Municipal Blondes

Other Titles
by Nathan Everett

City Limits

Gee Evars wandered into Rosebud Falls on Independence Day just in time to rescue a toddler from the rushing torrent of the Rose River. And to lose his memory. In an attempt to make Rosebud Falls his home, Gee becomes a local hero and inadvertently leads a revolt that changes the balance of power in the town. But will he ever know who he really is?

Wild Woods

Led by City Champion Gee Evars, the man without a memory, Rosebud Falls has annexed the Wild Woods and torn down the fence separating it from the Forest. But the Wild Woods holds its own mysteries, including the key to drug dealing, child trafficking, and Gee’s own unknown history. Long-awaited change comes to the Families of Rosebud Falls.

For Money or Mayhem

Computer forensics detective Dag Hamar is pulled from behind the safety of his computer and takes to the streets when he discovers a link between an online predator and real life kidnappings around Seattle. His fledgling romance is threatened when his girlfriend’s daughter is suddenly among the missing.

For Blood or Money

Computer forensics detectives Dag Hamar and Deb Riley discover secret files and hidden code can be as dangerous as dark alleys and flying bullets as they track a missing man and the billion-dollar fortune that went with him. Fourteen years after For Money or Mayhem.

Read Excerpts at http://www.NathanEverett.com

Copyright ©2019 Elder Road Books

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher.

Cover photo by Ivan Mladenov, ID: 56553085 licensed from Shutterstock

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online to: Elder Road LLC, ElderRoadBooks@outlook.com.

First eBook Edition

ISBN 978-1-950183-09-8

{1}
He hit me, humiliated me, and shot me

I’M GLAD THE SON OF A BITCH is dead! And no one will tell me how Dag is, or where he is. Damn it! This is as bad as being held hostage by those bastards in the first place.

Whine and cry.

Recovery

I’m sitting—or lying—in a hospital bed in Seattle with my right side bandaged up and antibiotics pumping into me. I’ve got a towel wrapped around my head because the fucker knocked my wig off when he slugged me. It’s going to cost a bundle to get that one replaced. I can’t talk because my jaw is so sore and my lip and eye are all swollen up. My head hurts and they have something dripping into my arm that makes my thinking fuzzy but doesn’t seem to stop the pain.

I want Dag!

He came to save me. He knocked out Angel’s ex-Marine boyfriend and tied him up. He got Oksamma out of the apartment and locked him on the roof. He attacked Bradley with some kind of kitchen poker or something and was nearly killed when Bradley shot. If he hadn’t handed me a knife when he went after Bradley, I’d never have gotten loose in time to trip up Oksamma and get him in the way of the bullet. That ruined my silk scarf, too.

The glass was still falling out of the window when I grabbed Dag and dragged him to the elevator. We fell into the car and the door was closing when Oksamma managed to get off a lucky shot that tore through the skin on the side of my right breast. It didn’t hit anything vital but it ripped the hell out of my side and they put God-knows-how-many stitches in it.

I passed out and Dag carried me out of the building. In his condition! Jordan pulled up and fired a life-saving shot before the car came to a rest. Dag pushed me into his arms and fell.

There were policemen and ambulances and Jordan rode to the hospital with me in the second ambulance. The first ambulance was full of people trying to keep Dag alive. I was lying there and Jordan was holding a pad on my side to staunch the flow of blood. When he looked at me, I realized I didn’t have a wig on. I was mortified. But Jordan just stroked my head once and said, “Nice do, Deb. I like it.” He gave me a towel and helped me wrap my head before we got to the hospital. He never even flinched away from me.

But when he came up to see me an hour ago, he still didn’t have any word on Dag. He thought he was in ICU. If I can get disconnected from these pipes and hoses, I’m going looking for him myself.

God! What a day! What a night last night. I’m glad Jordan shot Oksamma. I’m glad Bradley Keane is dead. It would make me happy to find out Brenda Barnett was gone, too. I guess you can’t ask for everything.

I just want to curl up in bed at home and cry. Why won’t anyone tell me where Dag is?

I kissed him

It wasn’t even much of a romantic kiss. I just saw him lying in that bed and leaned over and kissed him. And he woke up.

Stevie brought me a wig this morning and Teri brought me clothes. My little black dress is like ruined. The hospital discharged me and I ran to the office. I called Mrs. Prior yesterday to tell her Dag was in the hospital and make sure she had Maizie. I wanted to check the office. Dag really left it a mess. The vault was standing open and his laptop was on the desk. Bubble wrap and tape were on the floor. He must have been so angry when Bradley called him.

I tidied up and made sure the backup disks I’d stolen from Brenda’s house were in the vault. I closed it securely. Grabbing Dag’s laptop, I headed back to the hospital. At least they told me where he was and let me sit in his room with him. I sat there all afternoon fiddling with the computer until I looked up at him and I just had to kiss him.

Not much of a kiss. He’s got tubes in his nose for oxygen and a heart monitor hooked up to him. His lips were dry and mine are—let’s just say puffy and leave it at that. But when I kissed him, he woke up.

I was so afraid I would never get to speak to him again.

They have him prepped for heart transplant but there’s no donor. I’d give him mine.

I don’t know why they even allowed me in the room but I think it has to do with something Jordan told them. They treat me like I’m his next of kin. The doctor even told me that he was checking on Dag regularly and I should call for him if there was any change.

Dag and I didn’t talk for long when he woke up. He’s so weak. But at least he knew I kissed him. And he stroked my cheek. If I touch it myself, the pain is so intense that I flinch but his fingers were so soft and gentle that it didn’t hurt at all.

I’m writing a lot of foolish emo. I just… After yesterday… Everyone seems so fragile. I’m not going home tonight. I want to be here when he wakes up again.

The mountain came out

As you may have heard on national news, Seattle and surrounds got hit with a major blizzard last night. Everything is pretty much closed down. People on 405 were stranded all night in their cars. People abandoned their cars on the bridge and walked. Today it didn’t get above freezing but the sun came out and it was bright and sunny. This afternoon, I was standing by the window in Dag’s hospital room and realized I was looking at Mount Rainier. It was glorious.

I went to the nurses’ station and begged them to help me move Dag’s bed so he could see out the window. He’s wanted to look at the mountain all month. He just stands by his window at the office or in his apartment. Dr. Roberts intervened and even helped move the bed. There it was in all its glory with the setting sun glinting off its glaciers. I cranked his bed up to a sitting position so he could see out the window. He took my hand as we stared out the window.

“I climbed it once,” he said in a faraway voice. “It’s not the top of the world, but it’s one of the upper floors. You should see the view. It was clear and sunny and you could see Olympus, Baker, Adams, St. Helens. If you ever get the chance, girl, climb that mountain. You won’t be the same person when you come down.”

“You can show me,” I answered. “Maybe next summer.”

“We’ll have to train. Might have to be the summer after. You don’t go climbing that old man without training,” he said. “Yes. We’ll do it summer after. That should give us time.”

The mountain must have revitalized him. He was amazing. He totally figured out the scheme and nailed the Muffin-Top. Jordan arrested her on the spot. I had no idea that BKL was her initials as well as the name of the company. I wouldn’t have put it together if I’d known. He was so sharp. I know it hurt a little. He loved her once and thought she was his life mate. I can’t see it now but, like Dag says, people change.

