With Deadly Intent Read online

  With Deadly Intent

  Louise Hendricksen

  For my husband, Gene, a man who possesses the traits required of all those who choose to live with a writer—patience and a sense of humor.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  One

  2:00 a.m., Saturday, October 22

  Death. She dealt with it every day at the crime laboratory. Husbands, wives, lovers ... friends ... killing each other. Dr. Amy Prescott paced the length of the beach cottage. All of them strangers until now.

  Footsteps clumped on the porch. She swung around, saw her father, and caught her breath. He wouldn't be here at two in the morning unless—

  “Amy...” Dr. B.J. Prescott shoved open the door and plunged inside. “Thank God, you're here.” Rain stippled his graying fringe of hair; dripped from his mustache and Van Dyke beard.

  She clutched her elbows to warm herself. “What's happened?”

  “Something bad, I'm afraid.”

  Her teeth began to chatter. “It's Oren. Isn't it?”

  He stared at her. “How did you know?”

  “He phoned while I was still at the crime lab—”

  “When?” Rivulets of water ran off his yellow slicker and made dark spots on the braided wool rug.

  “Five-thirty, just as I was leaving for my apartment.” Her father gripped her arm and she felt the cold dampness of his fingers through the sleeve of her flannel shirt.

  “What did he say?”

  Goosebumps prickled her skin. “What's Oren done?”

  He regarded her with level blue eyes. “He's in trouble. Big trouble. I've got to know what's going on with him—and fast.”

  Fears that had scuttled around inside her brain on the eighty-mile trip from Seattle to Lomitas Island settled into a lump in her stomach. “Oren said he and ... and ... what's his fiancée's name?”

  “Elise. Elise Dorset.”

  Amy felt a stab of guilt. She and her cousin had once been best friends. If she'd kept in touch, she would have known about his fiancée, about his problems. “They're coming to the island for the weekend. He begged me to come too so I could meet her. He sounded ... strange.”

  “'Strange.’ What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Wild talk.” She shoved her fingers through short brown hair. “You know, like he used to when he was a kid ... after Uncle Mike ran off and left him and Aunt Helen.... Remember?” She moistened her lips. “Evidently, he and Elise have been having some sort of ... difficulties.”

  Her father ran a hand over his face. “Damn! I was hoping—” He let out a noisy breath. “—Sheriff Calder is over at Oren's apartment. The place is wrecked and Oren and Elise are gone.”

  “Oren said he hadn't been to Lomitas Island for weeks. Vandals could have broken in.”

  “Could be, but Tom's convinced Oren and Elise were there earlier in the evening.”

  “Hah! You know what I think about Calder and his screwball ideas.” She thought fast, searching for explanations to reassure her father—and herself. “Chances are, after the storm hit, Oren and Elise decided not to make the long drive after all. They're probably still at their condo in Seattle. Shoot, Dad, you know what a calamity howler Calder can be.”

  “Not this time. A Mrs. Michaels claims Elise called her around midnight. Crying. Hysterical. Terrified. Screamed Oren had—” His words thinned to a whisper and he stopped to clear his throat. “—had gone crazy. Said he was going to kill her.”

  Amy stood as if frozen, his words stinging her like pelting hailstones. “Oh, God! No!” She pressed her hand against her mouth. “He couldn't. He couldn't!"

  Her father put his arm around her. “Sounds bad, Amy. Real bad. This Mrs. Michaels manages the endocrinology clinic where Elise works as a nurse. The woman claims Oren has beaten Elise before.”

  Amy lifted her chin. “I don't believe it. Oren wouldn't do such a thing.” An instant later, her certainty vanished. “Would he?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Who knows, kitten? He's spent less time on the island since you kids grew up and went off to college. Boys change when they turn into men.”

  “Not that much.”

  He fixed her with a solemn look. “Both of us have worked enough crime scenes to know better than that.” He let out a long sigh and massaged a wind-reddened cheek. “I'd better get in gear. Don't want to leave Tom on his own too long.” He turned toward the door.

  “I'll meet you there,” she whispered.

  He forced a smile. “I was hoping you would.” He paused in the doorway. “This storm has blown trees down all over the island, so be careful.”

  “You too.” She grabbed her glasses, donned a slicker, and jammed a yellow sou'wester hat on her head.

  As she rushed out into the darkness, she remembered Oren's final cry. One of us is going mad. I have to know if it's Elise, or me.

  Two

  Amy parked beside a white picket fence and dashed for the veranda of the converted Victorian house. She forced open the heavy oak door and found herself in a dimly lighted entrance hall. An odor of age-brittled wallpaper and thick dark varnish reminiscent of old-time funeral parlors filled her nostrils.

  When he called, Oren had told her he and Elise lived on the second floor. Making wet tracks on ash-rose carpet treads, she tip-toed up the stairway. As Lomitas Island's medical examiner, her father had a right to be here—she didn't.

  A grating creak drew her attention to the floor below. She peered down and caught sight of a sharp-eyed face beneath tousled white hair before the gap between door and frame dwindled to a peephole. Oren and Elise's life wouldn't stay private for long with a nosy landlady.

