Nowhere to Hide (28 page)

Good. God.

“What do you want to ask Hague?” Liv asked, breaking into September’s heated thoughts. “You have to be kind of careful.”

September didn’t know Liv very well and wondered if she were trying to protect her brother. “What do you mean?”

She half-turned so September could see her profile. “I thought Auggie told you about my brother.”

“He did. He said that Hague has difficulty staying on point in an interview.”

“My brother sometimes rants and yells, and then other times he’ll talk to you just fine. Until he slips into his own world. You can hit a hot button without knowing it, and then he’s just gone.”

“You want to talk to him about his stay at Grandview,” Auggie said, meeting her eyes in the rearview.

“That’s right.”

Liv cocked her head and said, “Good luck with that.”

“It’s a hot button?” September suggested.

“You could say that. But then a lot of things are,” she added almost as an afterthought.

They took Sunset Highway into Portland, driving through the Vista Ridge Tunnel and popping into the city on the other side. Keeping on the freeway, they crossed the Willamette over the Marquam Bridge and then took the Water Street exit to wind through the industrial buildings on the east side of the Willamette. Auggie pulled into a spot about a half block up from Rosa’s Cantina, the bar on the first floor of Hague Dugan’s building and the place where he sometimes came to hold court and orate to his followers about the evils of an oppressive government and people in power. His dissertations were rants just short of all out crazy, according to Auggie, though he would probably not say the same in front of Liv, though September guessed she knew anyway.

They took an open freight elevator to the third floor and when it bumped lightly to a stop, Auggie slid back the metal, accordion-type door and the three of them exited and walked to a door within sight of the elevator. Liv knocked loudly, muttering under her breath, “Get ready for Della. I called, but she never wants Hague to have visitors. She—”

The door opened before she could finish what she was saying. A woman with white blond hair pulled into a bun glared at them through icy blue eyes. Her intense gaze softened a bit when she saw Auggie, who said, “Hey there, Della. How’re you doing?”

“I’m okay. It’s okay,” she said, allowing them entry.

September threw her brother a look. Auggie could really lay on the charm when it suited him, which kind of pissed her off.

They walked through the main living area to what was clearly Hague’s personal living space. He was seated in a La-Z-Boy recliner and there were several trays and tables scattered around him. He was thin and his brown hair was unkempt and a beard darkened his jaw, though it looked like he was just growing it in. His eyes were closed when they entered, but when Della said, “Hague, your sister’s here,” they opened and regarded them with a faraway look.

“I brought Auggie with me,” Liv told him. “And his sister, September. She’s a police officer and she wants to talk to you about Grandview Hospital.”

Hague’s eyes shifted to September. “A police officer.”

September pulled out one of her cards and handed it to him. “I’m trying to solve several homicides around the Laurelton area, and I thought maybe you could help me.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked in a perfectly reasonable voice.

The buildup had been so dramatic that she was slightly taken aback at how normal he sounded. “I . . . like your sister said, I wanted to ask you about Grandview Hospital, what you can remember from your time at that place. There may be a connection there to the homicides.”

Hague’s gaze shifted from September to Liv. He said to his sister, “We know this. We know this already.”

There was a thread of urgency to his voice, and Liv said, “Don’t worry, Hague. We’re safe now. September just needs you to recall anything about that time, what was going on, whether you knew some people.”

“What people?” he demanded. “Navarone wasn’t my doctor. My doctor was Dr. Tambor.”

“Did you know Dr. Navarone’s niece, Glenda Navarone? She would have been a few years older than you?” September asked.

“Would have been?” He seized on the phrase. “Is she
dead?
”

“Yes,” September said, after a moment. She hadn’t thought she’d imbued her words with that information, but she couldn’t very well lie to him.

A heavy sigh escaped him. “He told me he killed both of them, but I thought he was lying.” His eyes stretched wide but it was clear he wasn’t seeing what was in front of him. His view was from some inner torment.

“Both of them?” September repeated.

“Hague!” Liv said sternly, stepping forward. “You remember Glenda Navarone?”

