County Line (39 page)

“He still doesn’t know who hit you.” She studies me for a moment. “He asked me to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“How’s your arm?”

I skipped the sling after dressing. My arm hangs awkwardly at my side. It hurts to shrug, so I sit in the chair across from her. “You didn’t drive over here to check up on me for Chief Nash.”

“I came over to tell you Chase Fairweather was murdered.”

The news leaves me indifferent, but I don’t know if it’s because I’ve lost my capacity for surprise or because I somehow knew his death was not the inevitable end to a long period of declining health. Given everything else, Fairweather’s passing has taken on the status of mere curiosity, a blip on a radar screen bright with worrisome and confusing tracks.

Susan takes a sip of water. “After James Whitacre and your hit-and-run, I asked the medical examiner to take another look at Fairweather. You remember Dan Halley?”

“Sure.” A fellow with an excess of bluster—lousy poker player, but a competent medical examiner.

“Fairweather suffered from dangerously elevated blood sugar and dehydration. From there, without treatment, a number of negative outcomes follow.”

“Dead would count as a negative outcome. What makes you think it was murder?”

“Dan examined Fairweather’s belongings again. The low dose aspirin and insulin got his attention.”

“Someone tampered with his meds?

“My question exactly. Dan said Fairweather’s insulin was fine, but the aspirin was another matter. There are dozens of store brands, all a little different.”

“Let me guess. Sugar pills.”

“The entire bottle.”

I grunt. “Don’t you take one a day? That can’t be enough to kill a guy, no matter how sick he was.”

“Hyperosmolar coma can develop over several days. Fairweather wasn’t doing much to take care of himself and probably didn’t recognize his symptoms. Dan suspects he was also using the aspirin for pain relief. If he took a handful before he got in the tub, his blood sugar could have spiked and pushed him into coma. Lying against hard porcelain for a while might have caused a blood clot to form in his leg. Next step: pulmonary embolism and death.”

“Autopsy?”

“I’ve requested a full post-mortem.”

For a case like this, having Halley do a second review of the evidence was already asking a lot. But Susan is the lieutenant. She’ll probably get her autopsy.

“And that’s why you say he was murdered.”

“Someone switched his aspirin for sugar pills.”

“Maybe he took them on purpose.”

“Suicide? Why bother with sugar pills? They’re not hard to get, but the sugar canister in Ruby Jane’s cupboard was more convenient.”

“What’s your theory?”

She licks her lips and shrugs, drinks again. The clock on the VCR reads 8:44. Susan would have awoken with the birds. Long day. As a rule a lieutenant doesn’t have a lot of time for follow-up visits with witnesses, even on a suspicious death. That’s what detectives are for. She must be tired, but the only evidence is in the long silences between thoughts and the shadows under her eyes. I look at her sitting there on my couch, not smiling, not frowning, and it occurs to me I no longer miss being a cop. The grief, the rules, the endless reports. Detective Kadash would have been obligated to follow up with Marcy on her comment about how Chase Fairweather tried to get Ruby Jane to pay for his medicine. Skin Kadash the citizen can keep his goddamn mouth shut.

Susan meets my gaze. A fleeting shame runs through me, as though she can read my thoughts, but it passes the moment Susan looks away to set her glass on the table.

“I spoke with Inspector Eldridge. They’re still looking for Biddy Denlinger.”

I take a drink of my own water and wish I’d brushed my teeth when I washed my face. “And?”

“They assume Biddy is a nickname.”

“One would hope.”

“They’ve been through Jimmie’s personal files and his computer. Aside from that one note in his Filofax, there’s nothing else about Biddy.” Susan folds her hands in her lap. The sun has set and out the windows on either side of the mantle twilight is fading. “Skin, what has Ruby Jane told you about Bella Denlinger?”

“Bella? Ruby Jane’s mother Bella?”

“Denlinger is her maiden name. You didn’t know?”

“No one knows.”

“James was in touch with her, based on correspondence SFPD found.”

“Who’s Biddy, then? A relative?”

“Unknown.”

I can still smell the rotten pear. I feel disoriented, and the cloying scent of lingering rot doesn’t help. Susan rests her elbows on her knees.

“Were you aware James Whitacre was being blackmailed?”

My head swims. I stand, cringing, and move to the mantle. The glass of the mirror is darker than the room it reflects. I feel like I’m gazing into a reflection of my own mind. I don’t like that this has suddenly become an interrogation.

“He had a lot of debt, and not much else. In the last month he sold what little equity he held, but his bank accounts are almost empty. Eldridge and Deffeyes believe he was paying someone off.”

Ask her about that night on Preble County Line Road
. “How much?”

“Not enough to keep him out of the morgue.”

“Christ.” But it makes sense, given how twitchy he was.

“Inspector Eldridge would like to talk to Ruby Jane about the financial arrangement she had with James.”

I turn, my teeth bared. “That was completely above board. There’s records—”

“Skin.” She raises a hand. “You have to see this from their point of view.”

“I don’t have to see anything. She’s a victim here too.”

“Is she?”

“Susan. Jesus.”

“Please, think like a cop for a moment.”

Part of me knows Susan is right. There are too many incongruities. Jimmie’s drained bank accounts are just one more troubling detail. I think of Mae Whittaker’s financials in the folder Nash shared with me. Add the Denlinger factor, Biddy or Bella or both, and I can see why Susan is asking these questions. Doesn’t mean I like it. I’m feeling bitter and unreasonable, anxious for Ruby Jane and desperate to know where I’ll stand once I find her again. I’m not interested in thinking like a cop.

“What do you expect from me, Susan?”

She hears the distance in my voice. She lets out a breath. “At some point, she’s going to need help. She’ll call you, if she calls anyone.”

