Larrabee listened intently. "That's the reason she gave you?"

"Yes."

"You believe her?"

"Well, yes. Why? Did she tell you something else?"

"She was remarkably unhelpful during our interview."

"Sounds just like her," I said. "What did the Wedding Bandits say?"

"At first, nothing. Apart from the usual protests 'We had the wrong guys. We couldn't prove anything. It wasn't their van.' But with a possible murder charge, their lawyers finally got them to open up. One of their group, still missing, worked at the Lake Chinook Review. He's the one who got the addresses for the targeted homes. Took it from the billing for the cost of the wedding announcements. But he got cold feet after the Hatchmere murder. Quit the paper and took off."

"Ah...the inside man."

"He screwed up the time and sent the team too early. Not that it should have mattered as Roland was supposed to be at pictures at two."

"Was he-dead when they got there?"

Larrabee nodded. "That's what they say. Two of them ran to the bedroom looking for cash and jewelry. One of them took gifts off the dining room table. The fourth was heading down the solarium and nearly skidded into Roland. He yelled and they all started running. It nearly scared them straight."

"But then they turned to funerals," I said.

"And became less discriminatory about their victims."

A sudden roar from the crowd turned us both toward the game again. Lake Chinook's center had snapped the ball to Keegan on the Brookstone ten-yard line. Keegan stepped back, pretended to hand off the ball, then followed the offensive line into the end zone for a score.

The crowd jumped to its feet, screaming.

"Hmmm," Larrabee said.

"I'm glad you got them," I said to him. "Or at least half of them. You found the white van?"

"Surveillance is tedious, but it works." He gave me a long look.

"What?"

"I want something from you."

"O...kay..."

"I'm not trying to nail Violet Purcell. I really don't think she killed Roland. But I want on the inside track with her. I think she's involved, somehow. She's at the center of this thing, whether she wants to be or not."

I thought about it. "I agree."

"There were two calls to Roland Hatchmere's cell phone that morning," he revealed. "One came from a business called the Columbia Millionaires' Club. I want you to find out if Violet's ever been a.s.sociated with it." He read something in my face though I tried to shutter my thoughts. "What?"

"I know about CMC." I filled him in on what Violet had said about Roland and Melinda. Larrabee absorbed the news, and I finished with "I put a call into Melinda, but she hasn't called me back yet."

"Let me know when she does."

"You think someone from the club has something to do with all this?"

He lifted his palms. "It's just one of the calls. The club doesn't have a record of who made that call to Roland, though. They've got an interesting operation. They rent s.p.a.ce downtown," he said. "During the day, there's no one specifically slated for the front desk. They don't have many full-time employees and the employees that are there are manning the small restaurant and bar, which is available for the members, all male, mostly. Apparently, it's mainly an escort/dating service that floats from venue to venue. They have parties semimonthly."

"The women aren't members?"

"Didn't get into it with the president, George Tertian. I just was following up on the phone call. There's a phone for member use at the end of the front counter. Anyone could step off the elevator at the sixth floor, walk right up and use it. But I'm guessing it would most likely be a member."

"If it's an escort service...and Roland was married...maybe it was a 'secret' call?"

"Another woman?" He thought it over. "It would be tough for a woman to make that call and not be noticed. It's a men's club, at least during the day. They have parties and women are invited. Probably how they get around having only male members. I have a club roster."

"Anyone on that list I should know about?"

"Haven't checked it closely yet, but Roland's name is still there."

"How about the girl at the desk?" I suggested, although why I was traveling this path was kind of a mystery to me. Roland was already involved with Melinda and Violet. He seemed to have been a serial dater, not a juggler of numerous affairs.

"The receptionist is about twenty-three," Larrabee said.

I thought that over. Roland Hatchmere seemed to stick closer to his own age bracket. "Maybe it's not about a woman. The caller could have been a man. I mean, if that's what the club's all about, stands to reason, right? Maybe it was someone who wanted to use the phone when no one would be listening. Someone who didn't want the call traced back to him."

"Or it could simply be that someone made a call when the receptionist was busy elsewhere."

His casual att.i.tude finally registered with me. He was only partially invested in the Millionaires' Club angle. "You said there was a second call to Roland's cell," I reminded him.

He nodded.

"Well, who was it? Do you know?"

"Roland's son. Sean Hatchmere."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"S ean?" I said.

Larrabee nodded again. "Those were the only two calls to Roland's cell that morning."

I thought about Roland's son, his laid-back, "let's get high" nature. Is that what had set Roland off? His anger over Sean's continued drug use? And had Roland simply taken out his anger on Violet?

It seemed anticlimactic, though. "Sean didn't go to the rehearsal dinner," I remembered. "I thought he was with his band, working that night. That was his excuse, anyway."

Another surge of screams from the crowd sent my gaze back to the game. I caught sight of the end of a spiraling pa.s.s. The receiver, arms out in a cradle, captured the ball on a full run for another Lake Chinook touchdown. I glanced at Keegan, who held both arms in the air, his hands fisted.

"What do you think of the quarterback?" I asked Larrabee.

He followed my gaze. "Lendenhal? He's good."

"At football," I agreed.

Larrabee checked his watch. "Time to get home."

"You're not staying for the end?"

"This is about all the beating I can stand to watch."

We smiled at each other. Larrabee c.o.c.ked a brow and said, "You're not Durbin's usual type."

I tried not to react. "Yeah? What's that?"

"Ask him."

"Oh no. I deserve more of an answer than that."

"You pretty anxious for information on him?" He was truly enjoying this, and I found it just as irritating as when Dwayne did it.

"When it comes to Dwayne's past, I'm apparently on a need-to-know basis only," I said dryly.

"I'm here to help."

Like, oh, sure. That's what this was all about. But if he was going to pretend to "dish" with me, I was going to go for it. "How did you meet him?" I queried.