He muttered, “He told me about them. They were behind the counter, laughing.”

September’s brow furrowed. “One of them was Glenda?”

“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there. He told me about them. He would never listen to what I had to say, but he talked . . . he talked . . .”

September’s pulse leapt. “Who is he, Hague?”

“He told me he would fuck me up if I told. I thought it was a lie.” Now he gazed directly at September. “He said he took Glenda on the table. I didn’t know he killed her. I thought I saw her again . . .” He faded out, confused.

“He didn’t kill her at that time,” September clarified. “We heard about Glenda having sex on Dr. Navarone’s examining table. Is that what you’re remembering?”

“Is it?” he asked, frowning.

Patiently, September asked, “Do you remember him? The one you’re talking about?”

“He said he’d kill us if we talk to the doctors. . . . He talks to us because he wants to tell, but if we tell, he’ll put the noose around our necks.” His hands came up beside his head like blinders.

“When you say ‘both’ of them? Do you mean Glenda and Emmy Decatur?”

“Who?”

“Emmy Decatur,” September repeated. “She also went to Grandview Hospital for a while.”

“Was she one of them?” he asked, confusion filling his face. His hands turned inward and he pressed his palms to his eyes. A moment later he dropped his hands and looked around furtively. “Out of the sides of my eyes . . . I can see them . . .”

“What’s his name?” September asked.

“Hague!” Liv practically shouted at him and Della snapped, “Stop it! You know what this does to him!”

“He’s okay,” Auggie said to Della and she glared at him for a moment but held her tongue.

But Hague’s eyes had lost focus. They started circling around as if he’d lost control of them.

“Who is he?” September asked again, a bit desperately.

A faint smile crawled across his lips. “Wart,” he whispered, then his eyes rolled back and he was gone.

Chapter 16

Liv and Auggie dropped September back at her car, and she lifted a hand in good-bye as they drove off, debating whether to run up to her apartment first, or head back to work.

Wart. Hague had said Wart!

She’d eagerly demanded, “Who’s Wart? Who’s Wart?”

But Hague was gone. To some alternate reality. Liv had turned to September and explained that this is what happened with her brother, this was the problem. It was all September could do to keep herself from grabbing Hague Dugan and shaking him. Sensing her frustration, Auggie had grabbed her arm and dragged her away. “I’ll have Liv keep working on him. See if we can get something more.”

“It’s important, Auggie. I think this guy could be our doer!” September had urged.

“I know. I’ve been to this barbeque before, okay? Hague can’t help it.”

“Both of them must mean Glenda and Emmy. I wish I could talk to him more.”

“It just doesn’t work that way. You gave him your card. Maybe when he comes back . . .” He let his voice trail off and she could tell he thought it was a long shot. “My advice: Don’t get your hopes up.”

She knew he was right but it didn’t mitigate her frustration. At all. And the heat of the morning was turning into a blistering afternoon. She could feel the effects of her lovemaking, too; her body was sore inside and out, but it was the kind of minor pain that simply jolted her into recalling moments from the night before, and that left her breathless.

Now, shaking her head at her own susceptibility, she shot a glance to the second story of her building as she opened the door to her Pilot. Her brow furrowed. Was her front door ajar a little bit?

Shutting the vehicle’s driver’s door, she hit the remote and heard the chirp that said her car was locked. She headed up the stairs, her heart pounding triple time, her hand searching for the Glock that had been inside her messenger bag since her trip to see Hague.

She hesitated, thinking she should retrieve it, but as she looked again at the door she thought that it was a trick of light. Her door was shut firmly.

Still . . .

Reaching into her pocket for her keys, she moved quietly to the door, gently testing the knob. It was locked tight, but it was not a deadbolt. Easy enough to break into, she thought, if you had a little patience and skill. She’d thought before that she should install a better lock system; she was constantly alert and thinking someone was after her. Whether that was true or just her sensitive nerves, she didn’t know.

Sliding the key into the lock, she opened the door and stepped inside, ears and eyes open.

