Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 6

  The tea was too hot, but she drank it down, burning her lips and tongue, and clattered the cup and saucer into the deep granite of the kitchen sink. She stared out across the yard in back of the house, her eyes passing over the thinning branches of the cherry tree, the spindly shrubs and yellowing grass. Part of her understood that beneath this maudlin sulking lay the bedrock of some deeper grief. The bones of it poked through her misery and she dug her fingernails into the tender flesh of her wrist until the pain focused there and the shifting sand settled again, like a numbing blanket. Lethargy seeped through her, so heavy, like wet cement filling her skin and hardening, pressing down.

  A loud thunk from the living room shattered the weight holding her, allowing her to move, and she turned with a shriek of rage and ran toward the front door as two more thunks echoed through the empty house.

  CHAPTER 14

  “GO HOME, TOPPER.”

  “This is insane.” Topper grabbed at his hair, pulling it up by the handful, releasing it to stand at attention atop his head. “Ludicrous, absurd. The mountain is set to blow. It’s not going to wait politely for the go-ahead from the red tape boys.”

  Candace dropped some coins into the vending machine, considered her choices, and pressed a button, watching her selection wriggle off the hook. “Thanks for helping me craft the press release. There’s nothing more you can do right now, so go home. Or better yet, get out of town.” A danish pastry dropped into the tray. She fished it out, turning away from Topper, the clack of her heels echoing in the hallway as she walked back to the lab.

  Topper slammed his fist against the machine. He’d crafted a press release, but the USGS protocols took hours and the media was jaded on Rainier, using it for filler and joke material on late-night TV. The breaking news was focused on the serial killer, milking the story for all its sensational details, stealing attention from lesser news items, like the biggest natural disaster in U.S. history. He returned to his cubicle and switched on his radio to hear the latest. He understood, with great clarity, that upstaging the bloody killing of a rock star would require a lot of drama. He had a plan.

  The office area was deserted. Anyone there on a Saturday afternoon was in the lab, where the action was. Candace’s office door stood open and Topper went to her desk and woke her computer. They were required to change their passwords monthly and he knew she wrote hers down on a sticky note under her pencil tray. He pulled up her official email account, and copied the press release he’d written into the body of an email, making a few alterations, giving it the juice it needed to top the breaking news. He addressed it to a guy he knew at the Associated Press and hit send.

  He exited her email and willed her screen back to sleep. No one appeared as he left her office and re-entered his cubicle. He picked up the phone and dialed his AP contact.

  “The boss lady here just sent you an email. You should give it your immediate attention. It’s a bigger story than your Seattle slasher. Much bigger.” This reporter, Topper knew, was a bit of a rash actor and his salivary response to the dangling T-bone was almost guaranteed.

  He hung up, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and thumbing off his computer, watching it shut down while he processed a few more thoughts. He walked down to the lab and stuck his head in the door. Avoiding Candace’s notice, he caught Jack’s eye and beckoned him to come out into the hall.

  “I’m heading out,” he said to Jack. He shrugged into his jacket, patting the pockets for his wallet. “The doo-doo is about to hit the fan and when it does…I just wanted you to know I’m the one who laid it.” He grinned.

  “Oh, man. What did you do?”

  “Candace sent a press release to AP and authorized its dispersal which will activate a number of emergency procedures.”

  “She did?”

  “Sure. She just doesn’t know it yet. When all is said and done, she’ll either be the hero or in the hash.”

  “Either way, you’re wise to skedaddle. When Rainier erupts, you’re going to want to put the flowpath between you and her. It’s the only thing that will save you.”

  “Amen.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE KILLER WATCHED THE BUTLER with interest. The servant’s hands, both the one holding the fry pan and the one with the cell phone, shook with dramatic intensity, his eyes wide and darting like a cornered animal. The poor fellow could barely stand. As if repetition could make it so, the butler stammered out his pronouncement again.

