Something Wicked (15 page)

Then.

Now, however, she was beginning to realize she must.

 

 

The Portland offices of Bancroft Development were on the east side of the Willamette River, near the Lloyd Center mall. Savannah nosed her Escape into a spot in the underground parking structure and took an elevator to the lobby, then a different elevator to the eleventh floor. Since it was Saturday, the building was generally deserted, except for the street-level establishments, which were on all four sides of the building and included two restaurants, a Starbucks, a women's clothing store called Lacey's, and a shop that sold all manner of kitchen items.

She glanced down at the list of names Hale and his employees had compiled for her:

There were other names below those top three, as well. Nadine Gretz, the ex-bookkeeper. Owen DeWitt, the much-maligned ex–geological engineer. Bridget Townsend, the office receptionist. And then the temporary workmen Ella Blessert had mentioned.

Savvy concentrated on Clark Russo, the Portland project manager, whom Hale had said he would call. She had his number, as well, and debated about whether she should phone him directly with a reminder or just walk through the door. She opted for the latter, testing the glass doors to see if they were locked. They weren't, and she pushed into a vacant reception area with several green chenille armchairs and a small sofa grouped near the west window, while a large reception desk took center stage. An anemic ficus tree stood in the corner behind the desk, and toward the other corner was a door that clearly led to further offices.

Since no one was at the desk, Savvy pulled out her cell phone and punched in the number she had for Clark Russo. It rang six times before going to voice mail.
Oh, joy.
She left a message, then wondered if the number might be to a cell phone and decided to try texting.

If he was anywhere around, that ought to do it. In the meantime she checked out the black-and-white photos lining the walls, which were of buildings in varying stages of completion, the last picture being of the fifteen-story edifice she was currently standing in. So, this building had been one of Bancroft Development's projects. She realized then that one of the names listed at the bottom of the photographs was someone she was hoping to see: Sean Ingles, the architect.

Savannah made a face and eased herself into one of the chairs, relieved to find they were comfortable and supported her lower back. She felt tired, and for once, the peanut butter wasn't doing it for her. There was a nagging little indigestion going on.

With time on her hands, her mind drifted back to Herman Smythe's
A Short History of the Colony.
A lot of information about Catherine and Mary's ancestors, but not much concerning the present. The girls' names weren't even listed, although she knew the first one was Isadora, and she'd met Cassandra/Margaret, Ravinia, and Lillibeth. She also knew of Lorelei, who, along with reporter Harrison Frost, had been instrumental in helping the TCSD track down Justice Turnbull after he'd escaped from Halo Valley Security Hospital. Lorelei was a nurse who'd lived outside of the Colony complex, and Savannah had heard she'd moved with Frost when he took a job in Portland. Lastly, there was another woman who lived in the Portland area, she thought, who was somehow connected to the Colony, but Savvy didn't have any definitive information on her.

Lang was the one in the department who knew the most about the current clan, but he'd never mentioned anything about any sons of Mary's, though Catherine had alluded to them. More than alluded. She'd intimated that they had stronger gifts that were harder to control and so they'd been shunted outside the gates. Savannah wasn't sure exactly what Catherine had been trying to tell her, but she certainly wanted the knife tested, and with her talk about the boys who'd been adopted out and their “superpowers,” it stood to reason there must be some connection between the two. When she got the DNA off the knife, she'd be able to move forward.

Maybe she should try to interview Herman Smythe in person. It was worth a try, although after she was desk-bound on Monday, she wasn't sure how much legwork she would be allowed to do. She knew he was at Seagull Pointe, a combined assisted living facility and nursing home. She could stop by this evening, maybe, when she got back to the coast.

Her cell phone rang its new default tone, the one Lang had chosen for her one day when he'd commandeered her phone for a while: “Dragnet.” Funny. Pulling the cell from her messenger bag, she examined the name. Hale St. Cloud.

“Savannah,” she answered.

“Hey, Savvy. How're you doing? You on your way to Portland?”

“Already here, waiting to see Clark Russo.”

“He's making you wait?”

“He's on a job site, but on his way back. What's up?”

He hesitated a moment, before saying, “I missed talking to Kristina this morning, and I wondered if she'd contacted you.”

“Not today. Why? Something wrong?”

“We've just been missing each other,” he said, but something in his tone caught Savvy's attention.

“Did you see each other last night?” she asked.