Nothing. All was still and it had that dull feeling of quietude that said the place was empty. She strolled through the kitchen and saw the crumbs from her hasty toast this morning as she’d raced through what passed as breakfast and changed into the clothes for work, clothes that had been tossed on her bed and discarded but were right there. She hadn’t had time to come up with something new.

Recognizing her ultra-vigilance was not needed, she exhaled a couple of times, waiting for her pulse to decelerate. She used the time to change into new clothes, exchanging yesterday’s navy slacks and blue shirt for a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and her gray jacket. It was hot, but she needed the jacket to cover her holster and gun, as much as it did.

She stopped by the bistro near her apartment and ordered half a pastrami sandwich, which came with a choice of fries, potato salad, or a green salad. She chose the green salad and a Diet Coke, and a few minutes later she walked out with the bag and drink, feeling heat prickle her scalp.

Jake had insisted on walking her to her door this morning, kissing her, refusing to let her turn away in case any of the neighbors were watching, branding her, she knew, in a way that she responded to even while she protested.

“It’s too hot,” she told him, swatting his hands away.

“Hot September,” he said, grinning, and she groaned and pushed at him.

“Stop. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

“I’m going to think about this all day,” he told her.

“Go away.” She put her key in the lock.

“Not yet . . .”

And he followed her inside and kissed her some more and she found that she really liked it and she had to actually play a part of stony insistence to get him to leave.

Now her eyes looked around the room, remembering where they were standing and the feel of his hands on her.

God.

She actually covered her face with her hands and groaned. This was how she’d felt in high school. This was it. This all-consuming craziness. And her mind was definitely stuck on a lusty, sexual track.

If she could, she would call him up and demand he meet her and make love to her all afternoon and evening and into tomorrow morning.

“Get the hell out of here,” she told herself, and that got her moving, and she twisted the button on the knob to lock the door and ran down the stairs to her car. At work, at least, she seemed to be able to push thoughts of Jake Westerly aside.

If there was one thing Jake never did it was daydream.

Sure, he took time in the day to think about things; his mind generally liked to work through knotty problems in those down moments. Business problems. But since reconnecting with September Rafferty all he seemed to do was daydream. How had that happened?

“Swear to God,” he murmured to the walls of his office.

And after last night . . .

He was infused with happiness. The ennui of the past few months was simply not there. He felt energized and alive and ready for something. Like he’d told Nine the night before, he was trying to figure out what the next phase of his life was going to be and now he knew that, whatever it was, he wanted—needed—her to be a part of it.

Jake decided to go home and think it through. Maybe he should just pull the plug on the operation now. To hell with his lease. Maybe he could buy himself out without having to pay the full amount. That’s what he wanted. To be free.

Glancing at the clock, he grabbed up his keys and shoved papers into his briefcase, papers that had to do with more deals, possible deals, deals he didn’t care anything about.

His cell phone started singing and the sound of the ringtone stopped him cold. He hadn’t heard it in months. He should have changed it, but he hadn’t.

Loni.

For a moment he thought about not taking the call, but then he did. But it wasn’t Loni on the other end. It was Loni’s frantic mother.

“She swallowed a whole bottle of pills,” came Marilyn Cheever’s choked voice. “A whole bottle. They’ve pumped her stomach, but it’s . . . she’s not awake . . . we don’t know . . . Jake, can you come? Please? If you were there when she came to . . . ?”

“Which hospital?” he asked, aware how coldly serious he sounded, unable to prevent his tone. It wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t the second . . . it wasn’t the third.

And he didn’t want to go.

“Providence,” Marilyn said on a hiccup. “Hurry . . .”

Wanting to say no, unable to be so cold to someone he’d cared about for so long, he said, “I’ll be right there,” then clicked off and headed for the elevators.

September ate her sandwich and drank her Diet Coke in the break room. She’d planned to sit at her desk, but she saw the federal agents look up when she entered and she decided she wanted some privacy. Sandler and Thompkins hadn’t returned and D’Annibal’s office was dark. She needed a little alone time with her thoughts to think things through.