A Lonesome Place for Dying, page 4
Ethan nodded.
“As chief, now, people are looking to you. How to act, what to do. They’ll test you. You’re gonna have some ugly decisions to make, son. Try and make the ones that keep your people safe, and let you put head to pillow with a clean conscience. Reasonably clean, anyway.”
As he listened, Ethan noticed the door of the blue pickup open. The driver made his move, darting across the street, causing a station wagon to stomp on the brake. Ethan walked toward the driver, holding up a hand to stop. The driver was carrying something wrapped in a black plastic bag.
“This is for you,” the driver said.
“Put it down.” Ethan’s voice was sharp to his own ears.
The driver complied. “There’s a note that goes with it.”
He looked at the blue envelope with his name on it. “Who’s this from?”
“They don’t tell me that, sir.”
Ethan toed the edge of the black bundle. “What’s in there?”
“Opuntia albispina,” the driver said.
Behind him, Frank Keogh began to laugh.
Inside the bag was a potted cactus shaped like a series of waffle griddles. “She’s called an angel wing,” the driver said. “Put her near a south-facing window and just watch her flower beautifully.”
Ethan teased out the note. It was signed by Jazz and both of his sons. Happy first day, Dad, it said.
6
Considering how his first day as chief had started, it didn’t seem possible for it to get stranger. But it was, and it did.
The rail company sent over the passenger manifest, along with a list of crew members working the morning line. Brenda Lee had begun combing through the names. The problem was, there was no way of verifying that a passenger who bought a ticket, say, for Tacoma, actually got off at that stop. Tickets weren’t checked at every station. The train ended the trip in Oregon with all crew accounted for. But if they were short a passenger, no one had noticed.
Worse, the train itself was cleaned at the end of the line, before Brenda Lee’s request not to disturb it had been relayed. Then it had been sent on its return trip north. When Brenda Lee asked the company to hold it in Seattle for an hour, they’d agreed. But traffic on I-5 was so congested, she was late reaching King Street Station. Brenda Lee arrived in time to watch the last car snake out of the depot, while she simultaneously called the next station and maneuvered her car back onto the interstate. If there had been proof the body came from the train … but proof was what she was looking for.
At Edmonds, Brenda Lee and a representative from the rail company combed each car again, to the irritation of the passengers and crew. They found nothing. No blood, no signs of a struggle, no luggage unaccounted for. No connection between the dead woman and the crew.
Dr. Jacinto would perform the autopsy tomorrow morning in Bellingham. Ethan wanted to be present. The postmortem was a chance to ask questions, to get a palpable sense of the death, what caused it and how. He also felt attending was the proper thing to do, a way to pay the dead woman respect.
At a quarter to four he walked to City Hall. A spitting rain had started, and by the time he arrived, the epaulets of his dress uniform were beaded with water. He’d forgotten his cap.
“City Hall” was a bit of a stretch. Blaine’s civic government occupied several floors of the Banner Bank Building, a modern steel and glass structure with a barrel-vaulted roof. The council chamber was a medium-sized conference room with a curved dais for the council members, a few rows of seats for the public. The town seal and a brocaded flag were the only trappings that hinted at the official business conducted within the room.
Ceremonies weren’t Ethan Brand’s thing to begin with. But he took his spot in the front row while the council filed in. After ten minutes of officiating, he was called to stand before the dais. The city manager, Arlene Six Crows, asked if he’d faithfully and honorably discharge the duties of chief of police.
“I will,” he said, glad it was over.
“Would you like to say a few words to the council?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
Arlene gave him a quizzical look. Of course he was supposed to make a speech. It had been on his list to do this morning, before the heart, before Jane Doe, and before the chaos both brought with them.
“Are you sure, Chief Brand?” Arlene was the closest thing to a friend he had on the council. Full-figured and fierce, her hair in a long plait, Arlene had been born on the territory of the Nooksack, and she’d earned her law degree from Tulane. Her firm would defend any Indigenous person free of charge, though it specialized in corporate and treaty law. Arlene had butted heads with Wynn Sinclair when his proposal for a seaside resort had encroached on a parcel of land governed by the Lummi Nation. Sinclair hadn’t been happy about that.
