Zander followed the sheriff toward a back door at the department. “Did you get a good look at Kyle’s tattoos?” he asked. Clear, black, curved lines burned in Zander’s memory. But the top of the tattoo had disappeared under Kyle’s sleeve.
Greer frowned. “Didn’t pay attention, I guess.” His face cleared. “We have photos of his tattoos on file from his arrests. I’ll find them. We started recording tattoos about five years ago. Sometimes the Portland Police Bureau’s Gang Unit wants to see a tattoo on someone we arrested. They track gang tattoos.”
“I’d like to see the rest of the tattoo on his right forearm. It went under his sleeve.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Could be an indicator of how Kyle feels toward other races.”
“Was it the same symbol as on Sean’s forehead?”
“No.”
Greer deflated a bit. “I’m not up to date on this shit. Wonder how many other things I’m oblivious to.” He yanked open the back entrance and led Zander through a hallway lit by fluorescents. He unlocked a door with his name on it and motioned for Zander to enter.
Zander took a seat. The sheriff stepped behind his desk, woke up his computer, and turned the screen so Zander could watch. While he waited for the sheriff to find the files, Zander sent a quick email about Lindsay’s baby to the medical examiner. There were two voice mails from Ava, and he read the transcriptions on his phone. The first said the county deputy was still watching Billy and keeping an eye on his vehicle as the man worked inside the store. The second asked if he knew about a community meeting tonight to address the Fitch murders.
First I’ve heard of it.
He wondered if the news of Nate Copeland’s death had gotten out. He had doubts about it being a suicide, but the public didn’t know that yet.
They shouldn’t know that yet.
Zander was about to mention the community meeting to the sheriff when Kyle Osburne’s mug shot appeared on the computer screen. Make that several mug shots of Kyle. The sheriff was correct that Kyle had been arrested a number of times. Greer clicked and scrolled and muttered under his breath until he found what he wanted. “Yep. Kyle was in the state pen for eight months. Got out two years ago.” He clicked some more. “Here are the images I was looking for.”
He opened a file of thirteen photographs. Zander leaned toward the screen. The pictures had been taken at different times. The progression showed that Kyle had actively acquired more ink. He had an eagle across his upper back and a tiger on his calf. The most recent photo showed the tiger had been enhanced with color when compared to an older one where it was simply an outline. Kyle’s right arm had a tribal band around his bicep, and Zander eyed it, wondering if it was simply decorative or had a deeper meaning. The sheriff scrolled down the page, and a shot of Kyle’s right forearm rolled into view. The tattoo was a simple shield with two letters inside.
Ice touched Zander’s lungs.
“Is that the one you wanted to see?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes. Scroll back up to the right arm with the tribal band on the bicep, please.”
The sheriff did, and Zander noted the date. “Now back to the forearm view.” He checked its date, remembering Kyle had been in the prison system two years before.
The forearm tattoo had been added after his prison time.
Zander sat back in his chair. He’d been right but didn’t feel victorious.
“Well?” Greer was impatient.
“The E and K in the shield stand for European Kindred,” Zander said slowly. “I’ve come across it in a case before. It’s a white supremacist gang that originated in the Oregon prison system about twenty years ago and spread to the streets.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s real. On the streets it’s more about the drugs, but racism is the primary tenet. Did you say Billy and Kyle had drug arrests?”
“Both do.”
“Do you have tattoo photos for Billy?”
Greer nodded and started to search. A moment later he opened a file for Billy. In the photos, Billy had only one tattoo. A lion roaring on his right deltoid.
Zander was strangely disappointed.
“This photo is four years old. He could have more by now,” Greer stated.
“We need to have a talk with Billy Osburne.” Zander checked the time. “You want to meet him outside his work? I’m sure Kyle has let him know we paid a visit.”
“We definitely need to do that.”
“Ava left a voice mail asking if I’d heard about tonight’s community meeting regarding the Fitch murders,” Zander told him.
The sheriff jerked in his chair as his gaze flew up. “What? Tonight? We’ll see about that. Who on earth—oh, I can guess who organized that.” He glowered at Zander. “One of Emily Mills’s aunts.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because they’ve got their wrinkled fingers in every pot in Bartonville.”
Zander glanced at the sheriff’s weathered hands. He must feel entitled to use that descriptor since he had wrinkled fingers too.
“Where would they hold the meeting?”
“Probably the Methodist church hall. It’s the biggest place in town—every group rents it for their gabfests. It holds more sinners’ meetings than saints’.” The sheriff stood up. “Let’s go find Billy first.”
14
Madison burrowed her nose into the fuzzy collar of the thick coat and curled her cold hands inside her pockets. She was trespassing, but the dock supervisors wouldn’t care if they spotted her. The deserted employee bench behind the warehouses at the dock was hard and cold, but one of the best places to watch the sunset.
A half hour ago she’d noticed the sky far to the west had cleared, promising to show off the first visible sunset in weeks, so she had headed for the docks. She’d crammed an old Goonies baseball cap on her head, determined to ignore the icy air.
The sky started to change, and she sighed, watching the blues and pinks move across as the ocean turned a glassy silver, mirroring the colors of the sky. The wind had taken a rest, and the water was calm.
She could almost forget that Lindsay was dead.
Her eyes closed, and her friend’s warm smile took over her thoughts.
That FBI agent—McLane—had been gentle and tactful with her questions that morning, and Madison had respected the keen look in her eyes. The woman was determined to find out who’d killed Lindsay and Sean. Madison had answered her questions the best she could, letting the tears flow.
Tears were a good shield. They hid her eyes from exposing her thoughts and gave her time to consider each question. They also made other people tread carefully, not wanting to make the crying jag worse.
It’d been an effective tool for McLane’s interview.
Madison had nothing to hide from the agent, but she didn’t allow people to peek into her brain and explore what made her tick. The questions and answers were about Lindsay, but she knew the agent was studying and forming opinions about Madison as they talked.
She was a good actress. Skilled at deflecting and masking.
Keeping people away was her specialty.
McLane had asked when Madison saw Lindsay last. An easy question. They’d worked together the day before. Lindsay had been the opening solo waitress, sufficient for the off-season breakfast crowd. Madison came on for lunch, and the two of them had easily covered the mild rush.