The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Read online

  “I missed it.” But I was getting a good look at the embroidered patch on his shoulder. Chelan County Animal Control. I glanced at Jack. Maybe there was a fine. “We were running pretty fast. But you’re right, officer.”

  I gave the leash I’d clipped to her collar a slight tug, showing him my new lawful obedience. Madame gave me a look. In her mind, leashes were punishment. I stroked her back and resisted the urge to blurt out: If I’d leashed my dog, nobody would’ve found this body—which might be the girl who’s already been missing an entire week.

  But I kept my mouth shut. I was learning.

  “Ma’am,” Seiler was taking charge. The Animal Control Nazi. “Please step away from the scene. Deputy Wilcove will take your statement.”

  I glanced at Jack again. But what could he say? I was banished, no longer part of the law enforcement clan. And maybe I imagined it, but some of the blue in Jack’s eyes was turning green again.

  Holding Madame in my arms, I followed Deputy Wilcove down the trail. She kept lifting her nose, sniffing something. I took a deep breath. No. I took another sniff. Couldn’t be. Wilcove kept walking. The wind blew his scent toward us. French fries? He moved further and further away, until we were almost back to the cave. Far away from the waving hand.

  “That’s better,” he said, turning around.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That hand.” He wiped his sweating face with the back of his wrist. “Oh, man.”

  “What about it.”

  “I don’t want to be anywhere near it,” he said.

  I nodded.

  But I was thinking, That makes one of us.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three hours later, sitting in Jack’s float plane with Madame on my lap, I couldn’t decide if the fluttery feeling inside my chest was from the turbulent updrafts bumping his plane over the Cascade Mountains, or that the pilot was admonishing me.

  “Harmon.” Jack raised his voice to be heard over the plane’s engine. “You can’t keep telling people how to do their job.”

  I pet Madame.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked.

  “I was thinking that soil samples are crucial, and they’re not taking any soil samples. That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Terrific. But you kept lecturing them on how to do it.”

  “Because—”

  “And that’s why they kept questioning you. But as soon as they started that, you demanded we leave.”

  “So …”

  “So it looked suspicious.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did.”

  “Not.”

  “Also,” he continued, “they’re going to do a background check on you and see that you used to be with the FBI. Then they’ll wonder why you left. Or if you got fired—”

  “I resigned. And the real point is soil samples.”

  “Those guys are not geologists.”

  “And I was being honest. I really did have to leave.”

  “But they don’t know that!” He looked away, glancing out the plane’s side window.

  I stared at his profile, that face as strong and solid as the peaks around us. When he finally looked back at me, his mirrored aviator sunglasses reflected my face. Sunburned nose. Forehead wrinkled with worry. Brown hair and ponytail messy from running. Lovely.

  “Harmon, all those guys see is a witness at a crime scene who knew way too much about evidence collection. Who somehow, magically, found the body—”

  “Madame.” I pointed to the dog in my lap. “Madame found the body.”

  “That’s even worse.”

  I stroked the dog’s fur, fluffed with anxiety. Every stroke felt like an attempt to wipe away this whole awful day. At dawn, we’d flown out of Seattle for a day in the town of Leavenworth. Neither Jack nor I dared to call this outing a “date.” Our relationship—or whatever it was—tottered on new ground. Former colleagues in the Bureau. Former avowed enemies. Former friends? And now we were …what?

  Today was supposed to provide answers.

  Instead I got a dead body.

  And yes, I had explained the soil collection procedures to Wilcove and Seiler. When a tech from evidence collection finally arrived, I repeated the procedures and looked at my watch. It was time to go. Wilcove took my statement three times before driving us into town. His cruiser smelled like French fries.

  “Harmon, just admit it. You really want to be the one doing the collection.”

  “No. I’ve got obligations.”

  “Yeah.” Jack took a deep breath. I couldn’t hear his sigh over the engine noise but his chest rose and fell. Twice. “But why do you have to make yourself look like a suspect?”

