Fixed in Fear (10 page)

The smile disappeared from Bilbo's face. He pushed himself up against the back cushions of the sofa. “You read the papers, man? Lunatic stuff. That's what got Carlton. He was up in that sweat lodge. I used to tell him he was too caught up in the heebie-jeebie shit. Way too caught up. Folks get deep into that, there's no telling what they're likely to do. That's why I keep it mellow. Know what I mean?” He moved his hands like a fish swimming slow. “Not too much to the right. Not too much to the left. Not too high. Not too low. Keep it steady, man. That's what I say. Keep it steady.”

“But Carlton didn't agree?” When it came to murder investigations, Mort liked a guy who liked to talk.

“He used to.” Bilbo took a swipe in the air. “Ah, who am I kidding? That's bullshit, too. Even before he changed he didn't keep it steady. Guy was wild, man. Always looking for the next high. Now that I think of it, I guess this change I thought he went through wasn't really a change at all. Old Carlton just took that balls-out go-for-broke attitude of his and shifted his focus, is all. Went from girls to gods. How about that?”

“How about that?” Mort asked. “Tell me about this change you saw.”

Bilbo was quiet for a few seconds. “You know Helen? Carlton's little sister-niece?”

“She died a couple of years before I met Larry. I never had the privilege.”

“Well, you would have loved her. Everybody did.” He chuckled again. “Me included. Man, she was a looker. You seen pictures, right?”

Mort said he had.

“Then you know,” Bilbo prattled. “That chick was gorgeous. Built, too. Back when she was in high school…Carlton and I were college dropouts by then…having ourselves a time, though. Back in the day I used to say to Carlton I was gonna marry that girl. Black-white shit be damned. Soon as she got legal I was gonna woo her.” He laughed. “But Carlton put the woo-woo on the woo-woo. Close as we were, and, like I said, we were blood, man. He told me to knock that shit off. Don't even think about it. Carlton was just like Helen's old man that way. You ever meet Brother Abraham?”

“Met him for the first time this morning, as a matter of fact.”

“Then you get it, man. You got a good idea of how far up his ass that stick of his is, huh? Well, as hard as Abraham is in general, that's nothing…
nothing
compared to how he could get when he thought some guy was swinging his dick in Helen's direction. Carlton was the same way. Nobody in the world was good enough for Helen. Leastwise, not in their eyes.” He huffed like a man who'd just made a discovery. “That may be the one thing those two brothers had in common. They each loved that Helen. To distraction, as my mother used to say.”

“You were telling me about the change you saw in Carlton.” Mort wanted the guy talking, but he wanted him talking in the right direction.

“Yeah. That's right.” Bilbo shook his head clear, like a dog just out of the lake. “Like I said, Carlton and I been running together since the sandbox. Tough to believe now, but he was crazier than me. Name a drug, he'd take it. Some girl crook their finger at him and he's off to the races. No matter how big her boyfriend or husband might be. Then there was his gambling period. Football, basketball, hockey. Hell, he'd lay a bet on what the special of the day was down at the diner. Wild man. But he always kept it together for Helen. Carlton could be stoned out of his mind, but if Helen called, boom! He'd sober up in a heartbeat. It wouldn't matter if he hadn't slept in days. Helen calls and says she needs something? Man would walk barefoot five days through a blizzard to get to her.” He looked off into space, as though seeing the memories play out before him. “Those two loved each other. Like a love I wish I had, you know? Anyway, when Helen died, that was it for Carlton's party days. He went crazy. I mean like call-the-doctor crazy. I didn't see him for like maybe a month. More for all I know. When he resurfaces he's all religious and shit. Walking that straight and narrow. Swallowing that Kool-Aid. Never dated again, far as I saw. Never placed another bet. Never had that second glass of wine.”

“So how'd he end up dead?”

The other man's face hardened. “Like I said. He went barking up the wrong tree. Got himself caught up with some religious fanatic. That's the best I can make of it.”

“So you're thinking it's random?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Your number's up when it's up, man. Not much anybody can do about that.”

Mort decided to take a risk. “We're thinking Carlton's death wasn't so arbitrary. All evidence points to him being targeted.”

“We
?
”
Bilbo asked sharply. “What? You working this case, man? That why you're here?”

Mort nodded toward the entryway. “Like he said. Larry's here to look through a few of Carlton's things and I'm here to help him.”

“But you pull me aside and start asking questions about who might have offed my friend. What's that? Just a bonus for you? A twofer combo? Burger with fries?”

