not a tall person, but hefty in the shoulders—a man.

Thea watched the shadow too, moving cautiously around the boat so they wouldn’t be spotted. Given the danger of the situation, the calmness Thea portrayed surprised Wells. She wasn’t afraid, and her cool manner attracted him even more. He wanted to grab her by the back of the neck and pull her to his mouth, but at the same time, he intended on protecting her from whoever was with them in the boatshed, which likely wasn’t Andre, unless he’d lost the key to his lock. It crossed his mind then that perhaps the owner of the money had returned, someone potentially far more dangerous than Andre.

He glanced around the corner of the boat. The man had his back to them. He could only see his blue jeans, black shirt, and short honey-brown hair. Your average Joe. The man shifted around and Wells ducked his head down in the water just as a ray of light shot his way. The man’s footsteps tapped on the dock, trailing down the length of the boat toward the stern.

***

“Fucking figures,” Keith muttered to himself.

He thought he heard something, spun around, and shone the light at the boat. The water made ripples as if something had moved beneath it. Thinking it was probably just geese who had found their way inside, Keith walked along the side of the boat to make sure, skimming the flashlight across water that slapped against the boat. He peered in the boat when an opened cupboard drawer inside caught his attention.

Just waves from the river, he told himself, now more interested in the partial glimpse of a duffle bag sticking out of the drawer. He stepped up into the boat with a spreading smile across his face. It seemed to him like the perfect place to store a valuable statue.

Keith unzipped the bag and jerked back in surprise at its contents. Money, bundled in stacks of $100-bills.

“My, my, Andre. You are one busy fella. Seems as though we might make a good trade,” he thought aloud. If Andre still had the statue, he could have his money back in return. Some of it anyway.

Keith zipped up the bag and set it aside, pausing at the sound of another slap of water against the boat. He leaned over the side, aiming the flashlight at the water, but couldn’t see anything.

He stepped from the boat, and made another quick round of the boatshed. On leaving, he didn’t think it mattered to rope the chain back on in a way that appeared as if it were still locked—Andre would know well enough that someone had broken in when he realized his duffle bag was missing, so he tossed the chain and lock into the water. While he didn’t find the statue, he was at least 500K richer, plenty enough to keep his spirits up.

***

Wells welcomed the fresh air of the open sky, but the cold of the river had sunk a chill deep into his bones. He swam around the back side of the shed as quickly and quietly as he could to get another glimpse of the man who had broken into Andre’s boatshed. He suspected that whoever had been inside was the same person who had been snooping through his office. He didn’t see his face, but he did notice one important feature of him: Andre’s white duffle bag hung from his left hand as he strode from the dock. Wells thought he had the walk of a soldier, stiff and uniformed… Uniformed…

Thea swam up to him. “Who was he?”

“I don’t know, but I think we should go.”

They climbed up onto the dock, both shivering and eager to get back into their dry clothes. Whether it was the cold or their close encounter with the man, neither one of them cast awkward glances at each other’s bare skin this time. Thea buttoned her tan linen pants and put her coat on. Wells buckled his belt, his mind still lingering on the words the man had said, “My, my, Andre. You are one busy fella. Seems as though we might make a good trade.”

He finished lacing his shoes and looked up at Thea. They had shared a special moment together. Never had he conducted police business with anyone other than police officers, and somehow, Thea had acted like the best of them. It was a turning point for Wells, one that might define the beginning of something bigger between them. Thea smiled at him, as if thinking the same.

“Are you okay?” he asked, pushing his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.

“Fine. You?” Thea brushed her wet hair up into a knot at the back of her head.

“Good.”

They left the dock walking side by side. “Do you need a ride home?” Wells asked.

“No.” Thea replied. “I drove.”

“Parked out of sight?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He walked Thea to her car, behind a water shed. An awkward moment of silence stretched between them as she unlocked her door. Wells glanced down, nervously, wondering how far to take their intimate encounter—was it appropriate for a kiss?—when he noticed a red stain on Thea’s pant leg. “You have blood on your pants. Did you get cut?”

Thea looked down at her pants. “No. It must be an old stain or sauce.”

Something had crossed her eyes, an emotion or thought she seemed to quiet. He didn’t push it.

“It’s been an interesting evening, Ms. Wright. I assume I don’t need to ask you to keep this to yourself. Investigating with a nonofficial might get me grounded to the desk.”

