The Girl in the Moss Page 14

  “I’m not just talking about him drinking on the job and working under the influence. I’m talking something bigger, and it’s not just me. Word came from the top that I was to watch him. I was given a directive to pull him in from homicide and give him some rope in this new unit, where he’d be confronted with some of his own old and unsolved cases. And to see where he ran with that.”

  Holgersen regarded him steadily, his dun-colored irises almost quivering. Nothing about this guy was ever truly still. “You saying he’s a dirty cop?”

  Maddocks sipped his drink, said nothing.

  “Fuck,” Holgersen whispered. “So you want some kinda proof.” He swore again. “I feel like a fucking shit-pawn. Why me?”

  “Because you’re good. You’ve partnered with him before, so you know him—you have a baseline. Putting you together again won’t raise suspicions.” Maddocks paused. “I meant what I said, Holgersen, about the potential for growing the cold case division within iMIT. You close some cases, it’ll get you noticed by the right people. You could make sergeant. This could take you where you want to go.”

  Holgersen lurched up from his bench. He took a step across the small cabin, as if considering bolting. But he spun around, returned to the table, and sat back down. He started rapping his fingers on the table. “As long as it doesn’t just fast-track me into internal.”

  “You’re playing the Leo angle for me, technically off the books. That’s it. You bring me something solid, and I’ll pursue it through other channels. Official ones. This is just a start.”

  “Maybe you really are just gunning for hairy-ass Leo because he dropped Pallorino in the shit.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with her relationship to me. He dropped a fellow officer in the shit. Any cop should care about that.”

  Holgersen eyed him, and Maddocks felt an air of challenge rise between them.

  “I don’t like dirty cops,” Maddocks added quietly. “If he’s dirty, I want him.”

  Holgersen nodded. Behind him, on the sofa, Jack-O suddenly lifted his head and cocked an ear.

  Maddocks watched his dog’s nostrils twitch as the animal turned his head and stared at the stairs that led up to the deck. Maddocks eyed the stairs, then got up and went to the window in his galley.

  He squinted out at the dimly lit dock. Nothing but lanterns swinging in the wind and halyards chinking against masts. His heart sank a little. Even though he’d drawn his line in the sand with Angie and told her not to call until she was ready, his heart quickened at every sound as every molecule in his body willed her to appear.

  Perhaps she’d never call. Perhaps he’d been an ass. Maybe he should be worried about her well-being instead of drawing battle lines.

  “Company?” Holgersen said.

  “No. Just wind.” Maddocks went to scratch Jack-O’s ear. “It’s okay, boy.”

  I know you miss her, too. Another day. She might come around again another day. We need to let her be for now.

  “I should go,” Holgersen said, coming to his feet again and reaching for his wet jacket that hung by the stairs.

  “You going to be okay with all this?” Maddocks said.

  He shrugged into his jacket. “I don’t like dirty cops, neither.”

  Maddocks nodded. Holgersen began to head up the stairs.

  “You heard from Angie?” Maddocks said, unable to stop himself, worried about her, wondering what wild career moves she might make after his phone call.

  Holgersen stopped on the stairs, regarded him. “Why?” he said slowly.

  Maddocks inhaled deeply and dug his hands into his pockets. “Just . . . wondering.”

  “You guys broken up or something?”

  “Taking a bit of a breather.”

  Holgersen’s gaze locked with Maddocks’s, his features unreadable. He hesitated, then said, “Want me to check in on her?”

  Maddocks snorted. “I wouldn’t mind knowing if she’s doing okay. Keeping busy with . . . work and all.”

  Holgersen nodded slowly. “Sure’s a thing, boss. I’ll call her in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “What do you mean, ‘the last ones are missing’?” Angie said as Daniel Mayang handed her a digital storage device over the counter. Daniel had said he could have some digital footage ready for her by 9:00 p.m. So after her visit to Sophie Sinovich Rosenblum’s house, Angie had grabbed a bite to eat and headed to the gym for another Muay Thai session with Chai Bui. Both to kill time until 9:00 p.m. and because she was unable to rest, to be still, for stillness turned her thoughts to her screwup with Maddocks.

