Something Wicked (16 page)

“I never had anything to do with anything at Bancroft Bluff! I thought Owen was a dipshit from the start. Everybody did. It's just a disaster, but the Donatellas . . . they were nice people. All we did was try to make a nice community, and look what happened. If you want to go after somebody, go after Hale St. Cloud and that old lech, Declan. They might not've killed Marcus and Chandra, but they pushed through that project when they knew better. And Hale's wife, too. You should look into what she had going on. She was hot as lava and slavering over Marcus.”

Savannah could feel her face heat at the accusation.

“Whoa,” Henry said. He could hear what was being said because Savvy had pulled the phone about an inch from her ear.

“You're talking about Kristina St. Cloud,” Savvy said, pressing the phone close again and holding the emotion out of her voice with an effort.

“I sure am. She was all over him.”

Henry stuck out his hand and wiggled his fingers, mutely asking for the phone back.

“You don't believe me?” Nadine demanded into Savvy's silence. “Ask Henry. She came on to him, too.”

“Could I meet with you?” Savannah asked.

“I just can't. I'm running errands, and I don't know when I'll be done.”

Truthfully, Savannah was somewhat relieved. The last thing she wanted to hear was a decimation of her sister's character, and, anyway, she was starting to believe that no one at Bancroft Development knew anything more than what had already been gleaned earlier. She was also growing sick to the back teeth of listening to gossip and innuendo about people close to her. Nadine's remarks about Kristina dug deep into her soul, far more than they should.

“Can I call you again?” she asked, and Nadine said, “Okay,” somewhat reluctantly. She handed the phone back to Henry and thanked him.

He nodded, then pressed the phone to his ear and said, “You're not making the best impression in front of the law here, y'know,” as he took a few steps away. Savannah couldn't hear her response aside from the same rapid-fire, tinny voice.

She checked her watch. Five o'clock. The day had shot by, and she still wanted to stop by the Rib-I and see if she could connect with the much-maligned Owen DeWitt, if he was there.

For a moment she was undecided. Truth be told, she felt the urge to head back to the beach and stop off at the Seagull Pointe care facility to see Herman Smythe. Though her priority was the Donatella homicides, and she was on her last few hours before her forced maternity leave, she hadn't forgotten about Catherine Rutledge's request to find DNA on the knife that had allegedly killed her sister, and she certainly hadn't forgotten about the other strange piece: Catherine's genetics lesson, in which she'd intimated that the males of their clan possessed even more potent “gifts.” She also still wanted to follow up and learn the names of all the women living at Siren Song, and Herman Smythe was that connection.

Throwing another glance at the sky, she scowled at the dark, forbidding clouds moving in from the west. The prediction of snow in the Coast Range later tonight wasn't a good omen. Though she had chains, she didn't want to risk having to use them; it didn't sound like a winning proposition.

With a wave at Henry, who apparently was still trying to soothe Nadine's ruffled feathers, she headed back to her SUV, checking the GPS for nearby restaurants and finding the Rib-I was only about six blocks away. Owen DeWitt's home away from home.

 

 

“Where the hell is she?” Hale said aloud to the empty room.

He was at his desk, and he'd been on the phone with his subs, seeing who was working on Saturday and who was planning to show up Monday morning, checking on material deliveries from Portland and beyond, wondering if he needed to bring Russo back to Seaside when Kristina had the baby or if he would be freer than he currently expected. Apart from his call to Savvy, he'd pushed thoughts of Kristina's disappearance to the back of his mind. She'd done this kind of vanishing act before. There was, in fact, a period the previous spring when he'd wondered if the fact that her sister was pregnant had scared her so badly that Kristina had her own personal breakdown. She would disappear for hours, once all night long, only to show up weary and miserable and to admit that she'd checked into a motel to try to meditate away her anxieties. Hale had called the motel surreptitiously, checking her story, and had learned that yes, his wife had stayed there. He felt bad about it, but her behavior had worried him sick. They were having a baby, for God's sake; he needed to know where she was at all times. But then things had seemed to straighten out, and until the past few days he'd thought—hoped—it was all going to be okay.

