The vision at the Baxter Building had been disturbing precisely because I couldn’t understand why I should be hallucinating police officers and criminals joining forces. Was it because I myself had been playing a role for so long? Was it just because the building was so awful, squatters on every floor, children and feral animals and desperate doped out men and women? No — I swallowed. It was because my vision had shown some of the very same men I worked beside taking part in the degradation of the people who lived there. True enough that those people had made their own series of bad choices, but the cops were supposed to be above all that. Knights in the front line of defense, not aiders and abettors of evil.
For weeks I’d lived the life of a strung-out crim, sleeping on a rickety bed in an abandoned room on the top floor, hoping that the stairs would be a deterrent to the lowlives down below. The days were hazy, an endless succession of deceit and self-harm. I couldn’t always keep away from the activities of the other dwellers; to maintain my legend I had to participate. But I’d been able to get the names of the players, clock their comings and goings.
And here I am, still running from that darkness within myself. The empty house is proof enough of my failure to recover my sense of self, to move forward with my life. Something broke back in Denver. To much had happened in a short time. I told myself I could handle it all — of course I could. Until the day of the raid when I’d ended up in the psych ward.
I just want it all to be over. To get beyond the relentless haunting of my past. The investigation gets shelved for today. Tea cup in the sink, and I head out to walk the streets, to work myself to a state of exhaustion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT’S AFTERNOON. I’M in a better frame of mind, physically fatigued and ready to write up my notes. I still don’t have much to go on, but I have a broader understanding of the people involved, and can look at the case with a clearer eye. Without having to muck about in my own past.
I’d left my phone at home on the card table, and when I get in the door it’s ringing. For some reason I feel a stab of nervousness, in case someone from Colorado has tracked me down; but since I don’t recognize the number, and it’s an Oregon prefix, I pick it up.
“Audrey Lake speaking.”
“It’s Coralee. From Riverside Christian Church. Something bad has happened!” She has a catch in her voice — I can hear it behind the effort to keep it steady.
It takes a moment to click. Coralee. The receptionist. “What? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. But Reverend Takahashi’s not. He’s been arrested.”
“What? When?” Shock stiffens my spine. I just talked to the guy a couple of hours ago.
“Just now. Please, I know you’re an investigator. Help him!”
“Are you sure he’s arrested? Were you there when he was taken? Did they have a warrant? Read him his rights?”
“Yes, I was here. I heard everything. They said they wanted to ask him some questions, and then they took him away!”
“Okay, in general, the police will read him his rights if they are arresting him. So they probably just want to talk. Did they say what they wanted him for?”
“They said it’s about Victoria Harkness’s murder! Please, go down there and tell them that he couldn’t be involved.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I can’t interfere in a police investigation.”
Hypocrite.
“But aren’t you working with the police? I thought, when you said you were an investigator, that —”
“Listen. The police don’t arrest innocent people. If he hasn’t done anything wrong, he’s got nothing to worry about. He’s probably just a person of interest.”
“You mean a suspect? Oh my God! I’ve got to organize a prayer chain! I’ve got to —”
“Ma’am, please. Slow down.” I take a breath. “If he’s innocent, he’ll be back soon. If you tell people now, they may be worried without cause.”
There’s a long pause. I wonder if she’s told some people already.
When she answers, her voice is small. “I just want to help him.”
“Then just sit tight. Worst case scenario, he’s going to need a lawyer. If the church retains one, you could have that contact information ready if the Reverend needs to call an attorney. But most likely, he won’t.”
The call ends. I see again Takahashi’s compassionate face, the buttoned up shirt. But also the gleaming letter opener. Had the threat he posed been real, or was I just being overwrought? When I was talking to him, he didn’t seem worried. Or guilty. But I don’t have any access to the police, or any forensics, or even the autopsy. What do they know that I don’t? I hear again the slap of Takahashi’s hand on the desktop, insisting that Victoria had to be stopped. Is he more dangerous than I realize? Or are the police keeping tabs on my movements, and my visit somehow precipitated his arrest? The only way I’m going to learn is by going directly to the source. But visiting the police station is the last thing I want to do.
As it happens, I don’t have to figure out how to approach the APD. A black SUV with the word POLICE stenciled on the side rolls up to the curb. I watch through the