Speaking of whom. Blaine’s wealthiest private citizen sat on the far right of the dais, a square-shouldered and handsome man a few years older than Ethan, with bottle black hair. In addition to his development company and a controlling share in Black Rock, Sinclair owned the Ocean Beach Hotel and Supper Club, along with swaths of real estate around town. His father had served on City Council, and his mother had been the first female mayor. Whatever else could be said about him, Wynn Sinclair had inherited a sense of civic duty. If he wasn’t enthused by the council’s choice for head of law enforcement, he wasn’t broadcasting that fact. But Ethan thought he detected a glint of malicious joy as Sinclair watched him squirm.
“A few words, Chief?” Arlene repeated.
“Just, ah, that this is sure an honor, I mean for me, and I want to do a job that’s good.”
He could see Jay Swan, the one-person newsroom of the Blaine Skyline, copying down his words as fast as he could stammer them. Ethan faltered, took a breath, and started again.
“I’m not big on speechifying, and truth be told, it’s been a hell of a day. So I’ll do us all a favor and cut this to the quick. I take pride in this job. The man who vouched for me is about the best person I know. I won’t let Frank Keogh down, or you, and I’ll do my level best. Thanks kindly.”
The smattering of applause told him it had been enough. A photo was taken. Soon the ceremony was over and he was surrounded by outstretched hands. Arlene was first, insisting on a hug.
“Congrats,” she said so only he could hear. “I’m looking forward to whupping your butt in court and making you look silly.”
“It’s a date,” he said.
The mayor was next. He knew this would be the most dicey conversation of the evening, and wanted to avoid bringing up Cliff Mooney’s suspension. But the mayor had other ideas.
“Kudos to you, Ethan. I know you’ll be fair. Speaking of fair, I’d like to bend your ear a bit about my nephew. Two months of Frank’s hand-wringing is punishment enough, don’t you think? The kid deserves a square deal, and another kick at the can.”
Eldon Mooney’s folksy manner didn’t disguise his intent. The mayor’s definition of a square deal meant full reinstatement. Cliff hadn’t been kicking cans, though, he’d been abusing his authority as an officer. It wasn’t a simple call.
“Cliff deserves a fair hearing,” Ethan said, as diplomatically as he could.
Mooney clapped his shoulder. “Glad to hear it. My office at ten. See you tomorrow.”
Before he could get his bearings, Jay Swan had cornered him, asking for a brief interview. Jay, a slim nonbinary person wearing a short-sleeve dress shirt and tie, said the paper was starting a new podcast, and “your story would be a high-octane way to kick it off.” Ethan found himself agreeing to a sit-down interview at lunch tomorrow. An autopsy, an interview, and a talk with the mayor. Tomorrow was filling up quick.
Frank Keogh had entered the chamber during the ceremony. Frank shook his head in mockery. “What a speech, Ethan. Really dazzled the hell out of them.”
“That bad?” Ethan said.
“I’ll put it like this. If you spoke like that trying to get out of a ticket, you’d end up serving twenty to life in Clallam Bay.”
Outside, the rain had paused. They saw Sissy McCandless, a gawky woman in granny glasses and the red vest of her travel agency uniform, heading up Martin Street. Sissy nodded at them.
“There goes the white sheep of the McCandless family,” Frank muttered.
Ethan looked around, thinking it would make sense to shake hands with Wynn Sinclair. Show there were no hard feelings, and despite any personal animosity, Wynn could expect fairness from the department. But Wynn had retreated during the congratulations, and his Porsche was nowhere in sight.
His wife was, though. Ethan spotted her approaching from the direction of the waterfront. A tall woman with red-black hair, freckles around dark eyes, wearing a black cotton dress patterned with violets. His heart lurched and Brenda Lee’s phrase ran through his head. Romantic betrayal.