Now he picked up his cell phone and punched in her number. Again. He had done the same thing three times already but had hung up before she answered. She would come back when she was ready, and then he would have to have a talk with her and tell her that no, this wasn't the way things were going to be. She was going to have to be more responsible. When they had a child to take care of, she wasn't going to be able to just up and
leave.

Her voice mail answered: “Hi. You've reached Kristina. Leave a message.”

Holding on to his temper, Hale waited until the beep, then said, “Okay, I need you to pick up, Kristina. We've got to talk about a few things. This isn't . . .” He wanted to scream at her, but it wasn't going to help. Whatever she was going through was real to her, even if he couldn't understand it.

He shook his head and continued, “We've got to make some plans for this baby, and I mean beyond the crib and car seat. Call me. Please.” He tried to sound serious but nonthreatening, but all he wanted to do was swear or throw something or bang his head against a wall.

“God damn it,” he said softly into the empty room, looking out his window to the mass of dark clouds that had gathered. It had been dry all day for a change, but it looked like some serious precipitation was on the way. His mind flew to Savvy. Had she left Portland yet? He sure as hell hoped so.

 

 

The Rib-I was alive with tiny white lights twinkling around its eaves and windows, but it was still late afternoon, so apart from a few desultory trucks, an SUV, and three sedans, the parking lot was empty. The sun was long gone, and the gloom was pervasive, the sense of the heavens pressing down enough to make Savvy decide to find a motel as soon as she'd seen if DeWitt was here.

Stepping into the bar, she saw one man sitting at a table with an empty glass, a blank expression, and a cell phone lying in front of him. His hands were flat on the tabletop, as if he were getting ready to make a quick draw, but when he saw her, he reached for the cell phone, as if he expected her to take it.

There were other figures farther into the dim recesses beyond, but there was something about him—a self-imposed wall that said, “Back the hell off”—that suggested he might be her man.

“Mr. DeWitt?” she asked, approaching him.

“Who wants to know?” He stared at her belly.

“I'm Detective Dunbar with the Tillamook County Sheriff's Department.” She pulled her wallet from her messenger bag, flipped it open, and displayed her badge, not that he seemed to care.

His eyes slowly lifted to hers. They were as red and bleary as she would have expected, given what she knew about his habits. “Yeah?” He lurched forward in his chair. “Lemme see if I can guess why you're here.”

“You know why, Mr. DeWitt.”

“Bankruptcy Bluff. Oh, sure. I know.” He waved the cell phone at her. “I just gotta make a call. My ride. Don't wanna drive drunk.”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Suit yourself.” He pressed the keys on his phone with serious concentration, then put it to his ear. It rang for long moments, and then Savannah heard the faint sound of someone's voice, but DeWitt snapped the phone shut. He looked despondent and on the verge of surliness. “Fucking voice mail,” he muttered.

“You signed off on the stability of the dune. Said it was safe to build on. There have been reports—”

“Reports,” he sneered. “Oh, yeah. Reports.”

“From professional people who said the ground's always been unstable, and they would have never green-lighted the area.”

“Monday morning quarterbacking.” He picked up his empty glass, then set it down again, looking around for the bartender. “They're liars. Old man Bancroft wanted that development, and I gave it to him, sure. But they woulda done the same. It was within the parameters.”

Savannah had only a basic idea of the whole process, but his growing belligerence and defensive tone suggested he knew more than he was saying. Maybe he cut corners, or maybe those “parameters” were just a little too close to the edge.

“You're saying Declan Bancroft pushed for the development.”

“He sure as hell did. And now that old bastard blames me for everything. And Hale,” he went on. “He wanted it, too.”

“Hale gave you the go-ahead?”