  She continued her climb, dread increasing with each step. At the crime laboratory in Seattle, where she worked as a forensic scientist, she often went out with the mobile unit. Even so, it had taken her months to learn to distance herself from the carnage and get on with the job to be done. Tonight, she felt as weak-kneed as she had on her first run.

  She grasped the flowered porcelain door knob with a sweaty hand and eased it open. A pallid glow from etched-glass wall sconces gave the room a murky underwater appearance.

  Sheriff Tom Calder sprawled on a Chippendale corner chair in the miniature foyer, watching her father match up extension cords for his portable tripod lights.

  When the door clicked shut, the sheriff wheeled around. “You can't come in here. Don't ya know this is a crime scene?”

  Her father straightened, groaned and rubbed his back. “Amy and I are going to do this particular job together.” He eyed Tom narrowly. “Whether you like it or not.”

  Tom's steely gaze fastened on her. “Humph! Just cause she's workin’ with a bunch of highfalutin’ Seattle cops don't give her no call to come pokin’ her nose in our business.”

  Stiff-necked turkey. Her glare would have incinerated him if he hadn't had a rhinoceros hide. She opened her mouth to defend herself but her father spoke first.

  “Back off Tom. If you're smart, you'll keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. You just might learn a few things about processing a crime scene.”

  “We'll see about that.
You spill everything to her?”

  “Sure did.”

  Tom slumped back onto his chair. “Probably doesn't matter. Be all over town by morning.”

  Amy dumped her rain gear out in the hall and came back to stand in front of Tom. “Sheriff, don't you think you're jumping the gun a little? You don't even know if a crime has been committed.”

  “The hell I don't.” He sprang to his feet and glowered down at her. His long nose gave him the appearance of a crane honing in on a fish. “The landlady heard them two fighting. And just look at this room.” His arm flapped out to take in broken lamps and turned-over chairs. “That cousin of yours wasn't just waltzing his fi-an-cee around in here.”

  A yellow-toothed grin split his long-jawed face at what he apparently considered a witty remark. He swelled out his chest. “Besides, while I was waiting for B.J. here, I found some blood in the kitchen.”

  “I don't believe it.” Her anxious gaze sought her father's.

  “I'm afraid it's true, honey.”

  She shook her head in stubborn refusal. “Not Oren. He couldn't hurt anybody.”

  “Not much he couldn't.” Tom smiled as if he relished the thought. “Thinks he's real clever too. Tried to mop up the evidence, but I was too smart for him. Found wet rags in their garbage can, I did.”

  The wattle of grizzled hair on his forehead bobbled as he nodded his head emphatically. “Looked innocent enough and mighta’ fooled your average law officer. Not me. I gave those rags a good squeeze. There was blood in ’em all right.” With that, he flopped himself down and stroked his droopy mustache as if he'd performed a praiseworthy feat.

  Amy stared at him in disbelief. Of all the dumb stunts—even rookie cops knew enough not to contaminate physical evidence.

  A noise shifted her attention to her father. His eyes blazed and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. She moved to his side and whispered, “Forget it. Dad. Some people can learn, others never will.” She knelt and plugged in one of the extension cords. “Let's get these lights set up so we can take our pictures.”

  The two of them made a good team and the work went faster than usual. With Sheriff Calder dogging their footsteps, she and her father went through the apartment. They dusted all surfaces for fingerprints, used an evidence vacuum with filter disks to go over floors and furniture. After finishing each area, they stopped, sealed the disk in a labeled, numbered bag and listed it in the evidence log.

  By the time they were through, they knew two things for certain. One—the traps beneath the kitchen and the bathroom sinks held clots of blood. Two—the apartment didn't contain a single fingerprint—not even a smudged one.

  Amy righted a gray damask wing chair and sank onto it. Drainage from meat or poultry might explain the blood in the kitchen, but not the large quantity in the bathroom.

  Tom stalked over to her. “B.J. tells me you and young Prescott been running around together since you were kids. That the two of you know every trail, every hill, and every cove on this here island.” He stabbed the air with a bony finger. “You got any idea where your buddy might hole-up?”

  She massaged the tired muscles in her neck. “Did you check with the ferry office?”

  He curled his lip. “I called them first thing. No one on any of last night's return runs saw either the Dorset woman, Prescott, or his van.”

  Amy took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “How could they be sure? The workers might not have noticed them.”

  A muscle bunched along Tom's jaw. “Since Prescott started working for Senator Halliday, his picture makes the papers real regular. Damn few people who wouldn't recognize that pretty boy face of his.” He thrust out his chin. “You and his fi-an-cee pals too?”

  Amy shriveled up inside. “We ... we haven't met. Oren and I drifted apart after I got married.” Mitch Jamison, her ex-husband, and Oren hadn't liked each other.

  “Well,” Tom said, drawing out the word as a prelude to another of his mind-shattering announcements. “She's a real knock-out. Eyes like sapphires. Silver blonde hair. And talk about shape. She coulda’ given Marilyn Monroe a run for her money.” He bobbed his head to give emphasis to his statement. “No way a man's going to miss a woman like that.”

  She got to her feet. “I'll check a few places.”