  “Okay, let’s take a probability quiz,” I said. “Some woman from Seattle goes all the way over to Leavenworth—which, by the way, would take three hours by car. She kills somebody. For whatever reason. And somehow she manages to carry the dead weight up a steep mountain. She also carries some kind of tool so she can dig a hole and bury the body. Then, she goes home. A week or so later, she returns to the scene of the crime—with an FBI agent and her dog—only to ‘discover’ the body. Give me the probability, Jack.”

  He looked over.

  “Right,” I said. “Start with point one percent.”

  “We’ve both seen weirder things,” he said.

  He was right. And I hated it. But would I admit it? Never. I looked out my side window. Mountains upon mountains. Plateaus. Ice-milk glaciers that persisted through summer. Washington state was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen. It was fantastic geology.

  “Your statement,” Jack said.

  I kept my gaze on the window. Charcoal clouds gathered on the western side of the mountain pass, like hordes of barbarian raindrops waiting to invade the drought-stricken eastern side. “Can we change the subject?”

  “Your statement sounded resentful.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did.”

  “Not.”

  “Just like you sound right now.”

  “I’m fine.” I stared at the dark clouds, their grays marbling.

  “Imagine what would’ve happened if you’d taken that gun with you,” Jack said. “You’d be in real trouble, Harmon. Which reminds me, have you even applied for a concealed carry permit?”

  “I don’t have time.” The clouds were the same gunmetal gray as the Sig Sauer that Jack gave me after I left the Bureau. Protection I couldn’t afford to buy. “Look, all I was doing was making sure the geology evidence got collected the right way. So it could offer clues. And stand up in court. That’s all I wanted.”

  “And you could’ve done it yourself. Just take the job.”

  “I can’t take the job so quit bugging me!”

  I wanted back the words as soon as I blurted them. Resentment? It dripped from every syllable. Jack was right. I wanted to stay at that crime scene. Investigate all day, all night, fueled by the passion to nail the creep who caused such a tragedy.

  But I couldn’t.

  I stroked the dog and controlled my voice. “If I didn’t have to be at the—”

  “You don’t have to explain. Really. I understand.”

  I glanced over. Those russet whiskers were even thicker than this morning. So thick this day might be two days pressed together. So much time. I glanced at my watch. Already noon.

  “You’ll make it,” Jack said.

  I looked out the window and saw the town of Snoqualmie. Tidy houses spread from a wide river and climbed hills golden with autumn trees. But the clouds overhead promised rain.

  Jack reached out. Madame lifted her head.

  “When will that dog trust me?” he asked, his hand hovering.

  “When you’re safe.”

  He nodded. “Harmon?”

  I waited.

  “I understand,” he said. “Really.”

  There was no teasing in his voice. No playfulness. Not even one drop of sarcasm.

  And somehow, it only made
me feel even worse.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The crazy people closed in.

  Lady Anne.

  Bad Knight.

  Father Brother, dipping his filthy fingers into the paper cup and flinging “holy water” into the mental asylum air at Western State Hospital. I prayed that water didn’t come from a toilet.

  And yet, Father Brother wasn’t even the worst of the patients living side-by-side on this ward with my mother.

  The worst patient was Sir Post-it. The ringleader. An insane bully, he ran this small wing like his fellow patients were nothing but serfs in his feudal kingdom. I didn’t know his real name. But he wore yellow sticky notes on the first of his three chins. And right now, as I stood beside my mom with her dog, Sir Post-it proclaimed the afternoon’s new ridiculous decree.

  “By order of decree,” he said, the yellow paper flapping up and down like hinged chin on a ventriloquist’s dummy, “all vermin are banished from my kingdom.”

  My mother cradled the dog in her arms. “But Madame isn’t vermin.”

  “Vermin have fur.” Sir Post-it pointed his fat index finger. “That dog has fur. Ergo didacto—”

  “Ergo didacto?” I glanced around, hoping someone understood that no such Latin phrase existed. But all that came back were glassy-eyed stares.

  “Ergo didcato, et cetera and et cetera,” Sir Post-it continued. “That dog is vermin.”

