Agnes Hahn Read online

  Jason pulled into the parking lot of a poorly marked restaurant in Bodega Bay and let the engine idle. A sudden hankering for calamari and shrimp, and any number of other invertebrates, moved his hand to turn the key in the ignition. He wanted anything that didn’t bleed red.

  What was his next move? He still wanted to find Agnes, but what would happen if he went out on his own again? Bransome hadn’t said a word about the initial trip to Inverness, although Jason sensed an undercurrent of tension, a slight reversal in their treaty.

  The memory of Yolanda’s pale-faced reaction to the murder scene brought his mind back to Eddie. Yolanda had stayed behind to watch over the body. The coroner was still processing the grave site, with the body in place, when Jason and Bransome had left. The corpse would probably sit there for several more hours before being lifted out and placed in a body bag. Then more processing of the grave would be necessary.

  Based on the demeanor of the coroner, Jason guessed that once the body was removed, the site would be sealed for the night. Tomorrow’s light would be needed to complete evidence collection.

  Jason mouthed a thank-you to Yolanda. Because of her help, he’d have an early night, so he could be at the Mendocino Police Station first thing in the morning.

  In his haste to shower and get moving, the bathroom floor didn’t receive proper towel cover, and the slippery tile nearly claimed a victim. He dressed in a hurry and swept his coat off the chest of drawers, where he’d thrown it in a heap the previous evening. Three envelopes fell to the floor.

  “Shit. Forgot to take them in.”

  He picked up the mail he had stuffed in his pocket on his last trip to Agnes’s house and shuffled through the pieces. All bills: Pacific Gas and Electric, State Farm Insurance, U-Store self-storage center. The last one was addressed to Gertrude Hahn, not to Agnes.

  Two envelopes fell back to the floor as the third yielded to Jason’s tear. Due: rental for space E-24. He scanned the due date and the last payment information. It was a monthly bill. Agnes had been paying it since Gert died.

  The U-Store sat behind Agnes’s house, separated by Agnes’s five-and-a-half-foot wooden fence, and only inches behind it, a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. He’d walked the wooden fence earlier, from Agnes’s backyard. It appeared intact, but he hadn’t squeezed behind all of the tall junipers. Maybe a detour on the way to the police station was in order.

  An urge pulled at him. More of an instinct, from his experience as a reporter. If something smelled fishy, chances were there were scales on the floor. Lilin had been watching Agnes. She had put a package on Agnes’s back porch. Only the two fences separated the U-Store from Agnes’s backyard.

  Jason paused in the motel room doorway. How would Bransome react if he went off on his own again? Bransome didn’t have to say anything. Jason had seen the look many times on Christian Mulvaney’s face, felt the icy change in demeanor. Neither Mulvaney nor Bransome were subtle.

  He looked down at the envelope in his hand. What if space E-24 held a clue about Lilin? More importantly, a clue about Agnes? He slammed the door and jogged to his Volvo.

  A rolling gate guarded the entrance to the U-Store. Evidently, the renters slid a card key into a drive-up receptacle to gain entrance. Jason waited for fifteen minutes, hoping someone would open the gate so he could slip in behind the car before the gate closed. Today didn’t bring that kind of luck. Maybe the bright sunshine and the long shadows got in the way.

  He swung the Volvo around and parked it on the street ten yards down from the entrance. Slinking to the back of the car, he scanned both ways along the street. Deserted. The trunk hatch creaked like a casket lid in a horror film. A quick shuffle through a mound of meaningful debris produced a rolled and tied canvas tool kit—a Boy Scout’s be-prepared dream, with standard and jeweler’s screwdrivers, assorted lightweight pliers and clamping devices, cutting and boring instruments, a dental mirror, a magnetic retriever, and, most important, lock picks. In the final pocket, he found an M-80 firecracker and a screw-cap tube of waterproof matches.

