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“Okay. That’s all. Keep me informed of anything I need to know.”
She thanked him for his time. She refrained from bowing and backing out of his office and praised herself for her performance.
A-minus?
She checked her watch. Time for paperwork. Always paperwork. Department protocol required writing up major incidents as soon as possible, with the more mundane ones completed “expeditiously,” which she interpreted as whenever she had time. Today she had time, so she retrieved her logbook from her vehicle and sought out the records department, where there were forms, carrels to use, and reasonably helpful staff to help with questions.
She caught up quickly because not all that much had happened the last few days, except for the Toompas case. Then her official phone vibrated. It was the Tillamook City girls’ basketball coach. He had corralled most of their team for an impromptu practice during their lunch hour.
Trapped by her earlier agreement to stop by, Greta made the short drive to the school and spent half an hour at mutual introductions, offered a reluctant obligatory review of why the Cloverdale girls had beaten Tillamook, and promised to occasionally stop in during normal after-school practices whenever feasible. With her loyalty firmly in the Cloverdale corner, Greta hoped the Cloverdale girls wouldn’t view her a traitor for helping the enemy.
She stopped at a Subway and was finishing a sub when her phone beeped, alerting her to an email from Alex. The first acquaintance list for Toompas was attached as a pdf. She opened it and scanned down the page and a half, counting twenty names and addresses, some with phone numbers. Three of the addresses were in unincorporated parts of Tillamook County, one in Pacific City, one in the woods in the southeast portion of the county, and one in the community of Garibaldi on the coast in the northwest county corner.
She returned to the sheriff’s office and searched records for names on the list, making notes on her paper tablet. An hour later, she decided to start with the person living farthest north.
Garibaldi had its own sheriff’s deputy through a contract with the county—Devan Harpal, a solid-looking man in his middle thirties she had interacted with a few times. His was the smallest patrol district in the county because it included only Garibaldi. In effect, he was a single-person police force, paid and uniformed by the county.
Harpal answered his phone on the second ring. “Harpal here.”
“Hi, Devan. It’s Greta Havorsford.”
“Hey, Greta. What’s up?”
“I have a guy in Garibaldi I need to talk to and wanted to check in with you first. I’m in Tillamook City right now.”
“This have to do with the homicide down in Lincoln? I hear you’re involved in the investigation.”
“Yep. I’m the Tillamook liaison, and their first list of people to be questioned includes a Nat Mendoza, 172 Spruce Street, Garibaldi.”
“I know the street and maybe even the house once I see it. The neighborhood is full of dumps, and I’m there at least once a week, for one reason or another. You want to come on up and question this Mendoza?”
“Yeah, particularly since I’m as far as Tillamook City already. It’d be nice to know if he’s around before I drive up. I can’t be running around trying to find him since we’re at opposite ends of the county.”
“No problem. I’m only eight or ten blocks away. If I remember right, I’ve had a few interactions with Mendoza. I’ll run over and see if he’s home.”
“Thanks, Devan. I’ll wait for your call.”
Ten minutes later, the phone vibrated again. Mendoza was home.
“I to
ld him not to go anywhere, and I’ll wait outside for you.”
“Thanks again, Devan. I appreciate it.”
Twenty minutes later, she pulled in behind Harpal. They got out, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and walked to the house. A woman stood in the window, and a man opened the door before they got there. He invited them into a well-worn living room with furniture that, to Greta’s evaluation, needed fumigation or burning. The man flopped down on a couch with multiple holes in the upholstery. Despite his name, the man had dull blond hair in a ponytail and was on the skinny side, except for a developing pot belly. He wore his clothes like they had just fallen on him. The woman, short and skinny with tangled hair, wearing shorts, a halter, and flip-flops, sat at the other end of the couch. Neither offered the two deputies a seat.
“So, what’s this about?” the man asked in a semi-insolent tone.
“I’m Sheriff’s Deputy Havorsford, and I understand you already know Deputy Harpal. I need to ask you some questions about an acquaintance—Howard Toompas.”
“Howie Toompas? What kind of shit has the little prick gotten himself into this time?”
The woman tittered and lit up a cigarette.
“He got himself killed, and we’re investigating the murder,” Greta blurted out.
The woman dropped her cigarette into her lap, then jumped up to brush it onto the floor. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” she exclaimed.
