The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Page 7

“Can you think of anyone else who might’ve wanted to harm your sister?”

  “No.” His dark eyes filled with hate. It made him resemble his mother. “You should also know that Mason asked Annicka to marry him. She turned him down. And she broke up with him.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two weeks before she went missing.”

  I kept the surprise out of my face. “You told this to the police?”

  “The police.” Fritz gave a hard laugh. He picked up a pen from the desk, scratching it several times on a small pad to get the ink to flow. He handed the note to me. “Mason Leming lives with his mother on an herb farm.” He made air quotes. “Total mama’s boy.”

  “This is very helpful, thank you.”

  “It’s the truth. But you should know the cops believe Mason’s alibi. So good luck with it.”

  I pocketed the note, and resisted the urge to tell him luck didn’t exist.

  This family already knew that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  From the basement office, Johann led us further down the chilly hall. Most of the light came from high transom windows set inside the stone walls. The window sills were deep, ten inches at least. The basement was built like a German bunker.

  At the last door, Johann stopped. He didn’t open it.

  “I’ll be upstairs,” he said in that bucket-scraping voice.

  I opened the door. “Thank you.”

  Annicka Engel’s bedroom was a narrow space. One single bed pushed up against the back wall. One transom window showing the grass outside, sunlight slashing through the individual blades making them look like green hash marks. The light slipped into the room and fell on the trophies standing on a shelf behind her bed. The gold glittered like pyrite. I walked over. First place, first, first … A female figure stood on each one, frozen in mid-stride.

  “She was a very good runner.”

  Johann stood in the doorway.

  But as soon as I turned, he closed the door—quickly—as if something might jump out. Numbered running bibs were thumbtacked on the back of the door, swaying in the breeze. Madame, standing beside me, continued to stare at the door, waiting for it to open again, like some game of peek-a-boo.

  “Stay,” I told her.

  She lay down where the column of sunlight struck the chilly floor. I opened my pack, took out a pair of latex gloves, and snapped them on.

  Her computer sat on a shelf inside a small closet, with clothes hanging on either side. I turned it on. Her desktop wallpaper was a series of shifting photographs. Blond girl. A black-and-white dog—Kaffee, I guessed. One lanky guy with brown hair and a narrow face, smiling into the camera. The boyfriend? The next photo showed her racing. She wore a cross country uniform for Cascade High School. Two competitors struggled behind her, looking desperate. Annicka’s quad muscles stretched like rubber bands, blond ponytail flying behind her like a flag for the perfect Aryan specimen. Except her eyes. In next photo, which was a close-up of her face, I saw her brown eyes. Like her mother. Annika was smiling and biting down on a gold medal, as if testing its authenticity. Those eyes. They looked even darker against the bright blond hair. Although Hitler would disagree, the brown eyes made her even more beautiful.

  When the photo loop restarted, I watched it again. Something else caught my attention. She was so much younger than her brother, Fritz. He seemed close to thirty. But Johann said Annicka died right before her eighteenth birthday. That was a huge age span between two children. I watched the girl on the computer. She was happy. Confident. Untroubled. And I remembered what Officer Wilcove said that first day. She was perfect.

  I shifted the mouse. The system asked for a password. I broke it on the first try. KAFFEE. Her dog.

  I found English class essays. History assignments. One running log. I clicked on that and found she ran about fifty miles weekly, sometimes sixty. Each day was a different route, but the rotation stayed the same. Ski Hill Road, Farm Road, School Trails. And every Sunday: Icicle River trail.

  Every Sunday.

  Anybody who had that information could’ve waited for her. With a weapon. And a shovel.

  I glanced at my watch. I still wanted to get to the sheriff’s office today and check on that autopsy. I clicked through her other files, but found nothing very interesting. The same password opened her Internet browser. Her favorite sites were bookmarked and included YouTube videos of famous runners—Joan Benoit winning the Olympic gold—and animal pages, veterinarian advice columns, how to get into veterinarian school.

