Unspeakable (8 page)

He might have enjoyed all the press and the attention a few years ago, but not now.

His grandfather had used his still-formidable clout to keep Collin's current whereabouts out of the newspapers. For twenty-five years, nearly a third of the people in town had been employed at his grandfather's mill, Stampler Wire and Cable. He'd used his influence with the local press, who downplayed the fact that the late Piper Cox was onetime industrial tycoon Andrew Stampler's daughter.

A few determined reporters had tracked Collin to his grandparents' house in Poulsbo. But Ian and the other detectives kept them off the property.

That didn't mean he had to like Ian's coworkers. He figured Al was going to be on his ass all the way to town. And, as was typical of him, Al was a jerk about it, too. Every once in a while, the car would fade back and give Ian some space—but never for long. He'd hear Al gun it and come up right behind him. Gravel crunched under the Dodge's tires as it loomed closer. Collin really wanted to flip him the bird.

Instead, he turned onto one of the foot trails threading through Nelson Park, an eleven-acre piece of land overlooking the bay. As he got closer to the park's picnic grounds, he smelled food barbecuing. He heard kids laughing and screaming. There wasn't much to the park, except the water views, an old barn, and a quaint waterfront museum/souvenir shop. Yet scores of tourists milled around, checking the place out. Collin steered his bike onto the grass to avoid all the people on the trail, and then he headed into town.

Front Street, the hub of the Scandinavian village, was Tourist Central today. He pedaled past Muriel Williams Park—with its gazebo, dockside restaurants, and the tall, solemn-looking Viking statue on a pedestal. It was a mob scene. He wove around all the tourists until he finally reached Hot Shots Java.

During his last visit, when Melissa had flirted with him, he'd felt like an adult in the funky, hip café—among the other arty coffeehouse types on their notebook computers, reading their books or writing in journals. He remembered the soft jazz music and the rich coffee smell.

After locking up his bike and helmet on the post outside, Collin checked out his reflection in the window, and then stepped into the café. His former
sanctum sanctorum
was now crowded and noisy—with a couple of babies crying, a gaggle of teenage girls talking and laughing loudly, and some guy practically screaming into his cell phone.

His heart sank even lower when he didn't see Melissa behind the counter. He stepped to the back of the long line, and hoped she might be in the kitchen or something. The longer he waited in the line, the more depressed he got.

The last time he was here, he'd dreaded catching the ferry home the next day. On several occasions, his mom had forgotten to pick him up when he'd returned to Seattle Sunday night—or she'd kept him waiting outside the ferry terminal for almost an hour. He remembered returning from the last visit, certain she wouldn't be there. But she'd been waiting by the car, smiling and waving at him. That was the funny thing about his mom. Just when he thought she was a total screwup who didn't care, she would surprise him.

The line moved forward a bit, but Collin hesitated. His throat started to close up and he felt tears stinging his eyes. A gasp came out, and he tried to pretend he was coughing. He'd had a few crying jags since his mother's death, but always in private. Even at the funeral, he'd managed to remain dry-eyed. Now he couldn't stop the tears. He had to get out of there.

His head down, he threaded around the crowded café tables and hurried to the alcove for the bathroom. But they had only one restroom, and it was locked. Wiping his tears, Collin ducked out the screen door beside it. The exit could have been for employees only. But at this point, he didn't care. He just had to get away from all those people.

The screen door slammed shut behind him. He stepped down and found himself in a narrow, dead-end alley. It was like an old driveway—with patches of grass and weeds sprouting up through the crushed gravel. A big air conditioner unit hummed along the brick wall of another store at one end of the alley. On the other end, a tall chain-link fence was closed—with a chain lock wrapped around the post. Collin ducked behind several empty milk crates and a garbage bin. It smelled like rotten fruit and sour milk. But at least he was alone.

He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Nothing about it was a
good cry
. He felt miserable and achy. His throat hurt and his nose dripped with snot. He kept thinking even though she'd disappointed him so often, she was still his mother. She'd been home to him. He couldn't believe he'd never see her again. And he couldn't stop crying.