  M-80s were a kid’s fantasy. About an inch-and-a-half long, and as big around as a man’s thumb, they packed a punch that could lift a heavy rock. The equivalent of several cherry bombs. A two-inch waterproof fuse jutted from the middle of the barrel instead of the end like other firecrackers. He tried to remember why he put it in the kit. Maybe for a fishing trip.

  He shoved the roll into his jacket pocket and lowered the trunk to contact, then pushed hard until it clicked.

  The portion of the fence into which the gate rolled wasn’t capped with razor wire, just two straight strands of standard barbed wire. He scanned for traffic and waited for a pickup to idle by before he scaled the fence. At the top, he braced himself on one of the vertical spires that held the barbed wire, and placed his hand on the top wire, between barbs. Pushing down, he swung his leg over and found a foothold on the far side of the fence top. His weight shifted without a snag, but then the trailing pant leg caught a spur and compromised his balance. He had a choice to make, to move to an even more unstable position to try to free the captured pant leg, or let it rip with a quick pull. The latter won out. The pants could be converted to cutoffs after this was all over.

  The rows of storage units strung away from the gate in parallel lines, building A to the left, building whatever to the right, and building E right in front of him. He walked down the edge of the asphalt driveway, counting as he went. Two-thirds of the way to the end of the long building he came to a stop. Unit E-24 was the size of a single garage, closed by an upward sliding garage-type door. The handle in the middle of the door held a standard-key, recessed lock.

  Jason looked up and down the alley-like driveway. Building E was in direct line with the front gate, giving an unobstructed view of the street, or rather, giving those on the street an unobstructed view of what he was doing.

  He pulled the tool kit from his jacket pocket and withdrew the lock picks. He worked them in the lock like knitting needles laying down garter rib stitches. His shadow, projected on the garage door by the morning sun, mimicked his actions.

  “Bad feeling about this.”

  The lock didn’t yield. It was recessed enough to limit the angular movements of the picks.

  “Come on, damn it.” He hit the door with his open palm and the rattling sound echoed in the barren alley. He tried again. The tumblers moved, but not quite enough.

  His thighs cramped from the crouch, so he knelt on the cold asphalt and leaned back. He moved the tumblers to the catch point again, and gave them a hard jerk. One of the picks fell to the ground, but the lock clicked over. He tried the handle, and it turned.

  A final look to the street, then another in the opposite direction verified the grounds were deserted. Jason stood and dusted off the knees of his Levi’s. He put the lock picks back into the tool kit and slipped it into his pocket. Inside the garage, he expected to see old trunks, a few pieces of near-antique furniture, and stacks of old, framed family photographs. Boxes of who knows what probably included at least one family treasure worthy of appraisal on the Antiques Roadshow.

  He turned the handle again and moved the door. It was well balanced and not heavy at all. With little effort, the door slid upward, disappearing into the garage.

  He spotted the grill inside the garage at the same moment the engine howled to life. A flash of black. He dodged to his left. Tires screeched. All he saw was black and chrome. He dove, but the bumper caught his right foot, spinning him to the ground. His head thumped the pavement and a rear tire screamed past. Less than six inches from his forehead.

  The GTO gained traction through the turn and accelerated toward the gate. Hard braking started a four-wheel skid that brought the car to a stop next to the gate, which whirred into its slow slide open, obviously activated by an electric eye.

  The car lurched forward. It didn’t wait for the gate to open all the way and the right fender clipped the gate, nearly throwing the car into a
spin. It corrected and screeched into a left turn on the road. The low growl of the engine warned Jason not to follow.

  He scrambled to his feet and nearly collapsed. A stinging sensation radiated upward from his ankle. He tried to put his weight on the leg but drew it back to toe contact when the pain objected.

  He couldn’t see the intersection with Reese Drive, but he could hear the unique rumble of the GTO’s engine. It roared away to the north.

  Jason pulled the cell phone from his pocket and took a chance. Bransome answered on the second ring.

  “It’s Jason. I found the GTO. It was in the U-Store behind Agnes’s house. It just took off. North on Reese Drive. Hurry.”

  “Get in here. To the station. Now.” Bransome’s phrases came through the phone like a series of pants, like he was running.