Then in the afternoon he was so far away. When he sent me to the bank, I went home and changed clothes. It took forever to get around because all the buses are on their snow routes and they don’t even do my hill. I put on the suit that’s always been his favorite. He doesn’t say much about what I wear, other than the day I came to the office in blue jeans.

“Riley,” he said, “if I’d hired you to work on a farm, I’d expect you to dress like a farmer. This is an office.”

He’s always complimentary about my professional clothes, though, and I notice him looking at me a lot when I wear this particular suit. It’s pretty plain—just a dark blue-gray skirt and blazer. Well, the skirt might be a little short for most offices but I like to tease him. I wear it with a cream silk blouse that plunges forever. It looks fine as long as I don’t take my jacket off. Then, watch out! The strand of pearls my father gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Sixteen inches long.

I put on the more formal blonde wig that I wear when I’m going out. It’s an updo and I save it for special occasions most of the time. I don’t know why, but I wanted to look my very best and sexiest for him today.

As sexy as a girl with a fat lip and a black eye can look.

I swung by his apartment and picked up clean clothes for him and checked on Maizie. His coat and hat were at the office. He took off for the Condo Sunday and left them there. I picked them up and thought he’d be pleased that I brought fresh clothes for him. The suit he’d been wearing was in the hospital closet covered with blood. My blood.

I stood in the doorway and he just looked at me. If you’ve never had someone drink you in, this is an experience you want to have. You’ll know what it’s like to have been drunk! He motioned me over and looked at what I’d brought him.

“Oh good,” he said. “You brought the gray one.”

I stuttered a little. He didn’t say anything about me. All his suits were gray.

“I’m joking, Riley,” he said. “You have to learn a Swedish sense of humor.” I’m such a dork! I can never tell when he’s joking like that and I always get caught thinking he’s serious. I showed him the lavender shirt and matching tie I got at Nordstrom on the way back. “Does this blue go with a gray suit?” he asked.

“Trust me,” I answered. “You’ll look stunning.”

After he ate what meagre allotment of food he was allowed (all liquids, just in case a heart arrives in the middle of the night), we sat and talked and talked. I can’t even tell you all the things we said. He told me about his high school sweetheart and what happened when he and Brenda were married. He told me about the summer he bought his Mustang and how he met Jordan. He even told me he’d planned to get married and lost his fiancée in a fire a few years ago. It was like he just wanted a few things from his life to be remembered.

My eyes are all watery and I can’t see the keyboard. Damn.

He’s asleep now. I can’t stand it. I hate seeing him like this. I want to be held by him and told it will all be okay.

I love him.

{2}
It takes a thief

DAG NEEDS INFORMATION. That amazing brain of his put together a puzzle. Angel and Simon had tattoos with part of the security key. Dag says Bradley Keane had the missing set of numbers. He asked me to go find Bradley’s body and copy down the characters on the tattoo.

I can’t handle the truth of why I went on this foolish errand tonight. Dag asked me to. That’s all I can handle and by God, I’m determined to do what he asked.

Term life insurance

I left the hospital and went to the office. An hour later, I found myself standing at the window staring out at the ferries and traffic like Dag did. When I realized what I was doing, my eyes were leaking. They’ve been doing that a lot lately. Ever since Sunday.

I started making calls. The city morgue was no help. No, they didn’t have any record of Bradley Keane. I called the hospital where Dag is and they said they could only give information to next of kin. I wondered who that could be.

Funny.

I’ve examined a ton of Bradley’s dirty little plans over the past month. I picked through his email. I looked at his bank accounts. I tracked his travel with Brenda. But I haven’t really found out much about Bradley. I wondered who his next of kin was.

I started with a quick online search and the first thing that popped up was the newspaper story that ran on Tuesday. It was a small article in the back of the paper saying that Federal agents had broken a software counterfeiting ring on Sunday. Two suspects were killed. One was Bradley Keane, 49, who was a partner in the firm Barnett, Keane, and Lamb Ltd. Senior partner Simon Barnett was reported missing and presumed dead a week ago when his plane crashed in the Caribbean. Keane is survived by his widow, Sarah Keane and two children.

Whoa! Bradley was married? He was fooling around with Muffin-Top and he was married with children, too? This guy was too disgusting for words. I did a search and was rewarded with a home phone and address, compliments of the big name in telephones out here. Then I had to determine what I would do. I didn’t have Simon’s laptop anymore but I scanned through the old one Oksamma brought in when he cased our office. An insurance policy on all executives. Perfect. I would become an insurance adjuster and pay a little visit to Mrs. Keane.

People who pretend to be other people have it a lot easier now than a few years ago. I surprised Lars once after handing him a business card for a bank that no longer exists. He hadn’t seen through my disguise as a banker. A quick search of the Internet this afternoon got me a logo for the American Insurance Company. I grabbed a photo from my private store of headshots in a conservative brunette wig, used one of my aliases, and had a professional glossy business card printing out of my inkjet in a matter of fifteen minutes.

I needed my car and that was a challenge. Sunday, I’d left it in the Condo parking garage. It was all I could do to steel myself to go back into that building. I know the Condo itself is sealed off and there isn’t any danger now that Bradley and Oksamma are dead and Brenda’s in jail, but still… It was hard to walk in there and just get in my car and drive out of the garage. And it cost me like a hundred bucks that I had to put on my credit card.

I got home okay and changed clothes into a nice conservative suit and my brunette wig. I was instantly Paula Winslow, insurance adjuster. I headed for the address in West Seattle where Bradley lived. Now, how much should the policy be for? Half a million? That sounded about right.

When I reached the house, I had to brace myself again. I clutched my folio in my hand and headed to the door, hoping my makeup was sufficient to hide the bruises on my face.

“Mrs. Keane?” I said when a matronly woman of about 50 opened the door. “I’m Paula Winslow of American Insurance Company. I don’t want to disturb you but I was handling a matter in West Seattle and thought perhaps I could speed things up and spread a little comfort on this dreary afternoon. Is it convenient to talk with you for a few minutes?”

She looked me up and down like she was going to cut me a new suit. But she opened the door and let me in. She hadn’t said anything but hello and I was a little spooked by the way she just turned and walked away. She motioned to a chair and sat on the sofa in the living room.

“I suppose you’ve come about Bradley,” she said at last. I was beginning to feel like a schmuck.

“Yes,” I said, plowing on. “Since I was near, I thought I might get a couple of details from you to help expedite the insurance payout. First, let me tell you how sorry I am to hear about your husband. It must be terribly hard on you.”

“Thank you,” she said, still watching me intently. I pulled out a yellow legal pad and started writing.

“The report we have indicates the time of death as shortly before noon on Sunday. Is that correct?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“And what was the cause of death?”

“He fell through a window and was pierced by a piece of glass. That’s the word the coroner used. Pierced, like it was for earrings.” I had a vivid image in my mind of Oksamma crashing into Bradley and through the window. I wouldn’t have used the word ‘pierced.’

“So, the coroner did do an autopsy?” I asked.