But then he heard the screen door yawn and slam shut. Collin swiveled around and gaped at the tall, thin, forty-something dark-haired man. The guy held out a fistful of napkins for him. He must have grabbed them off the stack at the café's cream-and-sugar station. “Here, Collin,” the man said.

Collin didn't budge from where he stood. He quickly wiped his eyes with his hands. He didn't recognize the man. He glanced over at the locked chain-link fence at the one end of the alley. The only way out of there was to go back inside through the coffeehouse. And the stranger was blocking the door.

“I'm sorry,” Collin said in a voice raspy from crying. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” the man said. “I recognized you when you came into the café. I figured maybe you could use a friend right now—or at least a tissue.” He let out a little laugh. “Don't worry. I'm not a stalker or anything like that.” He waved the napkins at him. “Here . . .”

From his experience with certain fans, Collin remembered the ones who said, “Don't worry, I'm not a stalker,” right up front were usually the most trouble. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the guy was a little off. With his blue eyes, dark hair, and square jaw, he should have been handsome, but he wasn't. The features just didn't mesh together right. He had a slightly nerdish quality that was more creepy than endearing.

Collin dug into the pockets of his cargo shorts, hoping to find his own Kleenex. But he didn't have any. He gave the man a wary glance and took the napkins from him. “Thank you,” he muttered. He blew his nose. “I don't want to be rude, but I kind of want to be alone.”

“I haven't seen you cry like that since your grandmother died in
The Night Whisperer
,” he said. “You should have gotten an Academy Award for that—or at least, a nomination.”

Collin wiped his nose again. “Thanks, nice of you to say. I'm sorry, but I don't feel very social right now. . . .”

But the man still didn't get the hint. “I've seen all your movies, your TV appearances, too,” he said. “A lot of them are on YouTube. I didn't care for the episode of
Brothers & Sisters
, but it wasn't your fault. I'm sure it's something your manager or agent made you do.”

“Sorry you feel that way,” Collin said, frowning. He started to brush past him on his way to the screen door. “Excuse me. . . .”

The stranger touched his arm, and Collin recoiled. The man backed off a step. “Hey, I'm your friend, Collin,” he said with a hand over his heart. “I just hate to see you looking so sad. I've read all about your mother. It shows how compassionate you are that you'd still cry for her. But really, she isn't worth your tears. . . .”

Shaking his head, Collin glared at him.

The stranger spun around.

Collin glanced over at the one detective he liked. Ian stood on the stoop, holding the screen door open. He wore a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, khaki shorts, and sandals. From behind his sunglasses he seemed to be staring at the other man.

“Who are you?” the stranger asked, indignant. “How do you know my name?”

“I recognized you when you came into the café,” Ian said in an ironic tone. “But don't worry, Rick. I'm not a stalker or anything like that.” He took off his sunglasses and smiled at Collin. “Can I offer you a lift home?”

Wiping his eyes, Collin nodded. He brushed past the man and followed Ian back inside the café, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. He tossed the used napkins in a trash can by the sugar-and-cream station.

“I hear you managed to ditch Al,” Ian said over his shoulder as he started toward the front of the coffeehouse. “Congratulations, I wish I could ditch him myself. I wasn't supposed to go on duty for another half hour, but Al called and put me on search-and-rescue duty. Lucky for me, I saw you locking up your bike outside.”

“Lucky for me, too,” Collin said. “Who was that guy back there?”

Ian stopped near the end of the customer line. “Were you going to order something?”

With a sigh, Collin glanced toward the counter one more time for Melissa. But she wasn't there. He shook his head. “I kind of lost my appetite.”

Ian moved to the door and held it open for Collin, but a young couple hurriedly walked in before him—without a glance at Ian. “You're welcome a lot, dipshits,” Ian growled at them. They ignored him.

Collin actually found himself chuckling. “Thanks,” he said, heading outside.