“No, she had something to do, and I went to bed early.”

“She was up before you? Like, what? At dawn? Doesn't sound like her.” Kristina had never been a morning person. “Did she have an early appointment?”

“No clue,” he said, then changed the subject. “You know, if you don't want to wait, I know Clark's in Lake Chinook, at our job site there. I can give you the address. I'm pretty sure he's with Neil Vledich, our foreman. The property was red tagged by the city, so there's no construction going on. They're just meeting there. You could kill two birds with one stone if you stopped by.”

“Okay.”

“I'll call Clark and tell him to stay put, then. Tell him you're on your way.”

“Thanks, Hale.”

“Any records you need, Clark'll help you.” Another hesitation, and then he said, “Just don't spend too much time on that side of the mountains. The weather's changing for the worse.”

“I'll keep an eye on it.”

“I don't mean to be a broken record, but any documentation you need, I can get for you. You don't have to hang around there.”

“Message received,” she said, half amused, half exasperated.

“All right. Have a safe trip.”

“Would you tell Kristina to call me when she shows up?” she asked, trying not to sound worried, even though she was. Her sister was just acting strange right now.

“Will do.”

He said good-bye, and Savannah clicked off. Maybe he was right. Maybe this trip wasn't worth it. She would meet Russo and Vledich and see how she felt about staying or going.

She'd worn her raincoat, so now she slipped the strap of the messenger bag over her head, and as she was in the process, the front door opened and a man stood on the threshold, his expression tense. He stopped short upon seeing her.

“The door's open,” he said, as if he had to explain himself. “Where's Bridget?” He looked to the imposing desk.

“Not here. I was waiting for Mr. Russo.”

“He isn't here, either?” he asked. He was still standing in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter.

“No.” Savvy headed toward him but slowed to a stop when he didn't immediately move out of the way.

“I'm Sean Ingles,” he said, introducing himself, and stuck out his hand. “I designed this building, and I do work for Bancroft Development.”

Ingles was a slight man with sandy-colored hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a slight hunch, almost as if he were preparing for a blow. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to move, so Savannah shook his hand and said, “Detective Dunbar with the Tillamook County Sheriff's Department.”

His eyebrows shot up, and his gaze skittered down her front.

He didn't say anything about her condition, however. He was clearly processing her words, and it didn't appear to be a particularly pleasant train of thought. After a long few moments, he said, “Ummm . . . we have a Seaside office.”

“I've been there. I spoke to Hale St. Cloud and told him I was coming here.”
He's my brother-in-law, and I'm carrying his baby.

“Oh. Okay.” And then, “Oh, does this have to do with Bancroft Bluff and the . . . ?”

“Donatella homicides. Yes.”

He met her gaze, his brown eyes owlish behind the lenses. “I hope you get whoever did it,” he stated fervently. “If I can help in any way, let me know.”

“Did you design the homes at Bancroft Bluff?”

He physically recoiled, as if she'd struck him. “Well . . . yes . . . most of them. There were a few lots sold to other builders, and sometimes they used their own architects or house designers.” He clenched his teeth and moved his lips, as if he was working himself up to say something. Finally, he asked, “Have you talked to DeWitt? Owen DeWitt? He's the brilliant geological engineer who okayed that project.” Ingles's voice was full of repressed venom.

“I've put in a call to Mr. DeWitt, but he hasn't responded.”

“Figures,” he breathed. “He cost the company a lot of money, and I don't have to tell you that's a real black mark on my reputation as well as Hale's.” His lips tightened with repressed fury. “DeWitt's an incompetent ass who really sold Declan Bancroft a bill of goods.”

Savannah could have told him Declan Bancroft would agree with him 100 percent, but she said instead, “Do you know where I could find Mr. DeWitt?”

“You mean besides in a bottle at the Rib-I?”

“What's the Rib-I?”

“A steak house and bar. The one that had the double murder the other night. DeWitt was probably there when it happened. You should ask him. It's not too far up on Sandy.” He waved an arm in a general direction east, toward Sandy Boulevard, a major artery on the eastside of Portland.

Double murder? Like at Bancroft Bluff?
Savannah hadn't seen the news in the past twenty-four hours or so and realized she was behind the times. “It's not even nine yet.”

“They serve steak burritos and make-your-own Bloody Marys on the weekends. He's there.”

“Okay.”

