Wicked Tempest: A Kate Waters Mystery (Kate Waters Mysteries Book 2) (27 page)

“My blood?”

“From the rite, when you cut your finger.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Another girl connected to me is dead.”

It was true though, Kate thought. Still, that didn’t explain Thea’s sour mood. She wasn’t one to brood over being accused. “What else? It’s not like you to get all bent out of shape just because Wells is suspicious of you, especially if you have nothing to hide. Right?”

“But that someone happens to be Detective Wells.”

Maybe it was the way she said it, but Kate sensed something then, something about her tone of voice. “Is that all Wells is to you, a detective?”

When Thea looked her in the eye, Kate knew better. Thea had feelings for Detective Wells. The idea of her liking Wells both surprised and made sense to her. She had never pictured them as a couple, but the two of them together was easy to imagine. The age difference wasn’t too much, their contrasting complexions complemented each other, and they had a lot in common, both being sleuths, brave, confident… in fact, the more Kate thought about them together, the more sense it made.

“The damage is done,” Kate repeated. Now she understood Thea’s comment.

Thea sighed. “The detective and I…”

“Thea, don’t worry. Things have a way of changing.” She thought of her and David. “For the better.”

Thea switched subjects. “Have you felt Rán trying to possess you since the protection rite?”

Kate had half-forgotten about that, when she had carelessly cut herself slicing a bagel the other morning and then almost had a head-on collision with another car on the way to work. Nothing else had happened since the protection rite. Still, her eyes were silver-blue like Rán’s, which according to her father, was some kind of supernatural premonition. “No,” Kate said. “What about you?”

Thea shook her head.

“I hope the spell worked, because there’s something else, something I discovered about the statue,” Kate said.

Thea turned to Kate. “What’s that?” A spark of enthusiasm lit up her eyes.

“There is a repeating pattern of four in Rán’s belt, the jewels, the wheel at her breast. Also, the storms, there’s been three big ones so far, and three deaths. I think there will be one more storm…and one more death.”

“It was in the cards too,” Thea said. “I drew four of everything, swords, cups, wands, and pentacles.”

“Jim, the first person who might have had the statue, drowned, which would be water,” Kate said.

“And Brooke was killed by lightning, fire.”

“What about Suzanne?” Kate asked. “I haven’t heard anything about her yet.”

“Considering the nature of blood, I suspect it will probably be earth, something made of metal like a knife blade.”

Kate reached in her pocket for her phone, punching in a weather station. “That means the next one is air. Another storm is due tonight. Erika…we should warn her.”

“I already have,” Thea said. “There’s something else you should know.”

“What?”

“I mean, someone else.” Thea glanced around them, scanning the area as though someone might be watching them. She turned back to Kate and lowered her voice. “The Detective and I ran into each other down by Andre’s boatshed. I was looking for the statue.”

“Did you find it?”

“No, we were interrupted when someone broke into Andre’s shed. Whoever it was took a duffle bag stuffed full of money from Andre’s boat. We couldn’t tell who he was, but it wasn’t Andre.”

“Do you think he has the statue?”

“I don’t know. The only two people I’ve told about the statue, besides you and Wells, are dead,” Thea said. “What about you?”

Kate had told David this morning, but hadn’t said anything to Nick other than some artwork was stolen from her. “I explained things to David and Wells this morning.” Could Nick have found out about it somehow? How would he know anything about Andre?

“That’s it? No one else?”

“No,” Kate told Thea. “I didn’t tell anyone else.”

The mystery man couldn’t be Nick… but he had been there right after her assault. She thought about all her encounters with him. He had been around when the shark attacked, in the small tornado that passed through the PNGS parking lot, and also when the lights had gone out at McKell’s. He had pointed out the mark on the back of her neck. What if he had one too? If he had stolen the statue from her, that was one unfortunate thing, but it also meant his life was in danger.

“Kate?” Thea said. “Where did you go?”