“Yes. There was a rush because my husband was an organ donor. They called me and I signed the papers. I understand they harvested several organs for transplant. But because it was ruled an accidental death, there was no need to hold the body,” she said. Perhaps even Bradley’s worthless life could be redeemed by the pieces of his body transplanted into others.

“Does that mean they’ve released it to you for burial?” I asked. “Are you planning a memorial service?”

“A small one on Friday. They’ve taken him to Johnson & Sons Funeral Home. I have a card if you need it.” Bingo! I accepted the card she picked up from the coffee table. I was surprised the house in West Seattle was no more ostentatious, like Simon and Brenda’s house. You’d have to say it was pretty modest for a family of four. With the kind of money Bradley handled daily, this wasn’t much in the way of digs.

“Well, if the coroner has ruled it an accidental death, there should be nothing to hold up payment of the death benefits on our end. I’ll stop by the courthouse tomorrow and pick up a death certificate on my way to the office. I’m sure the extra cash will help keep bills met during this difficult time for you.”

“Thank you.” Again, a quiet, almost knowing stare at me. I realized she was looking at my swollen face. It was time to get out of there.

“I won’t disturb your afternoon any further, Mrs. Keane,” I said. “I trust you have everything you need at the moment. There is a storm approaching and the radio warned everyone to stay at home tonight.” I stood and made my way to the door. Speaking of a storm, the temperature had dropped five or ten degrees just since I’d been inside and I was not wearing a heavy coat. I made it almost to the door when she stopped me short.

“I’m sorry about your face, Miss Riley,” she said in that same quiet tone. I was on the defensive immediately, spinning to face her in case she attacked. She was still looking at me with the same intent stare. She continued, “I managed to get the whole story from the police. I know you were being held at that awful place he kept. I’m sorry. I understand your need to see the body and confirm it. But he’s dead, Miss Riley. For all his faults, he was a good husband and father. If you can, let him rest.”

“I…” She fluttered a hand at me breaking off what I was struggling to say and then walked away. I beat a hasty retreat back to my car. I wondered if it had been Jordan who came to tell her that her husband was dead. She was spooky.

Once before I die

Getting into the funeral home was going to be another tricky task.

Our weather here has been freaky of late and the radio repeated the severe weather bulletin, encouraging people to go home early and batten down for Winter Storm Harper. Freezing rain and snow coated my windshield by the time I got to the funeral home. It was closed. I didn’t want to try an unauthorized entry while people were around who could see me, so I went into a grocery store with a restaurant attached and sat to eat soup while I watched the weather close in off the Sound. I keep a change of clothes in the car in case I’m stranded and need to walk someplace in cold or rainy weather. I decided I’d better change.

It was after eight by the time I felt it was safe to break and enter. I’d watched the place for over an hour and had seen no sign that anyone was inside. At least no one alive. I left my car in the grocery store parking lot and headed for the back of the mortuary. I saw the alarm system wires just before I got the door open. It was an antiquated system. A quick snip with a nail clipper cut the alarm off. After all, how many people are going to break into a funeral home?

It didn’t take long to find the refrigerator where Bradley was being kept. He’d already been dressed in a suit and placed in a coffin. That was going to make my job harder. I swore at the efficiencies of the coroner, the embalmer, and the aesthetician. The job would have been a lot easier if he’d been naked on a slab instead of fully dressed. He looked all too ready to sit up and defend himself. I sat across the room from him and shook for a long time. I wasn’t sure I could go through with this.

I’m not going to tell you in detail what happened. I found a pair of rubber gloves. The rest is too gross to relive. I’ll just say I found the tattoo. It was on his shoulder. A wreath with a banner woven across it. The letters were in the banner.

1SB41D1E.

I got him dressed again and put back in cold storage. I managed to get outside before I threw up. I was shaking so badly, I could hardly walk to the car. Driving was a nightmare. The streets were slippery and I had to drive slowly across the West Seattle Bridge and up to Capitol Hill. When I finally got back to my apartment, I was sick again and threw up in the toilet. I got in the shower and let the water run over me for an hour while I cried.

{3}
Nightmare

I HAD HAIR. Lots of hair. Long beautiful blond locks like Angel’s. And I had hair under my arms. I couldn’t even imagine shaving. And hair on my legs. And on my pubes. I couldn’t help but run my fingers through it. I wanted to spend all day brushing it and shaking it back and forth like a wild animal. Long beautiful hair and it was all mine.

Dreaming

But I couldn’t reach my hair. My hands were tied behind my back. I was sitting naked on a straight chair and Bradley was mocking me. He reached out and jerked out a big fistful of my hair. I thought he would tear my scalp apart when he pulled it. Then he jerked out another fistful. And another. Oksamma walked up beside him and hit me. Hair fell off my head with the jolt as if it were a wig. He hit me again. And again.

They were ripping out all my beautiful hair and my mother was laughing. I could hear her yelling, “Hey Baldy!” and smelled alcohol on her breath. I had just one lock of hair left on my head. Everything else was bald. He reached out and took hold of the last lock of hair.

“No!” I screamed. “Don’t take my hair away. Stop! Stop!” But he yanked on it anyway and I felt my soul being ripped from my body. And all my thirteen-year-old friends were laughing at me and pointing and calling me a freak. I couldn’t wake up. There was the fright wig mother gave me with its polyester hair sticking out in clownish curls.

“Hey Bozo!” my one-time friends yelled. “Hey Bozo!” “Wake up, Baldy!” “Freak!” “Tranny!”

I woke up. My heart was racing and sweat poured off me. I was in a flat-out panic. I wanted to run. I was crying. Panting. I was trapped in the sheets and couldn’t get free. When I finally found my voice, I screamed.

“Daddy!”

That broke it. With the word came lucidity. Daddy was dead. Mom was dead. Bradley and Oksamma were dead. For all I knew, the nasty kids at school were dead—at least as far as I was concerned.

I untangled myself from my sheets and went back to the shower. I sank to the floor and spent an hour in there before I went back to bed and I still felt dirty. The image of Bradley’s corpse came unwillingly into my mind. 1SB41D1E. Once before I die.

Too late, bastard.

I didn’t bother to dry myself. Once I caught myself starting to drift off in the shower, I turned it off and flopped on my already wet bed. I was asleep in an instant.

Damn. I haven’t had a nightmare and panic attack in months. Not since meeting Dag.

No respite

Something was thudding in my head. I covered it with a pillow and demanded that I go back to sleep. Then the ringing. My stupid cellphone. I struggled out of sleep and finally got the MF thing to my ear.

“Deb,” Jordan Grant said in my ear. “Are you home?”

“Yeah, of course,” I answered muzzily. “Where else would I be?”

“Come to the door then. We’ve been knocking forever.” The pounding in my head. It was the door. I looked at myself in a mirror and hastily pulled on a wig and a robe. I padded barefoot to the door and looked out the peephole to be sure it was Jordan.

I opened the door. Not only Jordan, but Lars. WTF? Am I busted?

“Deb,” Lars said as he came into the room. “We thought we should come in person instead of calling you.” Panic was setting in. I could feel my breath coming in gasps. Please don’t say what you’re going to say. Please, don’t. “Dag passed away about two hours ago.”

