On the way back down the hillside, Bet’s phone rang again, an unfamiliar number on the screen.
“Sheriff Rivers?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Jamie Garcia. I’m a reporter for the Seattle Times. I understand you’re investigating a homicide in Collier.”
The woman’s comment stopped Bet in her tracks. Schweitzer gave a low growl as if reading her distress.
Bet made a rookie mistake. “Where did you hear that?” She knew the woman’s answer before she gave it.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources.”
Of course she wasn’t. Bet paused, uncertain how to respond. She’d never had to deal with the press as a patrol officer, and nothing newsworthy had happened in Collier during the last six months except her own father’s death, which hadn’t made the news in Seattle.
How had this?
“How about you tell me what you know, and I can confirm or deny.”
She hoped to discover that the woman knew nothing and was just fishing for information. The long pause made Bet think this might be true.
“I understand you have a Jane Doe who died under mysterious circumstances. That you’re new to your position, and at this point don’t have any leads. Is all that accurate?”
It was, but Bet certainly didn’t want that to be the entirety of the reporter’s story.
Now it was Bet’s turn to pause. She didn’t want the media to take control of the situation. What could she offer the woman in exchange for time?
“Tell you what,” Bet said. “I’m getting ready to step into a meeting. Let me call you back in, say, an hour? We can talk more then.”
“The story is going to come out with or without your help, so I look forward to hearing from you.”
Bet took a few deep breaths after ending the call before she continued to her vehicle. She wanted to research the reporter and find out who she was dealing with. She might need to ask the press for help in identifying Jane Doe, but not until she was ready. Currently, Jane Doe’s killer might not know her body had been found. Bet wasn’t ready to give up that advantage. Maybe she could get the reporter to hold off in exchange for an exclusive story.
With Schweitzer loaded up, Bet realized it was ten minutes to noon. Peter Malone and researching the reporter would have to wait. She drove over to the station to check in. Clayton towered over Alma where they stood together on the front steps, waiting for the rest to gather. Even with Alma on the top step and Clayton on the bottom, she barely reached his shoulder, but the old woman had a spine of steel and showed no sign of slowing down.
“I might have something, Sheriff,” Clayton said, as Bet walked up.
“Let’s talk inside.” The three went in and sat down around Alma’s desk.
“I ran the few license plates in town I didn’t see last night,” Clayton said, after getting settled on the wooden office chair, which creaked under his weight. “None came back owned by someone who could be our Jane Doe, and I managed to track down all the owners. But I found another car near the Ruby Creek Campground. It was parked off the road with a bent rim, so it wasn’t drivable. I called in to the DMV for a name and phone number. It’s registered to a man in Tacoma named Tim Reed. I called and reached his wife.”
“What did the wife have to say?” Alma sat poised next to Clayton, fingers on her keyboard, taking notes. Alma kept a log of everything each one of them did for the investigation, printing out her notes and keeping them in a binder to track their progress. Bet could look back over the material anytime she needed to assess what had been done.
“She said her husband came up here this weekend with his daughter, Trisha, as a quick vacation before school started up for her again.”
“She said his daughter,” Bet said, “not theirs?”
“I caught that too,” Clayton said. “It’s her stepdaughter. Trisha is nineteen years old and a student at Tacoma Community College.”
“Did you get a description?”
“Her hair is long and blond and she has blue eyes just like our Jane Doe. The stepmother reported they aren’t due back to Tacoma until this evening, so she wasn’t worried about them. But she couldn’t reach her husband on his cell phone.”
Cell phones regularly went out of range, so that wasn’t unusual. Still, they had to track the two down.
“Here’s the interesting part, though. The stepmother said the trip was in part because Tim and Trisha weren’t getting along very well. Her father wanted her to consider moving back home for the school year. She didn’t spell it out, but it sounded like they might be struggling financially and the girl might have a drug or alcohol problem on top of that.”