“I understand,” she said. “Besides, I would have investigated Andre’s shed with or without you, so consider it an incident beyond your control.”

She stepped closer to him. He thought the kiss he had been anticipating for days was about to arrive. He brought his hand up to her cheek, almost touched it when his phone rang. He wanted to strangle the caller.

“Hold on,” Wells said. He took the phone from his pocket and glanced at the display. It was from dispatch. This had better be an emergency.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this.” He stepped away from Thea. “Hello, this is Detective Wells speaking.”

“Good evening, Detective. Michelle Richardson. You’re being called to a 419, possible 187.” Emergency enough, he thought with a tinge of guilt. A 419 was a dead body, possible homicide.

“Location?” he asked.

“House on 2304 Sherwood Lane. Deceased is female.”

Wells’ insides turned to a permafrost state. That was Suzanne Jones’ address. “Would you confirm the address again?”

“Yes, that’s 2304 Sherwood Lane. Bring your booties. I hear it’s a very bloody scene.”

Bloody scene. Air squeezed from Wells’ lungs. He thought he was going to choke, and instead, coughed loudly. He glanced back at Thea, at the blood on her pants.

It must be an old stain…

“I’ll be there in ten.”              

He turned off his phone and faced Thea.

“Everything all right?” she asked, holding the door to her car open.

“Not really.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No.” He tried to smile, appear normal, but it wouldn’t come, and the questioning expression on her face confirmed it.

Thea sat down in the driver’s seat. “Thanks, Ray.”

That last bit hit him square in the chest. Ray. Wells nodded. He wanted to say something to her, if only a good-bye, but couldn’t even muster that. Instead, Thea left him in his silence as he watched her drive away. He thought his heart might be splitting open again. Of all the questions in his mind, only one of them kept repeating itself like the skip of a record: Whose blood was on Thea’s pant leg?

Trust was a ship set sail upon the vast ocean of love. Adventure, risk, and the unknown awaited the captain. Anything could go wrong, and it often did. Without the proper equipment and strength of mind, a ship could nosedive into the giant, fierce waves, to disaster and death. Sometimes, given the severity of the storm, there was nothing you could do. Other times, it ultimately depended on what you believed you could survive, what story you would risk everything to tell.

Kate had endured much greater storms than the one she confronted now, had lived to tell them, but at what point do you stop and dock the boat, and gaze upon that vast ocean of love as someone else’s journey? She thought of this as she walked up the steps to a house once so familiar to her. A place she used to visit every week. She knew the curvature of the sidewalk, had memorized the position and type of plants and shrubs, and even anticipated the gargoyle statue at the base of the steps of what used to be her sister’s front door. Quietly, she slipped a key into the lock, pushed the door open, and shut it just as gently.

The room was dark, filled with unfamiliar shadows. New furniture, new pictures, new belongings. At one time, there had been a brown sofa to her right, plants that collected at the corners and on top of shelves in the living room. Above the fireplace, a picture of a lone wolf had stood in the snow—Jev’s favorite Stephen Lymen painting. When she flipped on the table lamp by the door, light chased away those memories and filled her with the stark reality of the present, the possessions of her father and stepmother, Louise.

Not so long ago, Kate and her father had barely spoken a word to each other for two years after her mother passed away from cancer. Jack had honored Ellen’s wish to keep her illness a secret so Kate could finish her dissertation. She had died before Kate had the chance to say good-bye, hence her bitterness toward her father, but after the events of Jev’s death, they made up. They had to. All they had left was each other. Jack had made it a point since then to visit and see Kate as often as he could, welcoming her to the house at any time, day or night, no matter what. Tonight, Kate decided to take him up on the offer, preferring his sofa over her bed across town.

A part of her hoped David would finally feel the coldness of the sheets she’d been sleeping in for the last week while he slept at Robyn’s. Kate had sympathy for Robyn and her illness, had been touched by it herself, but it still didn’t cool the betrayal burning through her every time she thought of David staying with her.

Even though David was finally home, it seemed a vast, cold ocean still separated them. She knew that at some point she’d have to go back, work things out with him, if that’s what he truly wished for…and what she still wanted. She thought it was, until thoughts of Nick crept into her head—Nick who loved his son, was unattached to an ex, and shared similar interests as she. Late at night, this was the game she played with herself.

