Water's Edge: A totally gripping crime thriller (Detective Megan Carpenter Book 2) Read online

  Water's Edge

  A totally gripping crime thriller

  Gregg Olsen

  Books by Gregg Olsen

  Detective Megan Carpenter series

  Snow Creek

  Water’s Edge

  Lying Next to Me

  The Last Thing She Ever Did

  The Sound of Rain (Nicola Foster Thriller Book 1)

  The Weight of Silence (Nicola Foster Thriller Book 2)

  Available in audio

  Detective Megan Carpenter series

  Snow Creek (Available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Hear More from Gregg

  Books by Gregg Olsen

  A Letter from Gregg

  Snow Creek

  Acknowledgments

  *

  For Paul Marinucci, who lives his best life every single day.

  One

  The streetlights on the corners were dim. Young men—teenagers, mostly—stood in the yards or between houses in small groups, smoking, laughing, staring at her small car as she passed as if challenging her to encroach on their territory. She had heard all the talk about this part of the city. She’d read the newspaper accounts and seen the raw footage on television. And still she came. His invitation had been so shy, embarrassed, charming.

  She had rushed home from her shift at the tavern, showered, and tried on several different outfits before she decided on the one that would highlight her figure and accentuate the red of her hair.

  Green.

  That was her go-to color. She studied herself in the mirror.

  She’d been called pretty, even beautiful a time or two.

  Yet never by the sober.

  Or the especially handsome.

  That evening he’d called her beautiful.

  She had been working in a coffee shop downtown and just started taking shifts at the tavern. Tips were better at the Sandpiper, but the clientele had bottomed out on the disgusting scale. The coffee shop had been full of New Age creeps and wannabe writers. The Old Whiskey Mill had drunks and more drunks, and it was a cop hangout. Drunks were more generous than coffee sippers.

  She ran her fingers through her hair and thought about him.

  He looked familiar. Not overly so. Just enough to make her lean in when he spoke. He ordered a Jack Daniel’s, straight up, and smiled at her. She’d said something like: “Do I know you from somewhere? Are you famous?”

  The moment it passed from her lips she felt schoolgirl silly.

  “Afraid not. I’m sure I would remember a beautiful woman like you.”

  It was a very old, very worn-out pickup line, but he’d blushed.

  And yet, there it was: a real, honest-to-God blush.

  She remembered asking if he worked in town, and he answered with a straight face.

  “I work for the CIA.”

  She blinked and was about to say something, but he laughed and said CIA stood for the Culinary Institute of America. CIA. He was a chef in search of employment. A recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America in Napa Valley, California. He said he was going to prepare something special for her.

  He sheepishly explained he still lived at home with his father and would she mind if his dad ate with them?

  That made her mind up. She had felt silly that she had almost turned him down. She hadn’t gone out with anyone for a long time. Especially someone she’d just met. She’d said yes much too quickly. She regretted that now. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  Or maybe she did?

  She knew what her mother would have said if she were still in her life. “Leann Truitt, just what were you thinking?” It was one of her mother’s favorite lines; a dart meant to hurt. It was true that sometimes she hadn’t been thinking, but she was a grown woman now.

  “Shut up, Mom,” she said to herself. “We’ll find out soon enough what I was thinking.”

  The house was on the corner and faced north. It was badly in need of a makeover and was exactly as he’d described it. But her stomach dropped as she drove around the corner. The house was dark except for a flickering light behind thick yellowish curtains. It looked empty. She looked at the clock on the dash, thinking she was early, but she was actually a few minutes late.

  She parked and walked across the cracked cement of the sidewalk to the side gate. She lifted a black latch and pushed the gate open. A walk of original brickwork led to the door. The bricks were covered in green moss, and she had to step carefully to keep her high heels from slipping. If she twisted an ankle, she wouldn’t be able to work—and, even worse, would miss this wonderful evening.

  And yet something niggled at her; a little doubt crept in.

  She looked for a doorbell but there wasn’t one; there wasn’t even a knocker. She raised her hand to knock and hesitated. What if his father disapproved of her coming for dinner? This place was older than old. It smelled of mildew and rot. It reminded her of one of her father’s rental dumps.

  “I’ll get it, Dad,” a voice said from inside.

  She heard footsteps. A shadow appeared behind the glass and the door opened.

  He took her hand and led her inside the darkened foyer.

  Her eyes adjusted and she could see that both walls of the wide hallway were lined with boxes and stacks of clothing and dolls and appliances and lampshades. There was a narrow path and he was leading her through the clutter. Then she stepped in something sticky. Adrenaline coursed through her. Something was wrong.

