These thoughts flashed across my mind in quick succession, about three seconds in real time. At the end of those three seconds my cell phone buzzed, splintering the images and memories.
“Hello?”
“Jane!” Marta boomed over the phone. The woman was over six-feet-tall with a voice to match. She could deafen with one word. I yanked the phone from my ear and hoped I still possessed my hearing.
“Jane?” Marta demanded, her voice now tinny and faraway as my arm was stretched straight out from my torso. I carefully placed the receiver to my ear.
“I hear you.”
“I have a client who has an unusual request and I think you’re just the person to help.”
I opened and closed my mouth several times, seeing if I could pop my ears. They seemed okay but there was an alarming little creaking sound at the corner of my jaw. I thought about TMJ. Temporal…mandibular…jaw thing. Whatever. It was bad and sometimes it takes an operation where your jaw’s wired shut for six weeks. I don’t normally worry about such things, but the thought of all food coming through a straw for six weeks was enough to scare me straight. No more caramels? No more Red Vines? I’d never be able to eat beef jerky again?
“What unusual request?” I asked.
“It’s about Cotton Reynolds.”
My heart leapt. Christ, I thought a bit shakily. Had thoughts of Murphy actually triggered the past? “What about him?” I asked, trying to hold my voice steady.
“My client wants some follow-up on…Bobby Reynolds.” Marta hesitated, unlike her to the extreme. “She wants you to interview Cotton.”
I stared at my office door and instead of its scarred, paneled wood saw the white-haired man who happened to be one of the wealthiest in the state of Oregon. Cotton Reynolds lived on the island—the site of the Coma Kid’s accident—and it was less than a mile from my bungalow. By boat, I could be there in ten minutes, if I wanted to. By car, it would be trickier. The island was private and Cotton’s was the only house on its three acres. If I dropped in to say hello, I wouldn’t get past the huge wrought iron gate nor the Dobermans.
But interviewing Cotton wasn’t what was on my mind. Following up on Bobby Reynolds was. Murphy’s close, high school friend. His best buddy. The cause of the horrific tragedy my mind had briefly touched on.
I almost hung up right then. I probably should have. A shiver slid coldly down my spine; someone walking on my grave.
Bobby Reynolds had murdered his family and left their bodies lined up in a row—wife, Laura; Aaron, 8; Jenny, 3; and infant, Kit—somewhere in the Tillamook State Forest, just off the Oregon coast. Bobby Reynolds was a “family annihilator”: a man apparently overwhelmed with the responsibility of his family so he chose to send them to a “better place.” He shot them each once in the back of the head, then drove away. He dumped his Dodge Caravan on a turnout off Highway 101 which meanders along the West Coast throughout Washington, Oregon and into California, then disappeared without a trace, though he’d been rumored to have been seen as far north as the Canadian border, and as far south as Puerto Vallarta. To date, after four years, he was still very much a fugitive. The murders—disputed by Murphy who simply could not believe his friend capable of cold-blooded homicide—had driven Murphy away from Lake Chinook, the tragedy and me.
I cleared my throat and asked, “Who is this client?”
“Tess Reynolds Bradbury.”
“Bobby’s mother?”
“Cotton won’t talk to her about Bobby or anything else. They haven’t spoken civilly in years. When it was all over the news they had words, but it wasn’t exactly what I would call communication.”
“I remember,” I said, recalling how Cotton’s ex, with her blond bob, hard eyes and angry mouth had been bleeped out by the local news, time and again. Cotton had been silent and stony, although my impression was that it was a mask for deep, deep pain and shock. I’d tried to talk to Murphy but he’d gone to a place inside himself, as distant as a cold moon, before he’d left for good.
“Why does she want me to talk to him?” I asked, baffled. “The police and F.B.I. and every news channel around has been on this since it happened. What could I learn? I don’t even know Cotton.”
“You’ve met. You were Tim Murphy’s girlfriend.”
“I wouldn’t call myself his girlfriend,” I said succinctly. “I knew him.” Not as well as I thought I did, as it turned out.
“Murphy was close to Bobby and Cotton. Tess thinks you can use that connection—”
“No,” I said again, with more force. “I’m outta this. I’d be useless.”
“She stopped by my office the other day, and we started talking about Bobby a little. She never could before. But it’s like she’s suddenly gotta get it out.”
“You’re a divorce attorney,” I reminded Marta tonelessly. I couldn’t keep up with this. My head reeled. I felt ill.
“I’m her divorce attorney,” Marta agreed. “But I’m also a friend. After she started talking, your name came up. She remembered you.”
If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed I would have been surprised. Tess had barely seen me. She’d been divorced from Cotton in those few months before Bobby’s deadly deed was discovered. I hadn’t known Bobby very well, as he and his family had moved to Astoria. I mostly knew about them through Murphy. I’d only met Bobby and his wife Laura a few times, so when their pictures were in the papers they’d looked like the strangers they were to me. I said, “It would be a miracle if Cotton remembered me.”
“He knows Murphy. That’s all that matters.”
I didn’t like it. It was sneaky and wrong. Oh, sure, I can be a snoop, but this tragedy was epic. I felt small and mean even talking about it with Marta. “What kind of information does she expect?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Whether she’s right or wrong, she thinks Cotton’s been in touch with Bobby. I know the police and F.B.I. have wrung him dry, and he’s been more than cooperative. I’m just telling you what she wants. And she’s willing to pay well.”
“I’m not a private investigator.” Or information services specialist.
“As good as,” Marta dismissed, but then she was always saying things like that when she wanted something.
“How much is she willing to pay?” I asked cautiously, lured in spite of myself. I inwardly shuddered. It was like dipping a toe in cold, cold water.
“An initial five hundred dollars and then whatever you work out. She wants you to develop some kind of relationship, Jane,” Marta went on. “She says Cotton always admired you when you were there with Murphy. She thinks you could…have some sway.”
“I doubt it.”
“Are you saying you won’t do it?”
I didn’t know what I was saying. I was out of my depth and I knew it. I’m not all that hot at self-delusion. If I were really thinking about taking the jump to information specialist, I’d sure