She gave him her card, and he returned the favor. She left the office, wondering if she should stop by the steak house on the way to the job site but deciding against it. Russo was expecting her, if Hale had called him, like he'd said he would, and she didn't want to miss the opportunity to talk to him, anyway. By the sounds of it, DeWitt might still be at the Rib-I later today, anyway.

She put in a call to Lang and got his voice mail. It was Saturday, she reminded herself. At the beep, she said, “Hey, I just heard about a double homicide at the Rib-I restaurant in Portland. It's a place DeWitt, the engineer who okayed building on the dune, frequents. Have you talked to Curtis about it? I'm in Portland and thought about going over there to see if I can find DeWitt.” Detective Trey Curtis of the Portland Police Department was a longtime friend of Lang's, their relationship having started when Lang was with the PPD, before he joined the Tillamook County Sheriff's Department.

Ten minutes later Lang texted her back. A man and a woman killed Thursday night in parking lot. Throats slit. Looks like they were having sex in his truck when he got them. That's DeWitt's bar?

Savannah grimaced at the thought of the new homicides. She texted: Yep. I'll try to see him before I head back.

Lang answered: I'll let Curtis know.

With a glance out the window to the sky, which was high and gray, she turned south toward the bedroom community of Lake Chinook.

T
he Lake Chinook job site was at the end of a broken asphalt drive, the result of too many construction vehicles breaking the pavement down with heavy loads. The road opened onto a headland with a spectacular view of the green lake far below. Concrete footings for three separate residences had been poured and were still surrounded by their plywood forms. The house farthest west was the furthest along; it was framed, sided, and rough plumbed, and looked to be in the process of rough electrical, but there was a red work-stoppage notice flapping in the wind. Construction had been red tagged, and the group of men standing just inside the framed house's open doorway seemed to be discussing the situation with barely concealed ire.

The rain had stopped, and the temperature was dropping. Savvy had traded in her raincoat for the dark blue ski jacket, and now she stepped carefully over chunks of two-by-fours and crumbling asphalt as she made her way to their group. An attractive silver-haired man saw her first and stopped talking midsentence. The taller, lankier man looked over at her. His long dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, and his eyes seemed penetrating, even from this distance. The third man, who she guessed was the building inspector, barely glanced at her as he said, “You're over a couple of inches, and until you fix it, I can't sign off.” Unlike the first two, he was heavyset, his features were close set, and his face pinched. He looked like the epitome of a government employee with a chip on his shoulder.

“I'll take care of it,” the silver-haired man said tersely. He was lean and hard, and his eyes were as dark as midnight. As the inspector walked toward his truck, he stood in the doorway with his hands planted on his hips and waited for Savannah to approach. “Clark Russo,” he said, holding out a hand.

“Detective Dunbar,” she greeted him.

“Ah, yes. You decided to brave the elements and stray from your jurisdiction. This is Neil Vledich, our foreman.” Savannah shook hands with Vledich, whose ponytail was a dark sable brown and whose eyes were a brilliant blue. Russo said, as if Savvy had asked a question, “The upper deck on this house is outside the twenty-five percent footprint, all that we're allowed to build on a lot in this damn town. We're going to have to cut it back to make it fit in.”

“First, it was the trees,” Vledich said as Savvy pulled out her notebook.

“We cut more trees down than the neighbors wanted,” Russo explained. “It was within city code, but there was a lot of noise, and they started complaining. Just been one delay after another. Give me Portland any day.” He shook his head and seemed to mentally dust off his hands. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm doing a follow-up on the Donatella homicides at Bancroft Bluff. . . .” She trailed off at his rapid nodding.

“Right. Hale said as much. I worked that project. Neil didn't. He was here. What do you want to know?”

Before she could answer, Vledich put in, “A lot of people said they shouldn't build there, but he ignored them.”

“He?” Savannah asked.

“DeWitt,” Russo answered. “If that guy were on the
Titanic
, he'd swear they hadn't hit an iceberg rather than admit he was wrong. He still stands by his original assessment. Meanwhile, the whole damn dune's falling into the sea.”

“I ran into Sean Ingles in your office, and he said that Mr. DeWitt could be found at a local bar,” Savannah said.