  “Maybe I should…” she managed to say, before he turned and slammed a fist into her face.

  Two

  I sit at my desk at the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office with posters of the craggy Olympic Range on the wall behind me. I can see into Sheriff Gray’s office to my left. His door is open and he’s leaning back, too far back, in his roll-around chair, the springs squeaking whenever he shifts his weight.

  So annoying.

  I swear, the chair could be used by the CIA to get confessions from the most hardened terrorist. I want to take a full can of WD-40 and douse the springs.

  But I do
n’t.

  I turn to the disheveled woman sitting in a chair beside my desk. She is holding a toddler with one arm and attempting to corral her eight-year-old serial-killer-in-training with the other.

  “Miss Gamble, let’s move to an interview room,” I say, partly because I don’t want to cause her more embarrassment and partly because her kid can bounce off the walls in there. Literally. In the kids’ interview room are soft toys, carpeting, soundproof walls, posters of breaching orcas, the PAW Patrol, lighthouses.

  Miss Gamble gladly gets up. Her ears are bleeding also. Whether it’s from the squealing made by the chair, the squalling toddler, or the whining, nasal, nasty mouth of her son is unclear. If I thought a can of WD-40 would work on the eight-year-old, I’d use it. But it’s not Miss Gamble or her kids that are getting to me. It’s her situation. It sparks memories. I try to set it aside. Sparks can be bonfires.

  Miss Gamble is unmarried, trying to raise three children by three different fathers, and trying to do it alone. She is on public assistance, living in public housing, using food stamps in an unwise manner—for example, trading them for illegal substances—and I deduce from her belly bump she might have another baby on the way.

  She leads the ones she already has into the children’s interview room. The interview room for adults is not like this space. Not even close. This one is meant to soothe and mollify. The adult side is designed to irritate and get them to confess just to get out of the room. I can testify that it works. At least, some of the time.

  I take a seat, pick up the paperwork provided to me by the Port Hadlock Fire Department, and look at Miss Gamble, then at the eight-year-old.

  She remains silent.

  “Did you know your son was setting things on fire?”

  It’s a straightforward question. Yes or no. She doesn’t answer. Just gives me those big brown eyes. I can’t sympathize. I don’t know enough about the family dynamics. Maybe the kid’s been abused?

  When I ask the question, her little firebug’s eyes light up and a half smile plays at his lips. The sheriff is in the next room. I want to continue the questions, but I get up, go into the outer office, shut the door behind me, and return to my desk to clear my head. I wonder if he’s a bedwetter. If so, I know how the textbooks would classify him, and it stings me. I know from experience that while bedwetting often indicates a child’s future behavior, the trajectory is somewhat changeable.

  I hear the sheriff’s chair give an emphatic squeal and know he’s gotten up. The floors vibrate under his plodding gait as he comes over to my desk.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Is that kid really setting animals on fire?”

  “Fire marshal says so.” The fire marshal actually said more than that, but Sheriff Gray doesn’t need to hear the descriptive language he used. The man was very upset. I’ve never seen a grown man cry, but after seeing the pictures of a family’s beloved pet, I don’t blame him. I felt queasy thinking about it, and it takes a lot to make me queasy.

  “Well, I’m going to do you a favor,” Sheriff Gray says, handing me a Post-it note.

  I read and look back at the kids’ interview room. I can hear banging on the wall. “What about them?”

  “I’ll take care of them,” he says. “I’m the sheriff. I can do a referral to juvenile court the same as you, and I’ve done this job longer.”

  Outside of a multiple murder in the Snow Creek area, the cases I’ve had lately have been thefts and high-dollar vandalism. The note the sheriff handed me has eight words printed in his perfect, steady hand.

  It reads like a telegram.

  Marrowstone Island.

  Mystery Bay State Park.

  Cove.

  Floater

  A floater is a tasteless but accurate descriptive term we use for bodies found in water. I haven’t been on the job very long—two years—but this is the first time I’ve heard of a drowning in the little cove of Mystery Bay, Marine State Park.

  “Homicide?” I ask.

  He gives a little shrug. “They want a detective. You tell me after you get there.”

  I grab my windbreaker that doubles as a raincoat, thinking the sheriff is done.

  He’s not.

  “Detective Carpenter, meet Reserve Deputy Marsh.”

