“What division were you in? In Portland?”
Her eyes flicker, and her lids droop momentarily. But she answers: “Narcotics. You want to tell me why you left Denver PD?”
Her reaction to my question is interesting, but I can’t really pursue it now. “My reasons are my own.”
I could tell her about the inheritance — it won’t make any difference to me and might defuse her suspicions — but the younger woman irritates me with her aggression, part of the breed of female cops who think they have to act tougher than their male brethren to be thought half as good. Can’t blame her though. I get it.
“Look, Detective, I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m just trying to scope out the possibilities. Learn things.”
“Like what?”
I cast my line. “Like, what’s your caseload like?”
“As stated, not so busy that we can’t handle it.”
“Homicides?”
“You heard Steve in there. A little bit of everything.”
“What’s on your plate just now?”
“Nothing I’m prepared to share with you.”
We stand there, staring at one another. It’s not friendly. “So you’ve no murders on the books, then? No suspicious deaths?” The memory of dying, water invading my lungs, is still fresh. The hallucination seemed so real and detailed. So many sense impressions. I find myself asking, “Drownings?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Now, why don’t you go on back to your hotel? Ask the concierge for some sightseeing tips before you go back home.” Her voice softens by about one degree. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.”
For some reason, that tiny peace offering makes the rejection worse. “You don’t understand,” I say through gritted teeth. “I live here now, Detective. I own a house. I’m local. Like it or not, I belong here.” I force myself to walk away with the bitter taste of irony in the back of my throat and feel my thin weave of confidence disintegrate. So much for the brotherhood of the thin blue line. Or sisterhood. Contrary to my last words, I’ve never felt more like an outsider.
CHAPTER THREE
I’M CLENCHING THE steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache; I force myself to loosen my grip as I pull out onto Marine Drive. Candide is still standing outside the station as I pass, watching me leave.
Her attitude is beyond irritating. She’s like a little pit bull, defending her territory. What's her problem, exactly? Is she afraid I’m out for her job? Me with my big city badge, which I’d mailed back to the chief before I’d left Denver, with no forwarding address? Hah. One call to my former employer would send my whole house of cards tumbling down. I’d been an idiot to think I could just waltz in and be buddies. I’ll just have to pray that curiosity doesn’t send either of them to the phone to check too deeply on my bona fides.
Worse, I still don’t know what to make of the experience I’d had on the riverside beach. It’s not the first time I’ve had such a vision. No, I had one in Denver, at the Baxter Building, after months of undercover work and dabbling in street drugs. It’s what landed me in the psych ward with a prescription for anti-hallucinogens.
So, just refill your prescription. No need to go all ballistic. Meds are your friends.
I hate the insinuating voice in my head, poking holes in my resolve. Drugs are a mask for reality. I smack the steering wheel with my hand, accidentally sounding the horn and startling the man in the car in front of me. He spreads his arms, questioning as he looks in his rear-view mirror. If this were Denver, he would’ve given me the finger. I wave, mouthing ‘sorry.’ He shrugs and goes on, and I calm myself enough so I don’t have an accident. To top off my day, it begins to rain, and soon the windshield is splotched with moisture..
When I get back to the little yellow house I now call home, I sit cross-legged on the floor with my back to the wall and activate my laptop. The overhead light throws a warm incandescence into the empty room.
Olafson accused me of not knowing the territory. Fine. The website for the Astoria Police Department has an accessible archive, and I spend the next couple of hours scanning through lists of calls. A few break-ins, speeding tickets, emergency responder calls — one instance where a man came home to find his girlfriend’s mother putting his possessions out on the front lawn. Surprisingly little violence beyond the odd bar fight or domestic disturbance. The only bodies are accountable as suicides.
Another search under the county reveals two murders in the last dozen years, both victims male. The National Missing Persons database indicates only four missing persons, the most recent eight years ago. I sit back. No wonder the detectives didn’t want my help. There isn’t anything in the way of major crime. I should have done my homework before offering my services, and not taken their rejection so personally. Come up with a plausible transition story to explain why I’m here. Just waited until I was better, more sure of myself. Now I’ve ruined my chance to make a good first impression.
I massage my forehead. ‘Off my game’ doesn’t begin to describe it. I slam down the lid of my computer, tired and hungry, but so not up to cooking. Despite the drizzle, I decide to walk down to the Portway Tavern. It's on Marine Drive at the base of the hill. I’ll go down there and pretend to be normal; enjoy being around other people without actually having to interact with anyone.
The drizzle has become a screen of thin mist which
