Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River Novella Book 2) (7 page)

“Where did you meet him?” Zane asked.

“In the woods. Up near O’Rourke’s.” Peter ran a hand over his choirboy hair.

“The lake?”

Peter shifted in his chair. “Between the lake and the construction site.”

“Russ doesn’t have a car. How did he get up there?”

“I think he had his dirt bike.” Peter squirmed.

“You
think
he had a dirt bike?” Zane tilted his head. His focus tightened.

“He had his dirt bike,” Peter said with conviction. Too much conviction. Maybe Carly wasn’t completely wrong.

“What color is it?”

Peter glanced down at his hands, then brought his gaze back up to meet Zane’s. “I don’t know. It was covered in mud.”

“Mud, really?” Zane raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. We haven’t had rain for weeks.”

The teen’s face reddened. His mouth opened and closed like a salmon’s on the riverbank.

The lawyer leaned forward. “My client would have no idea how Russ Warner’s dirt bike became covered in mud.”

Zane conceded the point with an inclination of his head, then jumped right back into the interrogation. “How did you get up there?”

If an investigator asked enough questions, a liar was bound to screw up at some point. Suspects never anticipated how difficult it would be to keep all the little details straight. It was impossible to anticipate every possible question.

“I took my ATV.” A sheen of sweat broke out on Peter’s forehead, though air conditioning kept the temperature in the small room comfortable. Seth wasn’t sweating, and he was wearing a tie and suit jacket.

“Why meet up near O’Rourke’s? Why not closer to town?” Zane pressed.

The teen leaned back, clearly more comfortable with this question than the previous one. “I was on my way home from work. Dad helped me get a part-time job at the site.”

“What was Russ wearing when he met you?”

Peter scratched his ear. “Wearing? I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. Clothes I guess.”

Zane gave the kid an incredulous look, as if he didn’t believe a word he said. “Was he wearing shorts or jeans?”

“I said I don’t remember.” The boy’s tone sharpened and turned snotty. “Dudes don’t check out other dudes’ clothes.”

“I think we’ve established that my client doesn’t remember what the other boy was wearing,” the lawyer chimed in.

Zane paused. Seth knew he was giving the boy a minute to sweat and think about all the things he didn’t know. “What were
you
wearing?”

The kid shrugged. He obviously intended the gesture to appear casual, but his movements were nervous-tic-abrupt instead of smooth. “Jeans, T-shirt, work boots. Same as every day I work at the site.”

“How many hits of C-22 did you say Russ sold you?”

“Two.” Peter sniffed and rubbed the end of his nose.

“Did he have more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he have a pack or bag on him?”

“I don’t know.” Irritation leaked into the teen’s voice. “I didn’t search him.”

The lawyer showed the cops his palm. “Chief, my client has already told you he doesn’t know. Can we move on?”

Zane gave Seth a do-you-want-a-crack-at-him? look.

With a nod, Seth jumped in. “What are you doing up at the construction site?”

“Just grunt work, emptying trash cans, raking up, moving supplies, that kind of stuff.”

Peter’s head swung toward Seth. The kid’s jaw clamped tight, and sweat stained the underarms of his T-shirt. Seth could smell the boy’s anxiety. A good time to push a few buttons. “You work there every day?”

The boy’s head nodded in a jerky movement. “Eight a.m. to noon, Monday through Friday.”

“O’Rourke Properties fired your dad, didn’t they?” Seth let a zinger fly. “Something about below-par work.”

“That’s total bullshit. They just don’t want to pay him.” Peter’s voice rose. Bitterness pinched his face. “I guess now they’ll fire me too.”

“Why do you say that?”

The kid’s body snapped straight. Anger lit his eyes. “I’m missing work, and the foreman’s a dick. He’s always looking for a reason to fire anybody. Plus, there’s gonna be less work as construction winds down.”

“So you rode your ATV home from work. Then what did you do?” Seth prodded.

