Page 185 of It Happened on the Lake

She was still blotting the drizzle as Rand said, “I’m on my way to see the officer in charge of these cases back then.”

Chelle glanced over her shoulder. “Your dad.”

He nodded.

“Need company?” She wadded up the tissue and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket.

“I think I should handle this one myself.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. See ya later.” Chelle was still grumbling to herself as she found another tissue and started swabbing the windowsill.

Rand started down the hall only to sidestep Chuck Fellows lumbering in the opposite direction. In Chuck’s wake was a twenty-something man, thin as a rail, three days’ growth of beard covering his jaw, eyes wide, pupils dilated, stocking cap pulled low over his ears. His flannel jacket was unbuttoned, beneath which Rand noticed a faded T-shirt printed withGo Ahead, Make My Day!Scratch marks were apparent on his cheeks, and his wrists were cuffed, no shackles on his legs. Despite the fact that Fellows was strong-arming him down the hall to the booking area, he shuffled as if he could barely move.

“I didn’t do nothin’,” the cuffed guy protested, the smells of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sweat permeating from him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just like you never do.” As they passed Rand, Fellows grabbed the guy by the elbow to shuffle him along and muttered under his breath, “I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

“I swear, she was lyin’!” the guy argued. “You know she’s a liar! You know it!”

“What I know is that she has a restraining order. Jesus, Curtis, just shut up, would ya? You know the drill. You’ll get your chance to talk.”

“I want my attorney,” Curtis insisted.

“On his way.”

“Herway! I got a woman this time!”

“Fine, fine, then she’s been notified.” A door opened and closed with a thud, and the rest of the conversation was cut off.

Rand stopped at his locker for his sidearm, though he told himself he didn’t need it; he was interviewing his dad, for God’s sake. He packed the Glock anyway.

When he left, it was raining, hard enough that he had to flip his wipers on once he started driving. He hadn’t told his father he was coming, wanted to see Gerald’s reaction face to face.

Even with the rain beginning to sheet and traffic snarling, Rand made it to his father’s duplex in less than half an hour. He and his wife, Dorie, lived on a golf course in Oregon City, and when Rand knocked on the door, his latest stepmother answered. She was a bit of a thing, less than a dozen years older than Rand, her oversized glasses and curling blond hair reminiscent of Charlie, the love interest inTop Gun.

“Rand,” she said with a wide grin as he stood dripping on the porch. “Come on in!” She held the door open.

“Is Dad here?”

“No, he’s golfing at the country club.” Then she looked past Rand to the wet day beyond, where rain was pounding the brick walk. “Well, he was, it’s his regular day, you know, the morning men’s group, but I don’t know with this weather. He’s probably playing cards. Most of the time he’s an all-weather golfer, but this is pretty bad.” She turned her head to look up at the gray clouds. “He’s usually back by one or one-thirty.” She teetered one hand to indicate maybe less, maybe more.

“Maybe I’ll catch him there.”

“Or you could wait if you want.” She was stepping aside, allowing him into the living room where the television was tuned to some game show and the paper lay open on a side table, the front page headlines visible from the porch.

“Thanks. Another time.” He couldn’t imagine trying to make small talk with Dorie, nor did he want to discuss what he planned to ask his father in front of the third Mrs. Gerald Watkins.

“Do you want me to give him a message, in case you don’t connect with him?”

“No. I’ll call.” With a wave, he turned back to his Jeep.

As he slid inside, the words Chuck Fellows’s prisoner had shouted sliced through his mind. “She’s a liar. You know it.”

Lies, that’s what these cases always were about, and he knew, deep in his gut, that his father was lying. Or covering up. The notes on Chase’s disappearance and Olivia Dixon’s death weren’t up to Gerald Watkins’s usual clear, concise, and complete standard. No, something had been off. And it was more than the fact that his best friend’s son had gone missing.

But who would know?

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