The Killing Game (40 page)

Andi pushed open the door to Emma’s room. The space was dimly lit and the afternoon gloom deepened all the corners. Emma lay on a bed, unconscious, strapped to monitors that recorded her respiration and heartbeat.

Ben was beside her in an instant, placing himself between Andi and the bed, as if he didn’t trust anyone to be near her. “She should be in ICU,” he muttered.

“Why isn’t she?” Andi asked. Luke had walked in and was standing beside her.

“They upgraded her,” Ben said, his mouth tight. He clearly thought it was a mistake.

“That’s a good sign, then,” Andi said.

“Someone tried to kill her,” Ben said, glaring at Luke as if it were his fault.

Luke asked, “Maybe we should have this discussion outside her room.”

“Good idea.” Ben waited for them both to leave first.

Once they were in the hallway, Luke asked, “Why are you so certain it wasn’t an accident?”

“Because of those notes!” He turned to Andi. “Little birds have to die or something? She’s a Wren!”

Luke and Andi shared a glance. Ben’s thinking was along the same lines as theirs. “I got a third note today,” Andi admitted.

Ben swept in a breath, shocked. “Oh God. What did it say?”

“It was to me, not Emma.”

“It was mostly a warning against me,” Luke told him.

“I’m telling you, this was no accident. Someone pushed her. The guy in the hoodie.”

Andi remembered the day she’d seen a man walking outside the offices, the fear she’d felt. She wanted to deny Ben straight out, but she had doubts herself.

“Have you talked to the police?” Luke asked.

“No. I’m waiting for Carter. He’ll know what to do.”

And with that he sent them each a look, as if they were not to be trusted, and headed back into Emma’s room. After a moment Andi followed after him. Though it was clear Ben didn’t want her, she wanted to be there for Emma.

* * *

September and Gretchen entered the squad room together. Seeing them, George actually rose from his chair and handed September several sheets of paper.

“What’s this?” Gretchen asked suspiciously.

“You asked for the research,” he said, regarding Gretchen coolly.

“Don’t be such an asshole, George,” Gretchen responded. “Cutbacks. What the fuck. We’re all on the same side.”

September scanned the pages and muttered, “Holy God.”

“What?” Gretchen moved closer to her.

September read, “‘The body of a woman washed ashore in Puget Sound in late August. The victim has been identified as Belinda Meadowlark of Friday Harbor, Washington. She was on the last ferry to Orcas Island when she presumably fell overboard. Her death has been ruled an accident.’”

“So this is about my case,” George pointed out.

“Yes, your case,” Gretchen snapped.

“Was it an accident?” September said aloud, more to herself than anyone else, but George took it as if the question were made for him.

“As it’s
my
case, I dug a little deeper. Meadowlark has an estranged sister who lives in the Seattle area and tries to keep in contact with her. Last summer they had a fight over the care of their father. The sister felt she was doing all the work. She wanted Meadowlark to move to Seattle to help out. Meadowlark then drops the bomb that she has a serious boyfriend, which apparently is a first. Sister doesn’t believe it and Meadowlark throws out the name
Rob Fisher.
”

“Well, there’s the connection,” Gretchen said. “Same name as Finch’s boyfriend.” She smiled faintly. “My kind of weird.”

George relaxed a bit. “Yeah, it is,” he admitted. “I made some calls to Meadowlark’s coworkers and friends. No one ever met Rob. Consensus is that she made him up.”

“Be a lot better if she had,” September said. “Did you check to see if he was on the same ferry?”

“Yes, ma’am. He was. Didn’t even try to hide his name.”

They all looked at one another, thinking. “He’s playing with us,” September finally said. “He’s a serial killer who targets women with the last name of birds and he’s daring us to find him.”

“Most serial killers use the same method,” Gretchen pointed out. “Plays into their fantasy.”

“I know,” she agreed. “Water’s involved in Meadowlark’s death . . . possibly Tern’s.”

“I’ll find out if the victim is truly Christine Tern,” Gretchen said, heading for her desk.

George frowned. “What victim?”

“The one pulled out of the Columbia,” Gretchen threw over her shoulder.

“But Finch’s death was entirely different,” September said, reaching for her cell phone.

