At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(9)
“But what if he killed her then reported her missing just to cover it up?”
“The coroner says she had been dead for less than a day when her body turned up in the cranberry bog.”
“He’s either an innocent man or a criminal genius.”
“I’m hoping you’ll help me figure out which. I’m interviewing him this evening.”
“My class ends at five thirty. Any time after that is good.”
“All right. I’ll arrange a sit down with him, hear what he has to say. I’ll pick you up at your place at six thirty.”
CHAPTER 5
Verraday checked his watch and saw that it was 6:29. He looked out the window of his small two-story house just north of the campus and saw the unmarked Ford Interceptor SUV pull up by his front gate. He slipped his Blundstone boots on, grabbed his leather jacket, and stepped out onto his front porch. Despite the early hour, there was only the faintest glow of twilight through a thick layer of gray clouds. The long nights and short days were upon the Pacific Northwest now. The sensors in the garden lights along the pathway had already switched on automatically, having judged that the evening was gloomy enough to qualify as night.
Verraday unlatched his gate, stepped out onto the sidewalk, then closed it carefully to ensure that it shut behind him. Then he climbed into the Interceptor where Maclean was waiting.
“Just so you know,” he said, “this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve ever voluntarily taken a ride in a police vehicle.”
Maclean grinned. “I’m honored to be present on such a momentous occasion.”
She checked the street behind her and, finding it clear, hit the accelerator and pulled out before Verraday had gotten his seat belt buckled. He wondered if it had been retaliation for his comment and took a sidelong glance at her. But Maclean’s sphinxlike expression revealed nothing; she was either concentrating entirely on the road or was damned good at pretending to be.
*
The rush-hour traffic that choked Seattle’s streets with tidal regularity had thinned out, and within a few minutes, they were heading west on Fiftieth, passing neat blocks of low-rise apartments. Drizzle had begun to fall, so light that Maclean only had to put her windshield wipers on intermittent. Verraday noted that she didn’t reduce her speed, which was consistently over the posted limit—enough that he couldn’t help musing to himself that if this wasn’t a police cruiser, she would probably be pulled over for speeding. That aggressive driving style was something that Verraday noticed almost all cops did when they were behind the wheel of a cruiser. He found it interesting that although they were tasked with enforcing the law, they didn’t feel any need to obey it themselves.
They were skirting the southern edge of Woodland Park when the yellowish-green eyes of a large creature glowed suddenly in the dark, directly ahead of them. Maclean hit the brakes, and for an instant, the cruiser lost traction and skidded on the slick pavement. Verraday shot a hand out onto the dashboard, bracing for the impact. In a stroboscopic flash of light and shadow, a large coyote raced across their path, just clearing the passenger-side fender.
“Shit!” exclaimed Maclean as she recovered. “What the hell is a coyote doing up here?”
Verraday watched as the creature slipped nimbly through a line of hedges and disappeared, unharmed, into the park.
“At the risk of sounding pedantic,” he replied, “the zoology department at UW just finished a study on them. There are two separate packs of them out here.”
“How do two packs of coyotes manage to find enough to eat in the suburbs?”
“Woodland Park used to be the dumping ground for the city’s unwanted pet rabbits. Every year at Easter, parents would buy bunnies for their kids. And every year about a month or two later, after the novelty of cleaning up rabbit turds had worn off, they’d dump them here. The rabbits bred like what they are and overran the neighborhood. Until the coyotes noticed.”
“How did the coyotes even get into this neighborhood to find out that the rabbits were here?”
Verraday shrugged. “That’s the psychology of predators. They’re always out there. We might not see them. But they see us.”
A few minutes later, they pulled up outside the entrance to a low-rise apartment building tucked in between a crowded espresso bar and a harshly lit pho restaurant. Maclean climbed out of the Interceptor. Verraday followed her the few yards to the lobby. She buzzed apartment 205. A moment later the door clicked open.
CHAPTER 6
“Kyle Davis?” asked Maclean.
“That’s me,” said the young man who opened the door.
“I’m Inspector Maclean, and this is my colleague, Dr. James Verraday. We spoke on the phone. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Come on in,” he added, gesturing to the sparse, open-concept apartment.
Kyle Davis appeared to be in his late twenties. He had brown eyes that looked out guilelessly from behind horn-rimmed glasses, his face framed by a neatly trimmed beard and a short-sided pompadour. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans with the cuffs rolled up, exposing a pair of brogues. His home and his workplace appeared to be one and the same. Sitting atop a desk in one corner was a Mac Pro with a large video monitor and a printer, as well as the most expensive laptop that Apple had released that year. Verraday noted a shoji screen at the rear of the flat, behind which was a simple futon and dresser. Whatever money this guy had was going straight into his equipment.