Bet was always amazed at what people would say to authorities over the phone.
“I also had the sense the stepmother didn’t really want Trisha to move home.”
Domestic trouble. She wondered what the relationship was like between Trisha and her father. Could there have been an accident?
“We need to find out if Tim Reed owned a gun.” Washington State didn’t require gun owners to register firearms, so there wasn’t an easy way to check. “Alma, find out if he has a hunting license or a Concealed Pistol License. That will give us a place to start.”
Alma started clicking on the computer keys.
“The wife gave you his cell number?” Bet asked Clayton.
“She did. I’m going to call and make sure his daughter is still with him. I didn’t want to bring it up with the stepmother that we have a young, blond Jane Doe in the morgue with no evidence at all that it’s Trisha.”
Dale came through the door, balancing four cups and a muffin on a to-go tray.
Alma had him trained too. Dale put the coffees down on Alma’s desk and reshaped his pompadour, ruffled by the wind.
“You look fine, pretty boy,” Alma said, picking up her muffin.
Dale, stone-faced, removed a black plastic comb from his back pocket and began to run it slowly through his slicked-back hair, eyes locked on Alma. Alma stared him down but couldn’t make him blink. She threw up her hands with a laugh. “You win.”
Dale’s poker face broke into a grin. Despite the difference in their ages, he and Alma had always shared an easy relationship.
“Good work, Clayton.” Bet took a sip of her latte. “Keep me posted.” It was a long shot that the man had killed his daughter and dumped her in the lake, but if there had been an accident, he could have panicked.
“Do you really think a man could accidentally kill his daughter, then get rid of her that way?” Clayton asked.
Bet’s mind rebelled at the thought of a man disposing of his daughter in such a strange and callous fashion, but she knew not to discount what people would do when faced with tragedy.
“We don’t know they were out here alone. Someone else could be involved. For all we know, Tim Reed is in trouble too.”
Clayton nodded, his face grim. Bet imagined impending fatherhood would impact his reaction to investigations moving forward. She still feared Kathy might want Clayton closer to home. She didn’t want to lose him to the farm.
“Did you ask the stepmother to email you a photo of Trisha?” Bet asked.
“I wasn’t sure if I should.”
“Alma can call her back.” Bet looked at Alma, who nodded, her eyes not leaving her computer. “What about leaving a note on the car?”
“That I did. I left my card with a note to call the station, as we were concerned about the well-being of the driver. I noted that we would be following up with the registered owner. Hopefully he’ll call us.”
Clayton went on to explain that he’d shown the photo of Jane Doe around, but no one admitted recognizing her. He’d visited all the open businesses in town. “I thought I’d continue to work my way outward from town. If she was in the market getting coffee Friday morning, someone might have seen her.”
“Good, do that after we break.” Bet thought about how the girl’s “accidental” death would be talked about among the locals. “Did you ask people to respect the privacy of the girl’s family and request that they not talk about her publicly?” If an article came out online from Jamie Garcia, she might have a bigger problem.
“I did,” Clayton said. “I reminded them we wanted to identify her so we could let the family know.”
“Clayton knows the drill.” Dale’s tone was harsher than the situation warranted.
After an uncomfortable pause, Bet responded. “We all do,” she said. “But this isn’t the type of thing we usually deal with. It doesn’t hurt to check in with each other as we go.”
“Okay,” Alma said, ignoring the dynamic in the room. “I have a Tim Reed with a Tacoma address and a deer and elk license along with a small-game license. He probably owns at least a rifle or a shotgun. No CPL.”
It didn’t prove anything, but it pointed toward Reed as a gun owner. He could still own a handgun, even though he didn’t have a Concealed Pistol License.
“Alma,” Bet said. “When you call the stepmother back to get a photo of Trisha Reed, ask about firearms in the home. She may not tell us the truth, but it can’t hurt to try. If she’s forthright, it will give us a better sense of what we’re dealing with. Find out if he planned to meet anyone here.”
