The Edge, page 8
Devine killed the light and simply stood there gaping. His mind was whirring, trying to process all this. He looked around to see if a window on Jenny’s cottage had been broken, or any other sign that her sister had intruded into what was potentially a treasure trove of possible evidence in a murder investigation. He saw nothing of the kind.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
She rose. Alex was tall, about five eight, and lean.
“Who are you exactly?” she asked in a calmer tone.
“Travis Devine.”
“Right. The man they sent to find out about Jenny.”
“And you’re her sister.”
“How brilliant you are. They must have been thrilled when you became a detective, or whatever it is you actually do.”
Devine pulled his creds and flashed the light on them. “Homeland Security.”
“Right. Anybody can print a card and make a badge. I can make them for you. How many more do you need?”
“What are you doing here?”
Alex Silkwell was beautiful, but there was such misery in the woman’s features that her looks became a secondary consideration. With each rapid breath of hers, visible air was propelled into the sky. Devine’s breaths were less rapid, but not by much. She had done to him what the two assassins on the Geneva train and the three drunk idiots back at the bar had failed to do: thrown him off his game.
“My sister,” she began.
“Yes. By everyone’s accounts she was a wonderful person. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Not everyone’s account, Mr. Devine. You haven’t talked to me yet.”
And with that stunning statement, she pushed past him and strode off.
Devine knew he should have gone after her. But he didn’t. At least not right away. When the paralysis that had gripped him finally receded, he turned and raced back down the path. Once he reached the main street he gazed up and down it. He hadn’t heard a car start up, and then he recalled being told she had a bicycle.
He trudged off to his cottage, where he checked to make sure none of the traps he had laid had been disturbed. They were all still in place. He stripped down to his skivvies and stared into the bathroom mirror. Devine traced the graphic surgical scar along his shoulder where the Glock round had impacted.
He had a similar wound on his other shoulder from a sniper round fired at him in the Middle East that had penetrated a defect in his body armor. The Iraqi could have finished off the immobilized Devine with a head shot, but Devine supposed it had been his lucky day—though he hadn’t really felt all that lucky while he’d been airlifted out nearly unconscious and bleeding like a bitch.
He eyed his calf where the IED had said hello by leaving its bomb pattern forevermore on his flesh.
Will the fourth time punch your ticket for good, Devine? Maybe.
He stretched, and then grimaced as his limb ached from the effort. He lay down on yet another strange bed and stared up at the ceiling. He was most definitely a ceiling starer, where he could watch the imagined frames of his life and his myriad mistakes troop by. This was his version of very cheap therapy. Like many military folks he found it difficult to talk to people about anything, much less his inner feelings, whatever the hell those actually were.
The world used to be divided into black and white for Devine. Good guys versus bad guys. This demarcation used to be true and unassailable and easy to differentiate.
Now?
Now Devine relied on himself only. Thus his long-standing grueling early-morning workouts, and the ceiling analysis of his past actions. He needed to make sure that he could survive. Anything. He trusted only his finely honed military instincts that had told him to turn left instead of right, to duck at just the right time. To wait beside a door just a second longer so the shotgun blast could blow through it without killing him.
Two other faces appeared on the ceiling of his thoughts, as they often did.
Captain Kenneth Hawkins, and Lieutenant Roy Blankenship.
He had served with both men, who were also now both dead. Hawkins had murdered Blankenship and made it look like suicide. His motive was as old as time: he coveted Blankenship’s pretty wife, with whom he was having an affair.
Army CID had clusterfucked the case, hamstrung by military politics, and Hawkins had gotten away clean. That was until a suspicious Devine, who had previously learned of the affair from Blankenship, had tried his best to get CID to take another look. When he was stonewalled, Devine had resorted to a personal accounting. He had lured Hawkins out into the Afghanistan mountains, and a furious fight had ensued. Devine had not meant to kill the man. But he had died anyway.
And then Emerson Campbell had come along with all the evidence to put Devine away in the Army prison out in Leavenworth, Kansas. But the man had given Devine a choice.
Prison.
Or this.
His therapy session over, he closed his eyes and, like the Army had taught him, fell asleep within a minute.
CHAPTER
14
DEVINE’S PHONE ALARM KICKED OFF at five a.m.
He pulled on sweatpants, stout court shoes, and a thick hoodie, then jogged out onto the dark and empty main street and turned left.
He stopped at the harbor for a minute and watched some boats heading out. Men were lifting metal cages and large wooden boxes on the dock, and hefting some of them into boats cleated to slips. He also saw other men in small dinghies motoring or rowing out to the moored boats. The day apparently started early for those who labored on the waters. Under the lights that illuminated the area, he recognized the man who had confronted him outside the bar and Devine had falsely accused of being an informant. He was in the stern of a good-sized boat that was making its way out of the harbor. He looked like he was not yet over his boozing from the previous night.