“You knew Carlton better than anybody. Carlton was targeted. Just curious as to your thoughts.”

Bilbo got quiet. Mort watched the man's breath quicken. He rode out the silence until Bilbo spoke again.

“Religious bullshit. That's what killed my main man. People looking for some kind of righteousness when any sane person knows there's no such thing in this world.” Bilbo's gaze bored into Mort. “You're never gonna find who did this. People like that are untouchable. You know the old saying, right? You can't fight crazy? Well, Johnny Law, there's always something that can make us crazy. Know what I mean?”

Before Mort could respond, Larry strode into the room, visibly shaken. He was holding a red velvet pouch tied with a golden rope.

“Bilbo, I thank you for your hospitality,” Larry said before looking at Mort. “I'd like to go now.” He turned back to Bilbo. “I'll be back later. For now, this is all I'm taking.”

“What is it, man?” Bilbo stood and walked toward him. Larry shrugged and tucked the velvet pouch under his arm.

“Just some papers.” Mort knew his friend was lying. “Old historical stuff, that's all.” He turned toward the door. “I'll meet you at the car, Mort. Bilbo, lovely seeing you again. I look forward to seeing you again very soon.”

He was out the door before Mort could give Bilbo his card, urging him to call should he think of something that could help with the investigation. Mort hurried to the car. Larry was seated and buckled in by the time Mort opened the driver's side door.

“You late for some faculty tea party?” he asked.

Larry's eyes were moist with tears. “Take me home, Mort.”

“What is it? What's in that sack?”

“Letters.” Larry pulled on the cord to open the sack. “Dozens and dozens of letters.”

“Who from?” Mort turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from Carlton's tidy bungalow.

L. Jackson Clark, international scholar, spoke with the excitement of a child on his first visit to Disneyland. “Helen. These are letters from my Helen!”

Rita Willers spent her drive back down to Enumclaw the Wednesday morning she and Mort met with Abraham Smydon sifting through case facts as she knew them. While she understood it was the twisted intersections of happenstance that led to any crime's commission, she found she could get to those tangles more efficiently by first sorting all the data into discrete categories in her mind. Whether it was a liquor store window smashed by some vandal after a football game or a mass murder in a sweat lodge, it was still the same. Smooth out the strings of context, relationships, and events, watch how they spiral around one another, and look for the right one to tug. An hour after leaving Seattle she drove down her city's main street and maneuvered her patrol car around the mobile satellite trucks of six different media outlets. She pulled into her stall behind the Enumclaw Police Department building aware of one thing: While the columns of facts were filling up, she still didn't have a clue how they might start twisting.

But she was confident they would.

She entered the station, ignoring the shouted questions from a half-dozen well-dressed folks with perfect hair holding microphones while standing in front of another half-dozen people with more casual grooming and shoulder-mounted cameras. She bypassed the metal detector and shared a few comments about the weather with the security officer staffing the main entry. She nodded toward the small crowd outside the station.

“When did they get here?” she asked.

“I got here at six thirty this morning. That redhead and her camera guy were here already. The rest of 'em showed up about a half hour later.” John Selby had been an officer on the Enumclaw force for twenty-four years. His retirement lasted all of nine months. He came in one morning two years ago with coffee and doughnuts complaining to Rita he'd finished everything on his dream list, was bored seven days out of the week, and he was looking for work. Rita couldn't put him back on the force, but she found a spot for him staffing front door security.

Rita looked over her shoulder. The photographers had lowered their equipment and leaned against the building, chatting with one another. The reporters had laid down their microphones as well. Four of them—two of them men—had small compacts open and powdered their noses while they peered into tiny mirrors. The other two were checking their cellphones.

“It's almost lunchtime,” Selby said. “Think we should order 'em some pizzas or maybe some sandwiches from the Subway?”

Rita watched them for a moment. “I don't think so, John. Let 'em in to use the bathrooms if they need to, but nobody gets past you without an appointment, okay?”

Selby nodded. “You got it, Chief. Have a good day.”

Rita wished him the same and went straight to her office. Her secretary handed her a stack of messages. A few were from out-of-state reporters hoping for an update on what the media had dubbed “The Sweat Lodge Massacre.” One call was from a news service in Paris. She understood a twenty-four-hour news cycle demanded a steady stream of juicy stories. And what could entice a viewing audience more than in-depth coverage of a sacred ritual turned bloody in a small rural town? She handed the messages requesting interviews and comments back to her secretary.