  “I’ve called the police. Any minute they’ll be here.”

  The killer came out of his stance, dropping his knife hand to his side.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” he said, letting out a big sigh. “I’m so tired of this. It’s too hard lying to my friends, trying to act like everyone else, hiding what I am. I just want it to be over.”

  The butler’s head thrashed in a frantic nod. “Well, good. It’s over.” His head continued bobbing, as if he’d lost control over it.

  The killer put on a mournful face.

  “I’ve cost you a job, haven’t I?” he said in a sorrowful voice. “I’m sorry about that. But then, you called the police on me, so that makes us even.”

  The butler took a step back, his eyes shifting, looking for escape.

  “Yep, we’re even.”

  “You did call the police, right?”

  More frenzied head bobbing.

  The killer smiled. He raised the knife and charged the butler, ramming the knife up into his rib cage, pulling it free and digging it in again until the man stopped moaning and lay still. He didn’t like to do it this way. It was wasted effort and wasted life. But he could always do what was called for. He knew how to do that.

  He pulled at his knife, but it was lodged in bone and when he tugged it free, the blade wobbled in the handle, the fastening broken. He’d have to find a new knife, but now was not the time to do it. He needed to clear the scene.

  Prying the dead man’s fingers from the cell phone, he pushed the call button and watched the display. No bars, no service. No police. Still, it was time to go.

  He left the house and walked into the wild greenbelt where he removed the bloody covers and stuffed them into a garbage bag, along with the broken knife. He’d dispose of the bundle on his way home.

  CHAPTER 16

  “YO, JIMENEZ!”

  A passing officer hailed Rick, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “They got something for you in Evidence.”

  Like watching for a pot to boil. Rick had hovered in the crime lab most of the morning, driving everyone crazy, learning only that processing the minute pieces taken from the crime scene is a slow and exacting task. He retired to his desk where he’d spent the last hour drawing parallels between the three crime scenes, trying to make connections, combing for anything they’d missed. And now, it seemed, the pot had come to a boil.

  Rick headed back to the lab, eager for a new lead to follow. As he entered, the fingerprint technician beckoned him over.

  “I got a partial print off one of the stones collected at the scene.”

  “I thought you couldn’t lift fingerprints off a rock.”

  “Normally, we wouldn’t even try. But this is chert. It’s nonpermeable, almost like glass, and sometimes you can raise a print off it. A little powder, a little superglue, and voila! By itself, it doesn’t mean much, but it’s a ninety percent match to another print submitted from the scene.” The man paused, flipping through the pages of a notebook, sniffing at regular intervals. He closed the book, freed a tissue from an industrial-sized box, and blew his nose.

  “Have mercy,” Rick said. “Fill in the blank.”

  The technician gave him a bleak look. “I got a cold, alright?”

  The man finished wiping his nose, aiming and tossing the sodden tissue at a nearby wastebasket and missing the shot. Rick swallowed his irritation, realizing the technician was toying with the newbie. He watched the man unwrap a cough drop and pop it into his mouth.

  He opened the noteboo
k again, found the page he wanted and pondered it while sucking the cough drop. “Okay, the matching print was pulled from a scorecard found in a jacket pocket.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Rick said.

  “Would I yank your chain?”

  I’m a foul-up. Nate is the one on track while I’ve been spinning my wheels all day. Rick turned and made for the exit, cursing himself, thoughts tumbling inside his head. The technician’s voice caught him as he pulled open the door.

  “Hey, Jimenez, don’t you want the name?”

  Rick reined himself in, returning to the work table, forcing himself to speak in even tones. “Of course, please give me the name.”

  The man regarded him with amusement, enjoying the tease. “I ran it through a couple of databases and the computer came up with this guy.”

  Rick reached for the printout, but the technician pulled it just out of range.

  “What are we, in fifth grade?” said Rick.

  The tech smirked, holding the paper high.