Devine continued on. He had already noted the square of dormant grass and leafless trees about a quarter mile down where the small main business area ended. He reached it and did a quick twenty-minute HIIT, or high-intensity interval training routine, to get his heart pumping and his blood flowing. This was followed by push-ups, pull-ups on a tree limb, squats, lunges, jacks, and isometric holds, where his body shook from the effort of holding statue-like poses for less than a minute. This was followed by more core work, followed by even more intense lower-body exercises, which every Army grunt knew was where real strength came from.
He did wind sprints forward and then backward, because all-out charges were often followed by the same level of retreats, and you never wanted to fully look away from whoever was shooting at you.
His breathing was always precisely timed and measured to sync with his body and effort.
He finished with Army low crawls on the wet grass that led to high-kickers and then an exhausting set of burpees.
He slowly cooled down, letting his heart rate and breathing normalize before heading back. It was nearly six thirty when he stepped into the shower back at his cottage.
He dried off, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and headed out. The inn served a continental breakfast, but, as he had mentioned to Harper and Fuss, Devine had spotted a breakfast restaurant, Maine Brew, down the street. He wanted some time to think before he met up with the local police. And he wanted to go over again what he had learned, and not learned, so far.
A short walk through windy cold brought him to the blue-painted door of the restaurant. It was pretty full at a little after seven. The place looked like it had been recently renovated; the clusters of tables and chairs in the middle of the sturdy wood composite floor, and the red vinyl booths that ringed the perimeter, looked new. The counter was long and had deli-style refrigerated, glass-fronted cabinets that were filled with all sorts of meats, salads, sandwiches, and other prepared foods.
Two waitresses were working the tables. At the counter a third young woman was taking care of the half dozen customers seated there on bolted-in whirly stools. The place was definitely bustling, Devine observed, but there might not be many places to get breakfast in town, either.
The sign on a metal stand at the entrance said to seat yourself, so Devine did, at a booth at the very end of one wall and farthest from the kitchen.
A young waitress hurried over with a laminated menu that was clipped to a wooden board. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked.
“Coffee, black, and a big glass of water, no ice.”
“Coming up.”
She hurried off while Devine looked at the menu. There were some healthier selections, like avocado toast and stone-cut oatmeal with fruit, but he decided to opt for an old favorite, with one modification thrown into the mix.
When she brought the coffee, which was piping hot and smelled wonderful, he ordered the Lobsterman’s Breakfast, which basically covered all major food groups, with a piece of fried cod—the one modification—thrown in.
She left the menu behind after he gave his order, and he ran his gaze down it. The owner was Annie… Palmer? Devine did a double take at the name. Palmer was a pretty common surname, but in a town with fewer than three hundred people could she be related to Earl?
He took out his phone and Googled the restaurant. On the website he saw a photo of a smiling young woman. He glanced up to see the same woman working the breakfast counter.
Annie Palmer was in her late twenties, with dark hair, brown eyes, and of medium height. The woman didn’t seem to be carrying an ounce of fat on her. But with her job he assumed she never stopped moving. There was no mention of any connection to Earl in the online materials, but there wouldn’t necessarily be, either.
His breakfast arrived, and it was as good as the coffee. He was surprised how much he liked the combo of fried cod, scrambled eggs with bacon and ham, and thick pieces of buttered toast. He took his time eating and watching everyone around him without seeming to do so. He caught several people staring at him and making no pains to disguise it.
He thought back to his encounters with Dak and, later, his sister. Alex seemed truly brokenhearted about her sibling’s death. But then what had her parting comment been about?
Did she mean that not everyone thought Jenny was a good person, maybe including her?
These musings were interrupted by someone coming over and approaching his table.
Annie Palmer tucked a strand of hair back into place behind her ear and slid him a fresh cup of coffee. She had also brought one for herself. Up close, he could see the smattering of freckles over her cheeks and nose. She sat down across from him.
Devine glanced over to see that the counter crowd had mostly dissipated. In fact, the place only had a few tables still occupied. He eyed his watch. He’d been here nearly fifty minutes. It had felt like five seconds.
“Thanks,” he said. “Does the boss usually make table calls?”
She smiled and it was warm and genuine, and the woman looked like she was used to doing it. “The boss does everything that she needs to do to keep this place afloat.”
“Well, it looks to me like you have fair winds and following seas.”
“In Maine, that can change in a heartbeat.”
“I suppose. You’re young to be running your own business, but then what do I know.”
“I’ll be thirty in two years, but some days I feel a lot older.”
“Don’t we all.”
Small talk over, she took a sip of her coffee and gave him a serious stare; her freckles seemed to enlarge with the change in demeanor. “Jenny?”
“Yes.”
She looked down, but not before Devine could see her lips tremble.
“It was a shock,” said Palmer, lifting her chin to look at him.
“I’m sure.”
“I guess you’re working with Chief Harper and Wendy?”
“I am.”
“They’re good people, but probably not very experienced in this sort of thing. We… we don’t have many murders in Putnam, thank God.”
