The Pink Flamingo Read online

  THE PINK FLAMINGO

  A GRETA HAVORSFORD NOVEL

  by

  Kelsey Robicheaux

  Copyright © 2019

  All rights reserved

  Disclaimer: All characters are fictional. No similarity exists with the citizens of Tillamook County, Oregon, including public officials filling the same or similar positions as in the story. Communities, locales, and streets are actual places, but businesses and addresses are fictional.

  Cover by Damonza.com

  The author can be contacted at [email protected].

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  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

  PROLOGUE

  A thud and a crack like a green melon splitting resulted from the first blow to the man’s skull. When the victim didn’t fall immediately, a second swing struck the side of his face and jaw, and the body finally sagged to the concrete. The killer raised the hammer for a third strike, but it wasn’t needed. The dim light revealed no movement of the man’s chest. The killer heard no breathing after the initial grunt and the slow escape of any remaining air in the man’s lungs.

  “Shit! What the hell was he doing here?” whispered the killer, though no one was within earshot. Burglarizing? A stalker? Not that it made any difference. His sorry ass shouldn’t have been here.

  Serves him right, the killer thought. Now what do I do?

  For just this once, the killer was grateful for the weather along the Oregon coast. Darkness and drizzle diverted people’s attention, whether they were outside, staying warm and dry, or focusing on whatever they were doing. They never imagined a murder had just occurred next door or that a body lay in the trunk of the car that just drove past. There would be no reason to later suspect a person walking down the street or that someone they were talking to could kill without remorse.

  Two hours later, with an angry sigh of exasperation, the killer flopped into an armchair, thinking, What a fucking night! Damp clothes, muddy shoes, aching arms. The victim hadn’t been a big man, but moving his limp body proved harder than the killer had imagined.

  There wasn’t much blood, the killer thought. I’m glad I didn’t have to hit him again. That could have gotten messy.

  When they found the body—if they found it—there should be no connection to the killer. No witnesses. No one saw the body being dumped. Hardly anyone was out this time of night, and those few had their own concerns. No reason for them to notice just another car.

  Good luck finding the hammer under twenty-five feet or more of water, the killer thought. Even if they find it, I wiped it clean.

  Stupid! The killer thought. Everything was going so well. This is what happens if you’re careless.

  There had been no time to think. It just happened. Not that the murder gave the killer pause. The only regret was that it had put everything else in jeopardy.

  Did I miss anything in cleaning up the mess? I don’t think so. I know I didn’t panic like the last time.

  The killer’s breathing and heart rate slowed down, as confidence grew.

  I only have to act normal, as if none of this happened. If there’s an investigation, nothing should point to me. I need to be calm until all this passes. It’s not as if the locals are master sleuths.

  The killer resolved to be alert for anything that might connect to the death, but daily routines had to continue. That shouldn’t be hard because pretending was already part of the killer’s everyday life. There were sources of information, ways to keep track of any future investigation. Nothing could be done about the past. It had happened. Only the future mattered. And only one loose end remained. The killer considered the problem, but two bodies would make it harder to remain invisible. Caution was needed in case the “loose end” or any other person became a danger that needed direct action.

  The killer rose to shower and change clothes, the latter to be burned. For the moment, only the murderer knew a violent murder had taken place in the quiet coastal community, a state of ignorance that ended in six days.

  CHAPTER 1

  I need to get a new route, Bill Bowlers groused to himself. The large, distinctive, red-and white-logo’d Coca Cola truck was a bitch on these roads. Two-lane Highway 101 meandered along the Pacific Ocean, making countless turns through the rain and fog. Nighttime was even worse because the sparse population meant few lights. A dense forest bordered the narrow road. It was like driving through an endless tunnel where everything that existed was illuminated by his headlights.

  The weather tonight was typical for mid-October: the smell of the ocean only miles away, patchy fog, and a mist that didn’t quite qualify to Oregonians as rain. This pattern held for six months of the year, the other six months being the official rainy season. He’d gotten a late start today. It was well past midnight when he hit Tillamook City—the county seat and the largest town in Tillamook County.

