Miller Avenue Murder: An addictive police procedural legal psychological thriller Page 12

  She’d knocked on his door, the fourth from the vending machine. listened and let herself in at the faint ‘come in’ that followed.

  His sultry workspace was defined by the firm, familiar scent she’d grown to associate with him. A seductive woody incense-like aroma. His office was a shoebox in comparison to hers. She’d never had a reason to make her way down to the City P.D.’s lead Detective’s office. She wished she ought to. She scrunched up her face. Is this what Detectives were entitled to at the City P.D.? This couldn’t be worth it. He’d managed to squeeze in one row of drawers in the corner, a crime board, and a desk with two seats. He didn’t even have an air conditioner, he’d had his window cracked open behind his desk and his buttons halfway undone, his sleeves rolled up to his forearm.

  Her mouth had open and shut.

  He’d been at his desk, his eyes on hers, a hand on the table in a fist and the other on his waist. “Not the best conditions, but I’ve still handled more murder cases than you, goes to show you don’t need the best to be the best.”

  “Cocky,” She pointed out inching further into the room. It had been branded the same color as the rest of the building. White, although his office didn’t have an American flag shoved in one corner. She didn’t think there would be any more walking room if there were a flag in the corner.

  “Nope, just observant.” He gestured for her to take a seat. She did, placing her bag on the wooden floors.

  “You know there’s still an opening if you want to hold the door open for me at the Sherriff’s department?”

  “Still as funny as the last time.” He said, his tone seething with sarcasm.

  “Yeah, some douche listened to some asshole and now we’re recruiting, and I think you might be our guy,”

  “I didn’t send in an application though,” He leaned back in his seat. He was broad in the sizable desk chair. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the way his body adjusted into it with ease, every once in a while, she would sneak a glance at the exposed skin that taunted her from beneath his white button-down. She wasn’t too sure what had been more enticing, the thin line of hair that disappeared beneath the fabric or the barely visible dark ink she wasn’t sure was there or not. Her heart galloped in her chest.

  She met his gaze, it burned with solemnity. “Look, we don’t see eye to eye.”

  “Is it that obvious?” He cracked a smile, a small one. “Because here I thought we were getting along.” Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath.

  “I take cases a little too seriously,” She’d been half expecting him to hit her with a sarcastic comment. One that would irk her. He didn’t. He’d brought his hands together, steepled them, and looked at her, almost as if he’d been trying to grasp at a reason why she acted the way she did. And when her restless hesitant eyes shuffling beneath his gaze wouldn’t tell him what he wanted, he’d asked.

  “Why?” He was curious. She flushed her expression blank. His question had broken the lock on the door of memories she’d kept closed. Everything didn’t come spilling out. A single one dropped from the open door. Her mother’s death. She was washed with the dissatisfaction of that case as if it hadn’t happened many years ago. Her mouth snapped shut, lips set in a hard line and jaw clenched.

  They were work partners, there were boundaries. He didn’t need to know the reason why she acted the way she did.

  “I… there was a case, a long time ago,” She fiddled with her hands beneath the table, picking at an old scab. “And I never felt like something was done. I felt like something further could have been done, but it wasn’t. And I swore that when I got on the force, I would go the extra mile no one was willing to go for me.” Her voice cracked.

  He hadn’t said anything. She bit her lip.

  She looked up at him, that smile, the teasing one had returned.

  “Never pegged you as the selfish type, Olson.” He didn’t know when to stop, did he? She shook her head and pushed herself upright. Selfish? She’d just poured out more than she’d been willing, she’d just confided in him and his take was that she was selfish? “No, no, don’t leave. I’m just pointing out that we all have our interests in this case. You want to feel justified, and I want… Well, it doesn’t matter what I want.”

