At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(34)
One was a photo of her torso, breasts shapely and full, restrained within a 1950s-style black bullet bra. Her midriff was bare. The photo was cropped so that it stopped just below her navel. Uncharacteristically, Bettie’s face was absent from the picture. Only her chin entered the top of the frame. The second photo was exquisitely shot. It featured Bettie in silhouette, posed like a burlesque version of Picasso’s Blue Nude, backlit by a soft light, her face obscured by shadow but revealing just enough that Verraday could make out a hint of a seductive smile. Verraday clicked on the next thumbprint. It was a close-up of Bettie’s legs wrapped in sheer black stockings, her thighs angled artfully inward in a way that encouraged the viewer’s eye to follow the line of the black garters up her skin. Then it toyed with the viewer by stopping the barest fraction of an inch short of where the lines of her inner thighs would have converged. Verraday clicked on this thumbnail too so that it went full screen. It was beautifully shot. He admired not only the erotic quality of the photo but the aesthetic way in which it had been lit and framed, carefully designed to arouse the viewer and suggest unseen destinations withheld from the eye, but not from the imagination. Verraday couldn’t recall ever having come across this photo of Bettie before. His heart was beating fast, so that when his cell phone beside him unexpectedly rang, he started, something he almost never did.
It was late now. He hoped it wasn’t a student. He had been explicit about not being called at night, but to his annoyance, the university directory had published cell numbers for the professors, so it was always a possibility. The display read “Private Caller.”
He waited a couple of rings so that he wouldn’t sound breathless from the surprise.
“Hello,” he answered.
“It’s Maclean. Sorry to call so late. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Just answering student e-mails,” Verraday lied. “What’s up?”
Maclean’s voice was tense. “Can you meet me in about twenty minutes?”
“I guess so. At the café?”
“No. I’m off duty, and I could use a drink. I’ll give you the address.”
CHAPTER 18
The Bellingham was Maclean’s suggestion. Verraday had never been there before, but the pub had a warm, low-key ambience that immediately made him feel relaxed and at home. The bar was stained walnut. It stretched half the length of the room and matched the wainscoting as well as the booths on the opposite wall. Frosted-glass pendant lamps hung from the ceiling above the aisle, bathing the room in soft, indirect light. The music was turned up loud enough to ensure that they couldn’t be overheard, but not so much that they’d have to raise their voices above a normal conversational level.
As usual, Maclean was already there. Verraday was grateful to see that she’d taken up a position in one of two wingback chairs by the fireplace, in an alcove that would give them some privacy. She wore a close-fitting gray sweater, a denim skirt hemmed just above her knees, and black boots. Her hair was down. It was longer than he’d imagined it to be. He experienced a pang of regret. He was sorry that their trust in each other had hit such a big bump. He didn’t want to be angry with her. He liked this woman, didn’t want to feel estranged from her. But regardless, as he greeted her and sat down in the wingchair, he couldn’t help feeling some distance between them, on his own side if not from hers.
The waiter, a bearded young man with an affable manner and an easy smile, came by. Maclean ordered a vodka and soda. Verraday asked for a recommendation on a dark ale and chose what the waiter suggested, a local brew from the Willamette Valley. After the waiter left, Verraday sank back into his comfortable wingback chair. He loved the light and warmth from the fireplace and, under other circumstances, could have dozed off. But the situation he found himself in was far from conducive to sleep.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Maclean checked to make sure that no one had come within earshot, then leaned forward in her wingback chair.
“There’s been another murder.”
Verraday felt a leaden anticipation in his chest. “Who is it?”
Maclean pursed her lips. “The girl from the screengrab. Destiny. The one you sent me the message about.”
“Oh fuck.”
“A construction worker found her body this afternoon in a vacant lot behind a demolition site.”
“How was she killed?”
“The MO is the same as with Alana Carmichael and Rachel Friesen. Heavy beating with a leather belt, then strangulation, first with hand pressure, then with a garrote. Not a single defensive wound anywhere.”
Verraday felt a crushing sense of failure. “I tried to warn her. I texted her twice. First last night, then again this morning. She finally responded with a message telling me to fuck off.”
“I don’t think you—or anyone—could have saved her. According to the coroner, she’d been dead for about twenty-four hours.”
Maclean saw the dejection on Verraday’s face. “There’s nothing you could have done,” she said decisively. “It was probably the killer who texted you, trying to buy himself some time.”
Verraday felt revolted to realize he had unwittingly been trading text messages with a murderer. A murderer who could now potentially identify him from his phone number.