Blind Spot (7 page)

Well, at least that was the beginning spate of excuses until Heyward Senior, who was the old man pulling the strings, saw that he’d better go for the insanity plea or his grandson would be heading straight for serious prison time. Lang suspected Heyward Marsdon Sr. was practically choking on the diagnosis for his only grandson. Heyward III’s father was like a pale shadow following the old man around and didn’t seem to have any say, one way or the other. A disappointment to his old man? Maybe the reason Heyward Senior was pinning his hopes on his schizophrenic grandson, no matter the evidence to the Third’s sickness?

It didn’t matter. None of it.

The upshot was that Lang hadn’t been there for Melody. A couple of hours on the job when he should have been with his sister. A couple of hours…that’s all.

So he quit. Just up and quit. Couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t go to his old desk and remember how he’d turned Melody away when she’d needed him. Since then he’d had six months of idle time and one job offer from the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, the law enforcement agency that held Halo Valley Security Hospital within its jurisdiction. Strange how the world worked. Ironic. He’d met with Tillamook County’s sheriff and had hit it off sometime the spring before, and the job offer came in just about the time he quit the Portland P.D. He’d turned them down, but like Drano, the job had yet to be filled. At this point he didn’t even know if he wanted to go back to law enforcement anywhere. Yet here he was, stepping forward through the rain to the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department, working a case he had no business being involved with.

Now, stepping inside the department’s front doors, he glanced through bulletproof glass at the receptionist whose name tag read Dot Edwards. She smiled at him and said, “That’s one wet coat ya got there.”

Lang glanced at his jacket. It was soaked. “It was dry when I was at the ME’s.”

“You came from there?”

He nodded. “Sheriff still not in? I’m Langdon Stone. Ex-homicide with Portland P.D.”

“Ex,” she said.

“Long, ugly story.”

Dot hesitated, then gave Lang a slow, negative wag of her bleached blond head.

“Thought I’d check,” Lang said, turning to leave.

“Wait a sec. Detective Tanninger might be able to help you. He’s, like…the man everyone wants to see?” She reached for the phone.

“Is he in?” Lang asked, pausing.

She smiled and said into the receiver, “Could you check with Detective Tanninger? There’s someone here to see him. Ex-detective…?”

“Langdon Stone, formerly homicide Portland P.D.”

She repeated the information, then hung up a moment later. “Go on through,” she said, touching a buzzer.

Lang pushed through the door, feeling a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. He didn’t know what he was doing and what he would find, and it was an adventure he maybe should have reconsidered before embarking upon.

He walked down a short hallway and then was in the squad room. Several sets of eyes turned to him, but most of the desks were empty. “Tanninger?” he asked, and was pointed toward a corner. He turned it just as a tall man in the tan uniform of the sheriff’s department appeared from an office.

He stopped upon seeing Lang, and the two men sized each other up. Detective Will Tanninger—per his name tag—was one of those strong, silent types who observed more than talked. Lang thought about trying to bamboozle the man for about half a second, figured it wouldn’t work, said instead, “Detective Trey Curtis, my ex-partner at Portland P.D., wanted me to jump-start my stalled investigative engine by interesting me in one of your cases. The rest stop one. So, here I am, insinuating myself into your world. Feel free to kick my ass out of here.”

Tanninger half-smiled. “The truth. Interesting approach.”

“I came here to talk to the sheriff, but he’s not here. Dot at the desk suggested I meet with you.”

“Sheriff Nunce planned to retire but no one wanted him to. He was reelected, but when he’s not around I’m the next man.”

“Maybe that happens a lot?” Lang suggested.

“Maybe it does.”

“So, do you want some help, or am I wasting my time and yours?”

“I know Trey Curtis. Of him, anyway. And Drano.”

“You know Drano?”

“We got a call from him, too. Wanted us to encourage you. Said you were a hell of an investigator. Sang your praises. Twisted our arms as hard as he could.”

Lang said wryly, “I’m a charity case.”

“According to them, you’re the man for the job, and if this case just so happens to kick you back into gear, everybody wins.”

“Well…” He wasn’t sure what to think of that.

