The Deepest of Secrets, page 4
“Well, I’m not going to lay all the blame there,” Anders says. “But yeah, it doesn’t help. As usual.”
“As to my original point,” Mathias says. “There are those—a minority but a vocal one—who will be, as Casey said, gleeful for the chance to pull William from his pedestal. They have discovered, too, that the situation provides the perfect accusation against his supporters.”
“If you support him, then it’s because you’ve done something, too,” I say.
The door opens, and Jen walks in. She stops and looks across our faces.
“You guys do realize people are talking about this meeting,” she says. “They’ve noticed every face that came in here, and you’ve all joined the Friends of Will Anders shit list. They think you’re conspiring, and they aren’t going to listen to a single word you now say in his defense.”
“Well, then, if you were telling the truth on that podium, maybe you should leave,” I say. “Give him one antagonist supporter.”
She snorts. “Fuck that. I spoke out in his defense, so they’ve already labeled me a fangirl.” She looks at Anders. “Your actual fangirl, Marissa, was conspicuously absent out there.”
“I talked to her earlier. She’s digesting it.”
“Who leaked the information?” Sebastian says. “I’m not exactly eager to have my own past come out.”
Petra rolls her eyes. “What’d you do, kid? Jaywalk?”
“We don’t know where the leak came from,” I say. “But understandably residents are going to be concerned about that, too, so if no one minds, I’m going to slip out and start chasing leads.” I glance over at Isabel.
She gets to her feet. “That would be my cue. As the local bar owner, I will be at the top of Casey’s suspect list. Phil? Please lock up after the meeting. I’ll be at the station.”
FOUR
“Yes, I read Mick’s notes,” Isabel says as I close the station door behind us. “You already know that. In retrospect, I remember reading Will’s story. It was under another name, of course, and I never made the connection to Will. While I’m not above blackmail, I like and respect Will, and I think he’s good for Rockton.”
She takes the chair as I perch on the desk. “That’s my declaration,” she says. “I’m not certain how to prove it, though.”
“Has Phil ever discussed residents with you?”
Her perfectly manicured brows shoot up. “If you can imagine any circumstance where Phil gossips about residents, then your imagination far outstrips my own.”
“I don’t mean gossip. I mean has he said anything that suggests he knows residents’ backgrounds?”
“Ah, so you don’t know whether he even has that information.”
“He does in some cases. I’m not sure that extends to everyone.”
“Then I would suggest you ask him, rather than place his lover in a very awkward position. You don’t trust him to give a straight answer. He will, Casey. I will also answer the question because I can say, without hesitation, that he is one of the most circumspect people I know. I suspect he knows most of the backstories, but he hasn’t so much as suggested he knows mine. He will not be your leak. Nor am I.”
“But someone else could have found Mick’s notes and figured it out.”
“Who? The only person still here from those days is Mathias.”
“He’s next on my list but, yes, I know I’m grasping at straws.”
“We both realize this is a waste of time, right?” Isabel says.
“Because Will’s the only person still in Rockton from Eric’s list? No one else is in danger, which makes my investigation smell like revenge, rather than preventive policing.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. We know who did this, Casey. Who’s behind it, at least.”
I lift my pen from the notebook.
“You don’t want to seem paranoid,” she says. “But in this case someone really is out to get us. We’ve established that.”
I set down my pen and exhale. “You think the council is behind the leak.”
“If you tell me you haven’t considered this, I’ll be insulted that you think I’d buy such nonsense. Also insulted that you don’t trust me enough to discuss it, but the wound to my intelligence always stings more.”
“Yes, we’ve considered it. Obviously. And yes, it feels paranoid.”
“So you’re eliminating the obvious suspect to avoid seeming paranoid?”
“The council may be the ultimate source of the leak, but they didn’t write that sign. I need to find out who did that and then see whether it leads to the council.”
“It will.”
When I don’t answer, she fixes me with a look. “Really, Casey? The council has realized you know we’re shutting down, even if they’re pretending it’s temporary attrition. They’ve tipped their hand, and they need to hurry this along. What better way to do that than to undermine Eric’s authority by disbanding the police force?”
“All the more reason for me to find who is behind this.”
“Whoever wrote that sign is getting their information directly from the council. There’s no point tracking down potential sources in Rockton.” Her eyes narrow. “Which you knew. This was about getting me to independently voice your own theory. Making sure you weren’t being paranoid.”
“You’d make an excellent detective, Iz.”
She mouths a profanity at me. Then she settles back in her seat. “I suppose I should be flattered that you value my intelligence so highly.”
“I do. Also, it’d seem very odd if I didn’t question you first, you being the keeper of secrets.”
She snorts. “That’d be Mathias. I am but a student of the master.”
“That’s why he’s next on my list.” I close my notebook. “I also do need to keep other sources in mind, in case the council isn’t behind this. Imagine if I blamed them, and it turned out that the actual culprit was someone who found Mick’s notes?”