My whole world collapsed. Please let this be another goddamn nightmare. Please.

He was sitting by himself at home. Mrs. Prior found him when she heard Maizie howling. She rushed upstairs and Maizie met her at the door. Dag was sitting in his chair with his eyes wide open staring at his painting with some music by Brahms playing on his stereo. He was wearing the suit I brought him Tuesday and the lavender shirt and tie I bought for him.

All by himself, except for Maizie. Poor Maizie.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Lars and Jordan wouldn’t leave after they told me. Jordan went into the kitchen and fixed coffee while Lars sat on the sofa with me and held my hand while I cried. There can’t be any more tears. Dear God, please let me stop crying sometime soon.

Wake

Teri brought some food over. Lars didn’t leave until I’d called her. I’m going to float away on all the coffee and tea I’ve had to drink. I don’t know why, but after I called Teri, I called Angel, too. She showed up about noon with Cinnamon. So here we sit—four blondes talking about the men in our lives and who we’ve lost. We all sat around crying and then laughing.

Cinnamon said she’d tried to seduce Dag at the Condo and finally suggested we have a threesome. She felt a little foolish when I revealed that I was his partner and we were private investigators.

“You mean I could have had him all to myself?” she said indignantly.

“Over my dead body, girl,” I snapped back.

“God, please,” Angel interjected. “We’ve had enough of those.”

We agreed. Cinnamon opened a bottle of wine she brought and poured us all a glass. It’s been so long since I’ve drunk any alcohol, I wasn’t going to have any. But she put glasses in each of our hands and raised hers. “Here’s to Jeremy Brett and his girlfriend, Debbie,” she said. We raised our glasses and drank. It didn’t taste good but it tasted necessary.

“And don’t you ever call me Debbie again,” I said. “It was all I could do to keep from throwing you off the balcony at the Palomino the first time.”

“That’s dedication for you,” Teri said. “So into her disguise that she spared the life of someone who called her by the one name she can’t stand.”

“There are others,” I said. “But I killed the last man who called me one of those.” That set us off talking about what happened at the Condo Sunday morning. The only person I’d told anything to was Jordan and that was just the bare facts. Dag was there, so he knew. It felt good to share what had happened. I mentioned getting hit and having my wig knocked off but I glanced at Teri and omitted the part about it leaving me bald. There were things my friends didn’t need to know.

Everyone was amazed when I told them about Dag locking Oksamma on the patio and attacking Bradley. Angel said Davy thought Dag was a berserker when he clubbed him. He’s not used to being laid out cold in a fight. I couldn’t help but say it served him right after he decked Dag the first night he met Angel. Angel agreed.

“He didn’t get any that night, I’ll tell you,” she said. “I was furious.” She paused and picked up her story again. “I can’t believe Dag tracked me in Minneapolis and I never saw him. He must have been a master of disguise. I’m sure I would have recognized him if I saw him.”

That got us off on talking about disguises and I told them I could disguise myself so none of them could recognize me. They really couldn’t believe that.

Angel and Cinnamon left about four but Teri stayed and was determined to spend the night, so what could I do?

I finally got to bed. Teri and I stayed up watching Gone with the Wind on AMC. She’s out on the sofa now with a blanket and pillow. I told her to go home and she said she couldn’t. She’d get a DUI. I don’t know how many bottles of wine we drank or where they came from. I’m going to regret that in the morning.

Jordan called to see how I was doing and later, so did Lars. I haven’t laughed and cried so much all in one day—sometimes all at one time—ever. I really can’t have any tears left but they seem to keep leaking out of my eyes. I should drink some more water. I’ll be dehydrated.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I was totally irresponsible today, just wallowing in my own grief. Tomorrow, I have to go to the office and clear things out. I suppose there are people who should be contacted. I don’t even know where to start. I know so little about him. I never intended to get involved with him—not that I was in that way—but I ended up loving him so much. He was an anchor and a guide and I’m going to miss him.

I do miss him.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to sort through papers. Jordan said he’d pick me up to go to the funeral home if I wanted. God, please don’t let it be Johnson & Sons. There must be something I can do. I’ll solve his last riddle for him. I’ve got three sets of numbers.

F8ed2d1e, 36Dboobs, and 1sB41d1e. Is it a code? What am I supposed to do with these, Dag? I don’t know what to do.

Oh, I feel sick.

In the words of Scarlett, “I’ll think of it tomorrow, at Tara. I can stand it then. Tomorrow, I’ll think of some way to get him back. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Hung over

I never should have done that. What on earth inspired me to drink God-knows-how-much wine with Teri, Angel and Cinnamon yesterday? I woke up in the bathroom with Teri pounding on the door. She had to get ready to go to work. Oh! How could she do it?

There was already coffee made in the kitchen and I started rummaging through the shelves for painkillers. I don’t keep many but I have aspirin in my purse. Don’t ask me why. I always carry aspirin and Band-Aids. I got back to the kitchen and Teri shoved a glass of milk at me. I popped the aspirin and took a big glug of milk, then headed back to the bathroom.

“WTF was that?” I asked when I re-emerged five minutes later.

“Milk and cayenne,” she responded nonchalantly. “It’s the best cure for a hangover known to man.”

“It was a waste of two perfectly good aspirins,” I said. The truth was, I did seem a little clearer.

“Look, you can go back to bed or sleep on the bathroom floor all day if you want, but some of us have to go to work.” Work. I guess officially I don’t have a job anymore. My employer—my best friend—is dead. Stupid leaky eyes. I suppose I need to go to the office and clean up, anyway. I’ll do it later today.

“And don’t forget your bet,” Teri said as she was grabbing her coat and heading out the door.

“What bet?” I asked. Oh, no. This is one of the many reasons I don’t drink.

“You bet Angel, Cinnamon, and me that within the next month you could have an interaction with each of us in which we had no idea who you were. You were bragging about how good you are at disguise. So, by Christmas you have to show us evidence that you had direct contact with each of us and we didn’t know who you were. Should be pretty easy for a master of disguise,” she smiled. “Toodles!”

Me and my big mouth.

{4}
Cleanup on Pier 61

I LEFT FOR THE OFFICE after taking most of the morning to sober up. Last time I drank was after my parents died five years ago. Any pattern there? Never again.

The letter

I was dressed and halfway out the door before I realized I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Damn! I might not have a job any longer but it was still Dag’s office. I went back and changed into a black business suit—slacks, white blouse, jacket, sensible shoes. I put on the same blonde wig I’ve come to identify with since I started wearing it a couple of years ago. I knotted a scarf around my neck and went out to catch a bus downtown.

The office was cold and empty. Silent. I didn’t bother to open Dag’s door. I couldn’t bear to look into his office without him there. First, I’d check email. Come to think of it, there was paper mail lying on the floor inside the door. I needed to check that. I wondered if there was a protocol I should follow about opening company mail. No one had actually told me I was fired, so I figured the best thing to do was carry on business as usual.

