Port of Sorrow (15 page)

CHAPTER
32

It had been eating away at Julia all morning. A woman she just met, someone who had the makings of becoming her first friend in this town, had been brutally murdered inside her own home.

The reason was one she didn’t want to acknowledge: She hadn’t caught the killer when he ran from the bar and Barbara was killed to cover his tracks.

Goose bumps rose on her flesh, flooding her with feelings of anger and frustration. To combat it, she fell back on an old trick, concentrating on calming images of the farm back home: the smell of baking bread, the miracle of birthing calves, the sweet, gentle eyes of young Jimmy Brown. There were no killers there.

Mournfully, she shook the images away, knowing she was wrong. There were killers in every town. The ones in Idaho simply murdered dreams rather than flesh. She had to escape just to live her own life, and she’d be damned if she was going to give up her freedom now.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Agent Cryre Rayne tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to join him in the sheriff’s office.

Inside the office, Sheriff Marshall stood with his back to them. He was staring out at the boats, probably dreaming of a day when he could sail away. He turned around when he heard the door close.

“Agent Rayne tells me you have a theory as to why our coroner was murdered.”

He sounded tired, defeated, and Julia wondered if Cryre had bullied him into hearing her out. Before Julia answered, Marshall motioned for her to sit on one of the wooden chairs he kept against the wall. At the same time, he settled his bulk in an overstuffed and overworked reclining chair behind his desk. Cryre remained standing, but moved over to one side to look out the window at the ocean beyond.

Julia lowered her gaze submissively before clearing her throat. “I, I believe Barbara may have been murdered because the killer found out about the tests being done on Paul’s body.”

“And what brings you to that conjecture?”

“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

Julia glanced over at Cryre for support, but the agent seemed intent on the view.

She continued, “The killer eliminated the cook because he couldn’t go through the kitchen and onto the stage without being seen. But he didn’t just kill him. He raped and bit him first. Then, he found out about Barbara’s tests on the body and eliminated her to stop them. That’s also why he set fire to the corpse. He needed to prevent someone else from requesting the same tests.”

“You’re leaping to an awful lot of conclusions,” said the sheriff.

“I don’t think I’m leaping,” Julia answered defensively, her gaze lifting from the sheriff’s straining buttons to lock onto his eyes. “I’m taking what we have and linking it together.”

“But you have no evidence. You don’t know the murders were perpetrated by the same person.”

“No.” Julia’s tone was sharper than intended. “But I don’t believe Barbara’s murder is coincidental, and I know you don’t either.”

Marshall smiled. “Looks like I was right about you, J.L. We may not have any hard evidence, but your theory has merit. The only part that worries me though is how the killer could have known about those tests.”

Julia nodded. “Someone in the station knows the killer.”

Marshall’s face flushed and he clenched his fists so tight his knuckles whitened. “Goddamnit.”

Feeling empowered, Julia added, “We could ask everyone who knew about Barbara’s report to submit to a bite test.”

“What?” Marshall’s face reddened with anger. “What good would that do?”

Julia shrank beneath the sheriff’s rage and glanced over at Cryer. This time he was looking directly at her, and unlike the sheriff’s glare, his eyes were smiling.

She added, “The tissue sample was already on its way to Seattle before Barbara was murdered. I should be receiving the results within a few days.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Marshall growled, anger coating his words.

“I’m sorry,” Julia squeaked. “But I didn’t find out until the end of my shift yesterday, and then with Barbara’s murder and the fire at the morgue . . . .”

Marshall held up his hands to silence her.

“It’s okay.” Anger faded from his voice nearly as quickly as it had arrived. “I’m as jumpy as a catfish in heat over this. But what makes you think one of my deputies is the killer? That is what you’re suggesting, right?”

Julia chewed on her lower lip, knowing this theory was a bit more difficult to explain.

“Barbara wasn’t sure exactly what caused the signs of rape on the cook,” she said carefully. “The tearing and bruising could have been caused by an object, like a nightstick.”

“That’s pretty slim,” said Marshall.

“Yes,” Julia stumbled, “but a similar attack took place in our cells recently. The coincidence seems worth exploring.”

The sheriff sighed. “Who did you get this from?”

“It was someone in custody.”

“I didn’t see a report.”

“He didn’t file one.”

The sheriff sighed again, heavier this time.

“Now, deputy, I’m not saying your source is lying, but you’re pretty green and every felon I ever met was only too happy to blame a cop for their troubles. Did he mention a name?”

“Deputy Gilles.”

Marshall closed his eyes and Julia could see him mentally wrestle for control of his emotions.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll round everyone up and get them to bite something. I’ll need to think of a good excuse though. If the troops think I suspect one of them of being a murderer and rapist, I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.”

