Rogue Justice (23 page)

Iago dug through a few folders on the bookcase next to the stove and came up with a map of Port Townsend. The Fort was less than two miles away, an easy jog back to his rental vehicle. He had parked the blue sedan behind a storage building at the far end of the small complex. He then hurried up to the woman's bedroom. Inside a large walk-in closet were four wooden shelves piled high with outdoor gear. He quickly pulled together an all-weather ensemble: fleece jacket, turtle-neck sweater, underwear, long pants, and thermal socks. There were two pairs of running shoes sitting on a mat next to the back door. He grabbed the first pair.

Back in the living room, Iago carefully removed Katrina's clothes and dressed her in the running gear. He found a money clip on the counter with a few bills wrapped around a driver's license. He stuffed it into her pocket, checked his watch. It was nearly eight thirty and dark outside,
unnaturally
dark. He then moved to the front window, peered through the shutters. The rain continued its steady thrum and he saw no one moving about. He noticed a Volvo SUV parked on the street a stone's throw from the house. He searched around and soon found a set of car keys lying next to the phone. Stepping onto the front porch, he pressed the unlock button. There was a shrill chirp, the power lock released, and the inside light popped on.

He had the right vehicle.

Iago grabbed the garbage bag, threw it in the cargo bay, and came back for the body. He then jumped into the driver's seat and drove off, making a right turn on San Juan Avenue, another right on Admiralty. He passed Fort Worden Military Cemetery and reached the front gate of the park seconds later. According to the guide map, there was a paved road that skirted the trailhead. He turned off the headlights, drove slowly past the parade ground and old barracks, and up the narrow road. He parked the SUV next to a sign marked "Battery Tolles," tossed the plastic bag in a garbage receptacle and then slung the corpse over his shoulder.

As he trudged up the steep trail, he shifted the body from one shoulder to the other. The steady rain would wash away any footprints, and he was thankful for that much at least. But the going was tough, mostly because of the uneven terrain and gurgling darkness. Ten grueling minutes later, he looped along the edge of a bluff that plunged steeply to the rocky shore below. The distance was impossible to determine, though he guessed it to be at least a hundred feet, probably more. He gently laid Katrina's body next to a crooked wooden fence that separated the trail from the edge of the bluff. A sign affixed to one of the posts read...

Caution: Falling Can Be Deadly.

Jesus, ain't that the truth.

The authorities, he knew, would figure out soon enough that the woman's death was no accident. Then again, he might get lucky a second time. Small-town cops often bungled cases because of incompetence, inexperience, or both. Either way, he hoped to buy himself a little breathing room.

Iago took a deep breath, lifted the body, and finished the job.

It was the toughest thing he'd ever done in his life.

Chapter 25

31 March, 8:45 PM PDT

Port Angeles, Washington

Zora and Mack Bowen sat in a corner booth at the Pho New Saigon Restaurant, just east of downtown. The location wasn't exactly ideal, wedged as it was between an automotive repair shop and an adult book store, but the food was fresh, the servings generous, and the prices reasonable. Bowen said he'd been turned onto the place by a supervisor at Platypus Marine and judging from the spicy, pungent soup, he'd made a good call. For their entrees, they ordered crab sticks and fried wonton from a demure Vietnamese waitress, then quietly reviewed the terms of their agreement. Bowen made one tiny change to the language before signing the two-page document.

Later, after they'd finished eating, Zora dropped Bowen off at his car and jumped back on the road for Port Townsend. She checked the time. It was ten past ten. She reached for her phone and punched in Katrina's number, but the call immediately went to voice mail. The mysterious shaman was the final piece of this very twisted puzzle, and Zora was anxious to find out if she'd made contact with him.

For the next half hour she listened to talk radio, non-stop chatter about the so-called "rogue whales." One moron suggested mounting a full-scale operation to capture one of the creatures, "for scientific purposes."

They tried that little trick with King Kong,
she mused.
And it didn't work out so well.

Zora shut off the endless blabber and rode on in silence. A minute or so later, her phone rang. She didn't bother to check the number, assuming it was Katrina. "Hey, I just..."

"Zora, it's Mickey."

"Mickey!" She was surprised to hear from him and said so. "Hey, how are you?"

"Not so good." There was gravity in his voice.

Zora had a really bad feeling, and hesitated before asking, "What is it?"

"Katrina... she's dead."

Her body numb, Zora stared at the road in horror, Mickey's words hanging there like a heavy, black cloud. "No, that's not possible. I mean I—"

"It's true," he said. "I just got off the phone with the DA. A couple walking their dog on the beach out by Point Wilson found her body a few minutes ago... at the bottom of a steep cliff."

"I don't know what to say, Mickey. I was just with her, at your folks' place. Are you sure it's not some kind of terrible mistake?"

"I thought the same thing at first. But Kat was carrying her driver's license. They found her car too. It was parked near a running trail at a park north of town." Mickey paused, his voice cracking. "The sheriff thinks she went for a run, slipped in the mud, and fell. An accident."

"You're not buying it, I can tell."

"No. She would never be that careless, Zora.
Never
."

Zora wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally, she asked, "What can I do?"

Mickey hesitated, and said, "Mom and dad are out of town and I could really use a friend. I'm meeting the DA at the Courthouse in a few minutes. Can you be there? It's on Jefferson Street. You can't miss it."

"Of course," she said. "I was actually driving to... never mind, I'll see you shortly."