Kate stripped off her jacket and draped it over a chair in the kitchen. She went to the sink for a glass of water and thought about making a sandwich. Louise was a vegetarian, so she would probably have to be content with cheese, lettuce, and tomato. Just as Kate was pouring herself some water, she heard footsteps down the hall. She turned to find her dad standing there, squinting against the brightness of the lights.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, moving to the wall to turn down the canister lighting.

“Kate, are you okay?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I was just, you know, popping in to see how you were.”

He walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, rubbed his face, and then glanced at his watch. “Popping in, huh?” he said glancing at his watch.

“I’m sorry I woke you. I was trying to be as quiet as I could.”

“No, no, that’s okay. I’ve been lying in bed awake. I saw your car in the driveway.” He studied her, his stare seemingly to discern if she was okay.

“David and I had a fight. I wanted to get away for the night.”

“Just like your mother used to do, after you and your sister left the house for college.” Jack looked up into a corner of the room, lost in a memory. “Sometimes she’d sleep in the spare room for a day or two, but I always knew the distance was temporary, so I gave her the space she needed. Must be the necessities of a woman’s spirit.”

Kate nodded and proceeded to take out fixings in the fridge for the sandwich.

“I hid some turkey in the back drawer of the cold tray,” he said with a grin.

Kate smiled. “That’s all right. I suppose we could both use a little less meat in our diet.”

Jack chuckled. Then the softness left his face as he eyed the yellowing, blue bruise at her eye. “So have the police found out anything more about who attacked you?”

“I haven’t been in contact with Wells lately, but I know he’ll call me as soon as he hears something.”

“I worry about you.”

“I know. I don’t think there is anything to worry about though, not anymore.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Kate sat down at the table and laid her hand on her dad’s. “Sometimes you just have to trust. Everything eventually turns out all right.” It sounded like something Jev would have said.

Her phone buzzed on the table, and Kate saw Nick’s number on the display. “Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

“Don’t leave without saying good-bye in the morning.”

“Promise.” Kate kissed him on the cheek, grabbed her sandwich, and stepped into the laundry room and then out the back door.

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Kate tried, but failed at hiding the disappointment and hurt in her voice.

“You don’t sound fine.”

Nick seemed as downtrodden as her. She stalled telling him about David, knowing sooner or later she would have to tell him that he was back.

“I drove by your place to check up on you,” he said. “I noticed a dark blue pickup truck in the driveway. I assume it’s David, but wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thank you, and yes, David is back home.”

“But you’re not?”

“I hate to use the word complicated, but that’s what comes to mind.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Nick cleared his voice. “I’m going to drive to the coast and bring the Dawn Maiden to the Willamette. I’d love to make the journey with you.”

“As much fun as that sounds, I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“Just thought I’d ask. I’ll be at your office the day after tomorrow to finish up some things with Stewart.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” he asked.

“Positive. It’s just been a long night. Sleep is what I need the most.”

“Okay. I won’t bug you anymore.”

“You weren’t, but thanks. Good night, Nick.”

“Good night, Kate.”

Kate hung up the phone. Definitely complicated.

She took a bite of her sandwich and looked up in the sky. The silent shadows of ash-colored clouds drifted overhead. Then much darker shadows of birds, the kind that didn’t belong in any neighborhood. It was a flock of blue heron, at least twenty of them. While it wasn’t unusual to see one or two in the city, it was another thing to see such a large flock. The magnetic storms were affecting their migratory routes, she thought. There was an explanation to the chaos. Always was. Everything had a pattern.

Pattern, pattern… Kate suspected the lack of pattern with the snake on Suzanne’s doorstep was the result of human interference, not supernatural. Nature had patterns, and while humans were habitual, they broke these patterns for many reasons, especially when it came to relationships.

Kate went inside, shut, and locked the door. She lay down on the couch, pulled a blanket over her that her father had brought out, and fell into a deep sleep, one filled with dreams of floods and running from nothing in particular.

***

Clusters of spinning, bright lights grouped around Suzanne Jones’ house, a stark announcement to the neighborhood that crime had struck along their street. Wells parked his sedan behind the forensics van and noted the time, 12:24 a.m. In the driveway, a crowd of officials, police officers, and forensic pathologists gathered, unloading supplies and dispersing duties. An ambulance turned off its lights and drove away slowly. Their drive back to the hospital would be an empty one tonight. Suzanne Jones was dead.

