My living room looked like it was being organized for a moving-day tag sale. The kilim lay rolled up against a wall. The furniture had been pushed to the room’s center and the cushions removed from the couch and chairs. Their blue-and-white mattress ticking covers sat in a pile on the rocker. Bookshelves stood empty, hardcovers and paperbacks stacked on the floor. The holiday cards sent by charities I intended to make small donations to had been removed from my desk drawer and laid out on the coffee table along with my bank statements, notepads, old postcards and an assemblage of miscellaneous writing instruments and keys. My father remained upright in his frame on my desktop, surveying the goods.
The cop who’d bagged the computer knelt at the woodstove, sifting through the dead ashes with a poker. What the hell was he looking for in there? I glanced down and spied Moby Dick on top of a book pile just as my own personal Ahab came out of the kitchen. He was wearing another one of his tweedy jackets along with blue plastic gloves.
“I’ll take the purse over here,” Roche said.
The female officer began to lift the shoulder bag off my arm. I started to grab it.
“Hey!”
“You’re not going to be trouble now,” she warned.
I released the bag, took a breath and gathered my wits. It was best to stay cool and address Roche as a professional doing his job.
“I assume you have a warrant,” I said.
“Right here.”
Roche pulled some folded papers out of his jacket pocket as the officer delivered the purse. “Permission to search your premises and personal property, including your electronic equipment and car.”
“You’re wasting time and taxpayer money. You won’t find anything, because I didn’t kill anyone,” I said, trying to sound confident.
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he said, and walked back into the kitchen with the leather bag slung over his arm.
Making my way around the displaced furniture, I followed. I saw him set my purse down on the kitchen table. Then he reached inside, pulled out my cell and began to bag it. My cool demeanor collapsed.
“No, please,” I pleaded. “You can’t take that. I don’t have a landline. I won’t have a phone.”
“I’m sorry. That’s unfortunate.”
“I’m entitled to call my lawyer.”
“You’ll be able to do that very soon.”
He lifted out the composition notebook next. Had I written anything incriminating? I couldn’t think fast enough.
“You shouldn’t look in there.”
He paused and studied my face. “Really? And why not?”
“Those are story notes for an article I’m writing. They’re confidential. If you read them, you’ll be violating the journalist shield laws.”
“Sounds juicy.”
He thumbed through the comp book while I glanced anxiously around the kitchen. The cabinet doors were ajar. Cereal and pasta boxes lined up on the counter next to the mail, which was laid out for inspection. Envelopes had been ripped open, their contents obviously read.
“Enjoy messing with cops?” Roche asked as he closed the comp book.
“What?”
“Vive la Resistance. The speed traps.”
I swallowed nervously. “It was a joke.”
“Huh.”
Seemingly satisfied that there was nothing of interest to him in the notes, Roche set the book down on the kitchen table. He reached into the purse again and found the Princess Leia sketchbook. My pulse rate spiked. How would carrying around Hugh’s naked sketches of me look to the police? I had to think of something . . .
“More notes. For an article on women’s changing hairstyles,” I said.
He seemed intrigued and was about to look further when Sgt. Klish walked in. Klish carried a pair of my black jeans in one of his gloved hands. In the other he held up a faded, wrinkled slip of paper.
“Pay dirt,” he said. “I found her jeans in the dryer. There was a receipt in the back pocket from Mao’s Take-Out. It went through the wash, but you can still see the date and time. Saturday night. She washed them Saturday night.”
I didn’t remember washing my jeans. I must have done that when . . . Oh God. My knees began to buckle. I thought I was going to be sick.
“Well, well,” Roche said, smiling. “Bag them both and get the jeans to the lab.”
He set Princess Leia down on the table. Then he reached into his jacket and offered me his phone.
“You can make that call to your lawyer now if you like.”
Chapter Thirteen
It was almost eight o’clock by the time the police left the Coop. Gubbins had agreed to wait at his office. I drove down Crooked Beach Road toward town, pushing the speed limit, anxious to see him.
“In six hundred feet, your destination will be on the right,” Madame GPS said. “In six hundred feet, your destination will be on the right.”
“That’s in the middle of the fucking trees, you idiot,” I said.
As I reached the darkest, most deserted stretch, the lights seemed to come out of nowhere. Intense white flashes in my rearview mirror. I squinted. Whoever was driving hadn’t realized they still had their high beams on. Annoying. The vehicle continued to gain ground until my Toyota flooded with light. I slumped down to keep the glare from the mirror out of my eyes.
“Come on, buddy. Turn your brights off.”
The lights were inescapable and they were blinding. Slowing, I steered toward the shoulder to give the driver room to pass, but another car appeared in the oncoming lane. I tried again, moving from the road toward the shoulder, but the same scenario repeated. Oncoming car. No passing.
“You have reached your destination. You have reached your destination.”
The tailgater hovered alarmingly close as we neared the bridge. I gripped the steering wheel, unnerved.
“What is your problem?”
Crossing the bridge, the vehicle hung back a bit. I breathed easier. But as I turned onto Pequod Avenue heading into town, it followed. When I reached the Courier building and pulled over, I could finally see the beat-up black van speed by. It looked like the driver was male. Was he a cop working an unmarked police tail? Did he need to brush up on his surveillance skills, or was he intentionally trying to intimidate me? Or was the driver simply a jerk? I couldn’t tell. The ordinary could appear ominous in my state.
Gubbins buzzed me into his office. His staff had already left. We met in an empty reception room.
“Thanks for staying,” I said, still jangled. I was desperate for him to stop the runaway train that my life had become. I didn’t care anymore that he had Dr. Spock hair, a shiny suit and an unctuous manner. I really did need a lawyer, and Gubbins was the best choice for now.
“The police took my place apart. I had to get out of there, at least for a while. They went through everything. They took my phone and computer—and my jeans.”
Gubbins’s brow furrowed.
“Your jeans?”
I swallowed. “Yes. From the wash.”
Even if I had been sleepwalking the night of the murders, that didn’t necessarily mean I’d killed anyone. Right? Doing laundry wasn’t a crime.
“I’m sorry the police were so disruptive. Would you like to stay at The Pequod Inn tonight? I could give them a call.”
A pricey tourist draw, the only hotel within town limits was a historic site—a former whaling captain’s home. I couldn’t afford the $300 they’d charge.