Lies We Bury(15)

I don’t trust the police. I don’t trust anyone.

All around us, glasses clink together. People savor their meals, mumbling through conversations. Afternoon patrons, jammed in at each of the available tables, swell the noise level in the room and make the shallow ceiling feel even lower.

Two women at the counter discuss the Four Alarm murder. Seems I’m not the only one ravenously consuming its details.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jenessa asks. She eyes me over our split check. “You’ve taken almost your entire sandwich to go.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I ate a late breakfast. Thanks again for hanging out.”

“Sure thing. Next time, I’ll bring you a voodoo doll doughnut if you promise to finish your lunch,” she says with a motherly finger wag. The shop she works at is famous for its oddball doughnut shapes and designs—a reason I suspect my normally atypical sister enjoys working at a place with health insurance; we’ve only ever felt comfortable occupying the fringes of society.

“Yeah, I’d love that. Thanks.”

“Hey, do you remember when we were kids—before”—and I know Jenessa is referring to when we were belowground—“and you ate my entire birthday cake slice? You had yours and then mine, on my birthday. You’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

She laughs, but I return an embarrassed stare. “No way. I don’t remember that.”

“Seriously? I was so pissed, I cried in the bedroom for an hour. Rosemary made me another ‘cake’ out of toast and mayonnaise.” Another laugh. “You really don’t remember?”

“Absolutely not.” I smile, shaking my head. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised. We were always at each other like that. Didn’t you eat an entire container of gummy vitamins once, just to spite me? Rosemary was worried you had overdosed.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Water under the bridge. I was just . . . reminiscing. It’s funny in hindsight. I mean, we were all hungry.”

We stand awkwardly, remembering.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” she says. “I think I snapped at you back at my house.”

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t set us up for success—first, bailing on our coffee date yesterday, then surprising you at home today with the weird note I received. It hasn’t always been like that between us.” I offer up a smile that Jenessa doesn’t return.

“Hasn’t it, though?”

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Mar—I mean, Claire. Case in point, the birthday cake memory. Even back in Chet’s basement, we were at odds.”

“We were four people shoved together in two ten-by-ten rooms. Everyone was.”

Jenessa stares at me, like she’s unsure whether I believe what I’m saying. “Well, there was a lot going on then. If we were at each other, I don’t think anyone would judge us for it.”

Outside the brewery, we hug each other goodbye. Jenessa gets in her car to return home, while I head down the next boulevard.

Five blocks east toward the river and the site of yesterday’s parade, I arrive at the third brewery I found online that bears some connection to beers named after leaders, Bridge City Brewpub. Inside is less packed with people than Patriot Brewery, probably because food isn’t served here. Take-out bags like my own cover most tables. At others, plastic baggies of snacks crowd the pints of beer and sampler glasses.

A chalkboard menu above the aluminum tap handles lists the twenty-two beers available—twenty-two for the number of bridges and pedestrian walkways in Portland, according to a plaque on the wall. None of the first few beer names stands out to me—Walsh, Ergo, Smythe, Berren, Nguyen.

“Excuse me.” I wave at the bartender as she wipes down a glass with a dish towel. “Who are all these beers named after? Owners of the brewery?”

She laughs and tucks a blonde curl into her loose fishbone braid. “That would be a lot of owners. They’d all kill each other if there were that many. No, beers are named after local people who helped build Portland. You’ve probably seen them as streets.”

Walsh, Ergo, Smythe, Berren, Nguyen. I look through the front window, past the patio table and chairs, and duck down to view this corner’s intersecting street signs. Nguyen Street and Ninth Avenue.

My heart beats in my throat, fearing and anticipating being so close to my goal. “Okay. So what did these people do?”

Twenty beers. All named for leaders. Find the name I most admire and you’ll find the next one first.

“They were politicians. Tedrick Berren pushed through the first law outlawing prostitution, but I forget what the rest of them did.” She taps her finger on the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

“A Walsh Wheat. Thanks.” While she pours, I whip out my phone and do an internet search on each of the names on the chalkboard. Every man or woman was involved in local government or grassroots efforts to regulate Portland vice—not the people I assume a killer would admire.

I take a sip of my beer, stumped. The liquid is cool, light but full bodied against my tongue, and slows my pulse. It leaves me with a slight buzz and nothing more substantial that might confirm this location hides a dead body.

After I pay for my beer, I slide into a chair beside the glass wall and take out my camera. Positioning the viewfinder so that the street signs of Ninth Avenue and Nguyen Street are both captured, I wait until a couple vacates the crosswalk, then click.