Lies We Bury(30)

Oz scoffs. “More than that. The Post archives show that only four underground incidents occurred in the state over the last thirty years. One, an oddball case of a woman attempting to create herself a crypt for beloved pets; another, a man dug himself a bomb shelter in the event of nuclear war; creepier, a mother and father kept their child, a deformed twin brother, belowground in an extended wine cellar while the other twin was raised aboveground as an only child. You’d think that would be the winner for the most messed-up cases, but no. There’s the Granger case. The guy kept amassing women, forced them to dig out his basement and expand it, to have children by him; then he kept his own kids there until they were, like, ten.”

“Seven. They—the oldest were seven and the youngest three.”

Oz smirks again, sugary-sweet. “Aw, you do know more than the average photographer.”

I swallow the pooling saliva in my mouth. Force a smile. “I stay up to date.”

“Anyway, nerves are running high. The timing of these deaths so close to Granger’s parole is not great for morale. Mayor’s up for reelection this year, and detectives are being pushed for progress—plus the discovery that the basement passageway at the brewery and the one here at The Stakehouse could be connected to the Shanghai Tunnels. All of that amounts to a very on-edge police force, and they are dying—pardon the pun—to make an arrest.”

Someone calls for Oz, and he tucks his notepad in his pants pocket. “I’m on. We should get a drink afterward. Since we’re colleagues and all.”

I shake my head, trying to organize the information Oz so easily rattled off. “How do you know all this?”

“Like any good reporter, Claire, I have a source.” He turns his face away, a teasing grin just evident. “Why? What does a photographer care about solving a case?”

If I had access to records, archives, and police hearsay, I might get ahead of the author of the windshield note. Could Oz be my source? Or better yet, I could figure out the identity of Oz’s source and go directly to that person.

He watches me, alert green eyes admiring my mouth. A shiver skates across my arms as I try to remember how to flirt.

“I’ve always thought crime reporting is an exciting career.” Tentative smile. “Maybe I could intern with you, in a way?”

Delight mixes with pride as he runs a hand behind his neck. “Might be fun. See you at the next crime scene, shutterbug.” He winks, then crosses the street and joins a woman in a starched blazer with rolled-up sleeves. She begins speaking while Oz withdraws a handheld recorder and holds it between them. Something he says makes her erupt into giggles.

If I weren’t already suspicious of men, I would be after seeing this police official lap up Oz’s charm. He wields it like a weapon to get what he wants. I could learn more than crime scene details from him.

“Lou!” Sergeant Peugeot waves at me from the front entry, his red hair a beacon. The wrinkles on his forehead appear deeper than when we met yesterday. A man stands beside him wearing a yellow press pass and holding a camera nicer than mine. “Media has five minutes, and then the crime scene is police only.”

“Sergeant, I know the Gazette is just finishing up at a municipal campaign around the corner,” the man says. “Do you want to wait for their photographer?” Next to his press pass is a second lanyard with the logo of the Oregon Times, the biggest newspaper in the region.

“Nope. You snooze, you lose around here. Clock’s ticking.”

The two of us follow Peugeot inside. Overhead lights are turned on, removing any mystique or sexy ambience from earlier today. Without cover of darkness, the bar top, tables, and stage seem worn and depressed instead of sexually liberated. I click through a dozen frames, taking a few more of the beer taps for my own records, then follow Peugeot through the kitchen. The puddle of bloody steaks has been cleaned up. As we traverse the spotless tile, fear spikes through me: I could have stepped in it with my shoe, tracked blood to the cooler, and left some evidence of my foreknowledge of the body.

I look up toward each corner of the ceiling as I trail the pair of men. No security cameras. Some of the tension leaches from my arms, but not by much. It was foolish traipsing back here alone earlier—no hat, no disguise. Idiot move. Impulsive, per usual.

In the storage area, two men in matching black shirts with the word POLICE across the shoulders stand beside a hole in the wall that wasn’t visible when I was here before. Large plastic tubs of rotini seem to have been covering it. Peugeot approaches the men as I snap photos of the pasta. One of them explains how The Stakehouse has one of the oldest foundations on this block and was rebuilt twice in the last century. I reach for the handle of the walk-in cooler.

Peugeot turns. “Not in there,” he barks. He strides over to stand between the entry and me.

The Oregon Times photographer stops what he’s doing to watch us.

“Isn’t that where—”

“Police only. Media isn’t allowed.” He crosses his arms as if to punctuate the point. A woman in all-white coveralls exits the cooler carrying a yellow, opaque plastic bag.

“Okay. Sure. No problem.” I move to take photos of the potato sacks and try to put some space between us.

“. . . string of social workers tried to get her into a halfway house, but she never stayed sober and never held down a job. She disappeared about a year ago, off our dashboard at least, then shows up about six months back. This time Silva’s throwing lavish get-togethers in a warehouse by the river and hosting line parties.”