  Her Trash folder was empty.

  I combed through her emails. Notices for team runs at UW. Practice details. Freshman orientation. Travel uniforms. I also found a series of emails back and forth with the team’s captain. Annicka had missed two Saturday meets. The captain wanted to know if Annicka was alright. Annicka had replied: “Lots going on at home.”

  She said nothing about stress fractures.

  Which meant either she lied to her father, or lied to her team captain.

  But other than that, I saw nothing else suspicious, or dangerous. I also found no emails from Mason Leming. And none sent to him. That seemed odd. Did she delete them all and empty the Trash folder? But there were no threats. No harsh words. Nothing to indicate her life was in danger.

  Another series of emails came from an account labelled Apple Orchard. I didn’t understand what they were about, some kind of work schedule. But one email came in the Saturday morning before she died.

  The subject line read: “See you tomorrow?”

  Annicka replied: “Right after my run. Kiss Buster for me.”

  I wrote the name Buster in my notebook, and turned on the printer. While some of the emails printed, I knelt in her closet.

  There were only three pairs of shoes. Green flip flops. Black dress shoes, barely worn. And beat-up white tennis shoes. I found some soil in the tennis shoes’ soles, but it was mere microns. The drought alone would keep soil from sticking to shoes. I opened one baggie, scraped the microns in, and pinched the bag shut.

  Madame blinked in the sunlight.

  “Good girl,” I said, taking out a Sharpie and writing white tennis shoes on the bag. I put it in my pack, then looked around the small space again.

  Something bothered me here. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. I searched the rest of the room. Lifted her single mattress. Opened each drawer and every book on the narrow shelf by her bed. I moved all her clothes in the closet, searched the back wall, checked under the computer, the printer, inside each shoe.

  There was nothing.

  No notes.

  No scrapbooks.

  Nothing.

  Standing in the middle of the room, a sadness gripped my heart. The bare walls. The plain bed shoved up against stone. One small window allowing one narrow column of light inside. The room felt as soulless as a boarding house. Some place to sleep. Some place to dream about better things to come.

  And now they never would.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I was walking down that dimly lit hall in search of a bathroom when Tijuana Brass erupted on my cell phone. Madame cocked her head, listening until I slid my finger over Peter’s number.

  “I’m at their hotel,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The Engels’ hotel, in Leavenworth. That’s where I am.”

  “But you said—”

  I explained the new situation, how Jack promised to fly me in and out. “Plus the Bureau needs a consult on a hate crime here. Arson on a church. So it’s two jobs up here.”

  “Howdy-do!” Peter said.

  “I’m glad you’re excited because we need to talk about the Engels.”

  “How’s the dad doing?”

  “Oh, never better.”

  “Just so you know,” he said, sighing, “I get to ask one dumb question every single day.”

  “I’ll be counting.” I glanced down the stone hallway. Still empty, but I lowered my voice even further. “What’s this about tradi
ng our fee for hotel rooms?”

  “Oh. Yeah. That.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Raleigh, you get free hotel rooms—for life. Hitch your wagon to that deal.”

  “And what if I don’t want to visit little Bavaria all the time?”

  “Beer-n-brats, it ain’t bad.”

  “We’ll discuss it later. Did you get the soil samples?”

  “Right here,” he said. “My conclusive technical analysis is this is weirdsly beardsly.”

  “Why?”

  “That soil’s got hair in it. And it ain’t human hair.”

  “Probably from her dog. It was running with her.”

  “Nope. Not dog hair.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You also get one dumb question a day.”

  “Sorry.”

  Peter was head of the state’s crime lab in eastern Washington for decades. Being based in rural territory, his cases saw a lot wildlife—poaching, trespassing, ranch thefts. He would know dog hair from another animal’s hair. I recalled her burial site. That hand rising from the soil. “Cougar hair?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Raccoon?”