That meant throwing away the junk mail and opening the one remaining piece. It was a check from FinCEN for the work Dag did last month on a laptop Jordan brought him. As usual, it was made out to D.H. Investigations for Computer Forensics. I could take it to the bank and deposit it like normal. I slid it into a desk drawer to deal with on the way home tonight. Or on Monday if need be. I’d not gotten far into email, which was mostly just subscriptions and a couple of messages regarding my research thesis, when a man showed up in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Miss Deborah Riley?”

“How may I help you,” I said, straightening behind my desk.

“I’m John Allen of Allen Jackson Attorneys at Law,” he said, presenting a card. It looked legitimate. In fact, now that I thought about it, that was the name of the law office I took Dag to last week.

“I suppose you want me to vacate the premises,” I said. “I just came in to clean out my desk. I’m not taking any company property.”

“No, no,” he answered. “You completely misunderstand me. Lars Andersen is the executor of Dag Hamar’s estate. I’m quite certain he wants you to stay on and continue working. I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you soon. I’m actually on my way to meet with him now.”

“I don’t understand.” I’m pretty dumb when I don’t want to listen.

“Dag came to my office last week and made revisions to his will. I’m not at liberty to discuss them with you because that is the responsibility of his executor. But I am confident that after he reads Dag’s will, Lars will want you to remain here and keep this business functioning until it is properly distributed to Dag’s heirs. But there are things that lie outside Dag’s will, which I agreed to execute on his behalf. The thing I have for you is completely within the legal rights of the deceased, so you needn’t worry about this being legal.” I was intrigued. Did Dag leave me some instructions that he wanted me to keep working on? Well, yes. He wanted me to collect the other code from the tattoo and put them together for him. But I assumed that came to an end with his death. The attorney was plunging ahead and I struggled to keep up with him. That’s one thing about attorneys—you don’t really have to hold up your end of the conversation.

“Dag asked me to personally deliver a letter to you,” he went on. I nearly choked. “I do not know the contents of this letter but I have some non-official advice for you. I strongly suggest that whatever its contents, you keep them to yourself until after Dag’s estate has been settled. It is personal correspondence between Dag and you and does not have any bearing on how the estate is settled or how it is accounted. No doubt it contains information about his feelings for you or, since you were his employee, someone he wants you to personally notify. It might even contain instructions for his funeral. In any case, read it in private and should you have questions about any portion of its content, you may contact me and discuss the matter under attorney/client privilege. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” I said. Frankly, I didn’t understand a word of what he said but it sounded like he was going to give me a letter and I should keep my mouth shut about it.

“Here you are,” he said and handed me the letter. Then he left.

I sat for a long time with it in my hands, just staring at it, not sure that I wanted to know its contents. Dag was sending me a letter from the grave. “If you are reading this, I am dead…” That sort of thing. Opening it would hurt.

I decided to put it away until later—perhaps when I was at home and in private. I shoved it into my purse and went back to cleaning up the office.

Clue me in

I finally convinced myself to find out if Dag had left any kind of list or directory of people who should be contacted in case of his death. I cleaned out his desk and made sure there were no paper notes around. Then I just sat on the sofa looking out at the Sound. I heard a noise in the outer office and a moment later, Jordan’s voice.

“Deb? Are you here?”

“In here,” I called back. Jordan’s frame filled the doorway and he came into the room.

“How are you doing?” he asked gently. JFC! I’m not a damned China doll. I’m not going to break. It sounded so patronizing.

“Fine.”

“Must be tough to come in here and not have Dag sitting at his desk,” he said. I realized he wasn’t just comforting me but he missed Dag’s presence as much as I did. I waved him to a chair. “Brenda has a bail hearing on Monday. It’s likely she’ll be released,” he said. That was like a blow in the gut. She tricked Dag into killing Simon. Dag went to the grave with that knowledge and it was devastating. It was so unfair that she might be released after all the harm she’s done.

“Bitch.”

“We have Simon’s computer and the backup disks Dag made. They were in the Condo when we raided Sunday. I just had a funny feeling though, based on things Dag told me I should always look for. Maybe the computer was tampered with—not by you or Dag, mind you—by someone before it was brought to you. If that were the case, I’m betting there are backup disks for the computer someplace. Dag taught me a long time ago to always look for the backups. People delete things from their computers if they think someone is going to look at them. But they don’t change the backups,” he said and paused. I just nodded. Something about what John Allen said earlier made me think I shouldn’t say anything about what Dag and I were investigating, even to Jordan. Self-preservation told me I shouldn’t admit to having the backup disks, whether he knew or not.

“I’ve got a warrant to search Brenda’s house to look for backups. I’m thinking I’ll hold onto it for a couple of days. It would be much more impressive to let her get home on Monday and serve the warrant then. I’d like her to be home when we come after the disks so she has a little extra fear to deal with.” He paused again and looked out the window at the ferry pulling out of the terminal. “I’ll look like a royal fool, though, if there’s nothing there to find.” He let the words trail off, then added, as if to himself, “Yep. A real fool.”

Okay. With the remnants of a hangover headache and admittedly unclear thinking, I was detecting that Jordan was throwing me a bone. If I could get the backups returned to Brenda’s house before he went in with a search warrant, he wouldn’t be coming after me.

“I’m sure you’ll find them,” I said. “You guys are really thorough with your searches. I bet you won’t have any difficulty finding them. She’s so conceited, she probably has them in her desk drawer.” There. I basically told him exactly where to look.

“Do you think so?” he asked. “It’s good to get a second opinion on these things. I mean, you were a big help in examining the container that had counterfeit CDs in it. If it hadn’t been for you and Dag telling us to follow it, we might have missed the whole bust.”

I smiled at him. It was a sad excuse for a smile but I like Jordan and if I can help him nail Brenda’s hide to the barn wall, I’ll do it.

“If you need anything, Riley, you’ve got my number. Maybe after things settle down a little, I could take you out to dinner as a thank you for all the help you’ve been on this case. There’s a good possibility we might work together again in the future, don’t you think?”

“If I can get a job someplace, sure,” I said. “By the way, do you know of anyone else that should be contacted? I was just looking through Dag’s address book but there aren’t that many people. He went to visit cousins in Sweden in September. I’m just trying to put together a list.”

“I don’t know but I’ll bet that someone over at the Swedish American Center would know. Maybe they’d even post a notice.”

Of course. I’d dropped Dag there. It’s where he spent every Saturday afternoon. I’d even joined him for Thanksgiving. Everyone there knew him and was his friend. I knew right then what I’d have to do tomorrow.

If I’ve got the courage to do it.

{5}
Telling the friends

I KNEW WHAT I HAD TO DO. They were the friends I’d seen dote on Dag as if he were some kind of Ballard hero. But it took all my courage to get in the car and drive over there.

Knäckebröd and risgrynsgröt

On Thanksgiving, Dag took me to the Swedish American Center for the most spectacular day I’d ever had. I saw him talk to people he’d known all his life, even though he didn’t speak Swedish. They knew his parents and some had known Dag since he was a little boy. I also knew that every Saturday afternoon he went to the club to play cards and to eat dinner with those who gathered. It was the only family he had as far as I knew, and no one there had been told he passed away.