  “Yeah, all right.” Rick hooked an arm around the box of tissues and made for the exit.

  “Okay, okay. Lighten up, man.”

  They made the trade and Rick scanned the information, pieces of the puzzle starting to coalesce, forming the beginnings of a plausible picture in his brain. A rush of electric energy pulsed through him. This was the break they needed. He felt it in his gut. Things were coming together and best of all, he had a name.

  He punched Nate’s number on his cell phone, but lost the signal before he could connect. After three failed attempts, he pocketed the mobile and picked up a station land line. He dialed the number and listened to the mute stillness of la-la land.

  Growling with exasperation, he slammed down the receiver and ran for the radio, pressing the transmit button with an impatient thumb. He tried for several minutes to reach Nate, fidgeting with frustration, praying Nate would pick up. He heard the urgency in his own voice, but all he got back was static and silence.

  CHAPTER 17

  “PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN GLASS houses shouldn’t swing a club,” said Nate, “but apparently they do. How often do you have to call in the glazier?”

  The pro shop manager smiled and gave three raps on the oak countertop. “I’ve been here seven years, have a house in the neighborhood, and we’ve never had a golf ball go through a window in Mountain Vista.”

  Nate’s drive through the golf course neighborhood had revealed a mass of well-kept houses on tidy lawns, each composed largely of glass and offering a spectacular view. From both sides of the window. Occupants could look their fill at a distant Rainier or the local lake, but outsiders could also stare into the fishbowl habitats.

  Nate introduced himself and showed his badge. He saw the manager’s demeanor alter, the little caution flag waving behind his eyes, the lips tightening, fingers flexing. The man was nervous, but anything from an unpaid parking ticket to a basement full of bodies can produce such a reaction in some people.

  Nate peered at the name stitched into the man’s polo-style shirt. “Mr. Johanson,” he said, placing photos taken at the crime scene on the counter, “what can you tell me about this jacket?”

  “Call me Cappy. Let’s see what you got.”

  Cappy Johanson fiddled a bit with the pictures, pushing them around on the counter with a stubby finger, the flesh of his forehead creasing under the blond crew cut as he concentrated. “Hard to tell much from a photograph.”

  He rounded the counter and walked to a circular rack at the back of the shop. A slice of neon pink cardstock had been inserted at the top: 25% off, discount taken at the register. Cappy Johanson slid a few hangers back and forth, then selected a jacket and returned to the counter.

  “This jacket’s like the one in your picture. I think. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “So the jacket could have come from this shop?”

  “And about a thousand other places. There’s nothing in particular to tie it to Mountain Vista.”

  “Except that this was found in the pocket.” Nate produced photos of the scorecard.

  The man scrutinized the images. “Oh, yes, that’s one of ours. Ninety-three, decent score, no name. Could be anyone. Sorry I can’t say fairer than that.”

  Nate didn’t reply, letting the silence stretch out, letting the man’s nerves jangle, waiting for him to dump something into the gap and hoping for something useful. Cappy Johanson scratched his nose, blinking faded blue eyes, and looked out the window at the line of golf carts. After a moment, he pursed his lips and offered an idea.

  “What about the pencil?” he asked. “Was there a little pencil with the card? Might have a fingerprint you could use.”

  Nate clamped down on the sarcastic reply that played behind his lips. He shook his head and gathered up the photographs. “No pencil,” he said, passing over one of his cards. “If anything more comes to mind, will you give me a call?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Nate left the pro shop. He walked down the cart path, pausing at the driving range to assess the swings and marvel once again over the yardage of intact glass. He veered off the pavement and onto a dirt path covered in springy wood chips, strolling along a narrow creek which trickled through moss-covered rocks and over a series of waterfalls. Pretty place, but had he wasted a trip? Was there a connection between Mountain Vista and the death of Coby Waters or had the jacket been dumped by someone unrelated to the case?

