Crowhurst’s property was a half acre of muddy and overgrown land, outside the city of Redmond and far from its prosperous industrial parks and software companies. The house was a two-story colonial, mossy and paint-stripped. A second building had been thrown up, sided with corrugated aluminum, one dirty window and a salvaged door. The husk of a wrecked muscle car, a Torino or Galaxie, separated the two buildings.
We found Farraday parked on the gravel road leading off from the highway. He was talking with a blonde woman in sleeveless black denim and enough silver pendants for a mall kiosk. A pair of rambunctious dalmatians had been locked in the back of her minivan, and she leaned against the vehicle, posture defensive, arms crossed. The conversation broke off as we approached.
“This is Mr. Wakeland and Ms. Drego,” Farraday said to the woman.
“More of you,” she said. “You’re just making a bigger molehill outta this.”
Farraday said to us, “This is Arlene Crowhurst. Henry’s sister.”
“And landlord, as I was explaining.” She shook a cigarette out of a pack of Dunhills, mostly it seemed to give her hands something to set fire to and her teeth something to gnaw. “Henry doesn’t own this place. He pays what he can. Sometimes he pays for three or four months up front. One time he paid for ten.”
Her match burned out and she swore. Farraday held his lighter cupped for her to use. “Your brother ever gripe about his job to you?” he asked.
“He works in a warehouse,” Arlene Crowhurst said.
“Doing what, ’zactly?”
“Drives a pallet jack, forklift, that kind of thing. Keeps inventory. Why?”
Sonia said, “We’re worried your brother is involved in a dangerous situation. We’d like to take a look around his place.”
“That’s up to Henry.”
“Actually it’s up to you,” Sonia said, “you being his landlord and these being exceptional circumstances. You can observe us.”
“Otherwise we gotta go through official channels, get us a warrant and whatnot,” Farraday added. “This way’s easier on all of us.”
Arlene Crowhurst relented. She led us up the gravel road, over the chain strung between two posts that barred the driveway, and onto the porch.
“You’ll have to take your shoes off out front,” she told us, before unlocking the front door.
Nothing about the house was flat or square or true. The hallway was a ramp leading down a good two inches, the floorboards sunken and warped, a minefield of knotholes and nails. Hell with taking off my shoes. Runs and water damage beneath the paint in the living room. An antique television set, a VCR, stacks of cassette tapes in blue plastic cases. I opened a couple. Barb Wire, Bloodsport, The Birdcage. Stickers on the tapes—MONTY’S MOVIES AND ONE DAY DRYCLEANING and BE KIND PLEASE REWIND. No cable hookup. A recliner and a garbage bag full of takeout wrappers, a slashed-up can of High Life repurposed as an ashtray.
Smoke hung in the air, the pungent, woody smell of pipe smoke. It seemed to cling to the walls, yellowing the furniture, masking other smells. I recalled Blatchford’s description—wet coals after a beach fire.
“I had no idea,” Arlene Crowhurst said. She seemed more ashamed than worried.
“What’s your brother like?” I asked.
She’d picked up the trash bag, squashed down its contents, dumped out the makeshift ashtray.
“He’s a good man, though he’s had his share of troubles. Shy, not very social. Some people think he’s slow, but it’s just how he is around people.”
“No close friends, girlfriend?”
“Shy,” she repeated.
The other rooms were similarly foul. One greasy coffee cup lay in the kitchen sink among a collection of dishware and utensils. Several knives but nothing incriminating. I drew one out and held it up. The handle was cheap chipped plastic but the blade itself had been honed.
“May we see the shed?” I asked.
We came out the back door, over a patch of waterlogged ground. Crowhurst had laid down car mats to create a path.
The shed door was padlocked. Arlene Crowhurst tried every key on the small ring but none fit. She held the keychain up by its orange plastic Husqvarna fob. “This is all he gave me,” she said.
I tried the door but it was solid, the hinges and latch rusty but strong. I looked at the window, reached a palm up to the pane and slid. It opened an inch and caught. Tiptoeing to look inside, I could see a twig propped into the window’s trough. Before Arlene Crowhurst could say anything, I put two hands on the window and rammed it. The twig bowed and broke. With the window open I looked at Sonia.
“Alley oop,” I said.
Farraday was speaking in a placating tone to Arlene Crowhurst. “Better to know now, clear up any confusion. Scandalous times we live in, where absence of proof can be proof of guilt. This way, least we know what we know.”
I formed my hands into a stirrup and helped Sonia up to the window. The interior was dark and as she dropped through she seemed to vanish. Brown-gray dust roiled and danced through the open window.
“Light,” she called from inside.
Farraday passed me a penlight. I reached through the window and felt Sonia’s fingers grasp at my own. She took the light and played it over the walls.
“Some kind of workshop,” she said.
Rusty tools hung from spikes on the pegboard walls. A wooden workbench and vise. Aluminum garbage cans, dented lids shut tight.
I heard Sonia exhale, the sound of muted frustration and horror so common with cops.
“Skins,” she said, “hanging off a hook on the door. Maybe a half-dozen.”
“Animal?”
“Deer, I think. They’re moldy.”
“His co-workers hunt,” Arlene Crowhurst said. “I think they bring the animals here for him to butcher. Not a crime, is it?”
“’Course not,” Farraday said. “I got a good-sized bighorn last season.”
“Freezer,” Sonia called out. “Meat inside.” I heard a screech as she pried up a garbage lid. Sound of revulsion as she peered inside. “Help me get the hell out of here, Dave.”
I held out my hands and she took them and walked up the wall. Crouched on the sill before dropping down onto the soggy grass.
“Now we know,” Arlene Crowhurst said. She and Farraday started across to the kitchen. I closed the window and wiped my palmprint from the glass, removing all trace of our presence.
I hung back with Sonia as she breathed, hands on her knees.
“It’s all dirty,” she said. “All the meat had spoiled. I don’t think the freezer was even plugged in.”
“So you’re not hungry?” I asked.
“Ugh.”
“Maybe we should stop for some nice rare veal, huh? Maybe some haggis?”
“Ech.”
“Or what’s that British breakfast, fried pig’s blood? Black pudding? Maybe some steak and kidney pie?”
She bent over and clutched her stomach. “I’m going to murder you so badly,” she said.