Something Wicked (35 page)

“He intimated that he saw them more than once,” Savvy said, struggling to keep emotions under tight lock and key.

“Yeah, I think that's right.”

“Did he ever act like . . . maybe there were more people there with them at any time?”

“Like, what do you mean? An orgy?”

Savvy hung on to her patience with an effort. “More like this friend of Owen's was meeting other people there, besides his . . . date.”

“He was no friend of Owen's. Believe me. The dude was just interesting, but in a way that, like, you wanted to stay ten feet back from him, wherever he was. Just enjoy the show, but keep out of range. That's the impression I got. Man. You say his name is Charlie?”

“We don't know his real name,” Savannah said.

“But you think this dude is the one who killed him.”

“It's a possibility.”

“Shit, I'm glad I got outta there. Those Bancrofts . . . that fuckin' scary town with the cult and all. I was glad to be on the other side of the mountains from them, but even Portland was too close. Tucson is just fine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Williamson.”

“You get the bastard that killed Owen, Detective. String him up by the balls.”

And maybe the bastard who killed my sister
, Savannah thought as she hung up. If she found him, she'd be happy to string him up by the balls herself.

Hale fielded calls from all the projects he had going, and it took most of the morning and all of lunch. The rain lashed at the windowpanes, driven by a raging wind. He ignored the weather as he systematically returned calls and took some more, mainly from business friends who hadn't been able to reach him the past few days and who offered condolences. Most knew about Kristina, but fewer knew he'd become a new father. He kept the calls as short as possible, mainly because he just needed to keep moving forward.

Ella knocked on the jamb of Hale's open door. He looked up, and she said, “You missed lunch. Can I get you a sandwich?”

“No, thanks, Ella.” In truth, he wasn't that hungry.

“It's no trouble. You need to take care of yourself. You're a father now.” She hesitated, her face crumpling. “A single father.”

“Ella . . .”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I'll just go to the Bridgeport Bistro. You like that crab and Havarti one, don't you?”

“Yes, I do.” It was easier to just say yes than get in the way of Ella's mothering.

“I'll take money out of petty cash,” she said on a sob, and then she was gone.

Hale pushed back from his desk and walked to the windows. A few minutes later he saw Ella beneath her lavender umbrella, making her way to her car through the driving rain. Maybe the showers would stop, as the weatherman had predicted, but it wasn't going to be today.

He thought about what Savvy had told him about Catherine Rutledge and her hunch about Kristina and Mary Beeman's son, Declan Jr. Catherine was adamant that Declan Jr. was not truly Hale's grandfather's son, but Declan Jr. believed he was because that was what his mother, Mary, had told him. What a screwed-up family that was, he thought. And homicidal, too, if Catherine was to be believed. And maybe flat-out crazy. His mother certainly had nothing good to say about the Rutledge sisters, but then she had a tendency toward hyperbole. Hale did not believe his father had cheated on his mother with anyone, least of all Mary Beeman, but then he wouldn't have believed it of Kristina, either. His wife had been fastidious and choosy, and, okay, maybe she did make some bad choices, but even so, she was about the least likely person to get involved with someone as dangerous and unhinged as this Declan Jr., as Catherine called him, seemed to be.

But someone had killed Kristina. And someone had now killed Owen DeWitt, the man who'd told Savannah he'd seen Kristina with a man he called Charlie, pounding it out together at the Donatellas' house. Were the two murders related? It made more sense that they were than that they weren't.

But Kristina with this Charlie, or Declan Jr. or whoever, having sex at the Donatellas'? That didn't sound like her at all.

“No,” he said aloud. But he believed there was some nebulous danger out there, and if Catherine was correct, and it was headed for his grandfather and Savannah, among others, he was going to be on heightened alert. He didn't know what had brought the danger to his doorstep, but he sensed it was real.

And nobody else was going to be harmed. He was going to see to that.

 

 

It was after four before Lang called Savvy, and she damn near screamed at him, wanting to know what took him so long. Instead she swallowed back her frustration and answered, “Okay, finally. What's going on?”

There was noise in the background, and Savvy was immediately suspicious that Lang was at a bar with his good buddy Curtis. But he was sober and terse when he said, “Looks like DeWitt was killed sometime Sunday, like we thought. ME's still nailing it down. Probably less than a day after you met with him.”

“The two things are connected,” Savannah said. “Charlie did this.”

“You certainly got someone's attention. Did you write up that report?”

“I did. I can e-mail it to you.”

“Do that.”

“Did you get my message about Henry Woodworth?”

“Yeah, and Curtis and I went over and checked out his place. Nobody there. Pretty spotless, but there was a broken cup on the kitchen floor.”

“Like . . . a struggle?”

“Maybe. There was nothing else, though. No other signs. Coulda just fallen off the counter. I talked to Gretz and told her to file a report with Missing Persons.”

“You think she's jumping the gun?” Savvy asked. Her mind traveled back to the list of the other temporary employees. Was she making connections when none were there?

“Maybe Woodworth just decided to take a few days off.”

“I'll check with Russo about his employment record,” Savvy said, adding it to her mental to-do list. She would check on the rest of the temporary employees, as well, see if she could figure out which one was the guy who'd stared so long at her.

“We up to date now?” Lang asked.