  She tucked a lock of curled hair behind her ear and looked at him. “You want to close the case and be done with it, probably add it to your collection of closed cases.” She thought back to the wall. If he’d closed so many cases, why hadn’t he been put up on that wall? She knew it was stupid and presumably only people with connections at the top of the City P.D. could get that but they couldn’t turn a blind eye to his effort, could they?

  “That’s not it.” He nodded for her to return to her seat. “I…” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “You know what, forget it.” He clapped, the sudden noise rattling a scatter-brained Detective Olson. Her eyes had scooted along with his swivel chair towards the drawer by his left. He drew open the middle one with an effort and a loud scrape of friction on rusted metal. He pulled out a file marked Blake Campbell and tossed it to her.

  Cautiously, Rachel Olson flipped it open. The first page was their victim’s portfolio with an image of her pinned to the top. Her eyebrows creased. She continued to flip through the records she’d already acknowledged on the precincts database… until she saw it. The last page. It was her turn to smile.

  “Our victim was quite popular back in the day. Every newspaper wanted to carry her story… the problem was, if she was as popular as the people claim, why was her antique business bankrupt?” He reached into the metal cabinet for two more files. He didn’t hand them over just yet.

  “Unless, she was popular for all the wrong reasons.” Detective Olson’s eyes broadened.

  “There we go!” He tossed the remaining files to her and violently shut the drawer. She winced at the sharp noise. “Our victim, though named Tillamook’s most influential business woman by Tillamook Times, had more enemies than fans.”

  “Got anyone that can corroborate this theory?” She shut Blake Campbell’s file and reached for Faith Thompson’s file. There wasn’t much on the woman, other than her basic information; date of birth, height, address…

  “Katherine Tapper, worked as an intern at Campbell’s Antiques. Got bumped up to owner after the death of the deceased.” Detective Olson resisted the urge to leave her jaw slacked.

  “That’s motive.”

  “Exactly.” He echoed with a triumphant grin.

  “Can we talk to her?” He shook his head and rose to his feet. Rounding the table, he took two steps to the crime board he’d squeezed by the entrance. On it, he had a picture of two women on the left edge of the board, a map of Tillamook in the middle, and a man at the right. She recognized the two women from the files. Both had been held up with a red thump tack. The map that had been taped to the board had thumbtacks as well, but those—deep blue—seemed to be strategically positioned over various parts of town. The man’s image to the right had been tacked with a bright yellow pin… what did that mean?

  “We don’t need to talk to her. I have a little birdie doing my dirty work.” Her lips pursed. “I caught wind of a banquet our deceased had attended in her thirties, organized by some… Dean family, supposedly, they were one of Tillamook’s big leagues.”

  “How does that have anything to do with our case?” She flipped through the last file that sat askew on his desk before her. Inside the man’s picture had been pinned and much like Katherine’s file, they didn’t have much on him.

  “Our Jane Doe didn’t just wander into this party, she was invited, escorted.” She still didn’t get the connection he wanted her to make. He leaned and tapped the folder eagerly. “The man that escorted her, Richard Dean—”

  “Was found dead the following morning.” He returned to his seat.

  She couldn’t deny the rush of adrenaline she felt. It was pumping in her veins. “Thought you didn’t care about this case, Dawson?” Her smile broadened into a grin. S
he ran her fingers over the report.

  He shrugged. “I say a lot of things, Olson. I guess I’m just glad you actually listen.”

  “I will always listen.” She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “So, you’ll come back?” She pressed a hand on his table.

  “Sherriff Pierce sent you, here didn’t he?”

  “No, he didn’t,” She tried to deny it.

  “He called me and told me everything would be smoothened out,”

  “Shit!” She cursed but found it in her to chuckle. “So, truce?”