Clayton waited to make sure Bet had finished talking before he picked up where he left off. “I’m also going to look for other abandoned vehicles farther out.”
The downtown area was small, but homes were scattered throughout the valley. A network of forest service roads also extended throughout the area, and private roads, often little more than dirt tracks, disappeared into the forest, providing numerous locations to leave a vehicle. People sometimes camped on private land. There were plenty of places Jane Doe might have left a car.
Bet thanked him and turned to Dale, keeping her voice neutral as she asked for his report. She wondered if she needed to have a talk with him about keeping the peace between them through the election. Friendly competition was one thing, but he couldn’t let it impact their working relationship. The edge in his tone supported her father’s speculation about his unreadiness to lead.
Dale reported nothing suspicious in the section of the lake area he’d searched.
Bet turned to Alma. “And no luck with the missing persons sites or other agencies?” She knew that if Alma had found an ID for Jane Doe, she wouldn’t have waited to tell them.
“No, but I do know who owns the phone that called in here last Friday.” Alma handed Bet a piece of paper with a name and a phone number. It was definitely not a name Bet expected. Alma cackled at Bet’s reaction. “Thought that might get your attention.”
Dale cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, his chest pulled tight against his work shirt. “Going to let us in on it?”
“Seeley Lander,” Alma said.
“Wait, isn’t that the kid from the mine?” Clayton asked.
“Are you sure this is right?” Bet asked.
“I asked them to spell it for me three times. I couldn’t believe it either. At first I thought it belonged to a man long dead, but then I started thinking about family names. So I did some looking on the intranet.”
“Internet,” the other three said automatically.
“Intra, inter, whatever.” Alma pulled another sheet of paper out. “According to what I found, our Seeley Lander moved to another little mining town called Jaxon just forty-five miles away, where he found Jesus and started his own church.” Alma paused in her recitation to look around. “I’ve only ever driven through Jaxon; not much there.”
“They have a big car show every year,” Clayton said.
“How come I don’t know about that?” Alma said. “I could take the ’Cuda.”
“So he moved to Jaxon.” Bet kept her on track.
“Right.” Alma refocused on her notes. “He had a son named Boston, who had a son named Winston, who had a son named—”
“Seeley,” Bet finished for her.
“Voilà.” Alma set her notes back down. “This Seeley is a student at the University of Washington.”
“Good work, Alma. Did you try calling that number?”
“Figured I’d leave that to you, Sheriff.”
Bet wondered if her use of the title was a rebuke for Dale, a reminder of who was in charge.
At least for now.
Bet pulled her personal cell phone out of her pocket. She didn’t want the sheriff’s office phone number showing up on Seeley’s caller ID.
The phone rang four times before it went to voice mail. Bet pushed the button for speakerphone so everyone could hear. To Bet’s ear the voice on the message sounded like a man in his early twenties.
“Hey, you’ve reached Seeley. Can’t answer the phone right now. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you when I can. Adventure called. It might be a few days.”
Bet hung up without leaving a message.
“Alma, see what you can discover about this Seeley Lander. Residence, police record, vehicle registration, whatever you can find. His parents might still live in Jaxon or the Wenatchee area. I don’t want to leave a voice mail until I know more about him.”
“Think he killed that girl?” Alma asked.
“Most women are killed by people they know. If he was with her but didn’t kill her, he might be dead or injured himself.”
“Interesting a strange woman called from his phone looking for you on Friday, and Monday a professor from the same university finds a Jane Doe in the lake,” Alma said.
“I’m way ahead of you, Alma,” Bet said. “See if you can find me a picture of him through the—”
Alma stopped Bet’s request by handing her a printout. “I found this on the U-Dub website. Young Seeley Lander apparently won some kind of science award as a freshman.”