“Shred these, will you, Kayla? And from here on out if any reporter calls let 'em know I won't be answering any questions until I call a press conference. Get their information and let 'em know you'll call them back when I've scheduled one.”

“Will do, Chief.” Kayla set the pink message slips aside. “How'd it go in Seattle? That detective's a good-looking man. You guys have breakfast together, maybe? I like that suit. Flatters your figure better than your uniform does. No offense intended. By the way, I talked to a friend of mine working up there at the Seattle station. She tells me Detective Grant's single. Been widowed almost four years now. His son's that writer guy. You know the one? Wrote about that Fixer lady killing all those bad guys? That's one interesting family if you ask me.”

Rita sifted through the remaining messages while Kayla rambled on. She'd grown accustomed to people identifying every man they considered available who happened to be crossing her path. They meant well, she knew that. She also knew it was impossible to stop them and had long ago developed a strategy of simply tuning them out.

“I see the mayor's called twice.” Rita interrupted Kayla's comments about how much she and Mort must have in common. “Call her back. See if she's available for lunch. If she is, order us something. I know the mayor likes Chinese.”

Kayla nodded. “Kung pao chicken. Can't get enough of it.”

Rita knew the mayor would be dogged by the city council
and
the chamber of commerce to get this case solved. Mass murder was bad for business. Particularly a mass murder that occurred during a religious ceremony. The very name
Enumclaw
was derived from a Salish Native American term that translated to
place of evil spirits.
The mayor would want to announce an arrest long before some reporter put that particular tidbit on the airwaves. Rita understood that any pressure the mayor felt would roll downhill, picking up steam until it landed on her. The least she could do was feed the mayor a decent meal.

“Make it two,” Rita requested. “And tell 'em if they can guarantee a couple of good-news fortune cookies, I'll tip 'em big.”

Rita went into her office. She was able to return a few calls before the mayor arrived, storming in and asking Rita if she had any idea how difficult the past couple of days had been for her even before Kayla had time to close Rita's office door. Rita sat behind her desk with her hands resting open-palmed on her lap. She held her face in composed stillness and traced her breath from slow inhale to long exhale while she mentally envisioned a walk she'd taken a few weeks ago. Her eyes were directed to the mayor, who ranted about tourist dollars and public image. While it would have looked to anyone passing by that the mayor had her chief of police's full attention, Rita Willers was somewhere else.

It had been Monday night of Labor Day weekend. The combination of an extra day off, good weather, and special pricing at every liquor store in town produced a flood of calls into the station. Every officer, from patrolman to leadership staff, was working. Rita rode that day with Jenna Delvecchio, a sergeant with ten years on the force. They worked a twelve-hour shift and responded to calls ranging from backyard parties that uninvited neighbors found too rowdy to a domestic disturbance involving a drunken wife threatening to stab her meth'ed-out husband with a barbecue fork if he didn't stop daring their seven-year-old son to throw back another shot of tequila.

It was nearly midnight when Rita was able to clear the station and head home. She'd been too wired to sleep. Instead, she changed out of her uniform into shorts and a sweatshirt. She traded her department-issue boots for hikers and took off on the trail that led from the edge of town to a forested nature preserve. The moon was a thin silver crescent in an ebony sky. The glow from countless millions of stars lit her way.

Her footsteps crackled into the night as she walked across twigs and cones dropped from boughs of pine and cedar too tired from the long hot summer to hold them any longer. The sound alerted the residents of the dark cathedral that a stranger had arrived. She heard the hooted warnings of the owls high above her and the scampering escape of mice and voles on the ground. The air was moist and warm against her skin as she climbed the gentle slope leading to a clear-cut ridge in the center of the preserve. She breathed deep and inhaled the eternal perfume of pine and earth and musk. Her muscles tightened as the climb shifted to a more demanding grade. With each step she buried the demands of the day as her legs pushed her higher toward the ridge. Her breath was shallow and insistent when she finally reached the summit and looked down at the treeless slope cascading beneath her feet.

She stretched her arms to the heavens, reaching through the aeons to elders who had lived before her. Thanking them for the contribution each had given. Someone with her eyes used them a thousand years ago to hunt the animals that once populated this plateau. She thanked them for giving her the eyes to see clearly now. A thousand years before that, an ancestor with her hands had built a fire to keep their family from harm. She was grateful to them for giving her the hands she could now use to keep the town safe. She stood on the ridge and felt the spirits of the ancients come to her, surround her with their protection and promise. She smiled and closed her eyes, alone in the night, sensing them dance about her. She asked them to guide her and felt their unified commitment. A few long moments later she knew in her soul that it was time for them to leave. Rita opened her eyes and looked up to see a shower of stars race across the sky. She thanked the universe for the blessed night, turned, and followed the trail back to her home.