“Understood. Eliminate the obvious first. Ultimately, though, since anyone could have found those hypothetical notes, it doesn’t narrow down your search.”
I smile. “But it does give me an excuse for questioning anyone I like, without the council realizing I’m looking for their spy.”
* * *
A council spy. That should make it easy. They have three in town that we’ve already identified. The problem is that all three were in that meeting with us earlier: Mathias, Petra, and Anders himself.
Dalton flipped them long ago, though he’d say it was the town that flipped them. They came here promising to keep an eye on the sheriff, only to realize the true threat to Rockton is the council.
Even if I didn’t trust their loyalty, I can’t imagine any of them being behind this. Anders certainly didn’t expose his own crime. Petra’s true allegiance is to her grandmother, who is firmly against Rockton’s closure.
Mathias is always the wild card in any situation. The one least wedded to our cause. Still, he wouldn’t do anything as gauche as post a sign in the square, nor as ignorant as those mental-illness insults.
So who is the spy? Whoever wrote that sign, and that’s the way I need to approach this investigation. Find out who posted the sign.
* * *
I let Phil handle the council. One of their residents has been identified as a killer, and they must be notified. Phil is better equipped to handle this, because he knows the council lets in less-than-innocent residents.
They tell Phil to convey the message that Anders’s skill set outweighed any other concerns.
The council isn’t happy that Anders admitted to his crime. They wish they’d been consulted first. As for what should be done about it, they aren’t demanding his head on a platter. Or his ass on a plane. They will reserve judgment and see how we handle this unfolding situation. They hope we can win back our residents’ trust.
We have twenty-four hours.
* * *
I spend the day chasing leads while watching the portcullis slowly close in front of me. At first, people come forward—those who support Anders and want us to find the perpetrator. They tell me who they saw out last night, who has a grudge against Anders, who has expressed far too much interest in resident backstories.
But I’m not the only one making the rounds. So are Conrad and Jolene, who seem to have teamed up as the opposition. They’ve brought in others, too, like-minded individuals who just want to see justice done and clean up a corrupt system. Bullshit. Mathias is dead right here, at least for Conrad and Jolene. They’re in this for their own petty reasons, and the attention they’re garnering doesn’t help.
If you’re slavering to bring down a popular guy, it follows that you envy his popularity. If bringing him down also means building yourself up? Win-win.
While Dalton and Kenny and Jen canvass for potential leads, Team Conrad-and-Jolene are getting the word out—the word being that if you’re helping my investigation, you must want the whistleblower caught before they expose your secrets.
Jen’s suggestion to lock them in the cell becomes increasingly tempting. Yet it would only suggest we’re silencing protest. Normally, we could at least find ways to stop them from interfering with my investigation. That doesn’t work when the person under threat is one of our own. Without the option of bringing in outside investigators, I spend my day racing against time, speaking to as many people as I can before they decide to stop talking.
* * *
It’s nearly midnight, twenty-four hours since that sign went up in the town square, and I’m no closer to finding out who did it. I’ve interviewed every witness who’ll talk. No one saw who posted the sign.
Whoever did it picked the perfect time. Petra left the Roc at eleven and says the screen was empty. I suspect the sign went up around eleven thirty, when those lingering at the Roc didn’t plan to leave until Isabel kicked them out at twelve. A brief window of time when the streets would be empty. Then one last burst of activity when the Roc closed, during which someone was bound to spot the sign.
I’ve spent the last couple of hours dusting for prints while expecting nothing. Paper isn’t the best source for fingerprints, and a half dozen people handled the sign after it was taken down. I should have been more careful about that. At the time, I’d been focused too much on the message and too little on finding who posted it.
When I do manage to lift prints, they’re all from people I know touched it: Isabel, me, and Anders. Either the poster wore gloves or their prints didn’t adhere.
The paper is cheap all-purpose white sheets, bought by the ream in Dawson and sold in our general store. The marker used to write the message is standard black.
Phil has made improvements in the inventory system, which means cracking down on store staff whose idea of inventory control is to make daily notes of what they remember selling. Itemized receipts in duplicate are the new standard. I have a list of those who bought paper or markers in the last few months. That doesn’t include everyone who bought it earlier and has a stash at home, which is probably everyone in town. Nor does it account for the other businesses that purchase it or the fact that you can grab a few sheets of paper free at the community center.
Lifting footprints from the scene is out of the question. By the time I got there, the entire area had been trampled. I still checked last night, but it’d been a mess of smudged prints.
The better question is how someone got the sign on the movie screen, eight feet off the ground. Whoever posted it must have brought a chair or step stool. But who’d risk lugging something like that through town? Even at near midnight, it’d be noticeable.
I’m at the scene of the crime, pacing as I try to figure out how the sign got up there. The podium is nearby, but it’s fixed to the ground. There’s a basketball net. A couple of trees, too far to be used. Nothing that could be easily dragged over and climbed on.
Am I sure that’s what they did? What if the tool was something used to reach up instead?