Wells showed his badge to an officer near the front door and stepped inside. There was a tray of booties and gloves in the living room for anyone investigating the scene. He spotted a familiar face in the crowd, Anthony Cain, the Chief of Forensics. Cain turned his direction when Wells walked in.

“Detective Wells,” he said, stepping away from the other officers. “I’m glad you’re here. I understand you knew the deceased?”

“So you’ve confirmed the girl is, in fact, Suzanne Jones?”

“No doubt about it, but we’ll make it official at the hospital. What can you tell me about her?”

“I spoke with her last Thursday.” Wells remembered the frail, concerned Suzanne answering the door when they first met and all that their conversation entailed. “She called in with information about her friend Brooke Jennings, the girl who recently died in her house from a lightning strike.”

“Yeah, I heard something about that from John.”

“Brooke mentioned someone had been playing pranks on her, leaving a dead snake on her doorstep. Apparently, Suzanne thought Brooke was afraid of someone.”

“Do we know who?”

“No, but get this. She was having an affair with Suzanne’s boyfriend, Andre Singer.”

Cain’s eyes shone brighter. “The twisted webs we weave.”

“Nice little connection, right?” Wells said, seemingly to elaborate on Cain’s thoughts.

“I would say so. However,” he glanced behind them, “there’s nothing little about this scene except for the deceased herself.” Cain motioned for Wells to follow him to the tray and tossed him a pair of gloves and booties.

“I haven’t had one of these in years,” Wells said.

“You won’t even believe it,” Cain replied. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone had painted the walls blood red. Two officers have already lost their dinner.”

Wells’ stomach did a flip. Deaths that occurred in bathrooms were always somehow more horrific, as if the filth of death clashed with the purpose of the room, to clean and purify the body, not to become a stage for violent gore. He imagined whoever was responsible for Suzanne’s death, was doing just that—cleansing his or her troubles away. He couldn’t help but wonder what Thea had really been doing down at Andre’s boatshed? Looking for evidence on Andre…or planting it? His stomach flipped again.

Wells took a deep breath before heading toward the bathroom with Cain, knowing that once inside, breathing would be difficult. One officer stood against the wall outside the bathroom, pale and green in the face. His eyes still seemed fixed on all the blood. Wells rounded the doorframe and first looked down. He always thought difficult scenes were easier when you saw the body first, to get the hard part out of the way. Then you spanned your vision out to the surrounding scene, but when Wells walked into Suzanne’s bathroom, the only thing he could see was blood, everywhere. His thoughts flashed back to the blood on Thea’s pants. No, not yet, he told himself. Don’t go there just yet.

Wells forced his eyes to the floor again, and found Suzanne. She lay face down on the tile of the floor in a large, misshapen puddle of her own blood, her hair matted in it, hands coated with it, clothes saturated in it. Forensic photographers finished the last of their shots. The flash of their cameras seemed to sear still-images in Wells’ mind, images he knew he would be seeing later on, notably in the middle of the night.

“Jesus,” Wells muttered.

Usually after the first shock of gore, he was fine and capable of analyzing the details of the scene, but it had been awhile since Wells had seen anything like this. A warm wave hit his stomach, rolled up his esophagus, and lumped into the back of his throat.

“I told you so,” Cain replied.

Wells shook his head, still in disbelief.

“Detective Orwin Wells,” said another officer. His name was Mark Anderson.

“Hello, Anderson,” Wells said. “What do we know so far?”

“Hard to tell at this point,” he said. Anderson had the same baffled, green look on his face as the rest of them, even more pronounced on him with his sandy, graying hair. His glasses reflected the light in the bathroom, and even in the lenses—Wells could still see blood. Whoever did this was no ordinary individual. Someone with hard nerves and a calculating mind. No, not like Thea, Wells said to himself. But she did have nerve, and definitely a calculating mind. She had planned on swimming under Andre’s boatshed by herself.

The photographers gave a thumbs-up to Cain, allowing Wells to step farther inside the bathroom. He moved gingerly around the few spaces of white floor tiling and kneeled down next to the body. Red, red, red. The bathwater, sink, walls, and floor. All sprayed with her blood. The smell of it thickened the saliva in his mouth.

“Do we have an approximate time of death?” Wells asked.