Kayla knocked on the door, bringing her out of her reverie. Rita called for her to enter and asked her to set the two bags filled with paper containers on the table at the far end of her office.

“What's this now?” the mayor asked.

“A little something,” Rita said as she stood and waved the mayor over to join her. “With all you're going through, the least we can do is offer you a decent meal. C'mon. You need the energy.”

The mayor opened the larger of two containers Rita placed in front of her. Her stern face melted into a smile as she inhaled the spicy aroma of her favorite Chinese meal. Rita took a seat opposite her and reached into the restaurant bag.

“Chopsticks or fork?” she asked the suddenly happy public servant.

Rita's afternoon was filled with paperwork and meetings. Despite the urgency of solving these murders, she still had a department to run. And the criminal element of Enumclaw wasn't about to go on hiatus just because five people got themselves killed in a sweat lodge. It was nearly seven o'clock when she decided the day had settled enough for her to leave. She was looking forward to an hour on the treadmill in her spare bedroom while she watched the latest episode of her favorite television show. She glanced outside. The media trucks were still there, but the reporters were nowhere in sight. She figured they'd retired to their hotels. Probably all gathered down at the lounge drinking red wine and swapping war stories. She sent a silent wish to her ancestors that they'd all have one glass too many and sleep past their wake-up calls.

She jotted a few items onto her to-do list for the next day. First on the list was to call Mort Grant and see what he and Larry had learned from their visit to Carlton Smydon's place. She bristled at the small tug of excitement that tickled the corner of her mind when she wrote the name
Larry
on the yellow pad. She stood, pulled her keys out of her purse, and had just turned off her desk lamp when Dalton Rogers, the younger of the two officers who had first responded to the sweat lodge murder scene, knocked on the frame of her open office door. Since Dalton had spent only two years on the force, Rita wasn't surprised to see him still working a few hours past his official shift's ending. She understood the desire to make a name by letting the brass see you putting in the hours.

“Got a second, Chief?” Rogers looked her up and down, his surprise at seeing her out of uniform written on his face.

“What is it, Officer?” Rita dialed her tone a bit sterner than she would have to overcome the femininity of her pink blouse.

“I don't mean to interfere with any plans you might have for tonight, but I thought you'd want to know.” The twenty-five-year-old averted his eyes, as though he was embarrassed seeing his chief in anything other than official departmental issue. “I just picked up a call from Blue Dancer. You know, she used to be Cindy Easton.”

Rita knew. “She works at Tall Oaks Lodge. She was the driver who took the victims up to the sweat lodge that day. What did she want?”

Officer Rogers looked at his feet. “She called all panicky. Sounded scared. She's in her car, driving from Seattle. Said it was her day off and she wanted to do some shopping. I told her she needed to calm down. It's not good driving in that kind of state. Especially now that the days are getting shorter. Dusk's the most dangerous—”

Rita interrupted the obviously rattled policeman. “Why did she call?”

“She saw him. She's scared out of her mind. Wants police protection.”

Rita stepped clear of her desk. “Saw who?”

Rogers took a deep breath. “One of the Andrews brothers. Or whoever the hell they are. Pardon my French, Chief. She didn't know if it was Sam or Ernie. But she said she saw him.”

Rita Willers tossed her keys back on her desk. Sam and Ernie Andrews were the aliases of the two men driven up to the sweat lodge the day of the murders.

Two men whose bodies were not found.

Two men she was betting were killers.

“Where'd she see him?” Rita asked.

“I don't know. I just know she called, said she'd been in Seattle all day, was coming back home, and she saw him. She's wanting to meet me here. Right now. Well, like in an hour or so when she makes it back. I thought you'd want to know.”

A jolt of electricity surged through Rita's body, eliminating any fatigue she felt from the long day. “You have her cellphone number?”

“I do. I told her to drive safe but come straight here.”

“Call her back. Get her exact location. She's probably on I-5 but she may be on 164 already. Find out where she is then get in your unit and meet up with her. Follow her right back here. I'll be waiting for you both.”

“I'm on it, Chief.” The young officer turned on his heel, pulling out his cellphone as he sprinted to his car.

Rita Willers turned her desk lamp back on.