On the way, I stopped at an international deli and picked up knäckebröd, a kind of Swedish cracker. From what I gathered, it was what Dag contributed to the weekly dinners. When I passed the center, looking for a parking space, I could see people inside playing games and sitting in front of a TV. I was sure the Seahawks were playing. Or maybe they were out of season and it was someone else. I should pay more attention.

I parked but couldn’t get out of the car. I was terrified of going into the center by myself. These people had all been so warm and welcoming to me at Thanksgiving, but I was with Dag. I wasn’t one of them. I knew that and even though Mrs. Seafeld arranged to put the almond in my dish of risgrynsgröt, it was all to please Dag.

When I finally managed to pry myself out of the car (It was getting cold!), I didn’t walk toward the club. I walked around the neighborhood, just looking at the little houses on the hills of Ballard. The streets were hardly wide enough to drive down but cars were parked on both sides. At every intersection there was an island in the middle that you had to drive around. Even in the cold air, children were outside playing, sometimes in steep yards and sometimes right out in the middle of the street. I walked about thirty minutes before I realized I wasn’t anywhere near where I thought I was. I retraced my steps, seeing everything again for the first time.

A ball bounced out of a yard in front of me and I instinctively bent to scoop it up and toss it back into the yard to the waiting towhead little kid who was laughing and running toward me. He screeched in laughter as the ball got to him, scooped it up, and threw it to an equally blond friend up the slope.

But something caught my eye in the shoveled sidewalk. I knelt back down for a closer look. My heart caught in my throat when I saw scratched in the cement, “Dag ’03”. No. It wasn’t my Dag. But some little boy had scratched his name into wet cement. I could easily imagine Dag having done the same kind of thing when he was a child. These streets were his home. He probably grew up near this very place. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t making a saint out of him and revering the neighborhood he grew up in. But it really got to me that this was his neighborhood and his neighbors would want to know about him.

I quickened my steps back to the Swedish American Center, took my knäckebröd firmly in hand, and walked in.

Black coffee

It took a few minutes before anyone realized I was there. There was activity everywhere. Guys were playing cards in one corner. Women were playing board games with children in another corner. The TV was blaring. It was getting dark out and inside it was like watching a huge family gathered together on a winter’s evening. I could see a few older people, men and women, in the kitchen preparing who-knew-what delicacy for the table tonight. After spending a few minutes invisibly standing near the door, I decided to start with the men at the card table.

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached.

“Shh, shh,” one said without looking at me. He raised a finger to me while another led a card, each played their last cards and they were scooped off the table by the winner. It could have been pinochle or whist or spades from what I could tell. The man who had hushed me now looked up at me and said, “Yah sure, what’ll you have?”

“I was wondering if you are the gentlemen who usually play with Dag Hamar on Saturday afternoon,” I said.

“Well, when he shows up now, he plays here. Now look here,” he said to his companions and called across the room. “Lena! It’s the young woman Dag brought to Thanksgiving.” People suddenly stopped what they were doing and turned toward me. A few, including Mrs. Seafeld, who I recognized from the dinner, actually came over to where we were standing. “Where’s Dag, Miss?” he continued to me.

I really thought I was going to get through this without crying but my damn leaky eyes took it on themselves to nearly drown my words when I spoke.

“I’m sorry to bring you this news,” I said. “Dag passed away Thursday morning. I thought you should all know.” I was dripping tears out my eyes and my nose was running. I thought they were all going to just stay silent when Mrs. Seafeld wrapped her arms around me and said something in Swedish. I nodded my head and said, “Thank you,” and everybody in the room started laughing and crying all at the same time. I handed Mrs. Seafeld the knäckebröd. “I hope I got the right thing. I didn’t want you to be without since you didn’t know about Dag,” I said.

People milled about as word was passed back to the kitchen to those who hadn’t heard and the TV was turned off. I was led to a chair and made to sit while everyone gathered around and asked questions about what had happened. Someone pressed a cup of black coffee into my hands and I sipped greedily at it, feeling the warmth and stimulation sink into my nervous system. I answered the questions the best I could. I told them how Dag had rescued me Sunday morning and had fought to stay alive for three days to get a new heart but it proved too long a wait.

What a difference! My girlfriends got me senselessly drunk on red wine when they came to comfort me. Inside half an hour I was so wired on black Swedish coffee that I couldn’t stop talking. I told them everything that had happened since I met Dag six months ago and, in turn, they passed around stories of his childhood, military service, business, and card playing. It seems they all remembered a time when he’d hit a baseball into the stands at a Little League game and hit the loathed math teacher in the head, when he’d had a double run in spades with a thousand aces, when he moved away from Ballard to Seattle (as if it had been another country), and who he dated in high school.

“That would be me,” a woman said nearby, raising her hand. “I’m Rhonda Somvar,” she introduced herself to me. “Dag and I dated in high school.”

“You….” I said and hesitated. “You painted the picture.”

“What picture is that, dear?” she asked.

“A seascape at sunset with a man on the beach.”

“You’ve seen that?” she laughed. “A childish effort, I’m afraid.”

“Dag loved that painting,” I said. “He… He died looking at it.”

“Oh, my!” she said. “I knew it was bad but I didn’t think it would kill him!” Everyone laughed, including Rhonda, but I could see there were tears in her eyes, too.

I think I’ve been to a wake. Someplace along the line we ate dinner, including the knäckebröd I brought, spread with thick slices of cheese. The dinner was different than Thanksgiving. For one thing, there was a turkey. They said no one had thought of it on Thanksgiving but they were determined to have one sometime. Still, it had an abundance of butter, gravy, and potatoes, and many little casseroles that I couldn’t identify. We told stories, even while I was helping wash dishes.

I can’t imagine there being another memorial service for him that could be more fitting, though Reverend Olson offered to speak to the funeral home about the arrangements. I didn’t know who was in charge but I told him that Lars Andersen was the executor of the estate and John Allen was his attorney. He said he would take care of everything from there.

I did the right thing. I went to his family and told them. His family happens to be a whole club of people who share a neighborhood and heritage I scarcely knew existed before I met Dag. I was invited to return each week—even though Mrs. Seafeld took me aside and showed me an entire kitchen cabinet full of unopened knäckebröd packages and we had a wonderful laugh about Dag bringing another one every week—but I know it won’t be the same to go back again. I love them but they were Dag’s family. I can’t hang onto that for the rest of my life.

That reminds me. I’ve been hanging onto this letter for a whole day now. I’m afraid of what I’ll read in it. I’m afraid no matter what it says, I won’t be able to take it. Well… I was afraid of the Swedish American Club, too. I guess there’s nothing to do but face it.

Soon.

{6}
Playing Santa

I’M SITTING IN A COFFEE SHOP in Madison Park watching the locals come in for a Sunday morning coffee and newspaper. I’m lucky there’s a connection. I blend in perfectly with the surroundings here—just another Sunday morning blogger. I can see three other laptops from where I’m sitting.

I’ll bet none of them got here directly from breaking and entering, though.

I’ve got to break this habit.

Breaking and entering

I got up at five after way too little sleep. The coffee buzz from yesterday afternoon kept me up past two. But I didn’t wake up puking my guts out, unlike Friday.