  “Not.”

  “Field mice?”

  “You can keep guessing,” he drawled. “Or you can take it into a specialist.”

  “You’re a specialist.”

  “But not one of my wildlife hair samples matches this here strand. But I got a connection with a gal who lives over in your neck of the woods. Works with U-dub.”

  “Okay.” I glanced around the grim basement. If this was where the family got away from irate guests, I felt even sorrier for them. “Send the soil back.”

  “Be there when you get back.”

  “You already sent it.”

  “Specialist’s number is in the package,” he added.

  “How did you know I’d take—”

  “I got a feeling about you, Raleigh. Why I hired you.”

  Madame was wandering down the hall, sniffing the stone floor. I followed but found a bathroom on my left. I patted my leg for her to come and flicked on the bathroom light. More stone walls. And a strong odor of mildew. In one corner, beside the stand-up corner shower, a pair of hiking boots waited. I walked over to them. “Where did you send the soil?”

  “Your aunt’s house.”

  “Which aunt?” I checked the boot’s tag. Women’s size 8. “Charlotte Harmon?”

  “Isn’t her name Eleanor?”

  “Oh, that aunt.” Eleanor had played my “aunt” when I was undercover for the FBI at the racetrack. My real aunt—my dad’s sister, Charlotte Harmon—lived in Seattle. I explained it all to Peter.

  “Clear as kaolinite,” he said. Kaolinite was clay, thickest mud around. “You might want to handle the box kinda careful. I packed some equipment in there. Just to get you started. Nothing fancy.”

  “Peter, you didn’t have to. I’ll find some equipment.” Somehow. Somewhere.

  “Know what she told me?”

  “Who?”

  “Your make-believe aunt.”

  “Eleanor.” I lifted one of the hiking boots. A dark brown soil was buried in the deep treads. Lots of it. I reached for my pack. “What’d Eleanor say?”

  “She said, ‘Funerals are pretty compared to death.’ ”

  I pulled out a baggie, shook it open. “Did she also tell you that she thinks that phrase should be your lab’s motto?”

  “It ain’t bad …”

  I knocked the soil loose, deposited it into the baggie, and pinched the top closed. “Unfortunately,” I reached for the Sharpie, “that line belongs to a southern playwright.”

  “Maybe he’ll let us use it.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Even better!”

  I opened the Sharpie and wrote boots in bathroom on the clear plastic. Madame moved toward the open door, her fur raised between her shoulders. I looked up.

  Fritz Engels stood there, his dark eyes like deep caves. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m just collecting—”

  “Raleigh?” Peter’s voice drawled through the phone.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “And see if you can get her autopsy,” Peter added.

  “I’m on it.” I disconnected the call.

  Fritz stood rooted to the floor, hands in his front pockets. “I asked you a question,” he said. “What are you doing.”

  Now not a question. “I’m collecting evidence.”

  “In our bathroom?”

  I pointed the Sharpie at the muddy boots. “Are those her boots?”

  He nodded.

  “When did she last wear them?”

  “When she was alive.”

  Such a funny guy.

  “I’m curious where the mud in the soles came from,” I said, “since it hasn’t rained here in months.”

  “How would I know that.”

  “You have absolutely no idea where she could’ve worn those boots?”

  “They’re her boots.” His hands jingled something in his pocket. Keys, coins, a cold metallic music that rattled in the mildewed air, each note sending a shiver down my spine. “Are you done?”

  I still needed to use the facilities. But not here. “Yes, I’m done. For now.”

  Fritz stepped aside. Madame followed me into the hall, her fur still up between her shoulders. Fritz closed the bathroom door. “My mom doesn’t allow dogs in the main hotel,” he said.

  “Right, thanks.” I pulled out my notebook, as if writing myself a reminder. But it wasn’t about dogs in the hotel.

