“It’s the first rule of real estate,” he said. “Location, location, location. We’re going to be in a prime location within walking distance of all the businesses and law firms, and that’s where the money is. Those are the people we are going to cater to. Besides, think of the money we’ll save by not having to drive.”
Between the bank loan payment, the rents on the loft and the building space, and Graham’s lease on his Porsche—which he renewed once we got the loan—we were going to have to clear close to $6,000 a month just to break even. That didn’t include our regular expenses or the cost of the business permit to sell marijuana, and Graham had pretty much blown through the loan on our portion of the tenant improvements and other start-up costs. He kept opting for upgrades like Brazilian hardwood floors and high-end glass cabinets with recessed lighting to display the different kinds of pot, as if it were jewelry.
“I want this place to shout ‘class’ when people come in,” he said. “I don’t want to be catering to some lowlife losers.”
I didn’t care who we catered to so long as those lowlife losers had real American dollars, but if I expressed any reservation or tried to get him to opt for a cheaper alternative, he’d just smile and say, “Relax, we have the trust income we can pull from if we’re a little short this month.”
Beyond all of that, I was worried because I’d been reading that city officials were contemplating allowing Portland’s medical marijuana dispensaries to sell to recreational users. It would be a huge windfall for the dispensaries. They wouldn’t have the same start-up costs and could drive down the price, not to mention increase competition. When I brought it up with Graham, however, he dismissed it. “Those places are pits. That is not our clientele. And our reputation is already spreading.”
And it seemed it was—to some extent anyway. They ran an article in the Portland Tribune—the free weekly paper—and it included a picture of Graham standing beneath the store entrance and green neon Genesis sign. Graham had framed the article and the photograph and hung both on a wall in the store.
And for those first few months, Graham came home happy and our lovemaking sessions remained frequent and fierce, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be all right.
CHAPTER 9
Tracy scanned the significant number of web hits for Andrea Strickland on her iPad as Kins drove down the mountain. With a portion of Mount Rainier located in Pierce County, the Pierce County Sheriff’s Department had asserted jurisdiction over the disappearance of Andrea Strickland. The case had generated a lot of publicity. The DA had been careful not to call Graham Strickland a suspect—but, of course, he was. He was the prime suspect. The infamous murder of a pregnant Laci Peterson in Modesto, California, had beaten that point home. The sad truth was that more people died at the hands of people they knew, and loved, than from some random killer.
Stan Fields, the detective from Pierce County’s Major Crimes Division, told Tracy over the phone he’d be “happy to speak with her.” She sensed that Fields, like Ranger Glenn Hicks, didn’t appreciate having the wool pulled over his eyes by Andrea Strickland, or by both her and her husband.
And Andrea Strickland had fooled them. She’d fooled everybody, at least for six weeks. Everybody but the person who’d eventually killed her.
Fields’s ego likely wouldn’t let him admit he’d been fooled. No detective liked to admit that, which was why, during what should have been a short telephone conversation to set up their meeting, Fields had felt compelled to add that he’d suspected things were “not as they’d seemed.”
When Tracy sensed the content of the Internet articles becoming redundant, she closed her iPad and wedged it in the space between her seat and the center console. She grabbed her plastic water bottle and took a sip, but the water had become lukewarm. Even in the air-conditioned car, she felt sticky from the heat.
“She was the perfect candidate to disappear,” she said, returning her water bottle to its designated holder. “Parents deceased. No siblings. No one to miss her.”
“Except, of course, the husband,” Kins said. He shifted in his seat, also looking uncomfortable, and no doubt wishing he could exchange his blue jeans for a pair of shorts like Ranger Hicks wore. Blue jeans were standard attire for Kins when not in court, and it seemed an odd choice. Four years of college football and a year in the NFL had left him with overdeveloped calves and thighs even a decade after he’d retired. “I’m assuming no kids?”
“Thankfully not,” Tracy said.
“Work colleagues?”
“She and her husband owned a marijuana dispensary in downtown Portland. It was just the two of them.”
Oregon had followed Washington and Colorado in legalizing marijuana, which had come as little surprise to anyone who knew the state’s politics. The populace was generally considered even more liberal than western Washington, which was saying a lot.
“Like I said, she wasn’t going to be missed.” Kins glanced in the rearview mirror, put on a blinker, and exited the highway. “What did they do before selling dope?”