Anderson nods. “We found Ann,” he says softly, but before he can continue, I blurt, “She’s hurt, but alive and conscious.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Jimmy quickly grab Anderson’s elbow from behind. His grip is firm and Anderson catches on quickly; smart man. Normally I’d warn the locals if I’m going to try something like this, but I tend to be spontaneous, and this one just crept up on me as we ascended to the porch. I can imagine the sergeant’s shock, however, and I can tell he’s none too pleased. As far as he knows, Matt Buerger is the grieving husband, and what I just did is unforgivable.
“They’re taking her to Adventist Medical Center in Portland,” I continue, not wanting to give Anderson time to think things through. “She had some interesting things to tell us before she left, though.” I fall silent and let the statement hang in the air. To the innocent, such words are intriguing and beg questions. To the guilty, they’re accusatory, condemning.
Buerger’s face goes blank, and then turns hard as stone.
“What’d she say?”
Without a word, Jimmy reaches around to the small of his back, snaps the button on the leather case secured to his belt, and produces a pair of nickel-plated handcuffs, which he dangles by one end.
“No.” Buerger’s mouth hardens. On his face and in his eyes the transformation is instantaneous and startling, like pudding turning to granite as you watch. He tries to slam the door, but Jimmy’s too quick and launches into the dandelion-yellow field. There’s a loud crack as the door slams open. Buerger lands on his back—hard. He lets out an involuntary ummph and flies across the polished hardwood floor, gasping, cursing, clawing against the momentum.
Jimmy’s on him.
Watching my partner at work is like watching a tie-down roper at a rodeo—it’s almost a thing of beauty—only instead of binding the legs of a calf together with a pigging string in three seconds flat, he hooks the suspect up with a pair of metal bracelets. If they ever come up with a police rodeo for restraining and cuffing, my money’s on him.
No sooner does Buerger get his breath back than he spits it out again in a tirade of prolific profanity, capped off by, “Stupid bitch! She can’t even die properly.”
Close, but not quite a confession.
“I should’ve drowned her in the river instead of pushing her.”
That’ll do.
CHAPTER TWO
June 16—too early
“Go away!” I say, burrowing deeper into the couch and pulling the blanket tightly about my shoulders. “I need sleep. You’re supposed to have my back.”
I know it’s Jimmy.
The staccato knock-knock-knock repeats, echoing off the floor, the ceiling, and the giant picture windows of my sparsely furnished living room.
Of course it’s Jimmy.
It’s always Jimmy.
I need to get a life.
“Come on, Steps. Open up. You’ve got court in Seattle at three-thirty.”
Pulling my hand free from the blanket, I fumble for my watch on the nightstand and slip it onto my wrist before raising the black dial to my face and squinting. “It’s seven A.M. What kind of FBI agent is out harassing people at seven A.M.?”
“It’s one-thirty in the afternoon,” Jimmy replies. “You put your watch on upside down again.”
“Damn!” I whisper under my breath, unclasping the black Movado and flipping it around. Sure enough, the dial reads one-thirty P.M. Traitor, I think, giving the watch a scathing look, as if its gears and springs are somehow to blame. “Well … it feels like seven A.M.,” I say softly.
The knocking persists.
“All right, I’m coming.”
My home is nestled on a hill overlooking the Puget Sound just north of Larrabee State Park and south of the Bellingham city limits. From the massive wall of windows in my living room I have a hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the myriad islands anchored in the Sound’s deep waters. To the left, which is south, is Samish Bay, then Padilla Bay, Guemes Island, and behind her is the bustling city of Anacortes with its refineries, marina, and Washington State ferry terminal. Moving north you’ll see Cypress Island, the San Juan Islands, and finally Lummi Island, with the fifteen-hundred-foot-high Lummi Peak standing sentinel.
It’s inspiring.
My house has a name.
Odd, I know.
I felt a little uncomfortable about it until I discovered there are entire web sites dedicated to naming your house. Who knew? I always thought that for a house to have a name it had to belong to some long-dead patriot, some quirky industrialist, or have some unusual characteristic, such as being haunted. Places like Mount Vernon, Monticello, and the Winchester House come to mind.
Knowing that others are intentionally naming their houses makes it somehow less ostentatious, less snobbish. Kind of like naming your car. (Yes, my car also has a name, it’s Gus.)
My house is called Big Perch, I’m guessing because it sits on the side of Chuckanut Mountain like some great aerie perched above the world. I didn’t name it, but love it or hate it the name’s not going anywhere. It’s carved—and carved deeply—into a three-ton boulder at the end of my driveway. I’ve considered using dynamite on the boulder, but I don’t want to cause a slide. I’m already on touchy ground with the neighbors down the hill. (One wayward bottle rocket causes one small fire and you’re marked for life.)
Big Perch is twenty-four-hundred square feet split between two floors; it has extensive decking on three sides that includes a hot tub and an outdoor fireplace, neither of which I’ve used in the last month. I’ve come to realize that I’m in a Catch-22 situation where I have the means to afford such things but not the time to use them.
I also own the adjoining lot to the south, which has a matching thirteen-hundred-square-foot house called Little Perch—again, I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t choose the names, they came with the property.