Zora clicked off, pounded her fists on the wheel, then stomped on the accelerator. She blew past everything in sight, horns blaring at her as she weaved in and out of traffic. A few miles up the road, she turned onto Highway 20, a thousand conflicting thoughts pin-balling through her head. Ever since she could remember, she'd always been able to figure things out—from her gentle way with horses, to solving thorny calculus problems, to cheating death by staring down a great white shark. But this was uncharted territory and she didn't like it, not at all. She'd just lost a dear friend. Was her mother next? And what, if anything, should she tell the DA?

Shortly before eleven o'clock, she pulled in front of the Jefferson County Courthouse, a marvelous red brick and sandstone structure built in the early 1890s. The architectural wonder stood three stories tall and covered an entire city block. Its soaring clock tower could be seen from just about anywhere in town. As she scaled the concrete steps leading to the entrance, the bell's hammer struck the hour, clanging so loud the building seemed to shift on its foundation. At that same moment, two heavy oak doors opened and a tall, distinguished man stepped out.

"I'm Scott Rosekrans, Prosecuting Attorney," he said. "Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. Mickey told me you were coming. He just got here himself."

The DA, Zora guessed, was in his early sixties. He had a head full of soft white hair and the sort of affable face that made everyone feel at ease. She liked him right away. His handshake was firm and he spoke with calm authority. They made their way up three flights of stairs, walked down a wide hallway to a cluttered, communal work space.

Stepping inside, Rosekrans motioned toward a door in the far corner of the room. "My office is over there," he said. "Word to the wise, though, this area of the Courthouse was once the juvenile detention center. Somebody decided to keep the graffiti on the walls for old time's sake. My wife says it reminds her of something out of a gangster movie. I tend to agree."

They moved slowly into the brightly-lit office. As advertised, the whitewashed stucco walls still showed plenty of character. There was a staircase in one corner that appeared to lead to the clock tower. A large, half-moon window looked out on Port Townsend Bay. Mickey Kincaid was leaning against an antique oak desk the size of an aircraft carrier, his hands in his pockets, staring off into space. He was solid, rangy, with a photogenic face, brooding eyes, and short black hair. He wore jeans and a dark sweatshirt.

And he was African-American.

Zora had spent a little time with Mickey during her previous visit. She learned then that he'd been adopted by Al and Dorothy Kincaid when he was very young. No further explanation, or background information, was offered and Zora never asked. She embraced him now, fighting back tears. "I'm so sorry, Mickey. This is horrible."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for coming, Zora. I really appreciate it." Fighting back his own tears, he turned to the DA. "So what's the latest from the police?"

"Chief Garcia is still investigating," Rosekrans said. "He's got both of his detectives on the case, but if your sister's death turns out to be a homicide, it's a little out of their league. As you probably know, Mickey, most of the crime around here is petty stuff."

"Meaning?" Zora asked, unsure if she was overstepping her bounds.

"Meaning, I'll bring in Seattle PD. I've done it before. We had a double homicide down in Quilcene awhile back. Drifter robbed and beat an elderly couple, then torched the place. I put in a call to the chief. He sent me two of his best detectives and a forensics team. A week later we had our man, put him away for life."

"Then you might as well make the call right now," Mickey said. "Because there's no way Kat's death is an accident."

Zora looked for some kind of tell in the DA's eyes, but he gave nothing away, saying only, "We should probably head over to the funeral home now."

"Yeah, I know," Mickey replied, sniffling. "Give me a minute to try my folks again, okay? I haven't been able to reach them yet."

The DA and Zora stepped into the outer office.

"Mickey's parents are on safari somewhere in Kenya," she said. "It might take a while."

"Yeah, he told me. That flight back is going to be horrendous, whenever it happens."

An awkward moment of silence passed between them.

Zora said, "You mentioned the funeral home. What's that all about?"

"Sheriff's deputies took the body there. We only do about twenty autopsies a year around here, so we can't justify the expense of a morgue. And you're looking at the coroner."

"Really," Zora said curiously.

Rosekrans nodded, explaining that in counties with less than forty thousand people, the Prosecuting Attorney wore both hats. He said he'd been certified in the medical aspects of death investigation by the state Coroners Association, adding, "I was a big city cop in a former life too, so that helps, which is a long-winded way of saying I'll be conducting the prelim exam."

Zora picked up on Rosekrans's acerbic response, thinking he probably missed the juice of urban crime. Prosecuting shoplifters, drunk drivers, and small-time burglars had to get a bit stale after a while. "And you'll be looking for
what
exactly?" she asked.

"Any signs of foul play, that kind of thing. Of course, the autopsy will give us the complete story. We contract that work out to a pathologist from Tacoma. I spoke with him a few minutes ago. Normally he would drive over in the morning, but under the circumstances, I thought he should get it done tonight. It'll take him awhile to get here, though."

"Makes sense," Zora said. "You said you were a cop?"

"Yeah, Houston PD. The brass offered me a homicide shield, but I decided to give law school a go instead, went to work for the DA there after graduation. My wife and I moved to Port Townsend about six years ago, to escape the big city and all that good stuff."

"So what's the cop in you think?" she asked.

Rosekrans considered that. "There was a lot of trauma to the body which suggests Katrina may have fallen from the top of the bluff. The trail runs past one of the old artillery batteries only a few feet from the edge and it's a helluva drop. Down below, the terrain is extreme. Sand looks like coarsely ground salt and pepper, lots of big boulders, seaweed. She was partially hidden by a pile of driftwood. The couple who called 9-1-1 said their dog went a little crazy and actually discovered the body. Otherwise, it might have taken us days to find her."