“Who’re you calling?” George asked.

“Luke Denton. He’s the one who postulated our doer is targeting victims by their ‘bird’ names.”

* * *

Luke signaled Andi to walk back into the hall with him, away from Ben and the still unconscious Emma. “I gotta call Peg Bellows back. Let her know what’s happened to Emma. Impress upon her that the Carreras are dangerous.”

“You really think they pushed her?”

“It’s more their style than obscure, threatening notes. What I want is for Peg to remember they killed her husband. To be cautious. I might leave and go see her, if that’s what it takes.”

She nodded. “I’ll stay here with Emma. If I need a ride, I’ll Uber it, or maybe catch one with Ben.”

“Don’t go back to the cabin without me.” He thought a moment and then pulled out his keys, taking one off the ring. “This is my apartment. If you go anywhere, go there. You know the address?”

“Yep, but I’m sticking around here for a while.”

“I’ll come back to the hospital. This is just a precaution.”

Luke’s cell rang. He pulled it out and looked at the screen, wasn’t sure of the caller. “Denton,” he answered.

“This is September Rafferty. I have some information for you.”

“Christine Tern?”

“Working on that information now. But I thought you should know we’ve discovered another woman with the last name of a bird, Belinda Meadowlark, who died last summer after falling overboard from a Washington State ferry. She told people she had a boyfriend named Rob Fisher. Robert Fisher is also the name of a man in Trinidad Finch’s Pilates class, one she became romantically involved with.”

Luke stood stock-still. It was his theory, his and Andi’s, but hearing it from the detective’s lips brought it to reality.

“What is it?” Andi asked him.

“I’d like to talk to Ms. Wren,” Detective Rafferty said into his ear.

“She’s right here, standing beside me.”

“I’d like us to all meet in person. Possibly tonight, or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s probably better, but I’ll let Andi decide.”

Luke handed her his cell phone and Andi answered cautiously. He listened with half an ear to her side of the conversation, his mind running ahead, as Rafferty told Andi much the same information, and then Andi explained the next day would be better as she was at the hospital with her sister-in-law, who’d had a fall. They set a time and exchanged cell numbers before Andi clicked off and handed Luke back his phone.

“Oh my God,” Andi said, looking stunned. “He’s really out there. Killing women with last names that are birds.”

“I know.”

“Bobby killed Trini.”

Luke nodded slowly. “Bobby, Rob, Robert . . . all the names he uses are derivatives of Robert. And his chosen last name of Fisher.” Luke shook his head. “It’s gotta be a fake name. An alternate identity. He wouldn’t use his own.”

“But why? What’s he after?” Andi asked, her eyes huge as they looked up at him.

He gathered her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.”

* * *

Gretchen slammed down the receiver on her desk phone. “Yep. It was Christine Tern’s body they fished out of the Columbia.”

George said, “Where the hell’s Wes?”

“He’s with his mother,” September said.

“I know that. But he should be here.” George grabbed up his own cell and put through a call.

Gretchen said, “We’re here to help, George. Mr. Bones isn’t going anywhere.”

She was at her computer. “There are a lot of Robert Fishers around the area.”

“It’s probably an alias.” September was on her computer as well. She’d wanted to meet with Denton and Andrea Wren tonight, but there really was no need. They were all up to speed, and as George kept saying over and over again, it was his case. She was already stepping on his toes.

“I’m sure it’s an alias,” Gretchen rejoined. “But I might as well make a list.”

September checked Google for local camps and scrolled through the lists that popped up. “The North Shore Junior Camp, now defunct, was located on Schultz Lake. It still has a web site with the administrator’s name: Ronald Dumonte.”

George had gotten through to Wes and when he hung up his expression was grim. “Sorry, man,” he said. “No, we’re good here.” He hung up and said, “Looks like Wes’s mom’s not gonna make it.”

“Oh no,” September said.

“He’ll call us later. He wanted to come, but he can’t,” George admitted.

Gretchen looked up soberly. “That’s too bad. I always want to work when things are hell.”

It was the most emotion September had ever seen from Gretchen. She thought about Wes and her heart ached. She’d lost her own mother years earlier.