I got into my cat burglar outfit, which is remarkably like my running clothes—black leggings, black hoodie, running shoes. I chose a short brunette bob wig for my hair of the day, or at least the morning. Then I drove to Madison Park and parked my car at a public access point. I focused on looking and acting like any other early morning runner, only there weren’t many running in the dark at six on a foggy morning. Fog is good. It means it’s marginally warmer this morning than it’s been the past few days. It also means I become invisible much more quickly when I’m headed away from someplace or someone. After I’d warmed up, I took only the tools that fit in my oversized waist pack beside the backup CDs.

It was about a mile to the access point I’d identified a couple of weeks ago. A path led from the water’s edge on Lake Washington up to the Barnett house. Since I was coming up from the beach this time instead of the front drive, it was much easier to slip up to the house without a chance of being observed.

The last time I was here, I didn’t care if Brenda found out or not. I just disabled the alarm system and left the door to the garage wide open. This time, though, I didn’t want to raise suspicions when she got out of jail. I took the second story entrance. In my brief visit two weeks ago, I noticed a balcony off the master bedroom above the kitchen. It overlooks the pool and the lake. I had also discovered there were no motion detectors and only the lower level doors and windows had alarms.

I hoisted myself over the railing on the deck, having first checked carefully to be sure no one was coming up the jogging trail. It took only thirty seconds to pick the lock on the French doors and get into the bedroom. I closed them behind me and stood looking around the room.

I rushed my last visit, focusing all my energy on Simon’s office where I found the backup disks. I was here today, only to return said disks so certain law enforcement officers could find them. But with Bradley dead and Brenda in jail, I had leisure time to see if I could leave anything else suspicious where Jordan could find it. I had no idea what it would be.

The bedroom was disgusting. A laundry hamper was full and there were dirty clothes on the floor around it. An elaborate bath was marred by makeup scattered around on the sink without particular regard for order. I could see a huge bottle of lilac-scented toilet water. The odor in the room made my eyes water and I’m not nearly as sensitive to scents as Dag is. Was.

A bedside table had an open drawer with various adult toys shoved into it. The bed was unmade and velvet ropes hung from the corners to the floor. The bolsters for the bed were lying on the floor in a corner and the spread lay in a pile at the foot of the bed. The walk-in closet was crammed so full of clothes and shoes you couldn’t walk into it. No matter what image Brenda attempted to portray in public, the bedroom painted a picture of a lazy, messy person. Brenda was a slob. I headed for the stairs down, keeping a careful eye out in case I had missed a motion detector.

Someone—housekeeper?—had cleaned the rest of the house. Apparently, the bedroom was Brenda’s private domain and she didn’t allow even the housekeepers in it. I’d rethink that rule if I was her.

I continued to the office and carefully replaced the disks in the exact place I’d found them. I was trusting that Jordan would arrive with his search warrant soon after Brenda got home from the hearing Monday and she wouldn’t have time to look for the backups again. Just in case, I’d downloaded everything onto the servers on Friday.

I searched the desk for any other evidence of Brenda’s wrong-doing but to no avail. I looked everyplace I could think of for a safe but also found nothing. The house outside the bedroom was so immaculate and spotless, you’d think no one lived there. There were no dirty dishes and no clean ones in the dishwasher. No food in the refrigerator either—not a quart of milk or stick of butter. It looked like the house had been cleaned for sale but the owner still occupied one room. I was glad I’d slipped surgical gloves on before I entered. Dag used them to protect sensitive equipment when he disassembled a computer. I used them so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints. In a house this clean, one solo set of prints that matched me would be incriminating.

I checked every drawer in the dining room sideboard, the linen closet, the utility room. If there was a safe in this house, I knew not where. I finally gave up and headed back to my exit through the bedroom. I opened the drawer on the other side of the bed from the toy drawer but it contained little other than reading material and pencils. I glanced back at the drawer full of toys and it hit me. This drawer was less than half the depth of the toy drawer, yet from the front it looked the same. I carefully removed the contents of the drawer and pulled it out of its guide.

It definitely had a false bottom and when I shook it gently, I could hear things sliding around in it. I turned the drawer over and saw a little twist screw on the bottom like you would see on the battery cover of a laptop. I used a penny from my pocket to twist it open and the lid came off. I’d hit the jackpot.

In the drawer were three complete sets of identity papers, passports, credit cards, birth certificates, marriage certificates, and a sizeable amount of cash in 100-dollar bills and 500-Euro notes. Everything in the house made sense now. It was cleaned to evacuate. The last room to be done was the only room Brenda had been using since… well, probably since Simon was killed. Brenda was prepared to run. My guess was that if Jordan hadn’t stepped out of the closet to arrest her Tuesday, she’d have been gone by Wednesday morning.

I copied all the information from each document in my notebook. The identity kits were complete for both Simon and Brenda. Sets this good must have cost a fortune. One set showed them as residents of Belize, one of Bangkok, and one of Monte Carlo. The names were all different. Two of the sets showed them married with the same last name and marriage certificate from the country in which they lived. The third was for two single people.

I replaced the contents of the drawer and put it back on its track in the bedside table. Looking around to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I retreated out the balcony doors and made my escape. I ran back to my car and moved it to the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet Teri by nine o’clock. I see her coming in now for our Sunday adventure.

As if I need more!

Message from the grave

Teri and I had a good time. We went to a little French Bistro for Sunday brunch and then went out to catch the first matinee of Déjà Vu. Yeah, I’m a sucker for action films if there is a good plot and a good lead actor. It was fun. And Denzel Washington! Yow!

Here’s a concept. Everyone went ballistic when they put Daniel Craig in as a blonde Bond. How about casting Denzel Washington in the role of Bond. Now I’d really be a Bond girl for that!

I got home about five and had a message from Lars. He wanted to set up an appointment to meet at my office as soon as possible. I called and offered to come up to see him but he said he really wanted to come down to the pier for this. Absolutely wouldn’t say what it was about.

It could be that I haven’t done a damn thing on my thesis for two weeks, including have any meetings with him. But why at the pier?

It got me thinking and I went into my bedroom to find the envelope Dag’s lawyer delivered to me. Yes. I’m a huge chicken. I finally went to sleep last night with it still in my hand unopened. I decided I had to do it now. I curled up on the bed with it and slit it open.

I’m not going to tell you everything word for word. John Allen said it wasn’t a good idea. But here’s a couple of things. There’s a long string of numbers followed by his name and mine. There’s a page of what he thinks is on Simon’s thumb drive. I couldn’t believe he deduced all his guesses based on the limited amount of actual knowledge we had but it is definitely a wow! And then there was this page.

I realize now there are things I never got around to teaching you. Maybe some of them I did. I’ll review.

First, you can do it. It might look impossible at first but I have faith in you. It’s not a big business but it is a good one. If you decide to stop, be sure to dismantle everything. Don’t leave a trace left.

Second, being clever, smart, and pretty won’t always be enough. Sometimes you’ll just have to be lucky. I’m hoping you will always be lucky. You’ll improve your luck if you decrease the risks you take. It’s easy to go prowling around when people don’t know you are there and just take what you need. But you will be luckier if you limit the amount of breaking and entering you do.