Was the sign haphazardly affixed? Or firmly taped on?
And what difference does it make, really? I’m grasping at straws here, and they aren’t even solid straws.
As I wander through town, I tell myself I’m working the case. This is close to the same time of night. What do I see? What do I hear? Who’s out and about? Whose apartment light is on close enough that they might have seen something?
There aren’t many lights. People adjust to the patterns of sunlight in the north. A month ago, they’d have been awake, even out on porches, taking in the midnight sun. Now they’ve gone to bed. When I do see a flicker of distant light, it comes from a chalet on the edge of town. The small houses are our premier living quarters, a perk for essential-services workers. This particular chalet, though, should be dark and empty.
It’s Anders’s.
I’d asked Anders to sleep over at our place. Last night, he’d agreed without comment, still lost in the shock of that sign. Tonight, he’d argued, but Dalton insisted. Anders might be on light duty, but we can’t function with a police force of two, meaning he needs to be well rested in case of an emergency. Or that made a good excuse. The truth was that neither of us wants Anders being alone right now.
Just a few days ago, he was telling me how good he felt, how stable and steady his life had become. He had close friends, a job he enjoyed, a town he considered home, and the beginnings of a solid relationship with a woman he really liked.
He’s already lost Marissa. He told her the truth before the town meeting, and she agreed he was right to end it. That’d been a blow, as much as he tried to pretend otherwise.
So he’s spending the night at our place. He’s there now, with Dalton and Storm, and if I squint across town, I can see light in our living room. I’d popped by there an hour ago, and they’d been deep in conversation, so I’d slipped out again.
Now there’s a light at Anders’s place. A light on the move, meaning someone carrying a candle or lantern.
It could be Anders popping back to grab something he forgot. Yet that light looks dim, as if stifled, and he has no reason to do that in his own home.
I flick off my own light and head toward the chalet.
* * *
Someone is definitely moving through Anders’s chalet. Searching for something?
The light has disappeared, but when I circle around back, the door is ajar. I creep up to it. Before I slip in, my hand drops to my gun. Then I hesitate.
Having my gun in hand is always the right move for entering into a dark and unknown situation. Even in Rockton, where we don’t need to worry about anyone opening fire, we take our guns out as a warning.
Sure, you thought it was okay to break into the general store for a pack of matches—you’d have repaid them in the morning—but what if we mistook you for a bear?
After what happened today, though, an unholstered gun could be mistaken for a show of police power. Local law enforcement threatening an innocent resident who just popped by to tell Anders they support him.
I leave the gun in my holster and ease open the back door. It’s quiet inside. I slip in and shut the door behind me.
I keep my flashlight in hand as a potential weapon, but I leave the light off. Enough illumination shines through the windows for me to see. All of the chalets also follow the same blueprint. I could move through Anders’s with my eyes closed.
The back door opens into the kitchen. A visual sweep tells me it’s empty. I slide out of my shoes and creep forward in stocking feet. When a board creaks overhead, I stop. Another creak, paired with a soft footfall.
I continue out of the kitchen and into the living room. The stairs are to my left. Before I turn that way, I peer around the living space. This is the biggest room in the small house, and even the furniture arrangement is similar to ours—sofa to my right, chairs across from it, and a fireplace on the far wall. Anders has a coffee table where we have a bearskin rug. When I notice that dark shape, I think, Oh, right, the coffee table. Then I realize there’s something lumpy at the base.
I squint, but the window light hits the room wrong, casting the table into shadow. I take a step that way. Something protrudes across the floor.
An arm. I’m seeing someone’s arm.
A figure lies beside the table, half hidden behind it.
I ease back on my heels. The figure isn’t moving. Do they see me? Do they think they’re hidden?
No, if they were trying to hide, their arm wouldn’t be splayed across the floor.
It isn’t Anders, come home and jumped by an intruder. The light brown skin confirms that.
Someone has broken into Anders’s chalet. Someone who is currently upstairs. And there’s a second person motionless on the floor.
I don’t rush over to help. Even if I did think it was a victim, I’d need to secure the scene first. With my gaze fixed on the supposedly unconscious figure, I reverse until I reach the base of the stairs.
I climb the steps sideways, gaze swinging between the prone figure and the darkness upstairs. When I’m at the top, I pause to consider my options. The chalets have three upstairs areas. Bedroom, bathroom, storage. A tiny hall connects the three. I need to swing around to face the other direction, while not forgetting the person downstairs.
As soon as I’m where I need to be, something rattles in the bedroom. The intruder is going through Anders’s things, drawers opening, objects inside shuffling and shifting. I lift my flashlight, ready to flick it on as soon as I’m through the doorway.
One step, two steps—
A floorboard creaks behind me. My brain screams that I’ve forgotten the person downstairs, but I haven’t. This creak comes from the storage closet.
I spin, but the intruder is already lunging from the closet. Hands slam me into the wall. I recover fast and smash my heavy flashlight into a dark jaw. I catch a glimpse of a face and see only a black mask.
