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“She was up before you? Like, what? At dawn? Doesn’t sound like her.” Kristina had never been a morning person. “Did she have an early appointment?”
“No clue,” he said, then changed the subject. “You know, if you don’t want to wait, I know Clark’s in Lake Chinook, at our job site there. I can give you the address. I’m pretty sure he’s with Neil Vledich, our foreman. The property was red tagged by the city, so there’s no construction going on. They’re just meeting there. You could kill two birds with one stone if you stopped by.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call Clark and tell him to stay put, then. Tell him you’re on your way.”
“Thanks, Hale.”
“Any records you need, Clark’ll help you.” Another hesitation, and then he said, “Just don’t spend too much time on that side of the mountains. The weather’s changing for the worse.”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“I don’t mean to be a broken record, but any documentation you need, I can get for you. You don’t have to hang around there.”
“Message received,” she said, half amused, half exasperated.
“All right. Have a safe trip.”
“Would you tell Kristina to call me when she shows up?” she asked, trying not to sound worried, even though she was. Her sister was just acting strange right now.
“Will do.”
He said good-bye, and Savannah clicked off. Maybe he was right. Maybe this trip wasn’t worth it. She would meet Russo and Vledich and see how she felt about staying or going.
She’d worn her raincoat, so now she slipped the strap of the messenger bag over her head, and as she was in the process, the front door opened and a man stood on the threshold, his expression tense. He stopped short upon seeing her.
“The door’s open,” he said, as if he had to explain himself. “Where’s Bridget?” He looked to the imposing desk.
“Not here. I was waiting for Mr. Russo.”
“He isn’t here, either?” he asked. He was still standing in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter.
“No.” Savvy headed toward him but slowed to a stop when he didn’t immediately move out of the way.
“I’m Sean Ingles,” he said, introducing himself, and stuck out his hand. “I designed this building, and I do work for Bancroft Development.”
Ingles was a slight man with sandy-colored hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a slight hunch, almost as if he were preparing for a blow. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move, so Savannah shook his hand and said, “Detective Dunbar with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.”
His eyebrows shot up, and his gaze skittered down her front.
Yes, Mr. Ingles, police officers get pregnant, too.
He didn’t say anything about her condition, however. He was clearly processing her words, and it didn’t appear to be a particularly pleasant train of thought. After a long few moments, he said, “Ummm . . . we have a Seaside office.”
“I’ve been there. I spoke to Hale St. Cloud and told him I was coming here.” He’s my brother-in-law, and I’m carrying his baby.
“Oh. Okay.” And then, “Oh, does this have to do with Bancroft Bluff and the . . . ?”
“Donatella homicides. Yes.”
He met her gaze, his brown eyes owlish behind the lenses. “I hope you get whoever did it,” he stated fervently. “If I can help in any way, let me know.”
“Did you design the homes at Bancroft Bluff?”
He physically recoiled, as if she’d struck him. “Well . . . yes . . . most of them. There were a few lots sold to other builders, and sometimes they used their own architects or house designers.” He clenched his teeth and moved his lips, as if he was working himself up to say something. Finally, he asked, “Have you talked to DeWitt? Owen DeWitt? He’s the brilliant geological engineer who okayed that project.” Ingles’s voice was full of repressed venom.
“I’ve put in a call to Mr. DeWitt, but he hasn’t responded.”