  On the other side of this recreation room—a disinfected rectangle of shiny white vinyl and windows embedded with chicken wire and guarded by iron bars—a red-headed nurse stood behind a high counter. She was depositing pills into paper muffin cups. “Yeah, man,” said Father Brother, dipping his dirty fingers into the paper cup, “that dog has fleas.”

  “And fleas carry the plague,” said Bad Knight.

  “I don’t want the plague,” said Lady Anne.

  “Okay, stop.” I held up my hand. “Madame does not have fleas.”

  “You!” Bad Knight stepped forward and pointed his “sword.” A limp oblong of aluminum, he’d cobbled the sword together from all the foil that covered their hot meals. “Peasants are not allowed to speak to his highness directly. If you have something to say, you must tell me first. Then I might pass it along to his highness. And I might not.”

  The saddest part of this whole situation?

  These lunatics were an improvement from the people my mom used to be housed with. Several months ago, she’d suffered a psychotic break—triggered by me, her daughter, the peasant—which led to an involuntarily commitment to Western State. For most of the months, she’d refused to see me. Finally, I got permission to bring her dog. Then I got permission to stay during the visits. Day by day, I was earning back her trust. I vowed never to lose it again.

  “Banish the vermin!” Sir Post-it bellowed.

  “Oh, my lands!” My mom’s southern accent pitched higher. “Please don’t do that. It’s not right. Please.”

  The troubled look in her hazel eyes punched my gut. I held up both hands, once more signaling Stop. The same way you communicate with preschoolers.

  “My mom’s dog is not vermin,” I said, trying to restrain my tone. “And the dog isn’t leaving. Period.”

  His highness of office products stepped toward me. Standing toe-to-toe, he opened his mouth and the flapping yellow paper wafted his putrid breath toward me. “How dare you defy me, you peasant.”

  My eyes watered from the stench. I forced myself not to blink. “The. Dog. Stays. Period. End of discussion.”

  “Vermin!” he cried.

  He was loud enough that the nurse behind the counter looked up. I leaned to the side, getting some fresh air while I tried to signal her attention. She went right back to the pills. This particular ward was supposed to work out its conflicts. On their own. That was a big part of their “improvement.”

  “Guess what my husband’s name is?” Lady Anne said.

  She waited for us to make some connection. Nobody did.

  “Virgil!”

  Oh, no. My mother got it. “Isn’t that strange,” she said. “Virgil sounds like vermin.”

  “Virgil knows everything.” Lady Anne wore a crown of red pipe cleaners in her curly gray hair—another improvement, since pipe cleaners were otherwise dangerous craft products. “Virgil builds rockets for Boeing.”

  “Who cares?” Bad Knight waved his foil sword. “Nobody wants to hear about your stupid husband.”

  “Virgil isn’t stupid.”

  “He married you.”

  Lady Anne tilted her head, wondering.

  “And only a dummy would marry you, dummy.” Bad Knight glanced at Sir Post-it for affirmation. “Correct, your highness?”

  “Verily.”

  “Yes.” Lady Anne stared down at her worn green slippers. The red pipe cleaners slipped forward. “I guess that’s true.”

  “That’s not true.” My mom moved to her side. “Lady Anne, I’m sure Virgil loves you very much. Just like my David loved me.”

  Lady Anne shook her head, the crown slipping further. “Nobody loves me.”

  “How about I forgive you?” Father Brother dipped his dirty fingers. When the water hit her, Lady Anne didn’t so much as flinch.

  Madame growled.

  “Vermin!” Father Brother flung more water.

  Madame barked.

  “Rabid vermin!”

  My mom clutched Madame so tightly she almost choked her. The dog shot me a desperate glance. I reached out, resting my hand on her small head, hoping to calm her. My heart pounded. Fear. Anger. Resentment. Why doesn’t that nurse come over—

  “Your highness, banish this vermin!” Bad Knight lifted his foil sword. “I plead your permission, your lease!”

  “Lease?” My mother was suddenly distracted by the word. “Lease … lease. Lease?”

  “He means liege.” I took her elbow as gently as possible and led her away. “Let’s go to your room.”