  A younger version of me, but with red hair instead of blond, steps in front of my desk with her hand held out. A smattering of freckles high on her cheekbones are visible through the makeup she’s applied. The hand is perfectly manicured.

  Those nails won’t last the day, I think.

  I can’t help but notice my own hands just then. My skin is dry, tanned from spending time in the sun. Nails somewhat chewed but practical for this kind of work.

  I already don’t like her, but, to be fair, I don’t know her.

  I remind myself to get to know her first and then not like her.

  Her grip is like water, soft. She is wearing a blue pinstriped suit with a white silk blouse billowing out in front. She probably got the idea for her getup from a television show where all the female cops are busty, with longish styled hair, and dressed in high heels. Her ridiculous outfit will last about as long as her nails before it’s ripped or covered with mud or puke or blood.

  “Ronnie Marsh,” she says.

  “Nice to meet you, Ronnie.” I don’t mean it. I’ve got a case to work, and in my mind I’m already heading to Marrowstone Island. I let her hand drip through mine, and I slip into my windbreaker. As I turn for the door, Sheriff Gray stops me with a hand on my shoulder. I don’t like to be touched, but I’ll make an allowance for him.

  “Take her with you, Megan.”

  I work alone. Always have. I work alone for a reason. I don’t want complications. I don’t want relationships. Working together qualifies as a relationship. Relationship equals abandonment. That’s what life has taught me. My brother Hayden hates me because I left him in Idaho with a veritable stranger. My mother betrayed and lied to me in the worst way.

  Everyone does eventually.

  Reserve Deputy Marsh can ride along with me for today, but that’s it.

  “You’ve got her for a week.”

  I shoot him a look. I don’t care if the reserve sees it or not.

  “I’m swamped, Sheriff. I can do today. Maybe you can give her to someone else?”

  “Swamped with what?”

  I stay mute. He already knows the answer. I’m tempted to say, Sheriff, you and I both know I’m not working shit right now. So why don’t we save some time here and you hand her to someone that wants to work her. But I don’t say that because Sheriff Gray gave me a job when probably no one else would. Because he knows things about me. Because he has helped me erase some of my past mistakes. And, more than anything, because he is about the only person I can trust.

  He doesn’t remove his hand from my shoulder. “You might as well take vacation time, Megan. It’s so dead around here.”

  I wish he wouldn’t use that word: “dead.” It has a way of multiplying trouble. Like a virus.

  Just then, Nan, Sheriff Gray’s assistant, shows up. She is also wearing a suit. She and Marsh could be twins. I change my assessment of where Marsh got the idea for her attire. She must have seen Nan.

  That doesn’t bode well for her.

  “Sheriff,” Nan says, “Marine Patrol wants to know if they need to respond to the drowning.” She’s looking at me, smiling at Marsh, and talking to the sheriff. She’s perfected multitask ass-kissing. “Should I tell them you’re both with a suspect and can’t be disturbed?”

  Reserve Deputy Marsh speaks up. “I just completed my rotation through Marine Patrol. Captain Martin gave me a good write-up. He said I was his best intern yet.”

  I’d met the captain one time during my academy rotation. He was good-looking, in a Ted Bundy sort of way. I remember he was always partial to the female cadets. The guys, no matter how adept they were on the water, barely squeaked by with a passing
grade.

  “I can see that,” I say.

  Nan and Marsh were exchanging looks and giving each other a knowing smile. It’s no secret that Nan has a picture of Captain Marvel—that’s what I call him—displayed on her desk. He is at the helm of his boat, bravely sailing into a perfect sunset. I remember a while back he gave Nan a ride on his personal boat. The next day she came to work in wrinkled clothes, messed-up hair, no makeup.

  I just rolled my eyes when I saw her.

  Sheriff Gray looks at me for a response.

  “I won’t know if I need the Marine Patrol guys until I get there. What’s their location?”

  Nan gives me a stare. “The captain didn’t say. He just asked if he should respond.”

  “I’ll call Captain Marvel when I get there.” Then I change my mind. “I’ll call the captain on my way,” I say, and try to leave.

  Sheriff clears his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting someone? Take Deputy Marsh with you.” He says this like I should stand to attention and salute.

  I head to the parking lot, and Deputy Marsh trails behind me with her high heels clacking all the way. I get to my old Taurus and hit the unlock button on the key fob. I forgot that the key fob doesn’t work anymore. The good thing is the car is old enough that it still has a regular key on the fob. The bad thing is the car is old. I’ve asked for a new car. I won’t get one until I have to drive with one arm out the window holding the door shut.