“Congratulations, Chief,” Steph Sinclair said formally. “My husband would like you to join us for dinner tomorrow. Could we expect you for seven at the club?”
* * *
He’d gone back to the office and paperworked himself into the evening. Trying his best to avoid thinking of her. Stephanie Ann Sinclair. The name provoked something wild in him, something uncivilized. The more he tried not to think of Steph, the more undeniable his thoughts became.
The first time they’d met, he’d pulled her over for speeding. The radar gun had clocked her Lexus going ninety in a residential zone. Steph glared at him, almost daring him to write a city councillor’s wife a ticket. So he had.
Later on they’d been able to laugh about it, lying in a motel bed together. “You acted like it was the first time you hadn’t been able to talk your way out of being written up,” he said.
“It was. Men are damn fools.” Steph spoke plainly about her own sexuality, as a fact about herself, but not the dominant one. Her candor was one of the things he’d loved about her.
Loved. That had surprised both of them. Those first months after his separation, he’d avoided going home as long as he could, spending hours walking the streets, sitting in Lucky’s or the Blue Duck Saloon, taking overtime whenever he could. Anything to escape that house with no lights on inside, no toys on the front lawn.
On one of his midnight rambles, he passed the Ocean Beach Supper Club. The restaurant closed at ten, yet the light in the front dining room was still burning. Steph Sinclair was at a table alone. Reading glasses on, the day’s receipts in front of her. Her eyes were closed.
He’d rapped on the glass. Asked if she was all right. When she said she was, he observed that the night was warm for October, and did she feel like walking with him?
“My face is probably a mess,” Steph said. Up close he could see the marks of tears.
“Who’s around to notice a little smudged eyeliner?”
“You noticed,” she said.
They’d walked, mostly in silence. The next night, when he returned, Steph told him about the problems at home. Wynn had become frustrated when his resort project fell through. He was drinking a little more. They’d been arguing more, too. Then one evening Wynn had thrown a potted plant at the wall, in front of their daughter Jess, showering the teenage girl with dirt and broken roots.
Steph grew melancholy talking about it. “Something between Wynn and me broke that night. Brushing Jess’s hair, I kept overhearing myself tell my daughter that her father loves her, that he’s not a violent man, he’s just exhausted these days from work. Making excuses for him. All of which are true, but I found I didn’t care anymore. I couldn’t care. Does that make sense?”
“It does to me,” Ethan said. “So what’ll you do?”
“I don’t know. But I dread going home and facing him.”
Their nightly walks became routine. Ethan found himself telling Steph Sinclair about Jazz. His wife had thrown a few things in their decade of marriage, though never in front of the kids. “Cooking brings out the devil in her,” he told Steph. “She’s not good at it, and she’s used to being good at everything. Jazz once pitched a brick of butter at my head, on account of I asked if her cottage pie was supposed to smell like that. And not underhanded, either. She Nolan Ryan’d that damned thing.”
Steph’s tired laughter was soft music. “Did she apologize?” she asked.
“Not with words, but later that night, yeah.” Normally bashful about matters of sex, and not understanding why he didn’t feel that way talking to her, he added, “We’d be arguing one minute, the next we’re naked, fooling around. No apology or explanation. Passions run close for us. Ran, guess I should say.”
“You don’t seem easily riled,” Steph said.
“Jazz taking a job across the country, moving the kids to Boston, that did the job.”
Steph had asked him a question that cut through the storm of everything he felt. “Do you accept your wife’s reason for leaving?”
Maybe she thought it was innocuous, or she might have been looking for answers to her own domestic problem. Either way, asking the question changed his answer, and changed his life. What he loved about Jasmine Soltani, how cultured she was, how enthusiastic about experiencing the world, were qualities that were stifled by their life together in Blaine. Jazz wanted more for herself, more for the boys. Access to the best the East Coast had to offer. She wanted to give her sons part of the life she’d had. Ethan understood that reason. But he hadn’t accepted it till then.
“I suppose I have to,” Ethan said. “Her mother’s a history professor, dad’s a retired diplomat. They’re good folks, and it’s nice the boys get to spend time with them. But it’s time they’re not spending with me, and that hurts.”