Julia nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

AFTER LEAVING THE
sheriff’s office, Julia found herself shaking like a leaf and unable to concentrate on the work in front of her. Her nerves were so jangled that when she felt a strong hand on her shoulder, she wasn’t sure whether to sink into it or run like hell.

She looked up and into Cryre’s friendly face.

“You did great in there,” he said. “There’s nothing quite as effective as a pretty face and a giant pair of cohunes.”

Julia laughed aloud, suddenly feeling much better.

AGENT CRYRE RAYNE
found a quiet desk in the corner, away from prying ears, and dialed Washington.

“Solved it yet?” Roy Bastet asked without preamble.

Cryre laughed lightly into the handset. “Nope, but there’s a young deputy here who seems to have a few good theories.”

“Anything we can tell the Canadians?”

“Not yet,” Cryre sighed. “I’ve been going through all the case work, but there’s very little to go on. Two of the rapes were reported by letter, weeks after the fact. Neither letter was followed up with interviews because the victims were Canadian and neither wanted to return across the border. The third rape was reported in an anonymous phone call. Again, this wasn’t followed up. The fourth victim ended up in the local hospital with severe injuries, so at least the deputies were able to talk to him. But even then, they didn’t get DNA or any kind of useful description. I’m attempting to track him down for a fresh interview. We’re also expecting some lab results soon on a bite mark found on one of the murder victims. That may help us link to a suspect.”

“What about your gut?” Bastet asked. “Anything make it grumble?”

“One thing. So far the theory being proposed by the deputy links the three murders to one person. But the killer spent too much time with the first victim, the hotel cook. If he was in such a hurry to kill the stripper, why waste time torturing the cook.”

“You think there’s two of them?”

“Possibly, and if so, they’re both sadistic fucks. One gets rid of the cook, having a little sadistic fun along the way, while the second takes care of the stripper. That would also explain how the fire in the morgue occurred so soon after the murder of the coroner.”

“Well that could be good news,” Bastet said. “Two people are more likely to make a mistake than one.”

“Let’s hope so,” Cryre agreed.

CHAPTER
33

The show was flat and the audience knew it. The only thing Veronique could have done to save it was flash her tits, and that was impossible.

In a rare appearance, Percy stood behind the stage, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as Veronique walked past. He had the good sense to keep quiet. Finn was in no mood and his arsenal of short-fat-and-ugly jokes was lethal.

“They only want flesh tonight, sweetheart,” Opal commiserated as she prepared to go on stage. “You’ll get ’em next time.”

Finn nodded. His heart just wasn’t in it, and even though they were drunk and horny, the audience could tell.

After a quick shower, Finn dressed in black jeans, navy T-shirt and familiar leather jacket. He exited the hotel by the rear doors and walked to a makeshift lean-to he had built against the fence that surrounded the kitchen dumpster. There, he pulled a plastic tarp off his ’88 Harley Davidson Sportster and matching sidecar. Apart from Selene, the bike had been his most faithful companion.

Finn kicked the bike into gear and headed for the docks.

He found what he was looking for within minutes: Wells’ pickup parked outside The Admiral’s Mistress. After parking his bike out of sight behind a dry-docked boat, Finn crossed the gravel lot and smashed the truck’s left taillight.

Without pausing, Finn continued into the bar and ordered a beer. There, with his back to the wall near the jukebox, he had an unobstructed view of Wells and his pals playing pool in the back room.

Wells seemed to be on good behavior. He had a girl on his arm who didn’t mind the hand underneath her shirt, and he had friends who let him win a few pool games even though he was an impatient shot.

Finn alternated between beer and iced water, keeping to himself and watching the hours creep past until the bartender shouted last call. He left the bar and sat on his bike, his eyes glued to both exits.

Wells staggered out five minutes later, the girl clinging to his arm and obviously needing the support. Wells stopped at his truck, unzipped his fly and took a leak.

“You know,” he said to the girl who was now leaning against the truck. “If you was a lady you would hold it for me.”

The girl laughed hoarsely. “If you was a gentleman, you wouldn’t ask me to hold such a little thing.”

“It gets bigger, just you wait and see.”

Finn watched him pee on his boots, give it a shake, then climb into the truck. The girl staggered around to the passenger’s side to join him.

When the truck roared to life, Finn started his bike. He left the headlight switched off.

Wells zigzagged up the road, barely keeping it within the painted lines. Finn followed a safe distance behind, easily following the white glow of the broken taillight.

It only took ten minutes before they reached a moss green bungalow on the outskirts of town. Finn parked in the dark and switched off his engine before Wells and his friend climbed out of the truck.

He watched them walk to the front door of the bungalow and go inside. He lit a small cigar and waited. After ten minutes, he crept up to the front window and peered inside.