It was the fourth quarter and Brookstone was trailing by twenty-eight points. I fell in step beside Larrabee and we headed toward the gate and the parking lot. "We took criminology cla.s.ses together at Portland State."

"You went into law enforcement and Dwayne apprenticed with a private investigator."

"We don't call each other unless we have to." The detective pulled a remote lock opener from his pocket and I heard the chirp-chirp as he depressed the b.u.t.ton. From across the lot his car's lights flashed. It was apparently his personal vehicle tonight, a silver BMW.

"Dwayne never thought about law enforcement?"

We reached my Volvo first. Larrabee leaned a hip against my front fender and considered me. "Okay, screw Durbin. He's not gonna like me telling you this. He was under suspicion of murder once. Never convicted. No evidence. Kinda broke his faith with law enforcement."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Murder?" I repeated. "Oh, come on."

"It was more a case of him getting caught up in a large net of possible suspects. p.i.s.sed him off but good. Can't say I blame him." Larrabee held up a hand in goodbye as he headed out. In a dry voice, he said, "Still, I owe him."

"Yeah?" I was still absorbing these unlikely bits of information about Dwayne.

"He introduced me to my wife."

I tried to call Dwayne as soon as I was on the road. Wife? Wife? I knew Dwayne had been joking about the dating thing with Larrabee, but not for a single minute had I suspected the man had a wife!

And a murder charge? I still didn't believe it. Larrabee had enjoyed shocking me with that one. Dwayne clearly hadn't expected him to be so candid.

"Come on, come on," I muttered, but Dwayne didn't pick up his phone.

I drove by his place, but I didn't go in. I didn't really have time if I wanted to meet Dawn and my teen cohorts at Do Not Enter. Not that I was looking forward to tonight's tete-a-tete, but I wanted the task behind me.

I decided it was better to corral Dwayne when I had no other pressing engagement. As soon as my mission was accomplished, I would head over to his house and demand some answers.

Tonight when I parked my car down Beachlake, I positioned it nose out, just in case I needed a hasty getaway. I stayed in my car thinking over all the things Larrabee had said, more absorbed with what he'd said about Dwayne than anything to do with the Hatchmere case. I mean...wow. My brain felt overloaded. I wondered if too much information was a bad thing. I had this vision of neurons spontaneously combusting inside my head. Phhhhtttt!

With an effort I put everything aside and concentrated on the task at hand. I stayed in my car for a while, watching as other teenagers arrived. It was interesting how quiet they were, their music subdued, their talk low, the only serious sound coming from car engines and tires crunching on gravel. Someone had laid down the rules since the events of last weekend. The party had broken up before Keegan arrived, but this seemed like his doing. This was Keegan's kingdom. Keegan's rules.

I still thought it was highly dangerous not to change their venue, but I'm a known chicken.

Stripping off my jacket, I grabbed the Lake Chinook sweats.h.i.+rt and yanked it over my head. To h.e.l.l with bare midriffs in November. Finger-combing my hair, I snapped it into a ponytail, smushed the baseball cap back down, tucked my purse under my arm, then zipped my ID and keys in a pocket, just in case somebody got snoopy and checked my license. After locking my car, I picked up yet another rock to hide in my pocket. Then I switched my cell phone to vibrate again as I headed toward the driveway. I'm getting a whole lot better at cell phone function. By the time I'm forty, who knows? I might be able to program rocket trajectories.

Everything was wet and wind shook water from the surrounding trees, but the rain was still on pause. I pa.s.sed by Social Security on the way and felt the hairs lift on the back of my neck, as if accusing eyes were glaring down at me. My guilt, I knew. Maybe I'd feel better after I got them back their canoe.

Skirting mud puddles, I made my way to the plank that led up to the front of Do Not Enter. Work had been done on the property. More two-by-four walls had been erected and whips of loose, white electrical wiring hung down or were looped through bored holes. Tonight we weren't connecting to the temporary power pole, apparently, as no string of lights illuminated the house's interior. More caution. A good sign.

"Hey." A guy materialized from the shadows, nearly scaring me out of a year's growth. He was the lank-haired kid who guarded the alcohol stash.

"Hey," I responded.

He checked out the sweats.h.i.+rt. "Oh, okay. Go on in. We're kinda on red alert here."

"Oh, I know," I breathed, throwing a wild look over my shoulder at Social Security.

"No s.h.i.+t." He'd been holding a cigarette down at his side, as if that could disguise it. I'd already smelled the smoke and seen the orange glow, but then, I'm a detective. Ha.

I walked carefully up the ramp and inside. The party tonight was in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Again, better thinking. I eased myself down the hazardous steps and joined the group. They all stopped and turned toward me, like a herd of elk sniffing the air. The sweats.h.i.+rt was an automatic access card. Spying it, they went back to their little groups within the group and paid me no never mind.

I'd half decided to steal outside and work my way to the canoe, but I realized it would be better to take Beachlake to its end, cross the footbridge, pick up the road to the empty house, sneak to the water, then paddle the canoe back to its home.

A girl detached herself from a group at the far end of the bas.e.m.e.nt and came my way. Dawn. She gave the impression that she'd been on pins and needles, waiting for me, especially when she suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me out to the slippery, muddy backyard, leading me away from the house. Her grip on my wrist was like a vise.

"Hey," I said uneasily. "What's up?"

"I just want to talk to you, you know?" She tried to sound pleasant, but something was going on beneath her tone.

"Sure."

She drew a breath, exhaled, drew another. "Keegan's been asking for you."

"For me? Is he here?" I twisted around to look, wondering if she was ever going to let go of me.

"He's on his way. Are you with Brett?" she demanded. "I mean, I don't really care, but Clarissa wants to know."