September was scrabbling for her notebook as Gretchen pulled out of the parking lot. “Say that again.” Denton repeated himself and September scratched out the phrases. “You think the second note was meant for Ms. Finch?”
“Maybe. It sure seems that way. And then Andi got a third note today, left on her front door.” He cleared his throat and said in a faintly ironic voice, “I believe it was referencing me. Little birds should be careful whom they choose as a mate. Tsk, tsk. There is no such thing as faithfulness. You should know where he’s also been putting his pecker. Be careful. Seabirds can die, too.” September was writing furiously. After a few moments, she questioned, “Seabirds . . . ?”
“I don’t what that means, but I have a theory, . . .” She heard a woman’s voice in the background and Denton corrected himself. “We have a theory.”
“What is it?”
Gretchen glanced at what September had written, then shot her a look, questions in her eyes. September switched to speakerphone.
“This is going to sound flat-out crazy, but on the news today, Pauline Kirby was reporting on the woman they pulled out of the Columbia River this morning. She’d been tased. Looks like a homicide. Her name is possibly Christine Tern Brandewaite, who’s been missing since last night or this morning. Police aren’t saying yet.”
“You want us to follow up on that?”
“Yes.”
“And this crazy theory?”
“According to the news report, a lot of people knew the missing woman as Christine Tern. I looked up her case further and saw tern was spelled with an e. And terns are seabirds.”
September started. “You think the note about seabirds was referencing Christine Tern? Is there a connection between Ms. Wren and Christine Tern?”
“No. None. Except that their last names are birds. Detective, I believe that body pulled out of the Columbia is Christine Tern and that’s she was killed, like Trinidad Finch.”
“I’d like to see these notes,” September said.
Gretchen murmured, “You’re gonna have to fight George over that case.”
“But Detective Thompkins is still the lead investigator on the Finch case,” September was forced to say.
“He doesn’t think it’s a homicide,” Denton stated flatly.
“He’s leaning more that way.”
“I know how it’ll work, Detective Rafferty. He’ll dismiss the whole damn thing.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t have time to convince him, and that’s fine. I’m investigating this on my own. I just wanted you to know.”
And he was gone.
“Damn,” September said.
Gretchen gave her a sideways look. “You’ve got ex-Portland PD working George’s case. That’ll make his day.”
“I’d better tell him.” She put a call through to him, and when he answered, she asked, “Would you look up cases where someone with a last name that could be a bird have been killed?”
“What?” George snorted.
“Bird names. Like Finch and Starling and Robin.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” Gretchen called loudly. “It’s for your case.”
“You want me to look up homicides where the victim’s last name is a bird?” he reiterated.
“That’s exactly what I want. But there’s something you should know,” September started.
“And we’ll tell you all about it later,” Gretchen yelled, signaling for September to hang up the phone. After she did, Gretchen said, “Let Denton do his worst. At least he’s in the field, and that’s more than we can say for George.”
*
“What did she say?” Andi asked. She was curled up beside Luke on her couch.
“Just what I expected them to say. It’s a wild theory, but what the hell. At least they know.”
“You didn’t mention the Carreras or Scott Quade.”
“That’ll be my next report.”
“What do we do now?”
That stopped him for a moment. Andi looked from him to the bedroom door and back again.
“Now that is a great idea,” he said.
*
The Kirkendalls lived on one side of a duplex on a street with homes crammed up next to one another and patchy yards. Their RV was parked in their driveway and, based on the splotches of rust, looked to be the same one they’d owned years earlier. It was currently being pummeled by a harsh rain that seemed to come out of nowhere.
Gretchen and September huddled at the front door beneath a small overhang that listed to one side but kept them reasonably dry from the squall. A small woman with sad eyes answered the door.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Kirkendall, I’m Detective Rafferty and this is Detective Sandler.” They both pulled out their identification as the woman’s hand flew to her chest.
“You’ve found out who killed Wendy!”
“Unfortunately, no,” September said. “I’m sorry. We’re working on a case that involves a family on Aurora Lane. May we come in to talk to you?”
“All right. We only lived there a short time. I don’t know what I can tell you.” She reluctantly held the door open wider.
“I tried to call you, but I couldn’t find a phone number,” September apologized.
“Oh, Leland doesn’t much like cell phones. So many charges. We use disposal ones.”