  There, he had neglected to take an opportunity to relieve himself. At fifty-five, he found his bladder less patient than when he was younger. The urge had started about nine miles back and was turning into a demand. He had driven this road enough times that his mind’s map included not only delivery points, towns, and curves, but also pull-off spots. He neared one such area. Not the best spot, a wide place in the pavement, instead of a dirt turnout, yet good enough for needed relief. Even if a vehicle drove by at this time of night and in this weather, no one would notice him standing hidden by the truck. This particular spot was marked by a sign demarcating the border between Tillamook County and Lincoln County.

  Then, there it was, a quarter mile ahead. A green sign with white lettering: “You are now entering Lincoln County.” Across the road was the complementary sign facing the other way, “You are now entering Tillamook County.”

  He slowed, pulled over, and turned off the engine. As the windshield wipers stopped, the windows showed the “mist” threatening to turn into rain. He got out of the cab. The moisture felt good on his face. Refreshing. He drank in the invigorating air. He walked around the truck to the shin-high guardrail and started to unzip.

  That’s when it hit him. An overpowering stench. Something rotting. Meat.

  A deer? was his first thought. God, that stinks so bad, it must be close. He put a handkerchief to his nose and mouth and looked over the guardrail to the downward slope.

  CHAPTER 2

  Greta Havorsford jolted awake the instant her alarm started playing “Oklahoma.” She wasn’t from Oklahoma, nor did she have any fondness for the state. She had only visited there during travel for sports. Yet after testing other melodies, she found that this song from the well-known musical consistently roused her the fastest with its annoying optimism, and she had transferred the tune to the clock via a USB port from her cell phone.

  Unfortunately, waking at distasteful hours came with her job as county deputy sheriff. Rising so early would have been more tolerable if the calls were something out of the ordinary, something “interesting.” Although traffic accidents, domestic violence, burglaries, and drunk and disorderly were serious, they were routine. When an accident occurred, any living victims would be
attended to and the same with the nonliving, though at a lower priority; the scene would be recorded, witnesses questioned, traffic controlled, and eventually reports written. Everything was already choreographed by standard operating procedures: SOPs.

  She groaned, rolled in her bed, picked up the phone, and punched receive.

  “Yeah.”

  “Greta. It’s Alex Boylan from Lincoln.”

  “Yeah,” she replied groggily. “What’s up?”

  Boylan was a deputy sheriff in the next county south. His patrol area covered the northern part of Lincoln County, while hers was southernmost Tillamook County. Having adjacent patrol districts, they’d often interacted since she’d taken her position. Overlapping and adjacent jurisdictions could get complicated, despite formal arrangements and attempts at cooperation by county sheriff departments, the city police of towns large enough to have their own departments, and the Oregon State Police. Interpersonal contacts often provided the best grease.

  Such was the case between her and Boylan, a ten-year veteran of the Lincoln County Sheriff Department, married with two kids. He had reached out to Greta during her first few months of trying to gain her footing right out of college. They coordinated on cases that overlapped the two counties and helped each other out as needed and whenever possible. Greta had twice had dinner with his family. Susan Boylan was cheerful and fully content with her life as wife, mother, and part-time florist. Greta, in perverse moments, wished she could hate her.

  “A Coca-Cola driver came into the Lincoln City Police Department and reported a body at the county line, right at the ‘Welcome to Lincoln County’ sign. It routed to us because it’s in our jurisdiction and to me to go check out. The driver thinks the body is on our side of the line, but I thought you might like to come on down, too.”

  As Boylan’s words registered, she snapped to attention and tried prying her eyes open.

  “A body? Some hitchhiker or what?”

  “Assuming there is a body, and it’s not just some animal,” stated Boylan. “From the driver’s report of the smell, it’s been there a while. We’ll have a better idea what happened once we examine the body.”

  Greta, now fully conscious, sat up in bed. “Okay. I’ll meet you there.”

  She put the phone down and squinted at the digital clock: 3:32 a.m. She’d gotten almost five hours of sleep, so why did it feel like she’d just dozed off? Still . . . a body was a body. It was the most exciting thing that had happened on the job in months.

  She steeled herself, threw off the covers, and hustled barefoot to the open bedroom window. Being buried under warm layers, with her head poking out and inhaling cool damp air rich in smells of forest and sea, made for hard sleeping and pleasant dozing until time to emerge.

