Page 43 of Always Murder

I made the drive out to Clatsop Parcel and Freight again.The old warehouse and attached office building didn’t look any better today.Those dismal strands of tinsel fluttered dispiritedly in the breeze.The warehouse parking lot held a mixture of cars—drivers and warehouse workers who were still trying to fulfill last-minute deliveries.The office parking lot, on the other hand, held a single car, which caught my attention—what had dragged in an office employee on a Saturday?

My last, unauthorized entrance to CPF hadn’t exactly gone as planned.I thought an encore might lead to me spending my first Christmas in the county clink.And while there was something romantic about that idea—me, a rebellious trespasser, and Bobby, the servant of law and order, two star-crossed lovers holding hands on Christmas Day through the bars of a cell door—I think Bobby would have preferred a non-incarcerated boyfriend for our first Christmas together.So, I parked in the office lot and tried the front door.

It was locked.

On the other side of the glass, the office was dark, but if I shaded my eyes and smushed my nose against the glass, I could make out someone moving around inside.I knocked.Then I rapped a little more insistently on the glass.And then I shouted, “Hi!Hey!Hello!”It was the kind of assertive social interaction that made me break out in hives.

I could barely make out the figure inside waving for me to go away.

I kept up my tapping-rapping-hallooing.

Let me tell you: two minutes of that kind of stuff feelswaylonger than you’d think.

Finally, the person on the other side must have realized that dealing with me, however annoying in the short term, was infinitely better than putting up withthatfor the next hour.They moved toward me, and a deadbolt thunked back, and the door opened a few inches.

She was White, middle-aged, and she had graying hair cut short and combed into stiff little wings on either side of her head, which kind of looked like a flight helmet and kind of looked like the standard haircut some ladies got after A Certain Age.She had a phone pressed to her ample, uh, bosom, as she said through the cracked door, “We’re closed.”

“I just need to talk to Luz.To Ms.Hernandez, I mean.”

She gave a scoffing little laugh.“Good luck.”

“It’s very important.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said, trying to close the door.

I gripped the handle and did my best to keep it open.

“Excuse me,” she said.“I’m handling an emergency.”

“Is there anyone here who can help me?”

“No,” she said.“Now please let go—”

At that exact moment, I saw Luz.She was hurrying across the warehouse parking lot toward a beat-up old Civic.I released my grip on the door, and the woman let out a startled cry as the door slammed shut.

I hurried after Luz.

Her blond quiff looked bedraggled in the sunlight—with a distinctive orange tint that no real blond had ever had.She was jingling a set of keys in her hand, and she walked with her head down and her shoulders turned in.

“Luz?”I called.

No response.

I picked up the pace, and as I drew closer, I called again, more loudly, “Luz?”

She flinched and whirled around.Her eyes were bloodshot, and she had that rough, overnighter look that no amount of coffee can totally get rid of.She held her keys in a fist, the sharp edges turned out like an improvised weapon.

Holding up my hands, I said as calmly as I could, “Hey, it’s me.Dash.Uh, Chaz, remember?From yesterday?”

“What areyoudoing here?”

“Funny you should ask.Hoping to talk to you, actually.”The breeze picked up, and the cold cut through my coat and made me shiver.“Do you have a minute?Maybe we could step inside?”

“No!”The word was too sharp and too fast.She took a breath, wiped her free hand on her thigh, and said in a painful attempt at normal, “No, I can’t.I’m—I’ve got to go.”

“Uh, right.Well, I wanted to ask you about the drivers’ routes.I knowyoudon’t know their routes, but I was wondering who might—”

“I can’t talk to you.”She hurried around to the driver’s side, the keys clinking as she sorted through them.“I’ve got to go.”

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