Wells was passed out on the couch, his pants and underwear around his ankles. The girl was lying on the floor, her bare ass aglow in the flickering light of the television. Strands of limp auburn hair covered her ash-gray face, but Finn couldn’t tell if she was awake, asleep or dead.

He retreated quietly. There was nothing more happening tonight.

BACK AT THE
hotel, Finn undressed in the dark and crawled into bed.

He missed hearing Selene’s whistling snore from the other bed, and the way, usually during a thunderstorm, she would crawl in beside him and ask for a story. Something simple, she would say, something sweet. She always fell asleep before his story was complete.

Finn closed his eyes, exhaustion taking him deep, but it wasn’t to last.

A sudden weight pressing down on his chest made him jerk awake, but before he could fully open his eyes, a pillow was forced over his face, the taut fabric pushing down with all the force the hands behind it could muster.

Panicking, Finn struggled to move, to rip the suffocating pillow free, but his only reward was a heavy fist battering through the flimsy stuffing to crack into his left cheekbone. Another blow crashed into his right eye.

“Not so tough now, are you bitch?” hissed a muffled voice.

Finn tried to force his way up, but the intruder’s knees were pinning his arms, holding him down with his weight. Another angry blow smashed into his lip, splitting it.

“School’s in session, whore. So listen up.”

Finn went limp as another blow cracked his right cheek.

“That’s better,” said the voice. “I heard you’re some kind of freak. Thought I oughta see for myself.”

Finn felt the sheets being torn off him, revealing the bulge of his true sex, as the weight shifted from his ribs.

“Motherfu—”

Finn lashed out with his knee, connecting solidly between the intruder’s legs. The man grunted and tumbled off the bed as Finn ripped the pillow from his face and leapt after him. The intruder was all muscle and bone, but Finn’s rage propelled a jackhammering of fists into ribs, belly, throat and face.

A lucky elbow, sharp and solid, caught Finn in the right temple, knocking him off balance and allowing the intruder time to snake a hand into the waistband of his trousers. The crack and flash of a .38 revolver send Finn scrambling as a bullet burned past his face and struck the ceiling, causing the plaster to rain down in chunks.

The man, now a black silhouette against the moonlit window, staggered to his feet, the smoking gun in his hand.

The odds had changed again, but Finn was long past caring. With a primal scream he charged, smashing his shoulder into the intruder’s chest. The gun fired again, more plaster sprayed, but the momentum of Finn’s attack was already throwing the shooter off balance.

With a scream, the man crashed through the wooden frame of the window and vanished into the night. A shower of glass trailed after him, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight.

IN THE REAR
seat of the police cruiser, Finn sat with his hands handcuffed behind his back. His face ached and throbbed from the beating, but the two deputies who responded to the call wouldn’t let the ambulance attendants look at him.

Deputy Gilles had been scraped off the street, placed in a stretcher and rushed to hospital. He was still alive, but there were concerns his neck and back might be broken.

Finn told the deputies his story, but he wasn’t believed. The deputies cuffed him, threw him in the car, and called the sheriff.

Sheriff Marshall arrived within twenty minutes. He didn’t look pleased. His hair was sticking up on one side and he had misaligned the buttons on his shirt. After a brief word with the deputies, he climbed into the front of the car and twisted around to look at Finn through the plastic, bulletproof barrier.

“You don’t look so good, mister,” Marshall said.

“Neither do you.”

Marshall chuckled. “True. I can’t seem to get any sleep lately.”

“I hear warm milk works wonders.”

“Maybe I ought to try that.” Marshall sighed. “So tell me your story.”

Finn told him everything, exactly as it happened.

“So you figure he wanted to teach Veronique a lesson because you, when you were dressed as her, punched him in the mouth.”

Finn nodded.

“Man, this sounds like a story you could sell to the Enquirer, don’t it?”

Finn remained silent.

“Okay,” Marshall sighed again. “The way I see it is Gilles is an asshole and he’s left this department wide open for a lawsuit. But I don’t like lawsuits because they reflect badly on me. Now is there anything I can do to make you forget this ever happened?”

Finn thought for a moment before answering. “I got myself in a spot of trouble earlier this week. Gilles seized my gun and threatened to charge me with carrying without a permit. If no charges are being laid, and I get my gun back, I’ll call it even.”

Marshall nodded. “That sounds fair, except for getting your gun. I can make sure all charges are dropped, but it would be criminal of me to put a gun in your hand. Especially since you now have a major grudge against one of my officers. I’ll destroy the gun and give you a letter stating such. Deal?”

Finn agreed.

“Good.” Marshall grinned. “Now I’ll see about getting those cuffs off and let you get back to bed. Hopefully, you can sleep. I sure as hell don’t think I can.”