The Wind Will Howl Page 4

  The receptionist wrapped her palm over the phone’s mouthpiece. “Tom wants to know if this is urgent.”

  “Always,” I said.

  Tom O’Brien stood in his small office with an oversized whiteboard. A black messenger bag was slung over his shoulder.

  “Urgent,” he said.

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And yet, you’re not leaving. Raleigh, this better be good.”

  “I rowed into a dead body this morning.”

  He groaned. The messenger bag slipped down his arm.

  “Tom, it’s two o’clock. You never leave this early.”

  “I’m taking some overtime hours to start my Christmas shopping. The plan was to get it all done this afternoon, but if I don’t hear you out, my mind's going to torture me while I wander Nordstrom’s trying to remember my wife’s dress size.”

  Given that, I described this morning’s incident in great detail.

  “Wow,” he said. “And what’s the status now?”

  “I wouldn’t know. SPD wasn’t interested in my help. Which reminds me.” I opened my pack. “I’ve got a new list of cold cases.”

  His heavy sigh deposited him into his desk chair. While he scanned our top-ten list, I glanced out the tinted window. The protective window film, combined with a quartzite gray sky, made the world look like purgatory, an unending dullness. But down below in the parking lot, the red Pony dazzled like the promise of heaven.

  “Which one are you most interested in?” Tom asked.

  I pointed to the third case—the top two were Peter’s choices. “Missing child and—”

  Tom shoved away from the desk. “Whoa!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Your finger.”

  I looked down. The two-carat yellow diamond engagement ring sparkled like summer sunshine. Quickly, I tucked my hand into my pocket. “It’s nothing.”

  “Are you getting married?”

  “Try to restrain your surprise.”

  His face reddened. “Sorry. It’s just, you know.”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  His face reddened even more. “I thought you were going back to Virginia.”

  “Change of plans. And you’re blushing.”

  “Don’t be offended?”

  “Too late,” I said.

  He looked away. “I’ve always thought of you as one of those women in law enforcement.”

  “Okay, and…?”

  “And those women do nothing but work.”

  “And.”

  “And those women don’t get married. Or they’re lesbians.”

  “I find the male species fascinating.”

  “Our team’s very glad to hear it. But since you do, in fact, work all the time, he must be a cop. Or someone in law enforcement.”

  My heart curled into the fetal position. “I’m that bad?”

  “No. You’re that good.” He placed the list of cold cases on his desk. “What about the body in the lake—no geology?”

  I described Detective Clementine Kyle’s reaction when I offered to help.

  “Clementine.” He nodded. “Speaking of women in law enforcement. So. Anything else? Please say no.”

  “I’d like to see your botanist. Wesley Mosk.”

  Tom laughed. “Raleigh, if you didn’t have a diamond ring on your finger, this would be a perfect trifecta.”

  9

  “Wes?”

  Down the hall from the lab’s examination area, Tom stood at the edge of a small, dimly lit room. For some reason, he didn’t step inside.

  “Got a minute?” he asked.

  There was just enough light bleeding from a crank-arm lamp inside the room that I could see a formless figure sitting in front of a computer monitor. Her round face turned toward us, haloed by frizzy dark-blond hair.

  “You’ll want to see this,” Tom added. “Really. I promise.”

  She blinked at him. Her blue eyes were large and round as glacial snowballs.

  “Am I interrupting you?” Tom asked.

  “Depends.” Her voice sounded hesitant.

  “This is Raleigh Harmon.” Tom grabbed my arm, dragging me into the room. “Raleigh, this is Wesley Mosk, our expert botanist.”

  She was wearing dark scrubs decorated with images of bright-green plants. The shelves on either side of her desk were stacked with thick books. Treatises. Studies on pollen. Lichen. Moss. Cherished books nobody else would read.

  “Raleigh’s a forensic geologist,” Tom added.