  He returned to the Explorer, started the engine, and pointed her nose down the road he’d come in on. He crossed the bridge which spanned the channel between the lake and the trout pond, passing the clubhouse and cresting the hill before the long drop down to the inlet. On the side of the road, he saw a plum tree gracing a front garden gone slightly wild and beneath it, a teenage boy stooping to retrieve a windfall plum, the tail of his shirt pulled out to form a makeshift basket full of the fruit.

  The door of the house burst open and an auburn-haired woman boiled down the front walk, waving her arms and shrieking at the boy, who dropped his load of plums and ran into the road. Nate jammed on the brakes. The car skidded, stopping six inches from the youth who gave the hood a disdainful thump with his fist before disappearing into a stand of pines across the street.

  The woman shouted after him, her chest heaving, a high blush on her cheeks. Nate pulled to the side of the road and got out, walking around the car to meet her.

  “Take it easy, lady,” he said. “They’re just plums, going to waste on the ground.”

  Eyes like green fire fixed on him. “Yes, and welcome if he wanted to eat them. It’s that I object to,” she said, pointing to the massive plate-glass windows high above the driveway. Smashed plums adorned the glass like Rorschach prints, dripping juice down onto the cream-colored siding beneath.

  Nate felt foolish. “I see your point,” he said. “I should have nabbed the fellow and made him clean up this mess. Instead, I let him get away and now I’ll have to do penance by proxy.”

  The woman’s eyes traveled up and down the length of him and she gave a curt nod. “Yes, you will,” she said, turning and walking down the sharp-sloping driveway to the double garage. She punched in a code and one of the doors slid open with a grinding noise that spoke of something out of place in the works. Nate joined her and they assembled the equipment, filling a bucket with cleaning solution, placing a ladder on the slanting driveway.

  “Now that I’m down here, I can see why this is a chore you’d want to avoid,” Nate said. The driveway offered no level surface and even with the ladder and the telescoping cleaning wand, it would be a stretch to reach the window, much less scrub it clean.

  The woman gathered auburn curls and secured them with an elastic she drew from her pocket. She held out her hand. “I’m Riley.”

  Nate shook her hand, taking in the tilt of her cheekbones, the ivory skin, the lovely curve of her brow. He thought he understood the boy with the plums.

  “Call me Nate.” He surveyed the situation
. “I’m not sure where I’ll be the most use,” he said, “at the bottom of the ladder or on top.”

  “Oh, you’re going up. Your arms are longer than mine and we’re going to need those extra few inches.”

  She was right. He anchored himself atop the ladder and stretched to the utmost, taking care not to overbalance. From his perch, he could see the front room of the house, the mahogany grand piano centered between the two enormous windows, glinting red in the sunlight. He reached and scrubbed, cleaning away the mess of plums. He looked down to see her at the base of the ladder, straining to hold it steady on the uneven surface.

  “Are you about done?” she said, a flush staining her face, sliding down her neck.

  “Yes Ma’am, coming down now.”

  In the empty Explorer, the two-way radio squawked, demanding attention. No one heard and no one answered.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE KILLER PLACED THE BLOOD-SOAKED strip of cotton on the burning altar, watching it singe and catch, black holes burning through, disintegrating the whole into shreds and, from there, into oblivion. He sank, naked, onto the earth, face down, burrowing into the carpet of soft-crinkled leaves, breathing in the scent of dirt and loss.

  He lay, crumpled and inert, remembering. The smell was the same. It sent him spiraling back to that October cold snap, the day she died. He’d been playing Dragon, stalking along the stream bed as it tumbled over speckled rocks, growing sluggish along the edges with lumps of forming ice. He bellowed smoke from his dragon mouth, watching it curl in the frosty air, imagining the fire in his belly that had formed it. He roared to the sky, and heard a returning echo, only it was his father’s voice. He turned, his frost-stung eyes searching the trees, and saw the red bob of his father’s cap approaching. He watched his father’s frantic beckoning with dawning dread.