“Almost. I talked to Paulie Williamson today, the ex–Portland manager for Bancroft Development. He was a friend of DeWitt's, and he confirmed that DeWitt had a friend, more like a frenemy, whose sexual exploits apparently gave DeWitt vicarious thrills. Williamson said the guy—he doesn't know his name—was one of those people you want to stand back from.”

“Like he's a walking disaster?”

“Like he's unpredictable and dangerous.”

“You think this is the guy DeWitt said was with Kristina?”

“Yeah. Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“Good Time Charlie. Not his real name. I've got him at the top of my list as the doer for DeWitt.”

Lang mulled that over. “All right, I'm coming back tonight.”

“Where are you now?” Savvy asked.

“A place near the station. Dooley's. Don't worry, Mom. I just had one beer. I already told Claire the same thing.”

“I was thinking maybe you can stick around and do a little checking for me. I kinda think Charlie's associated with Bancroft Development somehow. I've got this list of temporary employees. Mostly construction workers. Henry Woodworth's name is at the top of the list. I didn't meet any of the other ones, but one of them was looking at me pretty intently when I was interviewing Henry at the RiverEast Apartments building site.”

“E-mail me the list when you send the report. I'll pick it up on my phone.”

“Does that mean you're staying over?” She would have to scan the list into the computer from her notebook, but that was easy enough.

“Get me another beer,” Lang yelled to someone across the hubbub of the bar. Then to Savvy, “Yep. Anything else?”

“When you get back tomorrow, let's have a sit-down. I had a talk with Catherine Rutledge about some stuff, and I want to go over it with you.”

“Oh, God,” Lang groaned. “You know, you're Clausen's partner.”

“I think he dropped me when I was pregnant, so now I'm yours.” Savannah smiled, knowing that wasn't the way it worked and not caring. It was the first time she'd really felt like smiling since Kristina's death.

“Talk to you tomorrow,” Lang said, and Savannah settled back into work, putting the finishing touches on the interview report, scanning the list of temporary employees, and sending the whole thing to Lang's e-mail address.

Her rumbling stomach was the first indication that time had passed, and when she looked up again, she realized it was after lunch and she really needed to get something to eat.

And then tonight . . . chicken and artichoke linguine with Hale . . .

 

 

Charlie shook rain off his black jacket and ran his hands through his hair as he stepped inside the door to the Crab Shack, a dilapidated board-and-bat hovel crouched on the edge of Nehalem Bay, a place so weathered and decrepit that it made Davy Jones's Locker, his favorite dive bar along the coast, look like a four-star restaurant. But no one knew him at the Crab Shack—at least that was what he was banking on—whereas he would be recognizable at Davy's.

And he needed somewhere to hunker down for a few hours. He'd given up his apartment in Seaside when he'd taken the job in Portland. Couldn't afford to maintain two places, even with the money from Bancroft Development.

Bancroft Development. The company that was rightfully his. Only Pops refused to recognize him.
Ha.
The old man would learn what dismissing his son would get him soon enough.

But first . . . some fun.

Charlie moved up to the bar and ordered a Bud. He didn't drink as a rule, but if he strode in and ordered up a soda or water, the bartender might take note of him, and then if the cops came around, a blurry memory might suddenly turn into a sharp recollection. Couldn't have that.

And let's face it, he'd been making a few decisions lately that hadn't been all that well thought out.
Damn.
He'd been so careful for so long. But something had been triggered, and it wasn't going away. Hell, he didn't even want it to! A slinky, hot thread of desire was winding inside his blood, moving through his system, and it felt
good.
Ever since sliding that knife into his mother, he'd been infected, and well, he could admit, he'd gotten a little careless. Looking for that next thrill ride all the time, instead of lying back and waiting.

Escalating. Yep. That was what he was doing. But there was no going back.

And why should he? He'd told Mary he'd take out those juicy women at the lodge, and he would. He just needed a plan, and right now he didn't want to take the time. He wanted something fast. Fast and hot.

The luscious detective flashed across his mind, and he felt a blinding rage. Transferring her desire for him—the attraction he'd sent her!—to Hale St. Cloud? The bastard who'd taken Charlie's place in Pops's affection? Charlie's fucking boss, for fuck's sake? She deserved to die. A slow, sensual, spiraling death while he made love to her with all the power of his sexual gift.

His hard-on was immediate, and he crouched over the bar, drinking at the beer, making it look like he was gulping it down, but not making much of a dent. Couldn't do that too long without someone getting wise, but no one was looking, anyway. There was one skanky-looking woman with long, dark, stringy hair swaying to a country-western song he thought he should know but couldn't place, and there were a couple of guys in cowboy boots and plaid shirts watching her, but otherwise the place was empty.

Charlie's mind slithered back to the detective. Not pregnant anymore. Focused on another man. Thinking about being a mother and stepping into Kristina's shoes and becoming a wife, too.

He went into the bathroom with vague thoughts of masturbating and taking care of this woody.
Jesus.
But he didn't have a plastic bag with him. That was out in his white truck, the Bancroft Development truck, so he was stuck trying to mentally get himself under control, a real bitch.

A few minutes later he hurried out to the truck, grabbed a bag, and stroked himself in the gloom of late afternoon, the dark red-haired detective in mind. It took seconds, and when he was finished, instead of release, he felt building fury. She was
his.

The skank swayed out of the bar with one of the cowboys, and they moved to his truck, a black Dodge Ram. Watching them, Charlie popped open the glove box and slid out his knife. He was hard again already.