The photo looked like it had come from a high school yearbook. It showed a serious young man. Thin, Caucasian, with dark hair that looked naturally disheveled rather than expensive- salon-disheveled. A pink butterfly of acne spread across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Alma handed Clayton and Dale copies as well.
“Anything else?” Alma asked.
“What about social media?” Clayton asked.
“Good idea,” Bet said. “Alma, see if he has any accounts.”
“I’ll start with Facebook.” Alma clicked a few keys. “Here we go. He shows nine hundred and sixty-eight friends.” She turned the screen around to face the group.
“Can you access them?” Bet asked.
“I can. Want me to get started with this?”
Bet thought about the priorities. “First, a photo of Trisha. Second, the information on Malone and Rob Collier. Then start on Facebook and any other social media accounts he has.”
“Isn’t it more important to ID the woman Sandy saw Friday morning?” Dale asked. “Seems like social media is the better lead.”
“We don’t know how much Jane Doe uses social media. Trying to find her that way could send Alma down a rabbit hole. Alma can get a photo of Trisha with one phone call to her stepmother so we can take her off the list. For all we know, Seeley Lander came up with Trisha and her father, so Trisha could still be Jane Doe. Plus, if we find Seeley, he may know Jane’s identity. If Malone or Collier are involved in some way, that’s an important avenue of investigation too.”
Alma looked back and forth between Dale and Bet with an expression Bet couldn’t read. Was she weighing who would make the better sheriff or just hoping everyone kept getting along?
“I’m on it.” Alma turned her computer screen back around on her desk. “I’ll call on the photo for Trisha first thing.”
“Dale?” Bet asked.
“One more section of the lake to walk.”
“I’ve got some work to do at my desk,” Bet said. “Then I’m going to pay another visit to Dr. Malone.”
On the computer, Bet did a search on Jamie Garcia. She found the woman had a degree in digital journalism from Central Washington University, the same school Bet had graduated from. Jamie had worked on the school newspaper and graduated in June. Bet couldn’t find any bylines for her in any papers in Washington, and certainly not the Seattle Times.
Apparently Jamie Garcia was looking for a break and someone with information about Jane Doe thought Bet’s case was it.
“She’s just trying to make a name for herself,” Bet said to Schweitzer, who had followed her into the office and now lay on the dog bed she purchased after her father died. Bet understood the challenge of starting a career, but that didn’t mean she wanted the woman to interfere with her case.
Bet pulled out her cell, and Jamie Garcia picked up.
“Hello, Sheriff.”
Bet laid out her plea to Jamie about holding off until she followed up on a few more leads to identify Jane Doe. “The family hasn’t been notified,” she said, hoping to play on the woman’s sense of decency. “If I can’t make an ID, I’ll need the media’s help. You’ll be the first person I call.”
“One week,” Jamie said. “And an exclusive interview with you. I know you’ll run a photo on all the media outlets if you want the public’s help to make an identification, so that’s not an exclusive for me. But you can give me more insights for a bigger article. Like why you held back on making her death public sooner.”
It wasn’t exactly a threat. But it felt close.
Bet agreed to the time frame, hoping to have an identification and a suspect before the week was up.
They ended the call with Bet feeling even more pressure to move the investigation along.
“The last thing I need is some wannabe journalist putting random information out on the internet.”
If only she knew who’d provided Jamie Garcia with the heads-up about Jane Doe in the first place. She and her deputies had spoken to a lot of people when they showed Jane Doe’s photo around town, so it could have come from anyone. Except why did Jamie believe Jane Doe’s death was under suspicious circumstances rather than an accident?
Pushing thoughts of a failed investigation made public aside, Bet headed out to have another chat with Professor Malone.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, Bet noticed something tucked under her windshield wiper. Looking around as she stepped back out of the SUV, she didn’t see anyone on the street nearby.
The white slip of paper looked identical to the note left on her door.
Go back to LA, it read. Nothing more.
But Bet’s imagination filled in the missing words in the sentence. Or else.