  The blue snowballs rolled toward me, measuring and classifying me. And I recognized that look—it was what I’d just done to her.

  “I know you’re really busy.” Tom’s tone sounded like someone trying to negotiate with a reluctant buyer. “But have you ever heard of a plant called Golden Indian Paintbrush?”

  Her gaze alternated between us while her lips murmured, “Cast-ee-yah-lev-eh-sec-tah.”

  Tom stared. But I spied my opening.

  “The plant’s Latin name?”

  Wesley’s voice rose an octave. “You know Latin?”

  “Quasi.” I smiled at my poor joke. For six years, my private high school in Virginia had pounded the dead language into my stubborn skull, including the arcane fact that every single plant on earth received a Latin name, thanks to a Swedish botanist whose own name sounded like he was more plant than human—Carolus Linnaeus. I pointed at the books beside her computer. “You have some of Linnaeus’ books.”

  The snowballs melted into blue ponds. “I have all of them.”

  “Great!” Tom exclaimed, backing out of the room. “Look how much you two have in common!”

  And he was gone.

  I turned back to her and smiled. “I need your expertise.”

  She was giving me a wary expression. Although Peter had called her the best, she seemed like the kind of misunderstood woman who had been ridiculed her whole life. The plant-based scrubs weren’t helping, but she reminded me of a thunderegg—a bland, even ugly stone that most people would step right over, while inside an entire spectrum of brilliantly colored minerals had crystallized into dazzling patterns. Treasure waited inside the thunderegg…if you knew to look for it.

  “How did you get my name?” she asked.

  “Peter Rosser.”

  Her sloped shoulders rose. “You know Peter?”

  The first crack in the thunderegg. “We’re partners.”

  “Partners.” Her gaze fixed on my left hand. “As in holy matrimony?”

  “What? No.” I waved away the idea. “We’re business partners. In his forensics lab.”

  Her wide forehead creased into a frown. “You don’t have to tell me about Peter’s new business.”

  Oh-kay. Whatever was going on, I had to keep her open. Lifting the grocery bag in my hand, I told her about the state’s stop work order and the land owner’s suspicion that somebody added this plant to her property in order to ruin her business. “Do you happen to know the plant’s native habitats?”

  She tilted her head. “What did Peter say about me?”

  I looked her in the eye. “He said nobody was better at botany.”

  A tiny smile spread across her plump face. “Castilleja levisecta,” she said, going Latin again, “is a rare species of the figwort family.”

  “Those figworts.”

  “You know of them?”

  “No, it was a…never mind.”

  “A perennial herb, it grows in groups with up to fifteen stems. And, like other Castilleja, levisecta is a hemiparasite.”

  “It has worms?”

  “Hemi-para-site.”

  “Yeah. Worms.”

  She wagged a plump finger at me. “Hemi. Para. Site. Where is your Latin?”

  “It died.”

  “Hemiparasite means a plant can access the root systems of other plants. That way, it can obtain water and other nutrients.”

  I raised the bag. “So it st
eals food and water from the neighbors—how could it ever be endangered?”

  Wesley launched into a long discursive about the precarious lives of certain plants, their tenuous existence in the ecosystem—yada yada—but I was mostly listening. Until she started lecturing me about lichen clinging to rocks, making it sound like the kind of tragedy Dickens would’ve written about. At that point, my eyes glazed over and my mind drifted into a daydream in which Wesley Mosk was a young child exploring her backyard, picking flowers and plants, then hiding in the family attic munching on Red Vine licorice and cataloguing the obscure Latin-named flora in her diary. I snapped back to the present as one pudgy hand rose and her fingers began opening and closing like a sea anemone. It took me a moment. But I finally deduced she wanted the grocery bag. I handed it over.

  She peered inside, then looked up with an accusatory expression. “It’s dehydrated!”

  “Yeah, well, solitary confinement for the hemiparasite.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Let’s go back to native habitats,” I said. “Where does this thing grow?”