“It’s nothing. I just remembered something I need to do at work.” Kate headed for her car. “I’ll call you later.”

“Kate, whatever you do tonight, stay inside.”

Kate jogged for her car. She turned back to Thea. “I will if you will.”

***

Wells sat in his office with the blinds pulled. It was three in the afternoon. He hadn’t eaten and felt light-headed, but a few things needed to be done first: dusting his copy machine for fingerprints and handing over those results along with Thea’s pants to Larry Hopkins, a good friend in the forensics department with whom he shared “favors” on occasion.

Wells opened the fingerprint kit and began dusting the machine, the sides of the lid and the buttons where people usually placed their fingers. There were other, more advanced methods for finding fingerprints, but that required him to check out equipment, and this one was going under the table, so better to rely on what was readily available.

He found several prints and took samples of them all, lifting them up with a special adhesive tape that would adhere to the powder and oil from the print. He placed the strips in another plastic bag and set it beside Thea’s pants. While multiple people would probably emerge from the prints, such as himself, Goldstein, Officer Anderson, and one or two other officers he worked with closely, the results might also pull up someone unexpected, someone to investigate.

Wells took the elevator down to the basement and checked in at the front desk. Terry Miller was working, a 60-year-old religious woman from Kansas, who seemingly liked everyone. Wells always wondered in the back of his mind if, secretly, she actually disliked everyone, and went home every night to blog about the coming of a second Christ to rid the world of sin and evil.

“Hello, Detective Wells,” she said with a church-ish smile. “What brings you here on this sunny March afternoon?”

Too happy, too nice. “I’m here to speak with Larry Hopkins.”

“Well, you know the drill,” she said, a shiny face beaming happily. “Sign in, scan your badge, and I’ll beep the door.” Nobody at that age could be so happy.

Wells attempted to mirror her smile but it almost hurt. He signed in and ran his badge beneath the scanner. The door buzzed open.

“Have a good day,” Terry said, still smiling.

He nodded to her and then walked through two hallways before he came to the door where Larry worked. He knocked twice before opening it a crack.

“C’mon in,” Larry called.

Wells stepped inside the white and gray room, a small space with two rows of shelving and countertops. The scent of lime and chemical agents permeated the air. A small office to the left had the lights off and door shut. Wells figured Larry worked at the countertops more often than not. Right now, he stood at one of the counters looking through a microscope.

“Come to see me, did ya.” He stuck out his hand and shook Wells’.

“Yeah, I know, it’s been awhile.”

Larry looked down at the bag on Wells’ arm. “Need a favor?”

“If you have the time.” Wells reached into the bag and pulled out the two smaller plastic bags. “The pants have blood at the bottom of the leg near the hem, and the other item is fingerprints.”

“Do I even want to ask?”

“The pants are a police matter, but the fingerprints are from my office. I think someone has been snooping through my files.”

“Another badge?”

“Maybe. I think either someone knows more than me regarding a particular case I’m working on, or someone needs to know more than me.”

Larry shook his head. “Does Goldstein know about this?”

“I told him someone snooped through my files, but not this,” Wells said, gesturing to the bag in Larry’s hand. I’d like that to stay between us for now.”

“You know it will,” Larry said.

“I appreciate it.” Wells headed for the door. “I owe you big for this.”

Larry crossed his arms and laughed. “You always do.” He pointed to his watch. “Three hours. I’ll call you.”

“Thanks.”

Wells left the building, feeling better already. A new surge of energy washed through him. He still had two dead girls, and at least two more in danger, but at least he was taking matters into his own hands, even if that meant pissing off a potential girlfriend. If he knew Thea at all, he suspected she would have more respect for him and how he handled himself. Hopefully, in the end, this would be the best thing for them. He always liked the challenge she presented, and maybe now, she would like that about him too.