“Oh, he's a big drinker, all right,” Russo answered. “Since the Bancroft Bluff debacle, he's an even bigger drinker.” He motioned Savannah inside the framed house, to a hearth that was just the concrete blocks at the moment; the tile or granite or whatever medium they'd chosen to cover the blocks wasn't there yet. Vledich went outside, and through the open doorway Savvy could see him break out a pack of cigarettes and light up.

Russo went on, “Everybody wanted Bancroft Bluff to be a success, so Owen ignored everything he knew, and anything anybody said, and went ahead and green-lighted the project. It was lame-assed, but we all kinda kept our fingers crossed. I mean, nobody wanted a failure. When the dune started failing, we scrambled to put riprap down, trying to stop the erosion.”

“Riprap?”

“Big chunks of rock, mostly. Stuff to stabilize the slide and build up a wall, stop the erosion. We put it at the foot of the dune and piled high, but the bluff's right on the ocean. Duh. That's why people want to build there, and the elements don't give a shit, if you know what I mean. The ocean eroded the dune behind the riprap, anyway. Big waste of time.”

“Do you think the motive for the Donatella homicides had to do with the development failure?” Savvy asked.

“Seems likely, doesn't it? Isn't that why you're reinterviewing us?”

“One of the reasons,” she acknowledged. “‘Blood money' was written on the Donatellas' wall with red spray paint.”

“Yeah, I know. Somebody was really pissed off. Doesn't make a lot of sense, does it?” Russo mused. “Although . . .”

“Although?”

“Blood money sounds so . . . I don't know . . . like revenge or something, and yet Donatella's house is gonna go, too. Sure, it's still standing now, but the whole area's shut down and basically condemned. Donatella was hurting as much as the next guy.”

Savannah nodded. Her own feeling was that logic wasn't the overriding factor in the whole scenario. Why write “blood money?” Everyone knew about Bankruptcy Bluff and the fact that the Donatellas and the Bancrofts were taking it in the shorts, all the while trying to make good on the properties.

It seemed more like misdirection the more she interviewed people close to the real estate debacle.

She asked Russo a few more questions, reexamining where he'd been the night of the murders—to dinner in Seaside with two friends, who'd vouched for him then and would again. Then, as Vledich came back in, she posed a couple more questions to him for good measure. Vledich told her he was in Portland at the time of the homicides and had the word of his live-in girlfriend to back him up.

Savannah asked him his thoughts about motive, and he said, “The can of red paint was just there. Available. Whoever killed 'em just used what was handy.”

Vledich was echoing Russo's thoughts and Savannah's, as well.

She checked her watch. Two p.m. “I would like to get in touch with Nadine Gretz and Owen DeWitt before I go, if at all possible.”

“Nadine's working at the eastside apartments,” Vledich said.

“I thought she quit,” Savannah said, surprised.

“She did.” Russo shrugged. “But she couldn't find work in this economy, so we're using her as a temp. Mostly she just wants to hang with Henry, though. He's the number two guy after Neil here. If Neil's busy on a project, Henry's the man.”

Vledich made a sound of disgust.

Russo said mildly, “Henry would like Neil's job.”

“Henry Woodworth is an asshole.” Vledich's brows were a sharp, dark line.

Russo told her the address of the eastside apartment complex, and Savannah committed it to memory. “RiverEast Apartments. It's on the sign,” he told her.

“And DeWitt?” she asked.

“Should be at the Rib-I. Place used to be a great steak house, but it's kinda gone downhill. Did you hear? They found two dead bodies in an SUV there yesterday. Doesn't do well with the clientele, I'd imagine.” Russo smirked.

“Do you know of any theories on that?”

Her cell phone
blooped
, and she saw it was another message from Lang. As if he'd heard her last question, he'd texted that Curtis wouldn't be able to meet with her, because he was involved in a double homicide. Bound to be the same one.

“We keeping you from something?” Russo asked.

“No.” She tucked her phone away and waited, and Russo seemed to run their last few words around in his head and realize she was still waiting for an answer.

“Love triangle, somebody said. The jilted lover killed 'em.” He shrugged.

“Nah.” Vledich waved that away. “It was executed like a hit.”

Like the Donatellas
, Savvy thought.

“All right,” she said, closing up her notebook and tucking it away. She started to walk toward her car, then stopped, turned back, and said to Russo, “Sylvie Strahan said she recommended you for the Portland job.”

For the first time he looked cautious. “Yeah?”

“Who was manager here before you?”