  “This particular species prefers lower elevations.”

  “Flat land?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Foothills?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  I tried again. “What about soil type?”

  “Rocky.”

  “Gravel?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Sand?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Farm soil?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Wesley, is there anything you can tell me?”

  “It enjoys growing alongside Festuca Idahoensis.”

  “Idaho-what?”

  “Idaho fescue. In common parlance.”

  “That’s me.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Common parlance. So where in Washington state does it grow—and I mean places with names.”

  “Islands.”

  “Any island?”

  “Islands in Puget Sound.”

  “All of them?”

  “Whidbey. Orcas.”

  “Any other islands?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Okay, getting warmer.

  “But,” she added, “Castilleja levisecta also grows in seven locations that are not islands.”

  I held my hand out for the bag. But she kept hold of it. And suddenly her feet appeared, swinging out from under the chair. Tiny feet. Clad in pink ballet-style flats. They carried her to the door, and I followed. But I couldn’t stop staring at those feet. Inside of this serious and brilliant woman was a shy little girl who yearned to dance. I followed her steps all the way down the hall to the open exam room. Two male technicians in white lab coats stood at their stainless steel stations. When Wesley glided past in her scrubs and ballet shoes, they both did double-takes.

  “Here are the grasslands,” she said, stopping beside a large map of Washington state hanging on the wall. “Periodically, the grasslands undergo wildfires. The flames decimate most native flora. And yet despite such aggressive attacks, Castilleja levisecta continues to prosper. It’s a miracle plant.”

  “So it can steal food, take water from other plants, and survive forest fires? It can’t be endangered.”

  Wesley Mosk stomped her pink feet. “It most certainly is endangered.”

  “Okay. Fine. But—“

  “When did Peter hire you?”

  “Couple months ago.”

  “He should never have left us. It was a mistake, a massive historic mistake. He may never recover from such an impetuous decision.”

  As she berated my boss, her torch burned bright. And I’d bet good money Peter never saw it. That cowboy would joke with her, praise her genius, thank her profusely for help, never realizing what his attention meant to the little neglected girl inside.

  Finally, her diatribe wound down, and I pointed to the map. “So, natural habitats?”

  She tapped her finger on a spot near the Canadian border then slid down to indicate the triangular landmasses of the San Juan Islands. Moving even lower, she pointed to Whidbey Island, northwest of Seattle. “However, Castilleja levisecta has also been found in Oregon and parts of California. But we botanists believe those occurrences have come from transplantation, not native growth.”

  I pointed where Sue Buress’ new vineyard waited near Woodinville. “How about around here?”

  “Did you see me delineate that area?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “And for your information, this species is also threatened by Hieracium pilosella.”

  “Some kind of disease?”

  “Mouse-ear Hawkweed, since you seem to require common parlance. And Cytisus scoparius, otherwise known as Scotch Broom. Not to mention Leucanthemum vulgare…”

  My mind drifted again. On the other side of the lab, the techs had gathered near the entrance. An officer wearing the blue Seattle Police Department uniform handed a cardboard box to the first tech. The second tech handed the officer a clipboard and pointed down the hallway, shaking his head. Moments later, four officers entered carrying a familiar object.

  The tree-trunk canoe.

  The tech laughed. “You expect us to keep that thing?”

  My point exactly.

  “And let’s not forget,” Wesley continued, “the ravages of common ivy.”

  I nodded but kept watch as the four officers reversed course and carried the canoe out the same way they came in. Meanwhile, the first tech set the cardboard box on the stainless steel counter.

  “…and the invasive environmental threats which can…”

  The tech opened the box and removed an evidence bag. Even from here, I could see moisture and condensation clouding the plastic. And a checkerboard pattern inside. Shoes. Skater shoes. My heart jumped.

  I put my hand on the map, catching Wesley’s attention and cutting off the Dickensian botany saga. “Thank you so much, you’ve been extremely helpful. And I’ll be sure to tell Peter. Now will you excuse me, please?”