The sun slipped behind a large cauliflower-shaped cloud. Nick ducked under a tree limb as he walked to the gate of the Willamette River Mooring. The Dawn Maiden was one of the larger boats in the bay, and one of three with its lights on. Nick regretted giving Keith the spare key to the gate. He unlocked the gate and descended the stairs to the dock, seeing Keith at the stern in one of the side seats going through a bag. He gave Nick a smug smile as he strolled down the dock.

“Nick, my man,” he said with exaggerated cheerfulness.

“You’re in a mood.” Nick climbed up the ladder and immediately went to check the gauges on the boat, wondering in the back of his mind if Keith had taken it for a spin. Surprisingly, the gas levels hadn’t changed.

“Yes, I am in a mood.” Keith cracked open the top of two beers and handed one to Nick. “And you should be too, my friend.”

“Why’s that?” Nick said taking the beer from him.

“It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?” He gestured around himself. “Only one cloud in the sky.”

“It’s big cloud.” Nick sat down in the driver’s seat, swiveled the chair to face Keith. “So, what’s going on? What unlucky individual got a taste of you?”

Keith laughed. He propped his leg up on one of the seats and leaned back, gazing across the Willamette River where the Ross Island Bridge connected traffic between the east and west sides of town. “Ah, I suppose he did get a taste of me, or at least he’ll want a taste of me.” Keith’s smile faded to his usual cop expression. “You know anyone named Andre Singer?”

Nick thought for a moment, hoping nothing came to his mind. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Okay, how about Suzanne Jones?”

“Nope, not that one either.”

“All right,” Keith said in a cool tone. “I think you’ll know this one. Kate Waters? That one’s gotta ring a bell.”

A cold gust of air swept across the nape of Nick’s neck and jutted an icy hand down into the cavity of his chest as if yanking his heart free. “What are you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at is your girlfriend is a thief.”

Nick narrowed his eyes on Keith. Annoyance was an understatement, and the heat of rage flushed to his face. “You’re a goddamn liar.”

“Is that so?” Keith stood up and went over to the duffle bag. He unzipped it, pulled out a towel, and handed it to Nick.

Nick looked at him. “What’s this?”

Keith motioned to him to unwrap it. “You tell me.”

Nick set his beer down and unfolded the towel. Breath caught in his throat, a strangling moment of shock, and then his breath huffed out upon realizing exactly what it was that he was holding. The statue of Rán. He turned the statue over, taking in every detail: the staff with the smoke-colored diamond, the snake wrapped around the goddess’ middle, the crown of jewels, and the symbol at its chest. He ran his fingers over the smooth gold inlay, and couldn’t help thinking of Matt. Finally, he could give him what he wanted, what he deserved…one more surgery to correct the scarring. He looked up at Keith. “Where did you find this?”

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

Nick stared back at the statue, still dazed he was really holding it. They had searched for so many months, risked their lives, lost one friend…it was unbelievable.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Nick said.

Keith took a long swig of his beer. “I discovered it in the home of Andre Singer, the boyfriend of Suzanne Jones, a girl who was just found slaughtered in her bathroom.”

“What does that have to do with Kate?”

“I’ve been looking in on Andre Singer, along with Kate’s detective, Orwin Wells. And I have to say, I’ve learned of some interesting facts about Singer.” Keith tossed back his head as he drew the last of his beer. He chucked it into a bucket, and then sat down in the passenger’s seat beside Nick.

“First, the two women whom he had relationships with are now both dead. Pretty coincidental if you ask me. Kate found one of those women dead in her home. Remember Brooke Jennings? Nick nodded. Well, I read the reports in Wells’ files. She was the same woman who I believe called in about Jim’s death, because on March 22, Brooke Jennings and Andre Singer were taped entering a hotel. Wanna’ know where?”

“Rockaway Beach?” Nick said.

“Bingo,” Keith said. “Now, I’m no detective, but I think Brooke Jennings stumbled upon Jim Kelley and the statue. I think she took the statue home, and when Kate found her dead, she pocketed the statue for herself. Follow me so far?” Keith asked Nick.