Tanninger said, “If you’re as good as they say you are, jump in. Even if you’re not. We’re short-staffed right now. This damn flu has decimated us and Nunce is out sick.”

Funny. Lang’s lie to the ME was turning out to be the truth. “How long’s he been out sick?”

“A while. Maybe a while more.”

“Vacation. Sick. And still one foot in retirement?”

Tanninger shrugged and said instead, “One of our best took a bullet last year, and though she’s recovered, she’s about all we’ve got for this case. And she went home early with a cough.”

“You’re not bullshitting me?”

“What do you care if I am?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s a lot of crime out there. We don’t have enough investigators on a good day for the type of attack that took place at the rest stop. No manpower. You want in, I’ll meet you all the way.”

“What’s Drano got on you?” Lang asked.

Tanninger laughed.

“Can you give me the info on the guy who found them? The trucker?”

“I’ll get you the file. We checked the license plate of the vehicle that was left on the scene. Stolen truck. It’s in the file, too.”

“And the murder weapon, the knife, was found at the crime scene…? Anything there?”

“No prints that count. Covered in blood and wiped on the grass. Tossed into the nearby bushes.”

“He or she didn’t want to be caught with it.”

Tanninger shrugged. “Maybe. But the doer had to be hit by the blood. There was a lot of it.”

“They weren’t thinking straight.”

“Not that kind of crime,” he agreed.

Lang nodded. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow I’m heading out to interview the other victim. The woman. If you want to join on, your timing’s perfect. Barb was going to head to Halo Valley Security this afternoon, but she’s out sick, so I’m teed up. Jane Doe hasn’t talked, hasn’t even comprehended what’s happened, as far as anyone can tell. It’s wait and see, but we try to keep a finger on the pulse…so?”

Lang absorbed the news about an imminent trip to Halo Valley with mixed feelings. He could feel his pulse speed up. “Is Barb the one who got shot, or…?”

Tanninger nodded. “She didn’t want to go home today. She’s hard to hold down, no matter what.”

“No one’s got in touch about Jane Doe? Or the guy in the morgue?”

“Not yet. Channel Seven’s doing a follow-up.”

“Pauline Kirby?” Lang managed to keep from making a face. Just.

“You don’t like her?”

“Love her.”

Tanninger laughed. “So, do you want to go to Halo Valley?”

Did he really want to take a trip to that hospital? See that monstrous institution and know that Heyward Marsdon was in there, albeit behind the double-locked doors to the restricted half? Have a chance to maybe interview Dr. Claire Norris?

He saw her in his mind’s eye. Quiet. Serious. Slim. Brunette. Maybe a ballbuster.

Exhaling slowly, he nodded.

Tanninger stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the team.”

Claire took the three concrete steps that led to her back door, balancing two bags of groceries. She’d made a quick stop at the market, buying salad fixings and boneless chicken breasts. Once upon a time she’d prided herself on her original meals. But that was when she’d been married. Happily married. Or at least believed she was happily married. A long time ago.

She dropped the bags onto her chipped Formica countertop. The rented bungalow was cute but tired. Its major selling feature was its view of the Pacific Ocean. Not a spectacular view; the homes dotting this hillside above the small hamlet of Deception Bay were built in the forties and fifties, anything but lavish, but they had charm.

Her kitchen window faced north and she could see slices of the jetty past the laurel and camellia bushes that had nearly taken over this side of the house. She could also see Dinah’s cabin, smaller than hers, more of a Craftsman style, though its paint was peeling badly and the roof patches looked like acne, dotted across the whole of it.

She put the chicken breasts in a pan with a spray of olive oil, covered them, and waited for them to finish cooking. Then she tossed together the greens, added garbanzos, chopped walnuts, goat cheese, and blueberries, and pulled a favorite bottle of honey mustard dressing from the cupboard. She’d learned shortcuts since her ill-fated marriage. She’d learned she didn’t have to be a perfect wife in order to matter.

Seeing a flash of color outside the window, she looked out. It was just getting dark and wisps of fog were floating by like a magician’s screens—now you see it, now you don’t—further obscured by fitful rain. The color splash was dullish red and came from her neighbor and friend’s, Dinah’s, tunic. Dinah was walking from the direction of the beach, which, though across the road and down the hill, was part of Dinah’s favorite exercise venue. Walk at dawn, walk at dusk. If Claire’s work schedule permitted, she would be right with her.