  He’d be back from his seminar by now, and Angie was antsy to get this investigation ball rolling. If she could nail this gig and find more like it, she could begin to see a way forward. In her life. And with Maddocks.

  “I mean, the VHS tapes listed at the end of Rachel Hart’s inventory are missing,” Daniel said. “The ones you asked to have converted first—those tapes are not in the boxes you gave me.”

  “The footage filmed of the campsite from afar on the final night of the river trip is gone?”

  “I don’t know how many other ways I can say it, Angie—those tapes are not there.”

  “Rachel said all the tapes were in boxes.”

  “Hey, I can’t make them appear, okay? They are not there.”

  Frustration clipped at Angie. She reached into her pocket for her cell. It was just after 9:00 p.m.—not too late to call the Hart residence.

  Doug answered, and Angie cut right to the chase. “Can I speak with Rachel? I’m having her tapes digitized, and the final footage from the trip is missing.”

  Rachel came onto the phone. “What is it?” Her tone was sharp.

  Angie explained that the last three tapes listed on her inventory had not been in the boxes Doug had handed over. “Were they perhaps misplaced? Could you look for them? I can come by tomorrow and collect them. I need to see those last hours in camp.”

  “You don’t need to see anything. You want to see it. Critical difference there, Angie. You’re making money off me and the judge with this investigation. Just keep that in focus. You’re not a police officer, and I’m not at your beck and call. I’m under no obligation to even talk to you. Even if you were law enforcement, you’d need a warrant to force any of us to cooperate and dredge up all those awful memories.”

  Angie shot a glance at Daniel, who was watching her intently from his side of the counter. She turned her back on him and lowered her voice, her heart beating a steady, angry drum in her chest. Her shortness of temper, her frustration with Rachel, had more to do with her situation with Maddocks than these missing tapes. Angie needed to rein herself in if she wanted to make this damn PI gig work. She had to learn to be nice in order to get what she wanted because her days of waving search warrants were over.

  “My apologies, Rachel,” she said more quietly. She smoothed her hand over her hair, marshaling her composure. “That was uncalled for. I’m very grateful for your help. Justice Monaghan is grateful, too. Anything you can give us that will help lay Jasmine Gulati’s memory to rest and allow her grandmother some peace will be appreciated. I was just wondering if there might still be another box of tapes in your crawl space, something Doug perhaps missed. Or if those final tapes somehow ended up outside the boxes and are lying loose down there.”

  “No. There is nothing more in our crawl space. I went down there myself after you left. Doug gave you everything.”

  “Any idea what might have happened to that final footage, then?” she prompted gently.

  “I’m sorry. I really don’t know. Those tapes have been down in storage for almost a quarter of a century. Things might have been mislaid or thrown away in error. I really am sorry,” she said again.

  “It’s okay. I appreciate your help.”

  Angie hung up and swore softly. She slipped the external drive into her pocket, wondering if Rachel was lying and, if so, why. Or it could be a totally innocent misplacement, but it just f
urther piqued Angie’s curiosity to see them.

  “Thanks, Dan, seems they’ve vanished into thin air. Is it okay if I settle with you when I pick up the rest tomorrow?”

  “No problem, Ange, but one more thing. While I managed to convert those first three cassettes on your list, I’m not sure I’ll have the same luck with the rest. The quality of the others has been compromised to various degrees. Judging by old watermarks on the sides of the storage boxes, the tapes have likely seen water damage.”

  “You mean . . . these first few might be all there is?”

  He gave a shrug. “Old magnetic tapes need to be properly stored in a controlled environment in order to extend the life of the media. High temps, humidity, water, dust, corrosive elements in the air—they can all result in a loss of readable data through decreasing the magnetic capability and damaging the binders, the backs of the tapes. I’ll do what I can.”

  Angie thanked Daniel and left Mayang Photo Place. As she made her way back to her vehicle parked down the street, she checked her watch again and dialed the number for Trish Shattuck and Willow McDonnell.

  Willow answered as Angie reached her vehicle.

