Friday harbor, p.34
Friday Harbor, page 34
"What makes you—"
"How was your picnic with Marion?" they heard Floyd shout as he approached from up the street. His voice carried an uncharacteristically disapproving tone, which immediately got Miles and Bill's attention.
"Uh—"
"The picnic you went on when we should have been interrogating Rupert Hawkins."
"Good morning to you too, Floyd."
"I hope it was worth it."
"What is your issue?"
"Just got a call from the lime works. Hawkins's body washed up in Roche Harbor this morning."
SIXTY-FOUR
Miles, Floyd, and Dr. Boren squatted over the body of Rupert Hawkins, face-up on a tarp in an unused storage shed at Roche Harbor. Lime kiln workers had pulled his body from the shallows near the Smokehouse pier after a morning shift stevedore spotted it.
"He wasn't in the water very long," Dr. Boren said. "As you can plainly see, he's still in his street clothes, and they appear to be in relatively good order considering the man's standard of attire. So he probably drowned right here in the calm waters of Roche Harbor."
"Did he drown?" Miles asked. "Or did he die before going into the water, like Akroyd?"
"There is blunt force trauma to the back of his skull. Looks like a single whack from some sort of small club. An axe handle, maybe. But it looks like he did indeed drown. His lungs were full of seawater. I'll be able to tell you more once I cut into him."
"Someone clubbed him unconscious and tossed him into the water," Floyd surmised.
"So it would seem," Boren said. "Unless he slipped, fell backward, hit his head, and fell into the water all on his own. But given the angle of the injury to his skull, that strikes me as rather unlikely."
"He was probably drinking at the Smokehouse, as was his habit," Miles said. "His assailant probably waited until Hawkins was thoroughly soused and heading home, then rang his bell and tossed him off the pier. Easy work."
Miles and Floyd went to the Smokehouse to take statements from the customers. But there were only two people there—a bartender and a carpenter from the lime works—neither of whom had been in the speakeasy the night before. Or so they said.
Next, they looked for Hawkins's car. It hadn't been parked up on the main road, so they searched the lime works property. Happily, they didn't run into hotheaded Errol Buchannan. But they didn't find Hawkins's car either.
"Maybe someone gave him a ride out here," Floyd said.
"Maybe the same someone who sent him to his reward," Miles said. "Maybe Reverend McCaskill. Maybe a tong highbinder. Maybe whoever enforces the collection of Smokehouse gambling debts."
"We'll probably never know, thanks to your careless—"
"Hey, now!"
"Hey now, what?"
"You forget yourself, Floyd."
"No, Miles. It's you who forgot yourself yesterday evening."
"I don't need you to—"
"Hawkins was a suspect and a critical witness."
"Floyd—"
"As important as Hawkins was, for you to simply—"
"Alright, already! I take your point. I made a bad decision."
"A very bad decision."
"Yes, Floyd. A very bad decision."
*****
Miles and Floyd drove straight from Roche Harbor to McCaskill's homestead, intending to arrest him if he didn't have a viable alibi for the previous night. Though both men had serious doubts that McCaskill had killed the Jensens and the Chinese girls, he'd certainly demonstrated a willingness to hurt Hawkins.
They came to a skidding halt in the gravel of McCaskill's drive, hopped out, drew their guns, and ran straight for the front door of his cabin. Miles gave it a loud knock while Floyd stood back with his pistol up and ready in case the man came out fighting.
"McCaskill!" Miles shouted. "Come out of there."
There was no response.
"If you don't open this door in five seconds, we're kicking it in."
Still no response.
"Hell with it," Miles muttered, raising his foot and smashing the door in with one mighty kick. He and Floyd burst in, ready for action. But McCaskill wasn't there. They repeated the same act over at the chapel, but found it to be empty too.