  “We can discuss that over a beer, I know this great bar, and don’t worry your colleagues wouldn’t be there this time.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Paul Campbell stirred; a burst of sharp pain shot up his arms that had been folded to support his head. He sat up, smacked across the face by a rough surge of nostalgia as his eyes adapted. It wasn’t the first time he’d blacked out on the marble surface of American Angel’s bar. It had been a frequent occurrence in his teenage years. Back then he’d been the champ at drinking contests, one shot after another, Campbell would down it and he’d be the last one standing. That was until everything would come hurling back and he’d rouse from his booze-induced slumber, barely making it to the employee bathroom.

  His man Cam had manned the bar back then, grown man, middle-aged at the time with thick curly hair, creamy skin, and a voice that belonged on the radio.

  “Well, well, well, guess he’s alive.” A familiar feathery voice declared. He was yet to adapt to the light glaring in through the bar’s windows. “For a second there I thought I would have to call back your Medical Examiner buddy.” The busty blonde addressed him. His head throbbed a dull ache.

  “Where’s he?” His own voice was unfamiliar to him, drowned away in one too many tequila shots. He massaged his temple.

  “In a better condition than you,” The blonde walked up to him, turned, and reached for a cup on the rack, and placed it in front of him. “Left while you were on your third.” Typical. She poured to the rim of the cup a bottle of water and pushed it all the way to him. Reaching into her apron, she produced a sachet of pills. Painkillers. He could kiss her. “I should have stopped you then, but where’s the fun in that?” He popped two pills and chugged it in a single go and pushed the glass cup back for a refill. “So, what is it, wife leave you? Cheat on you? We get a lot of those around here.” She leaned against the marble; her generous chest pressed against it. That ought to hurt, pressed against the edge of a marble bar top. Unless they weren’t real. Steeling himself, Paul resisted the urge to shake his head. She pushed herself upright and reached for the bottle yet again, spilling its content into his cup. “I say so because, you couldn’t shut up about having to run home to the wife.” He wasn’t one to pursue artificial women. Not that they weren’t beautiful in their own way, they just didn’t cut it for him. “Buddy, eyes up here.” She pushed the glass cup back to him and gestured.

  He lifted his gaze.

  “Neither.” He finally responded. “And should you really be listening in to your drunk client’s ramblings?”

  “No, but yours was particularly interesting,”

  “How so?” There was a distant look in her eyes.

  “Because when I requested to call you a cab, you stumbled into me, kissed me and told me that she could go to hell,”

  His blood ran cold. His brows drew together. “I… I am so sorry… I… shit!” His eyes dropped to the marble tracing the grey lines on the white surface. He could feel it, the rose tint in his skin. “Did I really?” She began to chuckle to herself.

  “Gullible too,” Her laughter grew. There was a crease in the corner of her mouth when she laughed. Laugh lines, Blake had them, as a kid he’d wondered why she did, and he didn’t. He supposed they added to the bartenders' domineering looks. He was yet to see the amusement in what she’d put him through. “You did refuse to leave my bar, kept saying it’s the closest thing to home you have left.”

  Even blackout drunk the guilt tossed him about. That hotel was temporary, no matter how hospitable they made it, it fell short of the real thing. He was back, in his hometown and his family home was barricaded with police tapes, he hadn’t seen it for himself, but he’d seen footage on the news.

  American Angels was more than just the booze. It was a hang-out spot, an after-school spot, it was where he’d had his first kiss, where Samantha Baker had sat him down by the window three weeks into their relationship and dumped him because her parents were moving.

  He’d told her about the weird stench the place hadn’t been able to shake even when it was empty. Shortly after which he’d proceeded to beg her to stay.

  She hadn’t.

  The stench still plagued the neighborhood bar. The frequent customers didn’t seem to mind if last night’s crowd was any indication.

  He pointed with his thumb towards her chest. “Are they real?” She huffed; her eyes rolled.

  “Asshole,” She made sure he’d heard it as she’d retreated to the other end of the bar and begun wiping it down.

  “I didn’t even ask if I could touch them!” She didn’t bother with a glance in his direction. That was her business.

