P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

"The track record from hell."

"Hey."

"Well, it's not like any of those 'suits' you dated down south—including Phil—had any redeeming qualities, other than their ability to pay for tickets to the symphony."

"Oh, come on."

"And, of course, you've been deluded for the last ten years as to what constitutes quality of life," Lucy added, "or else you wouldn't have even stayed down in La-La Land.

"Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me and my chosen life style," Kaz said, her tone dry.

"Prior chosen life style. Now that you're back, I don't see you packing your bags and heading back any time soon. Am I right?"

At the moment, Kaz couldn't even think about a permanent move back home. It was a decision she had no idea how to make, or even when she would be able to make it. Her partner was doing a good job so far of handling the business issues that had cropped up, but sooner or later, she'd have to go back. Even if she'd noticed since coming home that it felt right, somehow, to be here, she couldn't take the time to sort it all out.

Oblivious to Kaz's inner turmoil, Lucy rolled right on, her expression turning more business-like. "I'll keep an eye on Chapman. But stay away from him, and let me handle him."

"That won't be easy. He thinks he can get to Gary by following me around."

"Gee, I'd say the man isn't dumb. You do know where Gary is, right?"

Kaz hesitated. "Maybe."

"If I were Gary," Lucy mused, "I'd head for the high country around Saddleback Mountain. He's camped in that area for years, and he knows how to lose himself up there. And up near the peak, it's damn near vertical, which would discourage all but seasoned climbers from following him." When Kaz didn't say anything, Lucy nodded and stood up, closing the pizza box and carrying it over to the door. "Try not to get shot at again while you're in my Jeep. It isn't paid off yet."

"Thanks for the pizza and conversation," Kaz said, meaning it.

"Yeah, I can tell you were wild about the pizza." Lucy shook her head. "Let's just get through this, so we can get back to our nightly pool game. I'm starting to go into withdrawal."

#

Later that evening, Kaz's phone rang for the umpteenth time that day. She'd already taken a long bath and finished her third beer, which had gone straight to her head. Miles Davis was playing "Kind of Blue" in the background, and she was stringing her seventh crab pot while she tried to formulate her strategy for the next day. She was beyond exhausted, but still jumping out of her skin. She glared at the phone, ignoring it.

It rang again.

"Dammit!" It was probably another hang-up. But whoever it was, they weren't giving up—the phone continued to ring shrilly.

Sighing, she dropped the spool of steel mesh wire inside the crab pot's iron frame, then stood and started hunting for the portable in the mess of newspapers and printouts on the coffee table. On the eighth ring, she unearthed the unit and punched the little green button.

"Yes, hello."

There was no sound on the other end, except for someone breathing. After a long moment, she heard a click, and then a dial tone.

Suddenly uneasy, she carefully placed the phone on the coffee table and backed away from it.

~~~~

Chapter 12

Downtown at Astoria's main fire station, Michael tossed his pencil on top of his notes and sketches relating to the investigation. He reached down to pet Zeke, who snored peacefully from his favorite place under the desk.

The station was quiet in the evening. Since the Astoria Fire Department was made up largely of volunteers, the firehouses weren't manned around the clock. Instead, on-call firefighters kept their gear with them.

Michael liked it that way. It gave him undisturbed time to think through the complexities of an investigation. To get inside the arsonist's head, to feel the guy's excitement as he'd lit the match or set the timer.

He read through his notes once more, frowning. So far, the forensic evidence was inconclusive. The lab techs were comparing the human hair they'd found to the victim's, and the unofficial word was that it probably wasn't a match. The hair was blond, a possible match to either Kaz or Gary. But Astoria had a huge Nordic population, so that was hardly conclusive. DNA tests weren't yet complete, so Michael wouldn't know for certain for another day or so.

He'd spent the dinner hour interviewing the fishermen as they came into port, and he'd come away with one overriding impression—that they were afraid. What could possibly have these fishermen—who braved some of the world's most dangerous waters— that spooked? And talking to Lundquist's widow and the bartender at the Redemption had been even less illuminating.

Michael had a whole town full of people who weren't talking. Even if he cut them some slack for being wary of outsiders, their reaction was still extreme. This town had a secret, one that caused people to clam up tight. He'd seen real fear in the eyes of the fishermen and the bartender. Something—or some one —was putting a lot of pressure on them.

The detective in charge of the case, McGuire, was acting like she had a good idea of what was going down, but even she was holding out on him. And the other one, the tall, thin quiet one, seemed to be content to take most of his direction from McGuire. So much for cooperation between the departments. Who was McGuire protecting? The Jorgensens, the fishermen, or all of the above?

He picked up his sketch of the fire and stared at it one more time. Pools of gasoline had been dumped on both the fore and aft decks, resulting in the caved-in sections over the hold and the forecastle. The crewman's body had been lying directly under the largest pool of gasoline, virtually guaranteeing that the deck would cave and burn the body. There was no doubt in Michael's mind that the arsonist had intended to leave very little forensic evidence behind.

Michael smiled grimly. The torch had miscalculated there—he hadn't foreseen Kaz's determination. If she'd shown up a few minutes later, they'd be matching dental records, or DNA from bone marrow, to ID Lundquist. She was also damn lucky to be alive, and the thought of what could've happened if Michael had arrived only a few minutes later was still giving him waking nightmares.

The torch had also poured streamers down the stairs and through the engine room to the galley, breaching two locked doors. Lundquist's wife had verified that no one except Kaz and her brother had keys to those doors. Both locks showed signs of having been tampered with recently, which might be a point in Gary Jorgensen's favor.

Tipping the scales in the other direction, however, were the records on Jorgensen's military training, which had finally arrived a few hours ago via email. Although most of the material had been deleted for security purposes, the type of training he'd received had been clearly documented. Jorgensen could've set that fire in his sleep, with very little forethought or planning. And if he'd had quick access to a space heater, then Michael could no longer argue that the method of ignition required advanced planning. Jorgensen could've simply killed in a rage and then covered it up.

But at this point, Michael had more inconsistencies and unknowns than he had evidence. Like the fact that Lundquist's body had been moved after he'd been killed, possibly from a location that wouldn't have given Jorgensen the time to do the crime. Like those two scratched locks. And it was those inconsistencies that were giving Michael heartburn.

Then again, maybe his heartburn was caused by Kaz. The more time he spent around her, the more he was starting to care about her. Okay, certainly the way she looked invited him to indulge in a few fantasies. But the way her mind worked— that was the real turn-on, and that was scary. She was smart, savvy, and…not boring, he realized. Kaz was…fascinating. Challenging. Hell. The woman was part of the investigation. End of story.