Nick’s anger simmered at the bottom of his throat. “I’m following, but not necessarily complying with your little story. The Kate I know wouldn’t steal.”

“The Kate you know?” Keith held up his hand as though quieting Nick. “Think about this: what better reason would someone have to attack Kate if she weren’t holding onto something valuable?”

Nick remembered then, talking with Kate when he drove her home from the hospital. How she had explained to him that something important and valuable had been stolen from her. It made sense, the story fit, but he still didn’t want to believe she had the statue.

“So what if she did have the statue,” Nick said, handing Keith back the statue. “How would Andre have known that she had it?”

“He probably found out who reported Brooke Jennings’ death.”

Nick gazed out across the river at the city downstream, trying to fathom Kate might have had the statue, which certainly explained why someone had attacked her.

“Regardless,” Keith said. “All that really matters now is that we have the statue.” He kissed the top of Rán’s head and then held the statue up to the sky. “Here’s to you, Jimmy. Without you, I wouldn’t be holding this.”

Nick recollected back to that night when they were looking for Jim in the water and the feeling of dread that had wrapped tightly around his chest as they headed for shore, leaving him behind. The swells were so big, they wouldn’t have been able to see him had he been only ten feet away. Nick shook his head at what it must have been like for Jim, having found the statue, and what he would want them to do now that they had it again.

“I can practically hear your wheels cranking,” Keith said.

“I’m wondering what we do now? What would Jim want us to do?”

“Fuck, man, he would want us to cash in the statue and dive some more. Jim was on board with the idea long before you were.”

“Not after he found out about the statue’s curse.”

Keith laughed. “Oh, God, here we go again.” He waved the statue as if it were a voodoo doll.

“Think about it, Keith. Jim’s dead, the girl who found Jim, and supposedly stole the statue is dead, and what about Andre’s girlfriend?”

“All coincidence, but if it makes you feel better, we sell the statue before any old mean curse can get us,” he said, mockingly. “Problem solved. So, you still in?”

Nick thought about Matt, about the good he could still do for him, then Kate. Her boyfriend, David, had returned, so there was no point in thinking there would ever be anything between them. What did he have to lose?

“Fine.”

“That’s my man.” Keith stood and patted Nick on the back. “I knew you’d come back around.” Keith opened up the cooler and tossed another beer to Nick. Nick finished his first one, then snapped open the tab, and clinked it against Keith’s.

“Cheers,” Keith said. “To Jim and filthy rich money.” He let out a deep, loud laugh.

“Cheers,” Nick said. But he didn’t feel like celebrating. He’d lost too much already, and no amount of money could fix it.

***

Wells sat down at his desk and pushed aside a salad bowl from Trader Joe’s. The restaurant wasn’t a routine eating establishment, but he was a changing man and healthy eating habits had to fit in somewhere. He had hopes for the future for the first time in a long time, and as he thumbed through Suzanne’s file, he eagerly awaited Larry’s email hoping it also would bear good news. The results would confirm not only who had been in his office, but whose blood was on Thea’s pants. She had said it was Kate’s, and Wells believed her, whether she stole the statue or not. She might not have admitted to that originally, but she was no liar. Forensic confirmation would finally put an end to second guessing whenever he thought about her, which seemed to be all the time.

After a few more minutes sifting through documents on Jim, Brooke, and Suzanne, Wells heard the beep of a new email. As he had hoped, the message was from Larry. It had taken him only two and a half hours. He always worked faster on the “special jobs,” not wanting to keep any nonofficial documentation lying around for someone else to find.

Wells opened the email, unintentionally holding his breath. Larry listed only the outcome of the two samples, rather than all the forensic details.

Blood sample match: Kaitlyn Waters.

A wave of relief loosened his shoulders. Thank God, he thought.