They did a quick search of the property, not even sure of what to look for. The cabin and chapel were, predictably, monastic. They found bibles, hand-carved Latin crosses, handmade cups and plates, homespun clothing, and very basic furnishings—but nothing to suggest that McCaskill had killed Hawkins or anyone else. In fact, there was nothing there to indicate that McCaskill had any interests beyond his religious beliefs. No books, no musical instruments, no artwork, no flowers. Just bare necessities and Christian paraphernalia.
*****
They drove back to Friday Harbor in silence.
"Drop me at my hotel, if you would," Floyd asked as they approached town.
"What for?"
"Hawkins is as dead as a doornail. McCaskill is in the wind. I'm assuming it isn't feasible to swear in a posse and search your entire godforsaken 50-square-mile island for the highbinders. And we can't communicate with the surviving girl until headquarters hoodwinks or browbeats another Cantonese interpreter into coming up here and helping us. According to my reckoning, aside from going back to the Smokehouse and canvassing possible witnesses this evening, that leaves us dead in the water, if you'll pardon the expression. I'm going to have myself a proper lunch and then maybe take a nap."
*****
Miles dropped Floyd at his hotel, then went on to the station. A small crowd was gathered at the front door.
"Sheriff, is there a maniac loose on the island?" someone yelled.
"Whose body did you find this time?" yelled someone else.
"Should we stay locked up in our homes?"
"Will you swear in a posse?"
"Do you think we should send our women and children off the island?"
Miles dismissed the crowd brusquely, shouting over the din that everyone should just go about their business and let him do his job, that he was doing all he could, but that people should be mindful of their surroundings.
"Mindful of our surroundings?" someone shouted back. "The hell does that mean?"
But Miles was done with them. He pushed his way through the throng to the front door. Bill was waiting for him with a fresh percolator of strong black coffee. "Bless you, Bill," Miles said, gladly accepting a cup. "What a morning." He filled Bill in on how things went at Roche Harbor as Bill made him a sourdough flapjack without bothering to ask if he was hungry.
"Where does Floyd get off?" Bill asked. "City boy telling you your business like that."
"No, he's absolutely right. Irritating, but right. If I hadn't been so stubborn about meeting Marion, we'd be sweating Hawkins for all he's worth right now. Maybe cracking the case wide open. Instead, Hawkins is dead, our interpreter is probably dead, a killer is now almost certainly active on the island, the local population is terrified, and Marion is gone. I struck out, Bill."
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Bill said, setting the buttery, honey-glazed flapjack down in front of Miles. "A lot of what's been happening is out of your hands."
"I struck out. Plain and simple." He took a sip of hot coffee.
Bill's face had a troubled expression.
"You alright?" Miles asked him.
"Maybe. I don't know. I hate to be paranoid," Bill said.
"About what?"
"Well, I'm sure he had legitimate reasons. But I noticed Floyd hiring a car ride from down near the steamship terminal yesterday, just after you left for your picnic. I happened to be heading home and, by sheer coincidence, ended up following right behind him."
"So?"
"His hired car turned north on Tucker Avenue."
"Which turns into Roche Harbor Road."
"Exactly. It's probably nothing. I just thought you should know."
"Thank you," Miles said, staring into his coffee cup, feeling the walls falling in around him. That was all he needed—another reason to be suspicious of Floyd. Questions began to assault his mind. Why would Floyd have hired a ride out toward Roche Harbor? Maybe he was just exploring. Why did he look so worried when they were motoring out to recover the surviving witness from Halibut Island? He was probably just terrified of riding a small boat across the choppy Haro Strait. How did he come out of their fight with six roughnecks in Seattle completely unscathed? Perhaps he really was that good a street fighter. Perhaps he fought with his elbows. Maybe, probably, perhaps. And topping it all was the as yet unanswered question of who told Seattle's chief of police to send Floyd up to Friday Harbor in the first place, and why? Miles had no sure answers.
Could Floyd actually be a cold-blooded killer? Could he have murdered Hawkins, then used feigned outrage over Miles keeping his date with Marion in order to cover his own tracks? There was just no way. Floyd's mother had seemed so virtuous. She couldn't possibly have raised a cold-blooded killer for a son.