  “It’s Angie Pallorino,” she said as she beeped her car lock. She climbed into her Mini Cooper and started the ignition. “I apologize for calling at this hour, but I was hoping I could ask you guys one more question?”

  “Oh, it’s not late, not for me,” Willow said. “I usually work at least until midnight most nights. Shoot.”

  “That last evening in the campsite, after Jasmine left to fish downriver, who all remained in camp?”

  A moment of silence. “It was a long time ago. Let me think . . . the two guides, they left shortly after Jasmine to collect more firewood.”

  “So there were eight of you at the camp? You and Trish, Eden, Rachel, Kathi, Irene, Hannah, and Donna?”

  Another long pause. Angie turned up the heater in her car in an effort to demist the windows.

  “Oh, wait, I believe Rachel then left with her equipment.”

  “To shoot footage of the camp? From a nearby promontory upriver?” This was what Rachel had told Angie, and she wanted to see if it meshed with Willow’s and Trish’s recollections.

  “I . . . thought she said was going downriver to see if she could film Jasmine fishing from a higher vantage point along a ridge.”

  “Rachel said that—downriver?”

  “Oh, Angie, you know, it was such a long time ago, I cannot be sure. Irrespective of what she might have said, I didn’t actually see with my own eyes which way Rachel went. Even if she did say she wanted footage of Jaz, she might have decided otherwise when she saw the light, the time, caught a good aspect, a potential visual. She was doing that all the time. She’d head into each day of shooting with a plan, but if the light shifted or something changed, she’d go with the fresh cues. It’s what made her good at her job, being responsive, watching things unfold, seeing a potential story in the patterns evolving in front of her.”

  “Thanks, Willow. I really appreciate this.”

  “Anytime. I’m happy to help.” A pause. “Why is this important?”

  “It’s probably not,” Angie said, putting her car into gear. “But that final VHS footage Rachel shot on the last night has gone missing. I was hoping to see it for myself.”

  “Maybe it’ll show up yet.”

  “Maybe.”

  Angie killed the call and drove home through a quiet city on this Monday night, an edginess crackling through her, a sense that something felt slightly off about the Jasmine Gulati story. The November wind gusted, and a fine drizzle plastered fallen leaves to the sidewalks.

  Who were those three men who’d followed the women down the river?

  Had Rachel lied?

  What had Jasmine meant about the women on the trip all having secrets? Angie’s thoughts circled around what the old nurse who’d rescued her from the angel’s cradle had said.

  We all tell lies. We all have secrets. A secret can own a person. A secret is powerful. But only to the degree that the truth threatens someone.

  If there were indeed secrets being kept about the river trip, who would be most threatened should the truth be revealed?

  CHAPTER 20

  Back in her apartment, Angie downloaded the digitized files onto her laptop. Daniel Mayang had labeled each file to match the VHS tapes listed on Rachel Hart’s inventory—“Arrival in Port Ferris,” “Gathering in Hook and Gaffe,” “Camp Moments: Second Night.”

  She checked her watch. She might be able to get through watching most of this footage tonight if she pushed through. She knew sleep would elude her anyway, given her anxiety over her relationship.

  She turned up the gas fireplace—temperatures outside were dropping fast, the wind howling—and made a mug of cocoa. Gathering her hot drink, notepad, and pen, she settled in front of her laptop. Before she hit PLAY, she brought to mind the parameters of her investigative brief:

  Jasmine Gulati’s death was being ruled an accidental drowning. So far no crime nor criminal intent was evident. Yet there were interesting questions around Jasmine herself. Her mystery engagement ring. A possible secret fiancé, one who’d never stepped forward after she vanished over the falls. A missing journal with possible erotic content. There were the three men stalking the women along the river. And there were the anomalies in the pathologist’s report—healing scars from an improperly treated shoulder injury, scars on the decedent’s pelvis. Even with an accidental death, there were always human factors at play, interrelationships that could have led to the events that culminated in a mishap.

  She clicked PLAY, reached for her steaming mug of cocoa, and settled back to watch the unedited footage.