  The reminder said:

  Run background check on Fritz Engels.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I carried Madame up the stone steps, searching for Johann. The hotel’s many additions created a maze of hallways and alcoves and somehow, I ended up right back in the taxidermied lobby.

  Helen Engels glanced up from the front desk, scowling at the dog under my arm. But she said nothing. Probably because a young couple was checking in with three children.

  “Is your pool heated?” asked the mother.

  “No,” Helen said.

  “Is there a lifeguard?”

  “We don’t have a lifeguard.”

  I passed under the antler chandelier, almost jogging for the heavy front door. When I pushed it open, Madame leaped from my arms. I circled the outside searching for Johann, but soon decided he didn’t want to be found. Who could blame him. And I didn’t really want to quiz him about his son before I did my own background search. Pulling out my cell phone, walking back to the Front Street, I called Jack and got his voice mail. All it said was: “Leave a message.”

  No identification, no way for somebody to trace it to an FBI agent.

  I held the speaker to my mouth. “It’s about ten o’clock. I’ve got some time to check on your church burning. Call me back.”

  Traffic down the main drag was a steady stream of white noise from wheels, motors, radios, all of it periodically interrupted by a burp of a loud truck. But I could see why people were coming. In the autumn sunshine, this Bavarian village looked as quaint and cozy as a town inside a snow globe. Not one piece of litter on the street. Everyone smiling. Every single building a perfect Bavarian replica.

  Perfect.

  Except for a killer.

  A killer, I decided, who must live here. It was unlikely a stranger knew the Sunday running routine for Annicka Engels. She was supposed to be at college. But what about those stress fractures, which she didn’t mention in her emails with teammates?

  I was still walking down the sidewalk, making a second call to the sheriff, when the scent hit me. Madame was already tracking it, nose up, sniffing the air, glancing back at me.

  “Good girl!”

  Led by our noses, we followed the lusciousness, down the sidewalk, past a hair place named Gustave’s and a music store named Mozart, and when we reached the corner, plumes of gray smoke curled from the short roof
. Amber grease coated the small windows. And a plastic sign closed the deal.

  Das Burgermeister.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Madame picked up her pace, I started jogging. But my excitement soon surpassed greasy food. I knew bait when I saw it.

  That smell.

  Fries.

  I lifted the phone to my mouth and asked the magical technology for the phone number for the Washington State Patrol.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Never too early,” said Officer Wilcove.

  His patrol cruiser still reeked of French fries, but now the smell was fresh from Das Burgermeister. Sitting in the back seat behind the steel cage, because Madame was at my feet enjoying her own breakfast of champions, I said silent grace—two words, thank you—and dipped one hot crispy fry in mayonnaise. When I bit down, my throat hummed. God bless the potato, the mineral salt, and the inventor of mayonnaise.

  “How is that?” Wilcove turned his large head, speaking through the cage. “The mayo, I mean?”

  “Check it out.” I dipped a fry and offered it to him.

  He chewed slowly like a true connoisseur of American great, savoring the pleasure of fast food. “Hey, that’s pretty darn good.”

  He lifted his Styrofoam milkshake cup and tapped it against the cage.

  Oh, the warm glow of evangelism. I slipped him a foil travel packet of mayo and watched my cult of fries-with-mayo gain another member.

  “I would’ve invited that deputy, too—the Animal Control guy, what’s his name, Seiler?”

  Wilcove dipped his fries. “Tom Seiler.”

  “Right. But he doesn’t seem like he’d enjoy this kind of thing.”

  “Well …” Wilcove’s forehead tightened. “Seiler’s kind of…”

  “Suspicious?”

  He shrugged.

  “Definitely seems serious about his job.” I thought of him nagging me about the leash when there was a dead body right behind me. “He probably wouldn’t like my dog unleashed in here, either.”

  “He’s a good guy,” Seiler said. “He’s helped me a lot.”

  “I’m glad.” I dipped a fry. “I was just searching Annicka Engels’ bedroom.”