Page 43 of Wham Line
“I mean I’m still investigating,” the sheriff said.“And I’m not going to debate an ongoing investigation with you.You need to let me do my job, and you need to trust that I’m going to do the best I can.”
But I knew I’d been right.“Indira wouldn’t do that.She wouldn’t help someone cover up a crime.Someone is framing her.”
“Dash, I’m not going to talk about this with you,” the sheriff said.
I wanted to keep arguing, but my brief flare-up of anger had fizzled out, and now all I felt was sick and anxious.
“I’m going to repeat what I told you yesterday,” the sheriff said.“Stay out of this.I know you think you’re helping your friend, but you need to understand that if thereisexculpatory evidence, and if you tamper with it, you might make things worse for her.And if Bobby’s right and that poison was meant for you—” She let the sentence hang.
My neck was too stiff for me to nod.I fought my inner teenager’s urge to ask how much worse it could get.
Snapping the baseball cap against her thigh, the sheriff stood.“You’re supposed to be on leave, Deputy Mai.Do I need to explain to you what that means?”
“No, Chief.”
She snapped the cap against her leg again a few more times.“God’s sake, Bobby.Go home and be with your family.”
Chapter 12
The drive back to Portland was long and quiet.
Bobby’s bravado (bravura?) in the hospital room culminated in a complete and total refusal to leave the hospital in a wheelchair, in spite of every effort by the doctor and nurses to explain, persuade, and encourage.It made perfect sense, then, that once they left us alone, he’d barely been strong enough to make it to the Pilot—which, to my infinite gratitude, Salk and Dahlberg had dropped off at the hospital for us.On the walk to the elevator, Bobby did all right.But as we rode down, he started to tremble, like his legs were about to fold under him.I had to help him the rest of the way, and by the time we got to the SUV, the back of his hoodie was soaked with sweat.I got him in the passenger seat; he didn’t even try to argue.Then I shut the door.The wind ran a cold, damp hand through my hair, and I shivered.Clouds were rolling in, and the bright February day was dropping into shadow.
He fell asleep before we were on the highway, collapsed in his seat, his head lolling with the movement of the SUV.For the first few miles, I was fixated on his breathing: did it sound right?too shallow?too high?But eventually I decided it sounded the way it always did when he slept, and I turned my attention to the narrow, winding road beneath the spruce and pine and cedar.The shadows were deep under the trees, and the air that filtered into the Pilot smelled like balsam and wet wood.Even with the heat cranked up, I was cold.
Sparkie Sanchez was dead.Someone had tried to kill me.Worse, someone had almost killed Bobby.
Who?
I ran through the same arguments I’d made to the sheriff: Larry, Talmage, Jethro.
Talmage had told us that Larry and Mal had argued shortly before Mal’s death.Was there a motive there?But even if Larry had then tried to poison me to keep me from discovering the truth, how had he done it?The sheriff wasn’t wrong about the kitchen staff; if Larry had gone into the kitchen, someone would have seen him.
Talmage certainly had reason to get rid of Mal; he’d been blackmailing her, and if my guess was right, he’d found a way to cheat her out of her restaurant, the same way he’d cheated so many people before her.I was fairly sure that Mal’s next move would have been to divorce Talmage on his own terms and leave her with nothing—as he had tried to do with Indira.Talmage had also had the best opportunity to poison me (or Sparkie, as it turned out).But with Talmage, there was another problem: how could she have killed Mal?There’s no way she could have stepped out into the alley, shot Mal, and returned without her staff noticing.
I liked the other options even less.The sheriff’s theory that the killings were unrelated seemed impossible to my writerly brain—writers usually like everything to tie up neatly.And while Jethro was a good suspect in theory—there was definitely something hinky about his relationship with Mal, and his alibis for the shooting and the poisoning weren’t exactly rock solid—I had a hard time imagining Jethro swatting a fly, much less killing a human being.
Nalini?
Jeez, Ihatedthat idea.For Indira’s sake—what it might mean for her niece—on the one hand.And, on the other, because of the sheriff’s suggestion that Nalini might be helping Indira cover up the killing.I had a hard time reconciling Nalini’s overly flirtatious behavior with a cold-blooded killer, but the fact was that people killed all the time, for all sorts of reasons.Maybe Mal had gotten a little too aggressive.Maybe Nalini was just as trigger-happy as her aunt, and all it had taken was for Mal to push her too far.If she’d been trying to poison me, she’d done a terrible job at it, but maybe I hadn’t been the target.And it didn’t help that Nalini’s alibi for the night of Mal’s shooting was even weaker than Jethro’s.
As you can tell, it was a very productive drive back to Portland.But I made one decision: I was going to talk to Larry.I hadn’t talked to him yet, and more importantly, I wanted to know what he and Sparkie had been arguing about.
When we got to the Mais’ neighborhood, dark had settled over the city.We drove past quaint homes and under the branches of old trees, streetlights humming around us and shedding their pale glow across dormant lawns.The windows of the Mais’ house were dark, and the Range Rover was absent from the driveway, so I pulled in and parked.Bobby was still doing that soft, fuzzy breathing.The engine ticked as it cooled.Up and down the street, everything was quiet, frozen into place on a February night.
Bobby made a noise and raised his head.
“We’re home,” I said quietly.“I mean, we’re at your parents’ place.”
He wiped his mouth.
“If you want to rest, though, we can stay out here—”
He shook his head and reached for the door.
I hurried around and helped him down from the SUV.Then, together, we made our way inside.The foyer-front room was dark, with only a weak yellow light slanting in from the kitchen.
If you’ve never helped someone down a spiral staircase, let me tell you: it’s an experience.I wasn’t even sure how much I was helping; about ninety percent of it felt like just plain old being in the way.But in spite of the grim resolve on his face, Bobby still moved at a fraction of his usual pace, and he gripped the rail tightly as he lowered himself down each step.When we reached the bottom, he was sweating again, and his color was bad.