“They all wanted it,” he said, waving his arms expansively. “Whad do I gotta do to get a drink around here?” he yelled.

“Sober up,” was the bartender's laconic reply.

“Well, fuck that.”

“Mr. DeWitt, I'm mainly investigating the Donatella homicides, and it may well be that the construction problems are the reason they were killed,” Savvy said.

“Nah . . . It was something else.”

A waitress strolled up to them, eyeing DeWitt cautiously, as if she expected him to jump up and grab her. “Would you like anything?” she asked Savannah.

“Get the rib eye,” DeWitt said before she could answer.

“Well . . .” Savannah debated.

The waitress made a face, as if she didn't want to agree with DeWitt, but she admitted, “It's what we're known for.”

“All right. Medium-rare to rare.”

“She likes it bloody,” DeWitt said, nodding, as if he'd delivered seriously sage advice.

Ignoring him, the waitress asked, “What kinda dressing on your salad?”

“You have a vinaigrette?”

“Yep.” She scribbled that down, then asked, “Baked potato, mashed, or fries? Comes with it.” Her eyes slid toward DeWitt. “He might want to share some fries,” she suggested meaningfully.

Clearly, the waitress wanted him to eat something, so Savvy said, “Okay, fries.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Another Scotch,” DeWitt answered, jumping in at the same time Savvy said, “Just water, thanks.”

The waitress's pencil was poised.

“Just water,” Savannah repeated.

“And a Scotch,” DeWitt insisted.

The waitress put in the order, and she and the bartender conferred for a while. In the end DeWitt got his drink, and he swallowed half his glass in one take.

Savvy dispensed with the salad in record time, feeling ravenous, as ever, and when her main dish arrived, she turned the plate so the french fries were closest to DeWitt. He ignored them, merely sitting back in his chair and waiting, chin down on his chest, as if he were about to nod off.

The steak was good, much better than she'd expected it would be, and she wanted to moan about the way it practically melted on her tongue. It felt like she hadn't eaten in a week, and she would have really enjoyed herself if it weren't for DeWitt's eyes watching her every move.

Finally, she slid her plate away and took a long drink of water. DeWitt finished his drink and studied her, and for a moment she thought he was asleep, until she saw him blink several times. He seemed to be staring at the floor, but Savannah thought he was calculating something. Even though it seemed as if he'd had a lot to drink, and the bar staff certainly thought so, he was fairly lucid. She opened her mouth to ask him another question, but he got there first and blew her thoughts to smithereens.

“He fired me. The old man. But it was Hale who wanted me gone, because I knew, y'see. I knew about his wife. I saw her at the house, and I knew.”

More about Kristina.
Savannah felt cold inside. “What house?”

“The Donatellas. What we're talking about,” he said, as if she were dense. “And she wasn't with St. Cloud. Uh-uh.”

“But she was with someone,” Savvy said, picking up on his tone. If he said,
Marcus Donatella . . .

He wagged a finger in front of her nose. “You think I don't know who you are? You're the sister. Carrying the next little St. Cloud. Bet Declan'd like to piss himself, he's so excited to have a great-grandson on the way.”

The sex of her child was the worst-kept secret on the planet. “You say you saw Kristina with someone?”

But DeWitt wasn't ready to switch back to the original topic. “A boy. That's what she said.” He gave her a sly look. “She was talking all about it to him.”

“Who? Kristina?” Savvy asked. No wonder he was the goat around the office. Criminal incompetency
and
just being an all-around asshole.

“You figure it out, Miss Cop.” He lurched up from the table and headed for the door. “I need a cab,” he threw over his shoulder to the bartender.

“I can give you a ride,” Savvy said. She didn't want to be in his company any longer than she had to, but she wanted to know what the hell he was alluding to.

“You as hot as your sister?” He leered at her. “I've never made it with a pregnant woman before.”

“Not that kind of ride,” she said levelly.

He grinned and staggered back a step.