  “Can I do anything?”

  Bransome hung up without saying another word.

  Jason limped into the garage. His foot hurt, but not enough to prevent him from putting some of his weight on it. The trunks, furniture, and boxes were all there, pushed to the back and side walls of the space.

  The experience in crime scene data collection told him to leave the garage contents alone. A flick of the lock and the garage door slid down and sealed. He tested the handle. It was locked. He’d get Bransome out to work the site later. Right now he wanted to get to the police station as fast as he could. But he hesitated. Fifteen yards to his right, the chain-link fence loomed, separating the U-Store lot from Agnes’s fence. It was every bit of six feet in height, and the coiled razor wire on its top made it look like a prison fence from this side. He walked to the barrier.

  In both directions it looked sound. He meshed his fingers and gave it a strong shake. Solid. Was there any way Agnes could get through? The question warranted an inspection.

  At the far right of Agnes’s yard, her wooden fence came within three inches of the chain link. Another shake confirmed the integrity of the fence. He looked closely for breaks, cut links, or other evidence of trespass. There were none. He walked along the fence, from pole to pole, checking each section. No more than six inches separated the fences, and both were completely intact.

  At the other end of Agnes’s yard, the wooden fence posted even closer to the chain link—only an inch or two of separation. The U-Store fence was solid, uncompromised.

  He couldn’t see a way Agnes could get through the fence to the garage. No human could climb over through the razor wire, and the asphalt had been spread after the fence was erected. It embedded the chain link at least a couple of inches at the bottom. He had kicked at the bottom of each section. None gave a hint of a gap.

  A flood of questions swamped his mind. Was Lilin that close all along? Was that how she kept an eye on Agnes? And why did Agnes keep paying the bill? Had she ever visited the U-Store? He limped to the front gate.

  Who was behind the wheel of the GTO? Obviously, Agnes wasn’t around to answer the questions. Was she still alive? It didn’t look like there had been two people in the car.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. It sounded like they headed north, presumably in search of the GTO. It would be easy to spot, but too many side roads split from the highway to Fort Bragg. They’d have to be lucky.

  Jason reached the front gate, and this time his luck was running. A car pulled from the street to the entrance of the U-Store and the driver carded the receptacle. Jason gave a wave as the car passed and ambled through the gate before it closed. His right foot hurt now—the driving foot. It might take a while to get to the station.

  Jason pulled into the police station parking lot and grimaced when he pumped the brake pedal. Pushing on the gas didn’t hurt, but braking was another story. He’d driven slowly all the way, under twenty-five, taking advantage of the lower gears of the automatic transmission to slow the car when approaching traffic lights or stop signs. He tried to let his mind work between twinges of pain.

  If that was Lilin, what was she doing in the garage? Did she sleep there, in the car? It couldn’t have been Agnes. Even if she had a way to get through the fence, why would she stay in the garage? She could have snuck back into her house without anyone knowing, and as long as she didn’t disturb the lighting trap Bransome had set, she could have gone about her activities, undetected.

  A terrible thought stopped him from getting out of his car. He pictured Agnes, lying in her own house, blood oozing from Lilin’s razor slices. Only one person in the GTO. The other taking her last breaths while the police, and everyone else, pursued the driver.

  A call to Officer Wilson wouldn’t do any good. He had undoubtedly joined in the chase. Jason thought about driving to Agnes’s house and breaking in, but Bransome’s tone was unmistakable. Besides, his foot hurt, and he didn’t want to miss any news about the GTO.

  He pulled himself from the car and hobbled into the station directly into the detective’s workroom. He clipped on his ID badge. Recognized and accepted, he had free run of most of the building. Too bad he didn’t know where they kept the fingerprint data from Inverness. He could start processing it.

  A computer printout lay on the blotter of Bransome’s desk. Jason plopped in Bransome’s chair and lifted the single sheet.

  “Mother of God.”

  CHAPTER 33

  THE COT IN THE HOLDING CELL WAS A WELCOME SIGHT. Jason’s head swirled and his foot hurt. He had to think this through. It didn’t make sense.

