"You don't."
"I live and work here, too," she pointed out, sick of the obfuscations.
"Not for the last ten years."
#
Two blocks away in Uniontown Park, Lucy and Ivar stood in the driving rain in their police-issue slickers, hunched over the body of a small-time local drug dealer. Someone had stabbed him multiple times in the chest, then dumped him in the back of one of the abandoned warehouses on the water's edge. Lucy pulled her collar up, swearing under her breath at the foul weather. Hell of a way to start off the workday.
Rigor had set in, so the guy had probably been killed sometime the night before. "Two murders in as many days." She looked at Ivar. "Just what the hell is going on in our town?"
His expression pensive, Ivar watched Ewald work on the corpse. "Don't like the feel of this."
"Now there's an understatement."
"You think Gary had a hand in this? Or Chuck?"
Lucy frowned. That was exactly what she was worried about—that Gary and Chuck were on some kind of vigilante mission. Gary hadn't come right out and said anything that would lead her to think that, but she knew, somehow, that that was what he was up to. And where he went, Chuck followed. Still, she couldn't believe Gary would commit murder.
The murder method—multiple stab wounds—indicated that the killer had been in a rage. And while she'd seen Gary lose his temper and resort to throwing a punch or two, she couldn't envision him losing it and stabbing a man to death. Besides, why would Gary or Chuck be targeting small-time drug dealers?
She realized Ivar was giving her an odd look—probably because he'd never seen her silent for that long. "Nah," she answered. "If Chuck had done it, he would've crept up behind the guy and slit his throat. And this isn't Gary's style, either."
She turned as Clint Jackson approached, dragging a thin, nervous man. "Well, well. Look who we've got, Ivar. Briggs, ole buddy. Why am I not surprised that you're hanging around?"
The drug addict shifted nervously in his soiled, torn sneakers, his dilated eyes darting around, landing anywhere but on the body. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was soaked to the skin and shivering. "I didn't do nothing, I swear."
"Of course you didn't," Lucy soothed. She noted the spittle in the corner of his mouth, the unhealthy pallor, the physical twitches. He hadn't gotten his usual fix, and he was going into withdrawal. Interesting. "So maybe I can help you out a little, Sammy, in return for a little information. Did you see what went down here?"
"I ain't talkin'. It wouldn't be healthy."
Lucy snorted. "Since when do you care about anything but your next fix?"
Sammy threw up two filthy hands, his eyes wild. "Hey, this one's too hot. I tell you what's goin' down, and no one's gonna sell to me ever again."
Even more interesting. She leaned closer, unfortunately close enough that she could smell how long it'd been since he'd had a bath. The rain wasn't even making a dent in the state of his personal hygiene, and if that odor transferred to her angora sweater, she'd make it her personal goal to put him away for a long, long time. "So maybe we'll get a little something out of the evidence lock-up, Sammy, to keep you going while we have our little chat."
The addict's eyes lit up. "Really? You can do that?"
"Sure," Lucy said easily. She ignored Ivar's frown.
But Sammy caught it, and his expression turned angry. "You're lying to me." He spat at her feet. "Cops. You think you're above the law, that you can do anything, get away with anything."
She shot a glare at Ivar, then patted Sammy down, removing a small baggie of grass from his inside pocket. "Look what we have here."
"Hey! That's personal use only."
"Yeah, but Sammy, you've already got two convictions. This little ole bit of weed is going to send you up the river for the rest of your life."
"What? No way, man! I'll get me a lawyer."
"It's called three strikes, Sammy. Maybe you've heard of it?"
"You bitch!"
Lucy turned and nodded to Jackson. "Put him in lock-up for now. I'll deal with him later."
As Jackson dragged him away, he yelled, "I ain't telling you nothin', you hear?"
After he was out of hearing distance, she turned to Ivar. "That went well."
Ivar shrugged. "Probably won't tell you anything for a couple more hours. Needs to start really hurting first."
"What do you want to bet that he saw what went down? But he looked more scared about talking to us than he was about being sent up for life."
"Yeah. Wonder why."
Troubled, she turned back to Ewald. "So, preliminary cause of death?"
The medical examiner stood and stripped off his latex gloves. "Unofficially, someone stabbed the life out of him. And enjoyed it."
She shivered.
#
Kaz had always loved the mooring basin. In some ways, the maze of docks with their neatly aligned fishing boats felt more like home than the bungalow in town did. But what she'd missed most of all, when she was down in California, were the smells—the unique, pungent blend of stagnant water, fish, and diesel, contrasted by the clean, crisp smell of the wind as it blew off the ocean. Cities had their own intriguing odors—the corner deli, the bakery down the block. If she moved away from San Francisco, she would miss that. But up here, the air carried the scents of her past, providing her with a strong reminder of who she was.
She sat in the Jeep on the wharf, staring at the tableaux below her while rain drummed on the canvas roof. Bjorn was on his boat, repairing a net under a hastily rigged tarp that probably wasn't keeping much of the rain out. The rest of the marina looked deserted—not that many people wanted to work in a storm. She told herself to quit woolgathering and hopped out of the Jeep, locking it.
As she walked down the dock, Bjorn motioned to her to join him under the tarp. She climbed on board and sat down on the stern bench, shoving aside a block and tackle. "I appreciate that you told me what you did yesterday, Bjorn."
He shook his head. "I never said anything."
"I had a visitor last night."
His head came up sharply. "You okay?"
"Yeah. He wasn't after me, he was searching for something." She watched Bjorn's face immediately close up. "And I'm betting you know what they wanted."
"If I did, I'd tell the cops."
"Would you?"
He shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not, okay? I've got a family to think about."
He was right. She felt like pond scum for pressing him. "I'm sorry. I'll go." When she stood, he looked relieved. She couldn't stop herself from asking one more question. "Gary paid me a visit. He thinks I'm safer out on the water than in town. Is that what you think?"
Bjorn hesitated, then nodded. "Maybe. Gary okay?"
"He's strung pretty tight. I'm worried about him."
Bjorn glanced around the marina before speaking. "No matter what Karl said yesterday, Gary's got friends around here."
"That's good to hear," she admitted. "But there's a warrant out for his arrest, and unless you guys start telling me or the cops what you know, he's still in danger."
"And if we do talk, we'll end up like Ken."
She hesitated. "Bjorn, is this about drugs?"
He shook his head. "No more."
She gave up and turned to leave. "If this lets up, I'll be taking Michael Chapman out with me tomorrow." She tried to dispel the tension in the air. "When he get a good look the river bar, the guy will probably puke all over my running shoes."
As she'd hoped, Bjorn chuckled, then his expression turned serious. "Most of us don't trust Chapman, Kaz. And the fact that you're letting him on the Kasmira B won't help matters for you."
"I'll have to take that chance." She jumped onto the dock. "Safe passage tomorrow."