  Tom planted himself in her path. “Don't you go helping him get away. We got plenty of evidence to bring charges. All we need now is the Dorset woman's body. And I'm betting we'll have that before the day's out.”

  Amy met his stare straight on. “If something has happened to her, Oren didn't do it.” She started for the door. “And when I find him, he'll tell you so himself.”

  “You keep your hands off that silver van of his, if you find it. This murder is Island business—not yours.”

  Her father rose from where he was packing equipment into an aluminum case. He drew himself up to his full five-foot ten and hunched muscular shoulders. “I've just made Amy my assistant. What do you say to that?”

  Calder grabbed his hat and slapped it on his head. “This maniac is your nephew. By rights neither one of you should be allowed on the case.” He glared at her father. “You see she doesn't foul things up, or I'll have your job. Other people may think you're a super sleuth—I don't.” He shoved past them and stomped out of the apartment.

  Her father lowered himself into a chair. “Might not do your budding career any good to get mixed up in this.”

  “That's the least of my worries right now. Did you ever meet Elise?”

  “Yeah, about a month ago. She and Oren came by the house and asked if they could use the ketch. Oren wanted to show Elise some of the other islands.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “Sweet, soft-spoken young woman. Seemed to think the world of Oren. Didn't take her eyes, or her hands off him during the whole visit. Sure looked like a couple of love birds to me.”

  “Then why aren't they getting along?” She and Mitch had argued over his drinking, his gambling debts and—she pressed her arms tight to her sides—his habit of straying into other women's beds.

  “Any relationship can go off track. You know that as well as I do.”

  She winced. A year had passed since her divorce and still the wounds hadn't healed. She gave a long sigh. “I'd better go before I fall asleep on my feet.”

  “Take my car. If you find Oren and Elise you can call Tom on the cellular phone.”

  “Good idea. Meanwhile you try and get some rest.”

  “No can do. I have an autopsy to do over on Orcas Island. I should be back by one. Maybe then you'll have located the two of them and we can forget this whole mess.”

  They were ready to leave when Amy let out a low cry. “Dad, I forgot all about Aunty Helen. She mustn't hear about this from anyone but us.”

  Her father put his arm around her. “You go search. I'll stop by Helen's house on my way to the ferry.”

  Amy turned and kissed his cheek. “Tell her I'll try to come see her sometime this weekend.”

  Amy transferred her camera, forensic satchel, and other necessary paraphernalia from her station wagon to her father's four-wheeler and drove back to the cottage. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, she put on her hiking boots. Oren's favorite haunts were varied. She might have to explore several of them before she found him.

  She fed Cleo, her black cocker and called Marcus Aurelius, her marmalade-colored Manx cat. He didn't answer. Marcus didn't forgive her long absences as readily as Cleo. She set out a dish of his favorite food and called again. From past experience she knew he was probably observing her from a limb of the big maple beside the cottage. Few people entered or left her house without him knowing it. The full-blooded Manx stood nearly as tall as Cleo. Unwary intruders who tangled with him never returned.

  One glance at the overcast sky warned her she'd better prepare for anything. She tossed her slicker and down jacket onto the back seat.

  The long driveway circled past her father's house. Weat
hered gray shingles covered roof and sides of the rambling two-story house and gave it the appearance of a fat, many petticoated dowager sprawled inelegantly on the wooded hillside. Perhaps not the most beautiful house in the world, but she'd been born and raised there and she loved every ancient inch of it.

  She turned right on Westridge Avenue and headed toward Faircliff, the only town on the fifty-mile-square island. The avenue snaked up a wooded hill. On the other side, the route broke clear of the trees and curved along the shore. Mountainous green swells capped with bone-white spindrift thundered against craggy basalt rocks.

  She blinked eyes that felt like they'd been sand blasted. During her medical internship, she'd lost many a night's sleep. Time well spent, but this could be just wasted effort. The sheriff, with his need to feel important, had probably made a mystery where none existed.

  Wishful thinking and she knew it, but she had to believe Elise was alive and Oren innocent of the accusations piled on him. Otherwise, she didn't know him—didn't know him at all.

  After passing the ferry dock, she turned onto East Shore Road. When she reached Murres Bay, she didn't see Oren's van, but she got out and skidded down the steep, winding trail anyway.

  She and Oren had always liked this place. Wind and waves had carved deep cavelike depressions in the rocks where the two of them could sit.

  Maybe Oren had brought Elise here in hopes the calming atmosphere would help them communicate. It had worked for Amy and Oren in the past.

  Oren's father had deserted him in much the same manner as her own mother had. When she and Oren were teenagers, they came here many times filled to the teeth with anger and bitterness. Usually, the blend of sand, sea, and surf worked its soothing magic.

  Her search proved fruitless so she headed into the hills. Long ago Spanish explorers had named Lomitas Island after the many small promontories that formed a wooded spine down the center of the island. Tallest of these was Mt. Sosiego. The ancient seafarers had named the mountain after the peaceful vista.

  Like many of the islanders, Sosiego was Oren's favorite haunt. She could easily imagine him bringing Elise here in the midst of last night's storm. The forested area had an uplifting effect, regardless of the weather.