Could Floyd be a corrupt cop? Sure. There were plenty of corrupt cops out there. Paid to look the other way. To inform. To be someone's marionette. But corruption was one thing, murder something else. Floyd couldn't be a murderer. No way in hell. An accomplice, perhaps? An accessory?
The uncertainty was driving him to distraction. He had to settle the issue for himself, one way or the other, once and for all.
*****
Miles drove back out to Roche Harbor and the Smokehouse speakeasy. "Everybody just go about your business," he told the only four people there. "I'm just looking for someone who might have some information I need. Nobody is going to get hauled in for having himself a drink."
He seated himself at a table in the far corner from the bar and began dealing himself a hand of solitaire with a grimy deck of cards he found there. He only played three hands before Jane Hill—the hotel dishwasher, drinking buddy, and reluctant occasional girlfriend of Rupert Hawkins—shuffled in and took a stool at the bar.
"Miss Hill," Miles said, causing her to look over her shoulder at him.
"I ain't seen Rupert today," she said, turning away again.
"I believe you. When was the last time you did see him?"
She took a moment, probably pondering the consequences of not answering. "Saw him yesterday."
"What time?"
"I'm not for sure. Afternoon."
"Here?"
"Sure, here."
"Who left first, you or him?"
"Him."
"What time was that?"
"Maybe four. Five. I don't know. He usually comes back later in the evening, around nine or ten."
"And when did you leave?"
"Maybe an hour after him."
"Do you remember detective Floyd, the other police officer I came with last time we saw you here?"
"City boy. Fancy suit. Sure, I remember."
"Was he here yesterday?" Miles asked with new gravity in his voice.
"He's your partner."
"I'm asking you."
She gave him a worried look. "Yeah, he was here. I seen him coming down the pier as I'm leaving."
"On his way to the Smokehouse?"
"Yeah."
"Did he say anything to you?"
"He asked if I knew where Hawkins was. What else? Somebody is always looking for Hawkins."
SIXTY-FIVE
Floyd didn't return to the station until just before the dinner hour. "Any updates?" he asked as he came through the door.
"Not yet," Miles said.
"Really? You didn't get a call from headquarters? They still haven't found an interpreter?"
"Not a single call all day. Where have you been? Not napping this whole time?"
"I walked the trunk line."
"You mean the main cable for the island telephone service?"
"That's right. All the way to where it comes ashore near Pear Point."
"What for?"
"Looking for taps. Looking for clues that someone might be listening in on our phone calls. You said yourself that it seems like we're always a step behind. An eavesdropper could be one explanation."
"Did you find anything?"
"Only a yellow jacket nest in the hollow of a log I was climbing over. Got stung five times. Then, on the walk back here, it dawned on me—the switchboard operator, Eustace, uh . . ."
"Eustace Hampton."
"Yes. Her. Can you see her taking payoffs to report on our telephone conversations?"
"No."
"Everyone has a price."
"Everyone but Eustace Hampton. Did you walk the trunk line alone?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone see you?" Anyone who could verify your alibi, he wanted to ask.
"I don't know. What difference would it make?"
"Investigative confidentiality," Miles offered lamely.
"What?"
"It's best that the general public doesn't know what we're up to. What leads we're pursuing. That sort of thing."
"Okay."
"Did you go back out to Roche Harbor last night?"
The question seemed to catch Floyd off-guard. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Why did I go back out there? Why do you think? To find Hawkins and bring him in."
"Did you go alone?"
"You were with Marion, if you'll recall."
Actually, I wasn't.
"What about Bill?"
"Bill was fixing to go home. And I didn't think I needed backup."
"Why didn't you at least tell me you were there last night? It would seem relevant, especially given that it's approximately where Hawkins's body turned up."
"Am I being cross-examined?"
"It just seems odd."