“But they know all the local angles, which I’ll need to learn, too.”
“So you think it was someone from Putnam who killed her?”
The query was blunt, and Devine could sense that Palmer craved a blunt response.
But he could not give it.
“I don’t know. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours. I haven’t even gotten the lay of the land yet.”
“I heard you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. Really hit the ground running.”
“That’s my job. But going fast is not always good. One might jump to conclusions that later turn out to be wrong. I avoid that if I can. I’m Travis Devine, by the way, but you probably already knew that.”
“And I’m Annie Palmer, but you obviously already knew that I owned this place.”
He held up his phone. “Not much privacy anymore.”
“No, there’s not.” Her face flushed and he wasn’t sure why.
“So, any relation to Earl?”
“He’s my grandfather.”
“And your parents?”
“House fire, fifteen years ago. Neither one of them made it out alive.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“I was away at summer camp.” Palmer put a hand to her mouth and, in spite of obviously trying hard not to, she briefly teared up.
“I’m sorry,” said Devine, handing her a napkin from the holder on the table. “I didn’t mean for you to recall painful memories.”
“It’s okay.” She wiped her eyes and let out a long, cleansing breath. “Then Bertie, that’s my grandmother, died a few weeks ago. Always thought Gramps would go first. He did too, I’m sure.”
“That is so incredibly hard. For both you and your grandfather.” He paused. “I understand that he found Jenny’s body?”
She had to know that he knew this, thought Devine, but she still looked troubled by his query. “He just stumbled on it. I mean, what else, right? It was terrible.”
Devine assumed his poker face and just nodded. “I suppose he recognized Jenny?”
“Yes, yes he did. I mean, he’d known Jenny her whole life.”
Devine thought about the distance from the edge of the bluff down to the rock shelf where Jenny’s body lay in the darkness, partially covered in water, and mentally shook his head in disbelief at what she had said. And there was something else.
“When I was by his place, I saw that your grandfather has special pedal controls on his station wagon? And some extra handholds?”
“Yes. He has bad arthritis and some spine issues. He had neck surgery that didn’t turn out too well. He can’t really use his legs and feet to work the gas and brake, but he can do it with his hands. He’s still pretty strong in the upper body. The handholds let him pull himself out of the car. But he doesn’t drive much anymore unless he has to, or he’s in a stubborn mood. And he can’t drive his truck anymore. Too hard to get in and out. Mostly, he just walks… slowly.”
“So were you friends with the Silkwells?”
“Yes. They were the most famous family here.” She attempted a smile. “We didn’t move in the same social circles, to the extent Putnam has any. But Alex isn’t that much older than I am. We used to hang out some growing up. She’s an amazing artist.”
“But you didn’t see or talk to Jenny on her last trip here?”
“No, I didn’t even know she was in town.”
“She’s been described as a really good person.”
Before answering Palmer took a sip of coffee. “Yes, yes she was. Outgoing and friendly.”
“Not like her sister, then. You said you know Alex?”
Palmer scrunched up her nose for a moment before saying, bluntly, “If anyone says they really know Alex, you know what I would say?”
“What?”
“That they’re lying to themselves.”
That might have been her most honest statement yet, thought Devine. “Interesting. Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “She never really lets anyone get close.”
“And Dak?”
“What about him?”
“Good person?”
“I’m probably not the one to ask.” She rose. “Got cleanup duty now. The glamorous life of a small business owner.”
“I’d like to chat again, if that’s okay.”
She looked around at the four walls of the place, and her expression was not exactly one of unbridled joy. “Well, you know where to find me, pretty much every waking moment.”
He glanced at her hand and saw no ring there. “Husband? Kids?”
He knew this question was not particularly appropriate, but criminal investigations seldom were.
“Have a good day, Mr. Devine.”
Putnam was getting more interesting, and puzzling, by the minute.
CHAPTER
15
DEVINE HANDED A CUP OF coffee to Harper and one to Fuss when they arrived to search Jenny Silkwell’s cottage. He’d purchased the drinks before he’d left Maine Brew.
They thanked him, and then looked dumbstruck when he told them that he had discovered Alex Stilwell sobbing outside her sister’s cottage last night.
“What was she doing here?” asked Fuss.
“She didn’t say. I guess she was upset about what had happened to her sister.”
Harper took a drink of his coffee and nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“She might have also wanted to get into the cottage,” offered Devine. He wanted to see how the officers responded to that possibility.
Fuss cocked her head at him. “What, to get a keepsake or something, you mean?”
“Or something,” said Devine delicately.
“You mean, attempting to knowingly procure evidence from a homicide victim’s last known place of residence before it was processed by law enforcement?” said Harper like he was speaking in open court and striving to be absolutely precise with his language.
“Yes” was Devine’s simple response.
“It was locked and covered with police tape.”
“She wouldn’t have known that until she got here,” pointed out Devine. “And how did she know this was Jenny’s cottage? Had they met here beforehand?”
