Victoria.
The certainty settles around my heart like hoarfrost. And yet, I’ve known it all along.
As I’m walking home it starts to rain. Typical. I don’t want to think about what I just experienced. So I think about the meeting at the restaurant, the argument, and losing my temper.
Yeah, way to annoy the locals, Lake. Don’t think you’ll be getting a job anytime soon.
But he’d been the one, threatening me with what he knows. That’s blackmail. Typical small-town good-ol’-boy.
Now who’s biased?
Oh, shut up.
He knows. The bastard knows I’d been in the psyche ward. Someone at the station must have talked. Who was it? Who outed me? Olafson must have called in, checking my references, or just curious — the sin and virtue of every good detective. It would be too much to hope that he keep any revelations to himself. And this is a small town. Word will get around. I’ll be unemployable. A pariah. My fury ignites anew.
Wow. Paranoid much?
Okay. So thinking about the meeting isn’t an exercise in calm. But neither is the other thing. My hallucinations — or visions — are real. They reflect a real thing that happened. The whole idea makes my brain lock up. Because if I can witness to something that already happened, be present in the past, that means — I don’t even know what that means. Just that my whole idea of the universe has been flipped upside down.
A convulsive shiver racks my whole body, like I’ve poked an electric eel.
Maybe you projected Victoria into your craziness.
Zoe, back for another low blow. But I can’t shake my certainty. Whatever its source, whatever has suddenly made me able to sense an event outside my personal experience, now I have something concrete to investigate.
Refill your prescription, Lake. You’re talking to yourself a lot.
No. I stopped taking my meds when I’d emptied the bottle into the toilet. No more lint padding between me and the world. I’ll just have to endure Zoe’s commentary as I sort through events. Because I am going to move forward with the investigation. Claire trusts me, and Victoria seems to be calling from beyond, demanding justice. Or something.
Or is that my own delusion?
Regardless, as I’d challenged Olafson, it’s time to get cracking. The attacker in my vision is a man. That lines up with homicide stats. I can start narrowing down the search without going too far out on a limb. Figure out who were the men in her life, who she was seeing. The church rolls are the obvious place to start, but I also need to know about family, lovers current and past, friends. According to the vision, this wasn’t a random killing, not some roving serial killer. And statistics bear this out as well: women are most often killed by people they know. I can justify taking this line. In all likelihood, Victoria had not just known her killer, but trusted him. Or at least, enough to meet him on a deserted beach.
Deserted. Yes, maybe, in the sense that no one else had been there. But it isn’t exactly isolated. There's a hotel within a hundred yards. A busy street within a block. Pedestrians, out for a stroll along the Riverwalk. Someone must have seen something. That's where the police should come in, questioning, searching, armed with the authority of their calling. Me, no one is going to answer my nosy questions. And I simply don’t have the resources to go after all the people who had been staying at the hotel, who might have been looking out their window at an opportune time, even if I could talk the hotel management into letting me see their records.
The body was found in the pilings of the Cannery Pier Hotel. Olafson and Candide would probably concentrate their efforts around that area. Only I know the location of the actual murder, the beach behind the Holiday Inn. I need to tip them off, so they can widen their search for possible witnesses.
Yeah, Olafson is gonna be eager to hear your recommendations.
Dammit. There must be a hotline, or some procedure. We’d relied a lot on anonymous tips at the DPD. Meanwhile, I’ll follow up with Daniel Chandler, and get a list of male members of the congregation. And find out whether he really wanted me to share info with the APD.
When I get home, I put the teakettle on for tea and shuck out of my wet clothing. No time like the present to call the cop shop. I turn the caller ID function off in my phone settings, engage the record function and punch in the numbers for the general station line. A perky female voice picks up.
“Astoria Police Department. Is this an emergency?”
“Uh — no. I wanted to give you some information. Regarding an ongoing investigation.”
“I see. Can I have your name?”
“No. I’d prefer to remain anonymous.”
Pause. “I see. I’ll put you through to one of the detectives.”
“Wait — ” but she’s put me on hold. I almost hang up. I don’t want to talk to Steve again. But who else is going to do this footwork? I won’t tell them who I am, just that I have a tip and —
A voice breaks into my thoughts. “Detective Candide speaking.”
I try to drop my voice below its normal register. Clear my throat. “I have some information on the killing of Victoria Harkness.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
Ignore. “You should look into the Holiday Inn. Someone staying there might have seen something.”
“In the hotel?”
“Outside, by the river. Check the rooms that overlook the water. The murder happened on the beach.”
“How do you know this? Who are you?”
I hang up, and stop the recording. I don’t want to give Candide any more time to recognize my voice, or put two and two together. She won’t ignore the tip. I