  The scene in the cabin had seemed strange, different from all of the other murders. There was more blood, more of a mess. Compared to the other sites, it reeked of inefficiency and carelessness.

  And the prints—none had been left at any of the other murder scenes. Why now? Why so messy? Why so different? He’d rationalized that earlier, but was he just kidding himself? The prints in Inverness were Agnes’s. Bransome had come in early and processed some of them. The printout confirmed it, without a doubt.

  Jason had trouble catching his breath. Agnes had killed Eddie. But why? Was she working with Lilin all along? Her performance was Oscar worthy if so. But what if Lilin had forced Agnes to kill Eddie? That easily fit in his conceptualized view of Lilin and her desire to get even. And what if all of the prints were planted, and the change in technique was just a frame job? With the U-Store connection, Agnes could be blamed for all the murders. Lilin could go back into the woodwork and vanish.

  But then, where was Agnes? Surely, Lilin hadn’t planned to be surprised at the U-Store. And now that she was on the run, what would become of her twin sister, unless her fate had already been sealed?

  Jason gasped. What if Agnes hadn’t even been in Inverness? Lilin could have planted Agnes’s fingerprints. A severed finger? No. Some of the prints were of all five digits, complete with a palm print. Jason’s next gasp echoed in the holding cell.

  Would Lilin know that identical twins have different fingerprints? She’d have to if she’d intended the planted fingerprints to point at Agnes. Maybe Agnes’s hands were safe, intact. But the information about the fingerprints of twins was hardly a secret. It could be found on a number of Web sites. Lilin seemed to be thorough, prepared. And smart. Very smart. She knew Agnes had been released following the initial arrest. There had to be a reason for that. Just how much did Lilin know about the details of the case?

  A picture of Agnes, her throat slit from ear to ear, one hand severed, came to Jason—all too real. He turned on the cot and groaned. He’d give Bransome the rest of the day. If there wasn’t any news by late afternoon, he’d break into Agnes’s house again.

  Jason startled awake. A commotion in the station stirred the air with sound and energy. He’d dozed off, but for how long? A pull on the shirtsleeve exposed his watch. It was one thirty.

  Bransome stomped in and rattled the bars before Jason could get up.

  “We got her. We got Lilin Hahn.”

  Jason swiveled to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. “You caught up to her?”

  “She started out heading to Fort Bragg, bu
t I had a hunch she might have turned on Highway 20 to get to 101. That would be the best way to disappear quickly. I was right. I caught up to her just outside of Willits. Another ten minutes, and who knows where she’d be.”

  “Is it Lilin?”

  “It sure doesn’t look like Agnes. I mean, it does, but Agnes wouldn’t dress like that or act like that.”

  “Act like what?”

  “She fought us the whole way, and you wouldn’t believe her mouth. I’ve never heard language like that from a woman. And then, once she calmed down in the backseat, she started offering me all kinds of sexual treats if I’d let her go. If my wife heard what she offered me, well …” He wiped his brow. “I bet Agnes has never even dreamed about some of the things this woman wanted to do with me. At my age, I don’t even know if some of them are possible.”

  “Tempting, huh?”

  Bransome laughed. “The next time with the wife isn’t going to be the same. I won’t be able to get some of the visuals out of my mind for a while.”

  Jason stood up and immediately favored his left leg.

  “You all right? You want a doctor?”

  “Bumper caught me when she peeled out of the garage. It’s bruised, but I’ll be okay.” He limped forward. “What are you going to do with Lilin?”

  “After I Mirandized her, I started asking questions. She clammed up. Now she won’t talk. At all. I’ll try again in a little while, but I’m not optimistic. She turned on a dime. We’ve got a call in to the shrink who talked to Agnes earlier. Maybe she can help. Wilson suggested we put her on a suicide watch. We don’t want to blow this case.”

  “Has she been booked?”

  “Going on right now.”

  “Did she say anything about where Agnes is?”