That’s what Marcy said, but I’m starting to wonder. If Ruby Jane wanted my help, she could have had it in Ohio.

“Please call me when she does.”

I wait until I hear Susan’s car pull away, then I go to my computer.

Google gives me over twelve thousand results for
Bella Denlinger
. There’s a Salon Bella in Pennsylvania which must have shown up only because a competing hair salon called Denlinger’s appears on the same business listing site. Lots of Denlinger links, lots of Bella links, none with both. I restrict the search to
+Bella +Denlinger
. The number of results drops to a dozen or so, most of them iffy internet operations offering background checks—for one easy payment of your life savings and credit limit if you’re idiot enough to give them your name and credit card number. Something called
Isabella Farm
catches my eye. The link summary mentions Orcas Island, one of the San Juans—a mere two-hundred-and-fifty miles and a ferry ride north.

I click the link, then sprain my finger on the mute button when twee music starts playing. A picture of a long-necked creature dominates the home page under a florid logo. The background is a muddy-looking watercolor which might be trees, might be moss on rocks. A paragraph of purple prose describes the wonder and beauty of alpaca wool. A row of thumbnail images runs along the bottom of the window, one of which appears to be a woman standing next to one of the beasts. I click the thumbnail. The caption reads, “Bella with Ringo.” She’s a matronly woman, her face lined with capillaries, her hair grey. Her smile is what makes me copy the address and paste it into Google Maps.

I’d recognize Ruby Jane’s dimples anywhere.

- 46 -

Negative Space

It’s getting late. For now, my shoulder doesn’t trouble me, but I make a mental note to put some Advil in my pocket. I print the Washington State Ferry schedule from Anacortes, plus the maps I’ll need. Then I shower and shave, dress in layers, and skip the sling—hoping I don’t regret it later. I pack a proper bag. Clean clothes for a few days, my phone and charger. A cab arrives to take me to Cartopia. The night is unseasonably warm, the air clear and fresh. Not the breathless soup I left behind in Ohio. I ride with the window down. Overhead, I can see stars.

I hear Marcy before I see her. “I know it’s true because I read it on the internet, ass breath!” When our eyes meet she waves like she’s flagging a ship at sea. I push through a crowd which smells of alcohol sweat and a half dozen food cart cuisines.

“Skin, you’re back from—Wait. Did you go somewhere?”

“Still looking for Ruby Jane.”

“Tell her to hurry up. I haven’t had a day off in forever. There are bills I can’t pay, and that Joanne keeps calling. She leaves a message at each of the shops every day.”

“She’ll be home soon.” I don’t know why I say that. I have no idea how much longer Ruby Jane will be gone, or if she’ll ever come back. Marcy squeezes to the side to make room on the bench next to her. I pluck a Belgian fry from the cup in front of her.

“Marcy, listen. I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“Any chance I could borrow your car for a couple of days?”

“Have you seen my car?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong with your ride?”

“Stolen, dumped in a creek.”

“That sucks.” She noshes a fry, then jostles a woman next to her. “Frieda, didn’t your car get stolen?”

“My brother set it on fire playing with flares at Josh’s party last weekend.”

“That was such a great party.” Marcy turns back to me. “Shit happens to cars, man.”

I draw a breath. “I could rent a car, but it’s the middle of the night.”

She suddenly jumps up. Fries scatter across the table top. “Fellsner, you son of a bitch! Fuck you!” She laughs and flips a pair of birds toward someone in the crowd.

“Marcy.”

“What?” She sits back down, her face flushed and excited. “Right. The car.” Her eyes get thoughtful. “This will help you find Ruby Jane?”

“Yeah.”

“When you want it?”

“Right now, if I can get it.”

“Damn.” She fishes in her pocket, pulls out a ring of keys. “My place is on Fifteenth about a half block south of Morrison. There aren’t any other Gremlins anywhere around.”

“Gremlin?”

“It’s purple.” She grins at my alarm. “Hey, you asked for it, man.”

“I appreciate it, Marcy.”

— + —

I can’t remember the last time I saw a Gremlin in the wild. Must be three decades since they went out of production. There’s rust on the hood and front quarter panels, broad patches of primer, and no evidence it ever had wheel covers. The interior smells like clove cigarettes. The vinyl seats are cracked, the carpet worn in patches to metal. I almost flood the carburetor, but the engine catches. I stop for gas before I get on the interstate, and cross the Columbia River ten minutes before midnight. The first morning ferry out of Anacortes to Orcas is at six o’clock. The Gremlin hits a wall at sixty-six miles per hour, fast enough as long as I don’t have to pee more than once.

A full moon leads me north. The highway is empty and dark. Every now and then a semi-rig barrels past me. As the adrenalin buzz gives way to tedium, I roll down the window and let the rush of wind hold my eyelids up. I try not to think, try not to run through the possibilities ahead. Instead, I focus on the modest landmarks which serve as milestones on the trip north: Cougar, and the road to Mount St. Helens, the goofy right-wing billboard at Napaville, the capitol dome. Traffic picks up after Fort Lewis, but not enough to slow me down. Sixty-six, pedal to the Gremlin metal. Clouds gather over the Tacoma dome. The shadow of Mount Rainier forms a negative space on the horizon. Even though I slept all day, a shadow of exhaustion begins to overtake me. I feel as though I’m driving into a void. But as the miles pass and night lengthens, the shadow melts into stars. Words die on my lips, over and over. As my sight swims past Safeco Field and the Space Needle, I imagine others with me. Sometimes it’s Jimmie, his mouth forming hollow shapes in the darkness. Sometime it’s Pete, or Chase Fairweather. Chase speaks in misspellings, Pete in accusation. Susan wants to know what I think I’m going to accomplish.