"I didn't mention it because I guessed—correctly, it seems—that it would irritate you to know that I did so. That I didn't wait for you. That I took independent action even though this is your jurisdiction and your community. Your turf. It didn't make any difference in the end anyway."
"Did you see him?"
"Hawkins? Yeah, we shared a bottle of Glenfiddich," Floyd said. "Of course I didn't see him. If I had, he'd be here, alive, wouldn't he? We'd be questioning him."
Miles gave Floyd a good, long stare, trying to read his mind through his body language. "Sorry," he said at last. "I think I'm overtired. Frustrated and overtired. Forgive me."
"It's nothing."
"Also, Marion stood me up. She's gone. It seems she left for New York before I even went to meet her. Snuck off, I supposed you could say."
"Oh. I'm sorry, Miles. I'm truly sorry."
"You don't sound terribly surprised."
"It isn't really my place to—"
"No, I'd welcome your thoughts."
"My thoughts." He took a moment. "It's just that you seemed a lot more interested in her than she did in you, and that, well..."
"What?"
"You know, she seemed, I guess, close with Sylvia. Very close."
"What do you mean?"
"Like Alice something-or-other and Gertrude Stein."
"Gertrude Stein again? Who the hell is Gertrude Stein?"
"What I'm saying is that maybe they have a sort of Wellesley marriage type of arrangement. A Boston marriage. You know?"
"No, I don't know. What on earth is a Boston marriage?"
"Cohabitation by two women. Two committed women."
"You mean—"
"Yes, I mean. Perhaps Marion is turning into, you know, a lesbian."
Miles's jaw hung open. His blink rate increased. "That's absurd."
"Is it?"
"How does someone turn into a lesbian?"
"Hell if I know. Maybe it's the company they keep. I know of one rather peculiar lay minister in Seattle who blames the occult. And some Arab scholars say it has something to do with lactating mothers eating too much celery when breastfeeding their daughters, or something to do with hot vapors."
"Hot vapors?"
"Whatever that means."
Miles stood dumbfounded. "This damned job. If I'd just had a little more time with her, maybe I could have convinced her to change back."
"I'm afraid I've never heard of it working like that."
Miles shook his head. "Well, damnation," he muttered. "Damnation. I'll tell you, sometimes this world makes no damned sense to me." He took a deep breath, trying to redirect his thoughts back to what he needed to do.
"On an unrelated note, what's on the agenda?" Floyd asked. "And if you need a bit of time alone, I understand."
"I'm fine." He strategized for a silent moment. "Actually, could I trouble you for a favor?"
"What would that be?"
"Tired as I am, I'm worried that if I go for much of a drive, I'll fall asleep at the damned wheel. Could you go and check to make sure our witness is alright?"
"Isn't Dr. Boren with her?"
"He had another emergency to attend to. She probably needs more food and water too."
"Of course. Just tell me where you have her hidden."
Miles took a few minutes to draw a map to the trailhead to Grandma's Cove and describe which old fishing shack the girl was in. Then he gave Floyd a canteen, a bag of fresh fruit and vegetables, and the keys to his truck.
"I'm much obliged," he said as Floyd headed out the door.
SIXTY-SIX
As soon as Floyd was out of sight, Miles ran to Luke Gruden's brand-new REO Speedwagon truck parked just around the corner, found the keys where Gruden promised they'd be, fired up the engine, and raced out Cattle Point Road to find a spot where he could watch Floyd pass by. Knowing that Floyd wouldn't recognize Gruden's truck, Miles parked in the driveway of a random cottage fronting the main road and waited. Less than a minute later, Floyd came rolling by, looking solemn, oblivious to Miles's presence. After waiting half a minute, Miles backed out onto Cattle Point Road and, keeping a healthy distance, began following Floyd down to Grandma's Cove.
His plan was simple. If Floyd was working for whoever hijacked the Lucky Lena, then he'd surely have been instructed to kill the girl—the only living witness—if the opportunity presented itself. Floyd's actions here would either incriminate or absolve him, once and for all.