  Before she could deny an exit, I hustled across the exam room, already pulling out my cell phone and scrolling through the contacts. I tapped the number for Tom O’Brien’s cell. The tech pulled out another evidence bag. Wet blue jeans.

  Tom answered immediately. “I know, Wesley can be hard to communicate with.”

  “She’s great.”

  “Really?”

  “Very helpful.” I lowered my voice. “Remember the body I rowed into this morning?”

  “Yes…”

  “SPD just delivered the evidence. There’s a pair of shoes.”

  Silence.

  “Tom?”

  “Raleigh, I just stepped into Nordstrom’s. They’re having a sale.”

  “And you can keep shopping.” I glanced at the tech. He was staring at me, hesitating to expose any more evidence while I stood there. “Because I’m standing in the exam room next to one of your techs.”

  “I am not driving back there.”

  “I’ll write up the contract right here. I’ll sign it and the tech will sign it. You can give us verbal approval over the phone, then sign the contract when you come in tomorrow morning.”

  On the phone, the world in solemn stillness lay.

  “Tom?”

  “And you wonder why I’m so surprised you’re getting married.”

  10

  Sprinting away from the crime lab, the Pony raced through Seattle’s misty city streets, tires sluicing a steady hiss that almost matched the sibilant sound pressing into my heart. Catching the urgent vibe, Madame sat up and gazed out the windshield like a highly trained co-pilot.

  I parked the car on Third Avenue, grabbed my pack, and ran with the dog to the small park so she could conduct more business. Then we hightailed it to the prettiest building in all of downtown—the Smith Tower.

  Once upon a time, these thirty-eight floors of white granite and terra-cotta w
ere the tallest building west of the Mississippi. Today the building stood dwarfed by the glistening glass skyscrapers all around it, a setting that looked like God cracked open a computer-generated geode. But from my perspective, those sleek modern structures only made the Smith Tower more charming.

  Like the elderly guard in the lobby.

  Patterson rose creakily from his desk while Madame and I shook off the rain.

  “Need a lift?” He was pulling on his white gloves before I even answered, shuffling for the polished copper-cage elevators, saying to the dog, “Ladies first.”

  Madame hopped over the grooved metal threshold. I took a deep breath and stepped in behind Patterson.

  He pulled the clattery cage door closed and pressed the enamel button for the twelfth floor, shifting the brass lever that regulated the elevator’s speed. “Going up.”

  My stomach lurched. The floors scrolled past like words on a computer screen. The dog leaned against my leg.

  “Working late tonight?” Patterson asked.

  “Not sure.”

  “New guy comes in at five.” The sixth floor flew past.

  I nodded.

  “Young lady. I want your word.”

  “You have my word.”

  “And?”

  “And I won’t walk to my car alone.”

  “Good. It’s not good to be alone.”

  “Although I have a gun and the guard doesn’t.”

  “You also get distracted, and the guard doesn’t.” His old, wrinkled face smoothed into a smile. The eleventh floor coasted past. Patterson shifted the lever, slowing our ascent. The elevator stopped. “Have a lovely evening, Raleigh.”

  “Thanks, Patterson.”

  His white-gloved hand pulled open the cage door. “Thank you for giving me your word.”

  The dog and I stepped onto terra firma. I felt an instant relief walking down the white hexagonal floor tiles that had been here since 1914. The antique elevator creeped me out, but Patterson insisted on delivering us ever since I was attacked in here late one night.

  “Going down,” he called out, the cage clattering shut.

  Madame raced ahead to my office. The corner space at the far end of the hallway had views of the waterfront to the west and the Space Needle to the north. But the dog halted at the door before mine. Ears pricked, she tilted her head. Listening. The psychologist. Her office was next to mine. As I passed the door, I heard someone singing off-key about Santa coming to town.