Fingerprint analysis, 5 matches: Robert Goldstein, Orwin Wells, Officer Mark Anderson, Tim Fields (their accounting manager), and Officer Keith Davidson.

Wells had anticipated Goldstein’s fingerprints. Though he had never been inside his office while he was there, it wasn’t unusual to see him wandering the department, looking for staplers, manila folders, and other office supplies—some had rumored snacks too. Tim Fields’ office was next to his, and so his prints weren’t a surprise either. Officer Mark Anderson had been in his office before with him, going over cases…but Officer Keith Davidson? That name didn’t ring a bell, and he couldn’t put a face to it either.

Wells punched his name into the database and pulled up a picture of Officer Davidson. There were two of them, a Keith and a Don. Wells clicked on Keith’s name. He worked in the homicide unit, graduated from USC in 2006. He searched further, dug into recently filed records, and discovered he had filed a report regarding items found in Suzanne Jones’ bedroom. A poppet doll and a black address book.

A faint memory rolled back to Wells then. He stood in Suzanne Jones’ living room, preparing to head back to the station to question Andre Singer, when another officer bumped into him. His pale face glistened with a sheen of sweat, and at the time, Wells thought he hurried outside to puke. Eyeing the photograph now, he realized it was Officer Davidson. The man had said sorry, but in a quieted rushed manner that didn’t lend to a sickness as much as it did to something else.

Wells reread the blood match on Thea’s pants. Thea believed the statue held a curse, and that everyone who came into contact with it was in danger, but the statue hadn’t been found at Suzanne’s. Even though Wells didn’t believe in a magical world, he understood how the string of events might fit her beliefs. Supernatural or not, her way of seeing things led to the same conclusions as his. Her eyes had been full of grave things when he stood outside on her porch to collect her pants. The fear in her voice when she had spoken of the curse was real, and if he admitted it, convincing.

Wells’ cell phone buzzed on his desk. He checked the display before answering. It was John from the hospital morgue. He answered it quickly. “Hey, John. What’s the word?”

“Probably the best I can give you.”

“Okay…” Wells said, with an air of apprehension. The tone of John’s voice didn’t match up with his comment.

“I’ll give you the good news first,” he said. “Suzanne wasn’t murdered.”

“What?” Wells wasn’t sure if he had heard him right. “How can that be? She was covered in blood.”

“Have you ever heard of Boerhaave Syndrome?” John asked him.

“Boerr, what?”

“Basically, it’s a ruptured esophagus. Suzanne was bulimic. I found scars on her knuckles from forced vomiting. I also discovered she had viral hepatitis, so her liver was pretty damaged, and from incessant vomiting, the lining of her stomach and esophagus were burned thin and raw, until eventually, they ruptured. In essence, she exploded from the inside out.”

“Shit. That’s not at all what I was expecting. You’re certain about this? Because I’ve got two women, both who had relationships with Andre Singer, both who were the victims of pranks, who are now both dead, and you’re telling me these were both accidents?”

“I am, and I wouldn’t if I weren’t certain of it.”

Wells exhaled a long, hot breath. “I know. So tell me the name of this disease again.”

“Boerhaave Syndrome. In Suzanne’s case, she pretty much suffocated and drowned in her own blood.”

“Poor thing,” Wells said. He struggled to erase the image that came to his mind once more, the one of Suzanne lying on the floor. How in the world could her death have been another accident? He still wanted to believe otherwise, even in Thea’s curse now. He would have to discharge Andre. As much as Wells didn’t want to set him free, he would have to. He hadn’t killed Suzanne or Brooke, and there was no evidence that he had attacked Kate.

“I certainly don’t disagree with your suspicions,” John said. “I’m just reporting the facts of their deaths. Neither Brooke nor Suzanne had any signs of physical or malicious trauma. Both of their deaths I’m afraid were freak accidents.”

Wells thanked John and hung up the phone. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t believe the results as he didn’t want to believe it. Her death couldn’t be a coincidence.