“I took a shower, had lunch.”

“Weren’t you eager to try this new drug?”

“I was hungry.”

“Had you ever tried it before?”

Peter shook his head.

“What made you want to try it now?”

The teen lifted a shoulder and avoided eye contact. Classic tells. “I dunno. Everybody has been talking about it.”

Seth changed the topic. “Where was your dad on Thursday, Peter?”

“He had a job to bid on up by Portland. He stayed overnight.”

“Do you drink alcohol, Peter?” Seth asked.

The kid stared at the table. He picked at a thumbnail.

He’s deciding what’s believable.
Seth waited.

Peter raised a shoulder. “Sure, I’ve had a few beers here and there.”

Seth bet the kid probably drank considerably more than that. “How do you get beer?”

“Mostly kids take it from their parents.”

“You ever take your old man’s beer?”

“Once or twice.”

“I did that once. My dad beat the crap out of me. Did your old man ever catch you, Peter?”

The teen’s head shake was almost imperceptible. “My dad’s not much of a drinker. He’ll buy beer for a holiday or a party, then forget about it.”

And that, Seth bet, was Peter’s only truthful statement of the interview.

The guard took Peter back to his
pod
. They didn’t use the term
cell
in juvenile detection, but the steel door closing behind the kid sounded just as scary and permanent.

“What do you think?” Zane asked a few minutes later as they headed toward the exit.

“Lying through his perfect teeth.” Seth pushed through the exterior door. The midday heat enveloped him as if he’d walked into a kiln.

Zane wiped a forearm across his brow. “You think everyone is lying.”

“That’s because most of the people we interrogate are guilty.” Seth took off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

“I agree with you on this one.” Zane cast a worried eye at the horizon.

Seth followed his gaze. Thick, black clouds hung heavy over the hills. Thunderstorms in the Pacific Northwest were extremely rare. “Are those storm clouds?”

“Why not?” Zane turned toward his police cruiser. “Everything else about this summer is fucked up.”

“Zane, I’d question that kid again. He started out all sure of himself, but he’s getting the picture. He’s in way over his head.” Seth opened his car door to let the heat escape.

Parked next to him, Zane did the same. “I’d already planned on it. Why do you think he’s lying?”

“Maybe he’s protecting someone?”

“A close friend?”

Looking at the local cop over the roof of his car, Seth considered Peter. “Could be. The only other motivation that comes to mind is fear of the real supplier.”

Zane’s chest deflated with a sigh. “He didn’t come off as altruistic to me.”

“Which means he pointed the finger at Russ Warner to protect his own ass,” Seth concluded. “Are you going to let Russ out?”

Zane shook his head. “Not until I have to. Whoever Peter is afraid of is obviously dangerous, and I’d like to keep Russ from turning up dead.”

Carly pulled up in front of the Fishers’ squat house. She scanned the property but saw no signs of its human occupants. Darren’s four dogs barked and growled from the strip of open ground between the house and the woods. The chained animals had worn the weeds down to dirt. No one sneaked up on this house. If the Fishers were inside, they knew they had company.

Normally Carly preferred to make scheduled home visits. Unless she had a specific reason to fear for a child’s safety, an expected visit fostered a working-together mood, as opposed to the trying-to-catch-you-in-the-act atmosphere of a surprise call.

She got out of the Jeep. Thirty feet away, a snarling dog lunged to the end of its chain. Carly flinched.

Relax.

She’d been here before. She knew what to expect, but today felt different. Was it because she’d come here with an ulterior motive? Because Darren had been involved with Ted? Or simply because she was on edge about being watched last night?

Her flats stirred up dust as she crossed the driveway. The dogs stopped barking and paced, dragging their chains through the dirt. She followed the cracked cement walkway to the front stoop and knocked on the door. No answer. A bird chirped from its perch on the gutter.

She knocked again. Something moved behind the window to her left. Her ears strained for a repeat. Nothing. Could have been a cat.