“I'm sorry, but sometimes I hate people,” Ian grumbled, stepping out after him. “After having Al scream at me on the phone to find you—like it was my fault you were MIA—I'm not in the best of moods right now. Then again, look who I'm complaining to. I should count my blessings. Listen, I snagged a parking spot about two blocks away. I'll give you a lift home. We can put your bike in my trunk. Sound good?”

Collin nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” Crouched down beside his Schwinn, he worked the combination lock and unfastened the chain. Then he grabbed his helmet.

Ian put his sunglasses back on, and they started down the crowded sidewalk together. “So who's that Rick guy anyway?” Collin asked. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the man had followed them. There was no sign of him. “Is it a big secret? Is he dangerous?”

“No, he's just kind of a pest,” Ian finally answered. “His name's Rick Jessup, and when he said he wasn't a stalker, I don't know who he was trying to kid—you or himself. Twice, we've chased him off the beach in back of your grandparents' house. We've caught him hanging around Skog-Strand Lane several times, too. I've personally sent him on his way a few of those times. I should be insulted he didn't recognize me.”

“Does he live around here?”

“He lives in Seattle—with his wife and two kids, poor things. Three nights ago, officers caught him creeping around your rental house—the crime scene. He said he was looking for his cat. We checked with Rick's neighbor, and the Jessups don't own a cat.”

“So is he—like a suspect?” Collin asked.

“The same neighbor was up with a toothache the night of the murders. He was pretty sure all the Jessups were home. Rick's Chevy Camaro was in the driveway all night. Speaking of cars, here's mine.” He nodded at the black Honda Civic parked in front of the bookstore.

Ian helped him load the bike in the Civic's trunk. He got behind the wheel while Collin slid onto the passenger seat and lowered his window. “Thanks for finding me when you did,” Collin said as they pulled into the congested traffic on Front Street. “I'm glad it was you who found me, and not that big turd, Al.”

Ian let out a laugh, but then stifled it. “Listen, can you do me a favor?” he asked, watching the road ahead. “Forget what I said about wanting to ditch him. That was really unprofessional of me. Like I mentioned earlier, I'm just in a lousy mood today.”

“Is it because of your girlfriend?” Collin asked. “What's her name? Janice?”

Ian gaped at him for a second. “How do you know about Janice?”

Collin figured since Ian had been pretty straightforward with him, he ought to reciprocate. So he explained about the intercom by the gate to his grandparents' driveway. “I'm sorry,” Collin said. “I didn't mean to spy on you guys. I was just kind of bored—and it was something to do. I hope you're not too pissed off at me or anything.”

With his hands on the steering wheel, Ian sighed. “I'm not pissed off, just kind of embarrassed. Anyway, for the record, Janice and I had a talk last night, and she thinks we should ‘take a break.' So—yes, you're right. That accounts for much of my lousy mood today.”

“I'm sorry,” Collin mumbled.

“It's not your problem,” Ian said. “Have you overheard anything else that was private or humiliating for me?”

“Well, when you were alone in the car three nights ago, you must have been listening to your iPod, because I heard you singing along with ‘We Built This City on Rock and Roll.' ”

“Jesus, that really is humiliating.”

“You were kind of off-key, too.”

“When you work surveillance nights, you resort to a lot of tricks to keep yourself awake.”

“The other guys, I hear them snoring all the time.”

Ian took his eyes off the road for a moment to throw him a crooked smile. “Well, I guess you've got the goods on all of us.”

“You're the only one who's nice. The rest of them are jerks. They . . .” Collin hesitated. “They say creepy stuff about you behind your back.”

“I already know that,” Ian said, turning onto Viking Way. “I was downsized out of the public relations department and given a crash course in detective work—three months' training. It was either that or I'd get laid off. Anyway, this is my first assignment. These good old boys don't believe someone could do what they do with just three months of training. The truth is they aren't exactly the cream of the crop. All of them have poor fitness records.”