  With nothing to do, he glanced at the walls. Dark polished Walnut branded nearly half of the room. It was in need of replacement. “Whoever did the woodwork here is the real ass,” He was tempted to leap to his feet and run his hands over the stained cheap finish, and the chipped edges. “Whatever you paid for this; you were ripped off.”

  Not all visits to Campbell’s House of Timber were drab and boring. Some—Paul’s favorite—were field trips across the country to CHT’s client’s homes to overlook the installation. He’d picked up a thing or two about woodwork. Not that he’d had the opportunity to flaunt it. “It’s been years since I got my hands dirty, but if you’re interested, I’ve got nothing to do for a few months, I could give this place a fixer-upper?”

  She was returning glass cups beneath the bar.

  “Alright fine, I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask about that.” He’d kept his attention centered on her, she was ignoring him, but she hadn’t kicked him out.

  Yet.

  “It was misogynistic, and objectifying, you are more than just your chest,”

  The silence in the air was beginning to hang heavy.

  “You know what fuck it.” She peeled open a packet of canned beers and begun loading them into the refrigerators. “I’m tired of saying this, I’m tired of getting the same reaction whenever I say this,” He stretched his hands out before him. He was glaring at a bottle of Hennessey on display. “I just lost my mother to a killer whose still on the loose.” His voice was breathy, croaked.

  She paused but didn’t turn towards him.

  “That medical examiner ‘buddy’ has been examining her since it happened. And I had just come to the realization that she’s going to stay there in that morgue for months or years until the case is closed.”

  She reached for another can and loaded it into the open fridge.

  His shoulders fell. She shut the door to the fridge.

  “Susanne.” She turned to him. “The name’s Susanne or Sue, but if I hear it from your lips, you’re out of my bar, deal?” He stretched his arms over his head but nodded. “I take it you’re a Campbell.” She’d heard his story. Well, not particularly his, but his mother’s. He gulped the chilled water she’d left for him greedily.

  “Guilty,” He held up his empty glass as if to say cheers.

  “I’ve never met someone from a famous family, how does it feel Campbell, your family is all over the news?” She chucked the plastic that once held six beer cans into the trash beneath the bar.

  “It’s shitty I’ll tell you that…” He trailed off eluding a yawn. His days haven’t been the best and the nights were much worse. Not that he would admit it to a stranger, this was the first time he’d gotten a wink since his mother’s passing. “And the reporters never seem to get my good side,”
He said referencing the overhead television that was rerunning a video of him escaping the cameras to his car. It was a video they’d taken on his first trip to the Sherriff’s department. He’d been scowling and shoved a hand towards the cameras and when they’d refused to get out of his view, he’d flashed them the middle finger. He cringed at the film.

  “You’re better looking in person, that’s for sure.” She pointed out, a dreamy look in her eyes.

  “Thanks, but…” He shook his head. “So, are you taking me up on my offer?”

  Susanne’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What offer?”

  “To fix her up,” He pointed to the walls. “I have years of woodworking experience.”

  “Oh, really?” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Think of it as a great deal to boost business,” He bit back on a comment about her titties boosting business. If she didn’t kick him out before, that comment would send him packing. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and smiled.

  “Come on, Sue,” He pleaded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. She didn’t blaze with agitation at the sound of her name, if anything, her cheeks had turned the slightest shade of pink. “Give me a shot.”

  “What does this work experience of yours entail?”

  “I worked with my Dad at his Timber exporting company for years and, it would be an honor to remodel my second home,”

  She gave his words some thought. “I’ll sleep on it.”

  He nodded. She walked towards him and retrieved the sachets of pills she’d left out for him. “Your wife, what’s she like?”

  “Can we not,” He stopped her. Thoughts of Claire meant thoughts of a wedding, one his mother would never attend. Claire meant wedding dresses; he shook the fleeting thought from his head. It returned. Whoever had done this had intentions for his wedding with Claire and the dress his mother had died in was a clear sign.