Vledich snorted again, and Russo said, “Paulie Williamson. He's the one who awarded the engineering job to DeWitt.”

“I don't have him on my list,” Savannah admitted.

“Paulie folded up tent and moved to Tucson. Working on his tan and drinking mojitos now,” Russo said. “He ran like a rabbit after the Donatellas were killed. Told you guys he didn't have anything to do with the project, which was technically true, other than being friends with DeWitt, and then took off. I think he was scared he'd be sued along with Bancroft Development.”

“Asshole.” Vledich sniffed.

“Do you have a number for him?” she asked.

“Got a cell.” Russo pulled out his phone, scrolled through some numbers, then rattled off Paul Williamson's number, which Savvy put into her phone list.

She left them a few moments later and headed north and then east across the Willamette again, toward the RiverEast Apartments construction site, driving through a Taco Bell on the way and ordering two chicken gorditas and a water. She ate both gorditas while driving and was sipping the water when she saw the sign
COMING SOON RIVEREAST APARTMENTS
—which featured a schematic of the ten-story modern glass and steel building in the midst of a parklike setting—coming up on her right. The parklike setting was a dream for the future, apparently, as currently the site sported bare steel rafters and cranes, and men in hard hats walked around purposefully. It was a big project that would probably take years to complete. Savannah parked the Escape well away from the construction zone and walked back slowly.

A good-looking man with dark blond hair and a full-wattage smile approached her, hard hat on his head, his walk a swinging strut, which she'd found common among the more handsome of the male species—or at least the ones who felt they were. He wore jeans and a gray work shirt, and he pointed his finger at her, then made a circling motion with it to encompass her belly. “What are you doing here, Mama?” he asked.

“Are you Henry Woodworth?”

He blinked in surprise. “Why, yes, I am. And who might you be?”

“I'm Detective Savannah Dunbar with the Tillamook County Sheriff's Department.” She showed him her badge, then held out a hand, but Henry didn't take it.

“How did you know me, Detective?” he asked cautiously, and she explained about her meeting with Russo and Vledich.

“Vledich,” he muttered. “Bet he didn't have nice things to say.”

“I was actually hoping to find Nadine Gretz. I was told you and she are friends.”

“What do you want to see Nadine for?”

“I'm doing a follow-up investigation on the Donatella homicides in Deception Bay last spring. Nadine worked for Bancroft Development then, and I understand she's working for them again.”

“Well, yeah, but just part-time. This isn't . . . Nadine left because she didn't want to work with Bancroft and St. Cloud. She—” He cut himself off.

“She what?” Savannah asked, pressing.

“She didn't think they played fair. She's not here, anyway.”

“Do you have a way I can reach her?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, but he didn't offer up her number.

“I've already met with Mr. Russo, Mr. Ingles, and Mr. Vledich.”

“What a powerhouse. And you, ready to pop.” His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

“I can find her another way,” Savvy said evenly, “but it would save me some time if you could help.”

“Just hold your horses, Detective.” He pulled out a cell phone, checked his call list, then told her Nadine's number, which she inserted into her own list, just as she had Paulie Williamson's.

“Were you working at the coast during the Donatella homicides?” Savannah asked him.

“Nah . . . not that day. We'd just finished a remodel on their house,” he admitted, waving a hand back to include the rest of the construction team. One of the men in hard hats had stopped what he was doing and was watching them. “The Donatellas moved out for a while, but they were planning to move back in. They wanted everybody to think that everything was A-OK, you know?”

“But the dune was failing by then.”

“Oh, yeah. That's why they were killed, right?”

She was debating interviewing some of the other workers, but the one that had stopped and looked over at her was already back at work, and she knew she would be interrupting a project that hummed with energy like a hive of bees.

Henry's cell phone rang, and he drew it cautiously from his pocket. “Hey, babe,” he answered, his eyes on Savannah. They were clear and blue and had warmed at the sound of the caller's voice. She realized he was talking to Nadine when he said, “There's a cop here to see you. A detective from Tillamook County.” There was a tinny, fast answer, which had him comically pull the phone from his ear for a moment, before bringing it back and saying, “No big deal. She's just doing a follow-up, and your name's on the list.” More tinny screeching, and he suddenly held the phone out to Savannah. “Here she is.”

Savvy was a little taken by surprise. Gingerly, she put her fingers around the cell phone and said, “Ms. Gretz?”