“You still love her?” Steph asked.
“Always, from the moment I saw her without a helmet on,” he said. “I was escorting a group of civilians from the DoD, heading to Camp Dwyer, this outpost in Garmsir. There was some trouble on the road, but there was always trouble on the road. They hunkered down in the Humvee, wrapped up like goalies—pads, helmets, the whole works. We took some live rounds but get through okay. Inside the base, I see this gear come off, and the most stunning lady I’d ever seen asks me where the hell in Afghanistan she can get a drink.”
Steph smiled. “Love at first sight?”
“And then some. We became pretty friendly, then I didn’t see her for a few years. When we met again stateside, it was like time started up again.”
He touched his chest above his heart.
“That woman’s name is burned here forever. I had to become a better person to be worthy of her. And I have no idea what changed to make me lose her.”
“You’re a true romantic,” Steph Sinclair told him.
“Try not to be, but here we are.”
“And that rules out anyone else?”
“It has till now.”
They’d found themselves walking in the direction of the Orca Fin Motel.
* * *
Ethan had installed a motion sensor on his porch light, so he never had to come home in the dark. First thing, he checked around the house, the shed, to see if there were any more notes or vital organs. Nothing. He was alone, on the night of his biggest career celebration. That was acceptable. He didn’t feel much like celebrating.
The word lonesome kept coming to mind. The spot on the train tracks, the town itself in some ways. Something deeper than loneliness, an ache, a sense of life being unsettled, of playing out in a way it shouldn’t have. There was no other word that seemed to fit.
After months when his feelings for Steph only seemed to grow more intense, she’d been gone as well. Right when it seemed she’d made up her mind to leave Wynn. He’d been looking forward to having Steph and her kids at his place. Today’s brief word was the first time they’d spoken in almost a month.
A quick call to Jazz to thank her for the cactus, then a shower, then bed. Turning on the faucet, Ethan stripped down, taking care with the left sock and footplate. If you didn’t scrutinize too hard, the prosthetic looked pretty natural.
He couldn’t look at the injury without feeling a profound mix of loss and gratitude and guilt. Brad Dobbs and Ben Henriquez hadn’t been so lucky. Maybe this, too, was another way of feeling lonesome.
Now that Frank was gone, no one in the department suspected his injury. The physical demands of the job often caused him considerable pain, as it had this afternoon when he’d stood on the train tracks. He wasn’t the fastest sprinter, but he wasn’t the slowest, either, and made up for it with an endurance born of orneriness. The only people in town who knew were his physician, Dr. Lau, and the women who’d shared his bed. Including Steph Sinclair.
Did Steph tell her husband? he wondered, drying off and readying for bed. She had stayed married in the end, remaining Mrs. Wynn Sinclair. Maybe for the sake of Jess and Wynn Junior. Or maybe because Ethan had cautioned her about her use of prescription pills, something he’d found all too seductive at one point in his own life. Everyone had their secrets.
Next to his bed sat a copy of Middlemarch. Jazz had never canceled her membership in the Blaine Women’s Book Club. Every month a new tome arrived. He loved getting mail, enjoyed most of the books. They connected him to his ex-wife, and they nurtured a faraway hope that one day his family would come back.
He read a chapter before giving in to fatigue. His mind ran to other thoughts. Somewhere in the basement of Bellingham General Hospital, a young woman with no name was also lying alone. Only instead of an empty bed, Jane Doe occupied a stainless steel drawer in the medical examiner’s refrigerated storage. Her killer, name also unknown, was still at large.
Tomorrow Ethan would do his damnedest to change that.
7
At seven the next morning, Ethan Brand stood in the chilly autopsy room in the hospital basement, gripping a takeout cup of coffee he’d lost interest in. He watched as Dr. Sandra Jacinto removed Jane Doe’s brain from the cranial vault. Placing the brain in a pan, and the pan on a digital scale, she weighed it, dictating something into her headset too soft and too technical for Ethan to catch.