Gretchen shook her head, as if physically shaking off the moment. “There was a chess champion in the seventies named Bobby Fisher. Think that means anything?”

September looked at the clock as she put in a call to Ronald Dumonte. Five-twenty. She had his home phone, but he could possibly be at work. When the call was answered, it was a woman on the line. September introduced herself and the woman asked her to wait a moment, then Ronald Dumonte was on the other end of the line.

“I’m calling about North Shore Junior Camp,” September told him after she’d introduced herself.

Dumonte sighed heavily. “Make room for development. Bulldoze the past. Leave no trace of the good that came before.”

“Um, yes,” September said. “I take it you’re against Wren Development’s resort plan.”

“I fought with everything I had to stop that monstrosity, but the county planners didn’t listen. It’s all about money, Detective Rafferty. It always is. Sometimes we just hope farsighted thinkers prevail, but it so rarely happens.”

“You ran the camp in its last years,” September said, easing the conversation back to what she wanted to talk about.

“That I did. Retired afterward.”

“I understand that many of the wealthy and part-time residents around Schultz Lake sent their children to the camp.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “We wanted it to be available to everyone, but it was expensive compared to other camps, so we had a predominance of elitist’s children.”

Elitists
. . . September had tapped into Dumonte’s prejudice. She decided to use that knowledge. “Can you name some of the elitists?”

“The same ones who are still there.” He rattled off a number of names and ended with, “And, of course, the Wrens. Henry Wren attended our camp when he was young, and he sent all three of his children there. I was administrator when the three of them were there.” His tone was carefully controlled, but he clearly wasn’t impressed with Gregory, Carter, and Emma Wren.

“Do you recall a boy named Lance Patten? I doubt he was a camper, but he may have hung out with some of them.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know the name.”

“Or Wendy Kirkendall?” September tried.

He swept in a breath. “The girl who was strangled and then dumped in the lake? Certainly not. It was a terrible tragedy, but it didn’t affect our camp!”

September asked him a few more questions, but he became less and less interested in talking. Finally, he said reluctantly, “I suggest you call the Wrens. There was an incident with a young man over animal cruelty.”

September straightened in her chair. Mr. Bromward had complained about severe cruelty to his cats.

“Henry Wren was very opposed to his children associating with the young man.”

“Who was this young man?”

“Not from the camp. He was . . . he rode a horse and mixed in with the others.”

“Lance Patten,” September repeated sharply.

“Oh.” Dumonte collected himself. “Yes, maybe. I’m sorry. I didn’t think that was the name. It doesn’t sound quite right. They called him something else.”

“Laser?”

He inhaled sharply. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dumonte.” September couldn’t wait to get off the phone. George and Gretchen were still discussing Robert Fisher, but Gretchen looked over at her.

“Something?” she asked.

“Animal cruelty from a guy named Laser.” She was checking the clock and punching in the number for Wren Development. If she couldn’t raise Carter Wren, she would call Andi back. Maybe Emma would be awake.

“This is Detective September Rafferty,” she told the receptionist. “I would like to speak with Carter Wren, please.”

She half-expected to be put off, but soon a male voice answered briskly, “Carter Wren.”

“Mr. Wren, I’m Detective September Rafferty. I’m researching a cold case from about thirteen years ago and I’m hoping you can help me.”

“Okay,” he said, mystified.

“A young man named Lance Patten disappeared from his home on Aurora Lane. He used to ride a horse from his home toward Schultz Lake—”

“I know Lance,” Carter interrupted. “Or knew him. He used to come to North Shore, the old summer camp my father sent us to. Has he turned up?”

“We think so.”

“Is he all right?” Carter asked, keying off her cautious tone.

Deciding it was best to lay all her cards on the table, September told him about the cache of bones found at the Singletons’ home. “We believe one set of human bones belongs to Lance Patten.”

“Holy . . . God . . .”

“If you could tell us anything about him that might help us discover what happened to him . . .”

“You know, my brother Greg knew him better than I did,” Carter said slowly. “And Emma . . . Lance was, well, he smoked dope. We all did,” he confessed. “But I think he influenced Emma the most.”

“Did you ever feel he was cruel to animals?”

“God, no. He loved that horse.”