body onto a gurney. Face-up, a man who could have been mid-thirties to forty tops stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Longish brown hair, brown eyes, a stubble of beard—this guy had stumbled out of TV land, John thought again. On a wrist that had been under the body was an obviously expensive watch, the kind that probably told you the time in Paris, the altitude and your heart rate.
Sinking back on his heels, John contemplated the face.
“Damn it, Baxter, he looks familiar.”
His partner nodded. “I was thinking the same.”
“If we know him, he’s probably not a realtor or the manager of the Rite Aid pharmacy.”
Geoff gestured toward the watch. “Drugs?”
“Could be.”
They stood back and let the photographer get full frontal pictures as well as close-ups of the face.
“I want those as soon as possible,” John said, and was answered with brisk nods.
“Fingerprints?” he asked.
“The victim’s,” he was told. “Half a dozen others. Mrs. Reed’s, presumably. We’ll need to get hers tomorrow.”
Feeling uncomfortable admitting it for reasons he didn’t like to examine, John said, “Mine will be here, too. I used that bathroom just last week when I was treating the back deck.”
To his relief, nobody gave sly or knowing glances. Nobody made an off-color joke about widows—one that would have been deeply regretted.
It helped when Baxter said, “Hell, mine’ll be here, too. Natalie had Linda and me to dinner Friday night.”
He and Baxter took their time studying the den once the body was carted out. It was a room that could have used Natalie’s lighter touch. John guessed that she stayed out of it.
Stuart had smoked cigars, or at least liked to have one clenched between his teeth curling noxious smoke into the air. The smell, faded with time, nonetheless still lingered in here. Walls were papered in a masculine navy-and-tan-striped paper. Bookshelves held Stuart’s favorite bedtime reading: Ken Follett, John Le Carré and the ilk.
A monster, the desk was one of those huge oak ones that had probably graced the office of a CEO in the 1920s. The finish was yellowing, the top covered with a blotter. In its own way, the computer that sat atop it was as much an antique, a 385, maybe a 485. Forget Pentium. No telephone line to it, which meant no internet access. No CD drive. In fact, the floppy drives were for the outmoded bigger disks. The keyboard was covered, the monitor screen a little dusty.
Using a handkerchief, John carefully opened drawers. The top one held nothing but paper clips, pencils that needed sharpening, a staple remover, markers and packing tape. The big drawer was set up with hanging files, all labeled: 1986 tax return. Ditto ’87, ’88, and so on through the year before last. MasterCard statements. Appliance warranties. Household receipts.
On the face of it, nothing of any interest to anyone but the IRS doing a back audit. And, damn, was Stuart ready. No midnight scrabbling for torn receipts for him. It was almost a shame the IRS had never, to the best of John’s knowledge, chosen to audit Reed.
The closet held boxes and plastic-wrapped clothes on hangers. A cracked leather aviator jacket, ski pants and parka, a high school letterman’s jacket. Some of the boxes were labeled: check stubs, photo albums, records. His turntable had probably given up the ghost, but he wouldn’t have given up the records. A faint musty odor lingered in here.
Baxter muttered a profanity. “Did Reed ever throw anything away?”
“Not so’s I can tell.” John eased the closet door shut again. “Nothing unusual in here, though. We all have crap like this.”
“We’d better look in those boxes.”
He grunted agreement, however much he disliked the idea. Mining every detail was their job, but usually what he learned about people’s lives was of academic interest. He made a mental jigsaw puzzle, slotting pieces in until every one fit. This time was different. Stuart Reed had been not just a fellow cop but John’s partner and friend. Even more, he hated the idea of intruding on Natalie’s privacy. “Tomorrow,” he said.
They tried the remaining houses on the street. One was still dark; at the two places where someone came to the door, shakes of the head were their answers. They’d been gone all day. Neither knew Natalie or, quite frankly, would have noticed a truck in her driveway if they had been home.
“I say we go back to the station and look for that face,” John said at last. “Even odds we have his picture in our books.”
“No point in waiting for fingerprint ID,” his partner agreed. “Tomorrow is soon enough to look hard at the house.”
Mug shots were arranged into books by theme: drug arrests, rape, B and E, and so on. That way, if a store owner was held up, say, he didn’t have to gaze at the face of every rapist or marijuana grower who had ever been arrested. He could concentrate on likely perps. This worked fine normally. In this case, however, the face could have been familiar for dozens of reasons.
John’s money was on drugs.
The next hour and a half was punctuated only by the slap of a cover closing, the abrupt departure of one man or the other for another cup of coffee, and a couple of trips down memory lane.
“Ha!” Baxter crowed once. “Remember our friend Jerry Canfield? Sending him to the pen in Walla Walla was one of the greater pleasures of this job.”
It was Geoff Baxter who found their victim. “Bingo,” he said softly. “I knew we’d met.”
John rotated his shoulders and waited until his partner shoved the book across the table. From the rows of mug shots, the sullen face jumped out at him.
“He was better looking alive,” Baxter said.
“Who isn’t? No, don’t answer that.”
Ronald Floyd had a lengthy rap sheet, starting with possession of cocaine when he was seventeen in Tacoma. Thirty-four the day he died, Floyd had stuck to his chosen career of dealing drugs and slowly risen on the ladder. The part that always amazed John was how little time a guy like Floyd ever served despite multiple arrests. The system was overwhelmed; he’d walked a couple of times because prosecutors had shrugged and decided he wasn’t worth the bother. John knew how the arresting officers had felt; after all, they’d bothered.
Memory nudged by the photo, he recalled being involved in Ronald Floyd’s last arrest, which had led to four years in the Monroe State Penitentiary. Acting on a tip, officers had been waiting when a cabin cruiser docked at the marina. The hold had been packed with plastic bags full of white powder. It had been a pretty good haul, by Port Dare standards.
Unfortunately, those standards were rising by the day. Half the border between Washington State and Canada was water: the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Puget Sound. The rocky, wooded Canadian Gulf Islands and American San Juan Islands made the waters a maze of spectacular channels and inlets. Pods of orcas tried to elude the ubiquitous whale-watching ships. Sailors and boaters were in paradise, with every island offering hidden coves. Green-and-white Washington State ferries plied the waters between islands and Canada and the USA, while the