Third, the law doesn’t always define what’s right but we don’t either. Whenever you decide to do the ‘right thing’ and it’s not the ‘legal thing,’ well… let’s just say I’ve made my mistakes. The whole BKL thing was probably a mistake. I think we were manipulated through the whole thing. Doing what seemed like the right thing wasn’t even a smart thing.

Fourth, find good people to make up for your weaknesses. I’m not accusing you of having weaknesses but I know that when I found you, I made up for a lot of my own. I’m hoping you can find a partner who will back you up the way you’ve been there for me. Doing it all alone isn’t nearly as much fun as doing it with a good partner. It’s a lesson I learned way too late in life.

Fifth, I know it’s been the hardest thing I’ve tried to teach you but anything you can find out about someone else, a better hacker can find out about you. Take your security seriously. Don’t leave files, passwords, access codes, or anything else on your computer. You have a memory; use it. No one can subpoena what exists only in your head.

There are a couple of last things I’d like to ask you to do for me. There’s a letter addressed to my cousin Teresia in Sweden in the vault. Write her a note and tell her I’m gone. Enclose the letter. She’ll let the rest of my cousins know. There are a few other letters there—things I’ve kept for people that need to be returned. Please send them on. I’ve left instructions that I be cremated. They’ll give the ashes to you if you ask for them. There’s a beach on Whidbey Island just south of Deception Pass. You’ll recognize the place when you see it. Scatter my ashes to the wind and water. I’m finally going to find out what’s out there.

I wish I’d been thirty years younger when I met you, Riley. Knowing you has been one of the best things to happen in my life.

There you have it—the important part of it. Apparently, Dag figured out a way for me to keep working here. That’s probably what Lars wants to talk about. He’s the executor of Dag’s estate.

I have to go to bed now. My stupid eyes are leaking again.

{7}
Bailed out and over my head

I’VE BEEN SITTING at the courthouse for an hour and they just started the hearing on Brenda’s bail and release. Because it’s federal, she didn’t get the fast release she threatened last Tuesday. I feel so bad for her having to sit in an actual jail for a week! Boohoo.

Catch and release

I said ‘Hi’ to Jordan when I came in, but mostly these court cases are a lot of sitting in the back of a big room in which almost all the action takes place at the front in very quiet voices that no one in the audience can hear. There’s no jury. It isn’t a trial or even a hearing. This is where the two—or if I’m counting correctly, six—lawyers argue with each other over whether it is safe to trust her on her own recognizance and how much bail is adequate to assure she won’t jump bail.

I could give them a tip—she’s going to run. Jordan already suspects that. All they can do is argue about making it as costly as possible for her to leave and then watch to see if they can catch her. A condition imposed was that her passport be surrendered. After another hour of haggling up in front, the judge pounded the gavel and announced bail had been set and paid, and Brenda was released on her own recognizance. There was a stern lecture to the prosecution regarding having an airtight case on the software counterfeiting charge in two weeks or he would dismiss it.

Jordan finally separated himself from the prosecution team and came back to sit beside me. The judge called a recess for lunch with the next case to be heard at two o’clock. Before long we were the only ones still sitting in the back of the courtroom.

“Well, the game’s afoot, as Sherlock would say,” Jordan said. “She’s being followed and I’m heading out to be near Madison Park when she gets there. We don’t want her in the house for long before we move in with the search warrant.”

“She’s going to run, Jordan,” I answered.

“She’s going to try,” he smiled. “This is a federal case and her passport has been collected. She would be stopped at any border.”

“Any wagers on that?”

“No. But, despite what our judge said, we’ve got an airtight case against Barnett, Keane, and Lamb and she is the major shareholder. Bradley Keane’s wife holds a twenty-five percent share now that he’s gone. I’m sorry her retirement fund is looking a little weak at the moment. She seems like a nice woman. With Simon out of the picture, Brenda holds the remaining seventy-five percent.” Jordan paused. “I shouldn’t do this, but do you want to ride along for the search? You’d have to wait in the car until we’re done but I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Was he making a pass? What an exciting date to ask me out on if he was. Either way, I wasn’t in the mood for it at the moment. I just wasn’t able to socialize with business interests right now.

“Sorry, I’ve got an appointment back at the office with Lars,” I said. “Why don’t you call me next time you’re doing a drug bust? I’d really like to ride along for that.”

“You know I don’t do drug busts,” Jordan answered. Apparently, my sarcasm was too subtle. Jordan’s a nice guy but you know what? Sometimes he’s a little dense.

“You know what you could do sometime?” I asked. “Stop by with the file on this case, especially Brenda’s profile and arrest record. I’d just like to scan through it once for clues on where the real money was going and where it was coming from.”

“That’s probably just a little out of bounds,” Jordan said. “But I never turn down help from D.H. Investigations.” I bit back a response that D.H. Investigations was out of business now that D.H. was dead. Jordan didn’t deserve that and it’s really just my bitterness showing through. I want Dag’s last month on earth to have meant something. I was afraid the whole thing was going to blow over and the person he fingered as the culprit was getting away.

I left the courtroom and headed back to the office.

Last will and testament

Everything started popping about the same time this afternoon. Jordan called and told me they recovered the backup disks from Brenda’s home office. She was furious. It was a pleasure to watch her rant about planted evidence but she couldn’t deny those were backup disks for Simon’s computer. They were all neatly labeled and were in the desk.

Unfortunately, the warrant had limited scope. They could search for backup disks to the computer and once they found them, they really couldn’t search the house for anything else. He thought Brenda’s housekeeping was amazing. I kept my mouth shut.

The funeral home called to ask if it was okay for Reverent Olson to lead a memorial service on Wednesday. Why were they asking me? He must have given my name to them. Could I stand another memorial service? I hoped Dag wouldn’t mind the Lutheran minister praying for him.

And then Lars showed up. He hemmed and hawed a bit and insisted we go into Dag’s office to chat. He looked around the room and made a few notes. As executor of the estate, he had to place a value on Dag’s possessions. He’d already been to Dag’s apartment and knew about the Mustang. He pulled Dag’s little laptop out of his briefcase and set on the desk. He returned to the sofa and faced me.

“His affairs were very tidy,” he said. “He left the list of his accounts and policies attached to his will. He wasn’t wildly wealthy, but he lived simply and frugally. There won’t be much tax on the inheritance.”

I started to mention the vault but Lars cut me off before I could say anything more.

“There’s no mention of a vault in the will. I believe he wanted his ashes scattered.” I started again but he cut me off again. “There is no mention of a vault,” he said with finality. “Now, we should really read the will.” I was totally confused.

“I thought wills were read by the attorney,” I ventured.

“Yes. In fact, it was. I’m the executor of the estate, so I’m the only one who was there for the reading. From that point it is up to me to contact the heirs, report the value of the estate, and distribute it according to Dag’s wishes.”

“Why do you want to read the will to me?” I asked. Maybe I’m dumber than the blonde wig I wear would indicate. I really had no idea.

“Because two weeks ago, Dag visited his attorney and changed his will. The change made you his sole heir, Deb.”

That was a preview of Municipal Blondes. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Municipal Blondes» to Cart