  The first scene came to life on her monitor as an image of a younger Rachel Hart filled the screen. Rachel had turned the camera on herself somehow. In her late forties, she was striking, her gray eyes sharp, strands of loose blonde hair blowing across her face in a breeze. She stood in front of a wood-sided building, cheeks and the tip of her nose pinked from cold.

  The sign above the door read HOOK AND GAFFE. She pointed up at the sign.

  “Looks like Eden and I are the first to arrive. The nine of us are gathering here at this pub and restaurant in downtown Port Ferris just across from Ferris Bay. Eden’s handling the camera for me.” She smiled and gave two thumbs-up. “Great job, kiddo.”

  The image jiggled as the camera girl laughed. It made Angie smile, this concept of a mother and daughter team, this adventure they’d embarked on, those happy hours they were enjoying before tragedy would strike. Angie’s thoughts darted to her own adoptive mother. It had been a while since she’d visited Miriam Pallorino in the home. She should go with her dad. She should catch up on a few family things. Filing the thoughts away, Angie refocused on the footage.

  Rachel held a contour map up to the camera and pointed to a twisting blue line that ran through the mountains. “The Nahamish is here, this blue line. A static feature on this map, a constant, yet the very definition of a river is change. If you step into the waters of the Nahamish today, it’s not the same water as yesterday, and the water flowing through the river will be different tomorrow. The water changes by the second, yet it remains the same river. Like a woman. She bears a constant identity throughout her life, yet her very nature, her function, is one of change. She’s a toddler before she becomes a young girl, then a teen, like my Eden here. She’s sister, aunt, and friend. She matures into a siren to attract a mate. She becomes mother, menopausal broad, divorcée, widow, a senior, the crone. But always, inside, she’s the same girl carried along the river of life. In the name of that metaphor, we nine women, all at different points in our own river, will gather here today at the Hook and Gaffe.” She grinned and pointed at the sign again.

  “Over the next seven days as we drift the Nahamish, we may clash or bond, but one thing we all bring to this trip is a common love and understanding for fly-fishing and the outdoors.”


  Angie sipped her hot drink, thinking the idea was cool but way too New Agey for her. She reminded herself it was raw footage, unedited. But in spite of herself, it made her think about her own place in that life stream. And Maddocks. And the choices she now faced.

  The camera panned across the parking lot to the attached motel, then across the street to show a row of small stores snugged along a stretch of what Angie presumed was Ferris Bay. The footage ended on an image of the Mariner’s Diner directly across from the hotel.

  Angie hit PLAY on the next file.

  The interior of the Hook and Gaffe came alive on her screen. The footage was grainy, the color off, and the images were scratched with shapes that flickered across her monitor like floaters in her vision. It was reminiscent of an old film reel.

  The restaurant interior was done in deep paneling, low lighting. A burnished metal-topped bar counter jutted out, dividing the restaurant from a more informal pub section that housed a pool table and several TV screens. The pub side was packed, mostly with men in outdoor work gear and logging-style jackets. An odd assortment of hunting, fishing, and sports memorabilia adorned the walls, including hockey sticks, a lacrosse net, fishing rods, crab pots, faded buoys, and glass fishing floats. An ice hockey game played across the television screens.

  The camera panned back to the restaurant section and zeroed in on two women seated at a wooden table, bottles of ketchup, mustard, hot sauce, and beer in front of them. Angie leaned forward as she recognized the faces of Trish Shattuck and Willow McDonnell. Trish’s hair had not yet turned gray. Willow was even more attractive around the age of forty than she was now.

  “So, ladies”—Rachel’s voice—“in your opinion, what’s the most significant difference between male and female anglers?”

  Trish raised her beer bottle to the camera. “For one thing, women don’t lie about size!” She laughed and took a long, deep swallow of her beer.

  “No way,” countered Willow. “It’s the reaction you get from sales clerks in angling stores.” She faced the camera. “When a woman peruses the tackle section, the clerks are nowhere to be found. It’s like you’re invisible. But as soon as you leave the rod and reel section and cross some unseen line into the clothing department, bam, you materialize, and the clerk rushes over to you.”