Tips for Living(51)

“More notes. For an article on women’s changing hairstyles,” I said.

He seemed intrigued and was about to look further when Sgt. Klish walked in. Klish carried a pair of my black jeans in one of his gloved hands. In the other he held up a faded, wrinkled slip of paper.

“Pay dirt,” he said. “I found her jeans in the dryer. There was a receipt in the back pocket from Mao’s Take-Out. It went through the wash, but you can still see the date and time. Saturday night. She washed them Saturday night.”

I didn’t remember washing my jeans. I must have done that when . . . Oh God. My knees began to buckle. I thought I was going to be sick.

“Well, well,” Roche said, smiling. “Bag them both and get the jeans to the lab.”

He set Princess Leia down on the table. Then he reached into his jacket and offered me his phone.

“You can make that call to your lawyer now if you like.”





Chapter Thirteen

It was almost eight o’clock by the time the police left the Coop. Gubbins had agreed to wait at his office. I drove down Crooked Beach Road toward town, pushing the speed limit, anxious to see him.

“In six hundred feet, your destination will be on the right,” Madame GPS said. “In six hundred feet, your destination will be on the right.”

“That’s in the middle of the fucking trees, you idiot,” I said.

As I reached the darkest, most deserted stretch, the lights seemed to come out of nowhere. Intense white flashes in my rearview mirror. I squinted. Whoever was driving hadn’t realized they still had their high beams on. Annoying. The vehicle continued to gain ground until my Toyota flooded with light. I slumped down to keep the glare from the mirror out of my eyes.

“Come on, buddy. Turn your brights off.”

The lights were inescapable and they were blinding. Slowing, I steered toward the shoulder to give the driver room to pass, but another car appeared in the oncoming lane. I tried again, moving from the road toward the shoulder, but the same scenario repeated. Oncoming car. No passing.

“You have reached your destination. You have reached your destination.”

The tailgater hovered alarmingly close as we neared the bridge. I gripped the steering wheel, unnerved.

“What is your problem?”

Crossing the bridge, the vehicle hung back a bit. I breathed easier. But as I turned onto Pequod Avenue heading into town, it followed. When I reached the Courier building and pulled over, I could finally see the beat-up black van speed by. It looked like the driver was male. Was he a cop working an unmarked police tail? Did he need to brush up on his surveillance skills, or was he intentionally trying to intimidate me? Or was the driver simply a jerk? I couldn’t tell. The ordinary could appear ominous in my state.

Gubbins buzzed me into his office. His staff had already left. We met in an empty reception room.

“Thanks for staying,” I said, still jangled. I was desperate for him to stop the runaway train that my life had become. I didn’t care anymore that he had Dr. Spock hair, a shiny suit and an unctuous manner. I really did need a lawyer, and Gubbins was the best choice for now.

“The police took my place apart. I had to get out of there, at least for a while. They went through everything. They took my phone and computer—and my jeans.”

Gubbins’s brow furrowed.

“Your jeans?”

I swallowed. “Yes. From the wash.”

Even if I had been sleepwalking the night of the murders, that didn’t necessarily mean I’d killed anyone. Right? Doing laundry wasn’t a crime.

“I’m sorry the police were so disruptive. Would you like to stay at The Pequod Inn tonight? I could give them a call.”

A pricey tourist draw, the only hotel within town limits was a historic site—a former whaling captain’s home. I couldn’t afford the $300 they’d charge.

“No, thanks. I’ll manage. But look,” I began pacing, “they’re clearly more interested in me than you thought. What I can’t figure out is why they came and took my place apart but didn’t arrest me? Not that I want to go to jail, but what’s going on?” I stopped in front of Gubbins and clasped my hands on my chin to keep from wobbling like a bobblehead doll. “If this is some kind of mind game, it’s working.”

“Try to calm down. The judge must’ve decided that they only had probable cause for a property search at this point. If they’d found the murder weapon in your possession or evidence that placed you at the crime scene, that would justify an arrest warrant.”

I knew that. I wasn’t thinking straight. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second and tried to slow my racing thoughts.

“Listen, I have another idea about who the murderer could be. I didn’t tell Roche. He’d assume I was trying to take the heat off myself.”

I was desperate to share my suspicions with Gubbins and have him use his resources to make the case. He might have an investigator on his staff who could check Stokes out. Someone shrewd, like Paul Drake, the PI on Perry Mason. I’d come across DVDs of the 1950s TV series at the library. Mason was an imposing criminal lawyer with a baritone voice. Both men wore suits with quarterback shoulder pads. They always uncovered the truth and sent the right party to jail.

“You’re shaken up. Let’s get you settled first,” Gubbins said, leading the way into his inner offices.