Quickly she unlocked and pushed up her window. “Dinah!” Claire called. “Can you join me for dinner? I’ve chicken breasts, salad, and wine.”

Dinah hesitated, holding open her screen door. In the gathering dusk Claire couldn’t see her eyes, which she knew to be light blue. “I’ll be right over,” she called.

Claire hurriedly uncorked the wine, put it in a chilled silver bucket, turned the chicken breasts, then headed into her bedroom to change. The bungalow was two-story: two bedrooms, one bath on the main level; a daylight basement below that faced toward the ocean, its view blocked by houses across the road.

Changing into an oversized cream cotton sweater and jeans, Claire padded back barefoot. It was chilly and getting wetter with another spate of clouds and rain. She’d just placed the chicken breasts on a platter and set out forks and knives wrapped in napkins when Dinah arrived. “Come and get it,” Claire invited and they served up in the kitchen and took their plates to the covered deck, which surrounded the upper level, where Claire had placed the wine, glasses, and salt and pepper on a teak table built for two, one of the few pieces of furniture she’d taken from her marriage.

“If the rain comes again, we can head back in. Fast,” Claire said.

“I like being outside,” Dinah admitted.

“Me, too.”

Dinah was in her midthirties, close to Claire’s age, but sometimes seemed like an older sister, almost a mother, to Claire. “How was the hospital today?” she asked.

Claire peered at her. “Small talk, or do you really want to know?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

Claire poured both of their glasses with the Savignon Blanc she’d recently discovered. Light. Not too astringent. Cheap enough to buy without wincing. “Do you remember that Jane Doe I told you about?”

“The pregnant one?”

“She was transported from Laurelton General to Halo Valley today. Dr. Freeson has taken her on as his patient, with the help of Dr. Avanti.”

“You’d like to take care of her,” Dinah guessed.

“Maybe I’d just like them not to.”

Dinah cradled her glass in her hands and looked out toward the ocean, her blondish hair smooth and straight to her shoulders. Dinah had been there when the incident happened. She’d seen it on the news and was waiting for Claire to get home after all the interviews and checkups and red tape. As soon as Claire wearily stepped from her car, Dinah was there with a basket of chocolate chip muffins and a warm hug.

The warmth Dinah lavished on her foster child she brought to Claire when she needed it most. Without the thousand questions Claire expected, Dinah followed her inside that first night, dropped the basket on the table, and set about making herbal tea. Fresh herbs from her own garden. Claire, spent, sat in a chair at the table and let Dinah take over. And while the tea steeped Claire leaned forward on her elbows, head in her hands, and cried. For Melody. For Heyward. For her own inability to stop things.

Dinah pushed a cup of tea her way and said, “You need to know that this will pass. You won’t be blamed forever. There are changes ahead.”

“Right now, I’ll be lucky to get through tomorrow.”

“You are only guilty of a tender heart. It’s your saving grace, but it’s caused you pain. And you may be too polite. It’s how they’ve used you as their scapegoat.”

“What do you know about it?” Claire asked, surprised.

“What I saw on the news,” Dinah answered, unruffled.

But Claire learned that Dinah saw a helluva lot more than was broadcast. She called it her intuition, but Claire had her own intuition about things and she knew this was something else. Just what, she couldn’t say. And as they became friends, she decided she didn’t care. Dinah was her therapist. A therapist’s therapist. Other than her own work with her patients, the evenings she shared tea, or dinner, or wine with Dinah were the real moments where Claire felt connected to the human race.

Now she said, “I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through the last six months without this.” She motioned to Dinah and herself.

Dinah smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“For me? Yeah, right.”

“Sometimes the universe does answer.”

“Mmm.” Claire squinched down in her chair and gazed into the fog. “I didn’t know I’d sent out a question.”

“You didn’t want to send it out. Others did that for you. But the message was received and now you’re getting better. Stronger.”

“You’re a little too woo-woo for me. You know that, right?”

She smiled and leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I shouldn’t drink wine. It dulls the senses.”

“All five, or do you have six?”