CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NEXT MORNING, Detective Olafson calls. He offers to meet me for breakfast at the Pig 'N Pancake.
So, I’m not going to be able to avoid talking to the police. I know how this works. If I don’t agree to this friendly meeting, on neutral ground, I will eventually receive a summons to the station. Or he might show up at my house. I’d given him my contact details when I’d gone in to apply for a consultancy; at this point, I’d prefer to keep him at a distance.
His summons doesn’t give me time to do my usual perimeter check, so I’m nervous already as I walk down toward the restaurant, bundling my jacket around me. What do they know? What has Claire told them? Only that the church hired me as an investigator after the pastor disappeared. They can’t possibly know I broke in to the apartment. They might fault me for not making a missing persons report, but the church has a bigger onus there than I do.
Yes. Good. I’ve succeeded in reassuring myself. I can enjoy the feeling of the intermittent sun on my face as clouds dart across the sky, ignore the bite of the clammy air gusting off the water.
The Pig’N’Pancake is a family-style restaurant located near the five-way intersection of Columbia Avenue, Marine Drive, and Bond Street. When I enter the restaurant, I take a quick look around to see if he’s brought backup, and spot Olafson himself raising a hand from a corner booth. He’s already nursing a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs with a raft of hash browns. I order the short stack and a glass of orange juice. We make small talk until the waiter brings my dishes, and refills our coffee cups, and I make sure there’s no one close enough to hear our conversation.
Olafson gets down to business. “So. Audrey. I understand from Daniel Chandler at the Church of the Spirit that you have been doing some work for them.” He folds a slice of bacon into a square and pushes it into his mouth. Crunch, crunch.
Here we go. I swallow my mouthful of pancake. “That’s right.”
Still chewing, he says, “Is that why you were down at the docks Sunday night?”
“Yes.” There’s no point in lying. “I saw the Sheriff there. Is the county taking over?” I ask mostly to keep this from being a one-sided interview.
“Nope. But search and rescue comes under their purview. Ruby was there as a professional courtesy.”
He’s let me know he’s on a first-name basis with the Sheriff. That they are, in fact, in cahoots. In case I was thinking of peddling my consultancy to the higher-ups.
“Since any investigation will now fall to the police, I’d like you to ease the transition by telling us what you’ve discovered.” He shovels in a forkful of hash browns yellowed with egg yolk.
So, first you diss me, and now you want my help. Please. “The Church is paying my bills, so I only give information to them. What they choose to do with it afterward is up to them.”
“Chandler cleared it with me, said you’d help in any way you could.”
Does he think I’m a complete idiot, to fall for such transparent trickery? “Whatever he told you, he hasn’t said anything to me. Until I hear differently, the confidentiality policy still stands.” I’m trying to sound nonchalantly confident; in reality, anxiety is creating a big hollow in my abdomen.
Olafson drops his chin in warning. “Don’t get off on the wrong foot here, Audrey. Cooperating with us is in everyone’s best interest. Including Victoria Harkness.”
“Have you got the post-mortem back yet?”
“You know I’m not gonna answer that.”
I shrug. “So the information flow is pretty one-sided.”
Olafson snorts in disgust. “You were a cop, Audrey. You know the drill. I can’t comment on a current investigation. It’s your duty to reveal what you know.”
I lean forward. “Look, Steve, I’d like to help. Truly. But I won’t reveal information that belongs to my client. You need a court order. If you want my help, maybe you should hire me yourself. As a consulting detective. Then my experience would be at your disposal.” I fork in some more pancake.
“Is that what this is about? Maybe your old precinct had different standards, but the APD doesn’t pay people for information.”
The heat from my irritation rises from my chest to my cheeks, and I have to swallow twice before I can speak in a normal tone. Male cops get to show anger, but female cops don’t. Because any kind of emotional display will be seen as weakness. I had that experience drilled into me from day one on the force.
“You’re insinuating that anyone outside your own little pocket is corrupt or incompetent. You just can’t stomach that I might have more experience than you.”
“Don’t assume that you got the chops to insert yourself into an investigation, just because you’re some big city cop on vacation.” He’s frowning now, shifting his coffee cup from hand to hand.
I can’t help pushing him. “How many murders do you get? One a decade? If I were you, I’d be pulling in all the help I could get.” Fork. Pancakes. Orange juice.
“There’s no evidence that Victoria’s death is murder. Accident is more likely. We don’t make assumptions until the evidence is in. Regardless of what you are accustomed to do.”
That finally gets me. He’s made it personal. And just to show how far from normalcy and good judgment I’ve drifted, I say, “Well, I predict: drowning, after assault, by person or persons unknown. You’ve got a killer on your hands, Steve. Better get cracking.” I throw down my napkin and clank my cup on the table, sloshing the dregs to the lip.
His face is red as the ketchup bottle. “And how do you know that, Ms. Lake? An eyewitness? Security footage? Or just delusional thinking on your part?”
“Find your own evidence — you’ve already dissed any contribution from me.”