Or a child instructed not to open the door.

Either way, she wasn’t getting inside the house today. She’d have to come back. She pivoted to return to her vehicle and almost collided with the brawny body of Darren Fisher. An ax rested on his shoulder, and sweat stained his T-shirt.

Startled, Carly pressed a hand to her chest.
How did a man the size of the Hulk sneak up on her?
“Chopping something?”

“Wood.” The morning sun angled from its position over the house into his face. He squinted at her. “Did you want something?”

“I was just stopping by to check on things. See if you had time to review that paperwork I dropped off yesterday.” Which they both knew he’d burned.

“Things are fine.” He loomed over her. “I thought I’d made it clear we aren’t interested in handouts.”

He didn’t back off, forcing Carly to take a step backward to reestablish her personal boundary.

“Are Tammy and the children home?”

“No.” He lowered the ax and rested its head on the ground next to his work boots. Below stained knee-length shorts, his hairy calves were thick as tree trunks.

“Where are they?”

“Tammy took the younger ones to visit her sister in Portland. Gary’s hanging with friends somewhere.”

A line of sweat trickled down Carly’s chest. “I guess I’ll have to stop back to see them.”

“Guess you will. If you called first, you’d know if they were gonna be here.” Darren’s eyes grinned as if he was enjoying the game.

Carly doubted he let them answer the phone. But she played along. Aggression rolled off his powerful body. She would not risk a confrontation without police backup. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

She walked around him toward her Jeep. She could ask to go into the house to look around, but she had no desire to be alone in close quarters with Darren Fisher. Being alone with him outside was unnerving enough.

Her visit hadn’t accomplished anything. She slid into the front seat, hit the door lock switch, and took her first deep breath in minutes. Her ribs felt too tight, and she was going to need to freshen her deodorant.

She shouldn’t have let him bully her. Her supervisor knew she was stopping here this morning. If Carly didn’t report in within an hour, someone would follow up.

But a lot could happen in an hour.

She could call for backup now and make him let her into the house, but playing the hard-ass might erode any progress she’d made with Tammy and further irritate Darren. Tammy and the kids might pay for Carly’s power play. Better not to supply him with ammunition. She swept her gaze across the property one more time. There were no signs that anyone else was here.

She started her Jeep. Cool air rushed from the vents. As she shifted into reverse, she glanced back at Darren, leaning on the ax handle on his front walk. The slight smile on his lips told her he’d enjoyed every second of his intimidation.

Over the meadow, black clouds rolled across the horizon. Seth got out of his car and walked toward the cabin. A cool, moist breeze swept across his face, a precursor to the coming storm. He faced the rushing wind. Oregon didn’t get many thunderstorms, and Seth missed the violent weather clashes of his childhood in New Hampshire. He could feel the energy in the air, trapped in the clouds, restless to get on with the storm.

A loud and brash storm was exactly what he needed. An impact of fronts to clear the air, to restore the normal balance of moderation to the weather, to his life. An outlet for all the pent-up frustration that had been building for the past few months.

The strum of an acoustic guitar and Carly’s clear voice sounded from inside the cabin. Seth stopped. He recognized the opening notes of “Patience.” Normally Carly and her family stuck to the folk songs her mother loved, but when she was alone, she’d sing anything that came on the radio. Perfect pitch, she’d called it, the ability to reproduce the notes. She’d hear a song and pick the melody out on her guitar a minute later. The first time he’d heard her he’d been entranced, but she’d just shrugged off the talent as ordinary. For a man who couldn’t carry a note ten yards if he had the support of the entire Seahawks offensive line, it was hardly ordinary.

One of the things he missed most, living alone, was the sound of Carly singing. She sang when she folded laundry, when she cooked, in the shower, and any other time her hands were occupied and her mind free. The house had been too damned quiet since she’d left. He’d started turning TVs on in different rooms to block out the silence.