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She unwrapped the loaf of sourdough she had picked up at Doris’s Bakery and Café the previous day. She had let it sit outside in the dampness all day, a local trick to increase the tangy taste. Then she opened a bottle of sauvignon blanc from the Marlborough region of New Zealand—on the dry side to match the cheddar and the sourdough. She sat with her feet toward the fire, the cheese and the bread to one side, the wine to the other, and dined. It was her favorite quick meal and one she had once or twice a week. Sourdough bread, cheese, and white wine. Although tonight was an import, most wines she drank were West Coast—rieslings, gewürztraminers, sauvignon blancs, and pinot grigios from Washington, Oregon, and California.
She ate and thought about the case. An honest-to-God murder case, even if she was only a gofer for the Lincoln County people. She wondered what advice Bruce would have. Had he ever worked a murder case? She went over the briefing in her mind. Toompas himself, his record.
She’d need to get a copy of what they had or do research on her own. She already assumed she would be making files. Unfortunately, she didn’t have access from home to the Oregon State Police Operated Law Enforcement Data Systems, or LEDS. Only the office in Tillamook City had direct access. She would have to cozy up to one of the staff members who did have access and try not to involve Wallace. Normally, she could call in for information on license plates, names, and so on, and get a quick turnaround because the requests involved real-time situations. For this case, since instant response would not be needed, there could be more delay, and who knew how many such requests she might need. There were also private databases accessible over the Internet if you paid a subscription fee. She might sign up for one or more of those.
Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, she thought. Let’s see what happens.
She finished the bottle of wine, something she did only occasionally. Then she wrapped the remains of the loaf for tomorrow, used a finger to dab up the last crumbs of cheese, and trundled off to bed after opening the bedroom window. She liked breathing the sea air and hearing the rustle of pine needles.
CHAPTER 5
“OKLAHOMA!”
SLAM! went Greta’s palm to the off button. As effective as the song was at waking her, she didn’t need to hear more of it than necessary and had no interest in what the wind and the wheat were doing in Oklahoma. The clock read 5:45 a.m. She’d slept seven and a half hours, more than enough for her. Any more than six and half would work, as long as it wasn’t too many nights in a row.
She would have preferred to stay under the covers and snooze a while longer, but she couldn’t today. She’d missed her exercise routine already once this week. With a groan, she threw off the covers, jumped up, and danced across the cold floor to the chest of drawers. Out came socks, panties, a sports bra, gray sweatpants, and a pink hooded sweatshirt into whose pouch went an ID, a department cell phone, and her personal .32 Beretta Tomcat pistol. The Beretta’s stub barrel made hitting anything beyond twenty yards more a matter of chance, but the small aluminum frame made it popular as a concealed weapon or backup, and it rode easily in Greta’s sweatshirt. She was officially off regular duty, so carrying the department’s 9 mm Glock wasn’t required in Tillamook, as in some departments. However, she thought that if she had to carry identification as a law enforcement officer, she should be armed. It also made sense because she would be out on an isolated beach. She wasn’t normally afraid of being attacked, given her size, but one never knew.
Two minutes to dress, another minute to put on a wristwatch and lace up her shoes, and she exited the back door six minutes after waking. She caught the housing development’s walking path fifty yards from her house, then headed out to the boardwa
lk and over the dune ridge. She started jogging as soon as she reached the beach. Rather than running on asphalt and concrete, she preferred to run on the sand, where waves left enough water to create a firm surface. Her regular route ran south along the uninterrupted beach four miles to the mouth of the Nestucca River. Given enough time, she liked to jog all the way down, then jog or walk back. Today, she planned to jog for thirty minutes, then return to the community clubhouse. There, she’d use the weights for a thirty-minute session of alternate heavy low-repetitions and light high-repetitions. Then she would walk home to cool off, shower, dress, and go to meet Bruce Penderman.
It would be an adequate exercise session, one to keep her from regressing. In the next few days, she planned a longer session. She didn’t want to let herself go too much because she hadn’t yet made that other big decision. She still had a year before having to commit.
At five to eight, she pulled up in front of Doris’s Bakery and Cafe, and two minutes later she walked through the door. A cheerful Doris Sweeney, the owner and chief baker, greeted her. Doris held an upward-pointing thumb, their signal asking whether Greta intended to pick up a fresh loaf of sourdough. With regret, Greta answered with thumbs down. She still had a little of last night’s loaf, and as much as she loved them, too many loaves of bread translated into too many miles of jogging to stop the butt spread. Doris smiled, nodded, and placed the loaf she had set under the counter back onto the shelf.
Among the five tables and three booths, it took Greta almost a second to spot Bruce. He sipped coffee in a window booth and was halfway through the front section of a paper. She didn’t register which one, local or from Portland. Because he always started with the sports and read all sections, she figured he’d been here a good twenty minutes or more. She eased into the bench opposite him.
“Any hot Seahawks news today?”
He was an avid Seattle Seahawks fan.
“Ah . . . ,” he said with disgust. “Those pussy 49ers complaining again about the Hawks’ dirty play. They need to either play up or shut up.”
Greta couldn’t care less about football, but she tried to notice articles about the Seahawks, so she could converse with Bruce.
“What do you expect? The Seahawks own them at home, and the Niners either lose or squeak out a win in San Francisco.”
“And I hate that prick of an owner the Niners have.”
Greta couldn’t let this one pass. “And you don’t think Coach Carroll is one, too?”
“So what! He’s our prick.” A smile accompanied the words, thus completing their usual routine.
“So,” he continued, segueing immediately to the topic he knew had elicited the breakfast invitation, “your first murder case.”
She nodded. “Seems certain. As I said over the phone, Lincoln County is taking the lead. However, I’m to be the Tillamook ‘liaison’ and do interviews of people up here who might be connected to the victim.”
“How did the briefing go yesterday?”
“It was my first murder investigation briefing, so I’d say it went okay. The ME’s report and Detective Connors’s summary of what was known at the time were to the point.”
Bruce nodded. “Connors is a reasonably good man. Maybe not Sherlock Holmes, although he’s solid. I worked with him a couple of times when he first joined the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department. In fact, he called me last night and asked about you.”
“What?” she bridled. “Checking to see why the hell a female was pretending to be in law enforcement?”
Bruce scowled. “Get off your high horse, woman. How many times have I told you to stop filtering everything through expectations of being slighted?”
Greta blushed. Goddamn it, he was right.
