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“Kyle’s the one who said you dumped him for your boss,” Lang reminded, though in truth, Hillary was right on in her assessment.
“I’ve got to see this TV interview,” Hillary declared.
“If Kyle said that, somebody must’ve put the idea in his head and he just repeated it.”
She was one smart cookie, Savvy thought with admiration. The reason she’d come to the station was that she knew there was no truth to the accusations and she wanted to nip this story in the bud. Lang sensed it, too, because he leaned back in his chair and regarded the woman thoughtfully.
“You think you could get Kyle to talk to us?” he asked.
“If he doesn’t want to come to the station, I could go to him.”
“Do you believe me?”
“Can you help me with Kyle?”
“I don’t see him anymore, but I could call him, I suppose,” she said reluctantly.
Lang nodded, pointed to her purse, and Hillary, catching his drift, grabbed up the purse, dug around inside it, then pulled out her cell and placed the call. After a moment, she said, “Voice mail,” in a stage whisper. Then a few more moments passed, and she launched into, “Hey, Kyle. It’s me. The police want to talk to you. Just try to tell them the truth, okay? I don’t appreciate your lies. You know I wasn’t with Marcus Donatella. Don’t be such a dick.” Clicking off, she looked up at them half angrily, a flush creeping up her face.
“Thanks,” Lang said, closing the file.
“Are we done here?” she asked.
“For now. We appreciate you coming in.”
For the first time she relaxed a little. “I was afraid you were all going to be so eager to close the case that I would have to get a lawyer and time would go by, and the real killer would be still out there. I want you to find him and lock him away forever. I liked both of them, Marcus and Chandra. . . .” She trailed off, and her eyes became slightly moist. “String the bastard up.”
Fifteen minutes later Hillary Enders was on her way back to Seaside, and Lang, Savvy, O’Halloran, and Burghsmith were looking at each other.
“Back to square one,” Lang said.
“You think she was telling the truth?” Burghsmith asked.
“Uh-huh,” Savvy said, and they all nodded in agreement. “Where’s Clausen?” she asked.
“Had to cut your friend Mickey loose on the trespassing violation, so he followed him to make sure he wasn’t heading right back up to Bankruptcy Bluff,” Lang revealed.
“He will go back there,” Burghsmith said knowingly. “They always do.”
“What about Toonie?” Savannah asked. Toonie was Althea Tunewell, who ran a shelter on the south side of Tillamook. She was often contacted by the department when there
was a homeless situation.
“We called her, and she came by,” Lang said. “She offered him space, but he didn’t sound ready to go. There was a lot of Jesus talk between them, but Toonie’s for real, whereas your friend Mickey just spouts off stuff randomly, so I’m not sure it’s gonna take.”
“Why is he my friend Mickey?” Savannah asked.
“You found him,” Lang pointed out.
The sheriff, who’d been standing by, listening, cleared his throat and asked, “Dunbar, can I see you in my office?”
Savvy shot a look toward Lang, who just raised his brows in that “Didn’t I warn you?” way. She followed O’Halloran into his office and waited as he took a seat, his chair squeaking in protest under his weight.
“When are you due?” he asked without preliminaries.
“Sean, I know you want me to quit now,” Savvy responded. “I don’t want to, but I will soon. I just have a couple things I want to finish first. Tomorrow I’m driving to Portland to interview the Bancroft Development employees in that office. I saw Hale St. Cloud today, and he’s let them know I’m coming. On Monday I’ll come in and file a report on those interviews, and then . . . okay . . .” She felt slightly depressed, but it was sort of a relief, too. She was pissed off and tired of fighting, and there was only so much she could do, anyway.
“We’ll talk about this on Monday. It’s just the fieldwork we need to cut out,” O’Halloran said.