  She was still holding the dog like a drowning baby but turned to look at the group. Her once-glossy black hair fell flat, hanging in ragged strips turning gray.

  “Lease!” Bad Knight came trailing behind us. “The word is lease.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Everyone was following. Crud. I tried to pick up our pace but my mom wasn’t strong and the fifteen-foot hallway suddenly seemed longer than a football field.

  “I know I’m right,” he persisted. “And if you weren’t so dumb you would know his highness owns everything. See? We’re just leasing. Get it now?”

  “Lease …” My mom. One word can hook her troubled mind and yank her right out of reality. “Lease, least, east . . .”

  “Virgil would know the word,” Lady Anne said. “Virgil knows everything.”

  I sped up.

  “But we can’t ask Virgil because he never comes to see you.”

  I tried to walk even faster but a keening sound filled the air. My mom halted and Madame gave a howl, harmonizing with the sound of crying.

  “Lady Anne?” My mom asked. “Are you alright?”

  Bad Knight swung his foil sword like a conductor’s baton. Father Brother—finally out of water—flung dry dirty fingers. And Sir Post-it stared at the broken-hearted woman with such contempt the sticky note on his fat chin trembled.

  “Mom,” I said, “I think we should go to your—”

  They were talking. All of them at once. Crazy chatter so loud it took me several moments to identify the other sound. Trumpets. Blaring trumpets. I dug my hand into my pocket and tried to silence the Tijuana Brass ringtone before anyone noticed it was coming from my cell phone.

  Too late.

  “That song.” Bad Knight’s foil sword switched tempos, now conducting the horns. “Yes, I know that song!”

  “So do I.” Lady Anne looked up, her wet eyes bright with distraction.

  “Yes, uh huh—” Father Brother pronounced, “—that song is Burt Bacharach.”

  “Wrong!” Bad Knight aimed the sword at my hand holdin
g the phone. “That’s Frank Sinatra and I should know. We played poker together in Vegas. Ol’ Blue Eyes borrowed ten dollars from me. And he never paid me back.”

  “Impossible,” said Sir Post-it. “I banished Sinatra to the dungeon.”

  I stared at the Caller ID. I normally shut off my cell phone before coming in here. My mother’s been diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic. Cell phones are suspicious. But I was rushing today, frantic from the morning’s events with Jack. I looked up. My mom was the only person paying attention. Too much attention. Her hazel eyes flinty as jasper, filled with suspicion. I smiled, slid my finger over the screen, and said, “Hi, Peter, how are you?”

  “Bacharach!” cried Lady Anne. “Virgil’s mother gave us that glass for our wedding.”

  There was a pause on the phone. “Raleigh?” said Peter Rosser.

  I kept my gaze on my mom. And kept smiling. Yeah, this is what I get for lying to her. I smiled even harder. “Yes, Peter, it’s me.”

  “And then,” Lady Anne raised her voice, “I smashed all that glass in her driveway. Take that, Mommy Dearest!”

  The phone was silent.

  I waited.

  Peter’s voice had a cowboy twang. Right now it sounded extra twangy. “Where’re in the world are you hanging out?”

  “Just visiting my mom.” I smiled. See? Nothing to hide. “How are you?”

  “Dandy.” He paused. “You want me to call you back?”

  Absolutely.

  “No.” Ending the call right now would make her even more suspicious. “Go right ahead, Peter.”

  “I ran a check on missing persons in that area.”

  I pressed phone against my ear so tightly it hurt. I didn’t want her to overhear any of this information. “That’s great.”

  “There’s a recent report on one Annicka Engels. Is that the one they mentioned?”

  “I believe so.”

  “She went home for the weekend, from college. Took a run. Serious runner, apparently. Dog went with her. The dog came home. She didn’t.”

  They were staring at me, all of them suddenly diverted from their bizarre discussion of my ringtone.

  “Isn’t that interesting.” I reached out, gently guiding my mom toward her room. The single. The single room that had taken weeks for me to negotiate. My next step was getting her out of this place.