A patrol car was parked across the street from the bungalow, and she changed course, heading for it. Clint Jackson. So he probably had been following her.
"He's not here, Clint," she said when the cop lowered his window. "Go home."
"Now, Kaz, you know I can't do that. My orders are to keep the house under surveillance."
"Why? If Gary sees your car, he'll be gone before you even have a clue he's around."
"Maybe, maybe not." Jackson rested an arm on the edge of the window. "Your brother's not God—we'll get him sooner or later." He bared his teeth in a cold smile. "Collaring your brother could be a damn good move for my career –I'm in line to make detective this year."
Kaz smiled back just as pleasantly. "If memory serves, I used to baby-sit you, didn't I?"
"Go to hell, Kaz."
She walked back across the street. Okay, so not all the cops on the force were like Lucy and Ivar. Some were assholes. If Jackson caught up with Gary before Lucy and Ivar did….Her stomach knotted.
The phone was ringing as she entered the house through the kitchen door. She jogged into the living room to answer it, only to have whoever was on the other end hang up on her. Just what she didn't need right now—some oblivious idiot calling the wrong number, over and over. Her tolerance for idiocy was at an all-time low, starting with her own.
Being attracted to Michael Chapman was the ultimate in stupidity, and reckless, besides. She couldn't understand her apparent inability to function intelligently around him. All she had to do was take one look at that rugged physique and curly dark hair, and all her brains flowed out onto the floor and rolled around like just so many marbles.
She yanked open the refrigerator door and stood there, staring inside. Gary was her only remaining family. His future and happiness were at stake, maybe even his life. And here she was, getting sucker-punched by good looks and a pair of pale blue eyes shadowed by hints of a tragic past—something for which, of course, she'd have way too much empathy. She expelled a breath. Get a grip. She couldn't afford to be distracted, no matter how powerful that distraction proved to be.
She gave up on the meager contents of the fridge, grabbed a handful of saltines, and walked back out the kitchen door. Waving cheerfully at Jackson, who flipped her off, she cut across the neighbor's side yard to walk the six blocks downhill to Julie and Ken's house. It was past time that she paid her respects and asked Julie what she could do to help out.
#
The Lundquists' home was in the Uniontown neighborhood, an older, working-class section of Astoria filled with narrow, multi-story Victorian homes jammed onto a steep hillside above Marine Drive, the main highway through town. Homes in Uniontown might be more modest than their cousins further uphill, but they still commanded a stunning view of the river and the bridge connecting Oregon to Washington.
Julie and Ken's house looked neglected, its shades drawn tight. The yard was not as neatly maintained as it had been a couple of months ago. Kaz couldn't hear any sounds from inside but rang the doorbell anyway. After a moment, the door opened.
Julie stood in the doorway, wearing a simple black blouse and black cotton slacks. Her pale brown hair was scrubbed back from her thin face into a ponytail, her hazel eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. "Kaz." Her tone was lifeless.
"I'm sorry," Kaz offered, spreading her hands in a futile gesture. "I don't even know what to say."
Julie stared at her for a moment and then stood aside. Kaz stepped over the threshold and then halted, her eyes widening. The house was a mess—books and papers strewn about the living room, cushions from the couch ripped open and lying on the floor, lamps toppled and broken. What used to be a pile of paperwork—probably hospital bills—now lay in a haphazard line of loose pages flung across the carpet.
"What in the world?"
"Someone broke in while I was at the funeral home." Julie swiped at a tear, then asked bitterly, "What kind of person robs people while they're arranging for a memorial service?"
"You called the police?"
"No."
Kaz looked around the room, her gut screaming at her. The destruction had a methodical feel to it—someone had been searching for something. "You have to call them, Julie. I can help—stay here with you, if you want. But you need to report this."
"No!" Julie snapped. She seemed to collect herself, drawing a breath, then said more calmly, "No more cops. They were here all morning, asking questions I couldn't answer." Her gaze shifted.
Kaz frowned. "Then let me help you clean up."
"I don't need your help." Julie bent down to retrieve a broken toy and a stack of children's books, keeping her expression hidden. "So why are you here, Kaz? If it's to ease your conscience about what Gary did, then—"
"No, that's not it at all," Kaz replied, surprised. When she tried to help by kneeling to pick up a sheaf of bills, Julie snatched them from her hands. "Julie, had Ken been acting any differently lately? You know, angry, maybe? Or desperate?"
Julie laughed without humor and waved a hand at the dilapidated furniture and threadbare carpets. "Look around. Who wouldn't be feeling desperate?"
"I meant, well, more desperate than just the day-to-day stuff."
"The day-to-day stuff is a pile of bills we can't pay, Bobby's chemo treatments, a furnace that decides when and how long it will work…" Julie stared down at the shards of a broken glass lampshade at her feet.
"How is Bobby?" Kaz couldn't imagine what it was like to watch a small child struggle with the side effects of chemo. To live daily with the fear that you might outlive your son.
"Bobby's fine," Julie replied, her tone abrupt.
"Gary mentioned that Bobby was having a tough time with side effects."
"That's over or, at least, better."
Kaz took in her closed look, her rigid posture. "Can I help out with the medical bills? Or perhaps babysit when you have to go to Portland?"
"No, look—" Julie stopped and ran a nervous hand over her thin ponytail. "I appreciate it, really I do. But my mom is paying for Bobby's treatments, and I don't want your help, Kaz."
"But—"
"Having you around is a reminder, okay? Of what your family has taken away…" She turned to Kaz, resolute. "Perhaps you should leave."
"Julie, Gary didn't do this, I know he didn't."
"I'm sure you'd like to believe that, being his sister and all." Julie nodded. "But Gary hasn't been okay for a long time now. Ken stuck with him out of loyalty, and because no one else would crew for him."
"That's not true," Kaz said, shocked. "I know Gary can be difficult at times—" She took in Julie's mulish expression and changed tactics. "Did Ken tell you what he and Gary had been arguing about?"
"No," Julie said. "Look, Kaz, there's nothing I can do to help you. Ken never said a word to me, other than to mention here and there when Gary had been a jerk on the water that day."
"At least tell me whether Ken came home last night," Kaz pressed.
"No." Julie's face crumpled. "The last time I saw him was early Saturday morning, before they left port. Then I had to go down to the morgue to identify him."
"I'm sorry," Kaz said again, feeling helpless. She turned to go.
"Kaz." Julie's sharpened voice stopped her.
Kaz glanced back.
The young woman trembled with rage, her expression fiercely determined. "If Gary didn't kill Ken, then I want to know who did. You find out who the hell did this to my children."
#
Lucy bounced a tennis ball against the far wall of the squad room while she waited for Ivar to summarize his stack of notes into what she figured was the Master Note he wanted to have with him when they went out to investigate possible murder sites. She'd already rolled her eyes, paced, and tried her best to annoy him in inventive ways, but he wasn't budging. If he spent even five more seconds writing in that neat little script of his, she was going to club him to death with the butt of her service revolver. "You about done?"