  She shut the window, went into the bathroom to throw water on her face, and made quick use of the commode. Then she padded back into the bedroom, hurriedly pulled off her bright pink cotton pajamas, and grabbed a clean uniform out of the closet. Heavy socks, underwear, uniform, boots. She fastened her side braids into a bun at the back of her head, so the hat would fit. She settled her utility belt containing her Glock pistol, ammo clip pouch, flashlight, handcuffs, utility knife, pouch with disposable gloves, and work cell phone around her waist. Her heavy jacket and her hat provided the final touches. From answering the phone to ready to roll took eight minutes.

  As usual, Greta appraised herself in the mirror. She saw a tall, strong-looking young woman of twenty-three years, medium brown hair, brown eyes lighter than most and a distinguishing feature. Not an attractive woman but healthy. She had always been tall. She remembered noticing this fact somewhere around age seven. On her twelfth birthday, an uncle measured her as six feet. She had towered over classmates, which was an endless source of comments from those children. Some were meant to be humorous, though too many were deliberately cruel. By that age, she had picked up a hated nickname—“Flamingo”—based on her height, long limbs, and awkward gait, as her body temporarily outgrew coordination.

  Neither parent seemed cognizant of the effect her size had on Greta. She often suspected, correctly or not, that they were a little embarrassed by a middle daughter who was so different from the other two. Her sisters had inherited their mother’s height and features. In contrast, Greta seemed to have inherited mostly her father’s genes. He was tall and somewhat homely, yet a kindly man with seemingly endless patience with his wife, his daughters, and the world in general. Greta adored him, and he doted on her. She often wondered whether he paid special attention to her because of guilt that she resembled him, in both height and facial features. What she had inherited from her mother was a trait she regretted—her mother’s tongue—although in Greta’s case, it was more a tendency to be sarcastic, instead of nagging. This natural tendency resurfaced if she wasn’t careful—often fomented by anger or irritation.

  She practiced frowning in the mirror for the intimidation factor. She looked imposing . . . for a woman. A giggle spoiled the effect, as usual.

  With the house lights turned off, she got into her sheriff’s utility vehicle and set her hat on the passenger seat. Department protocol required locking the rifle and the shotgun in the house each night, and she did the first couple of months. After that, they stayed in the stand-up rack in the cab. Just one of the many insights she’d picked up from other deputies, as she learned the difference between official procedures and reality.

  Droplets of heavy mist coated the windshield as soon as she exited the garage. She checked to be sure the garage door had closed and locked. It had a nasty habit of getting almost shut and then reopening, signaling to the world that no one was home. Rain made this happen more often.

  Windshield wipers on, she drove out onto Barefoot Lane, Cape Kiwanda Drive, over the Nestucca River bridge, along Brooten Road through what passed for downtown Pacific City, and onward a couple of miles inland to meet Highway 101. There, she turned on her flashing lights and sped up to ten miles over the limit, heading south toward the county line sixteen miles away. She resisted using the siren because it wasn’t an emergency, and she didn’t want to wake anyone unnecessarily. She didn’t need the flashing lights either, but why not use one of the perks of the job?

  Hardly any traffic was on the roads this time of the night. In another couple of hours, people driving to work would create what passed for commuter traffic in this area, meaning a vehicle every minute or so.

  The weather alternated between rain and mist, as if undecided. More mist as she drove south, then more rain as 101 turned inland at the coast settlement of Neskowin and climbed upward of six hundred feet into the forest. After she left Neskowin, there were no more lights. She drove with only her headlights brightening the dark and lonely road ahead.

  After a year of driving the Tillamook County roads, she anticipated the county line and slowed around the next turn. Two hundred yards ahead, she saw Alex’s vehicle parked on the west side of 101’s two lanes. He’d already put out cones and flares to slow traffic in both directions. It had taken Greta thirty minutes from the call to arrive.

  She pulled in behind him, left her own lights flashing, and got out, settling her hat on her head. She walked toward Boylan. The drizzle/rain had let up, but fine droplets were refracting in their vehicles’ lights, white and red. There was no wind.

  “Hi, Greta.” Boylan waited for her at the back of his vehicle.

  “What’cha got, Alex?” She stopped next to him, and they shook hands. He was tallish, about six foot two, which made him only inch shorter than Greta, with a slender build. She had twenty pounds on him.

  “A deader, all right. He’s on the other side of the guard rail, just behind the county line sign.”

  “So it’s a he?”

  “Yep. I’d guess thirties to fifties. Kinda hard to tell with the shape he’s in.”

  Greta pulled out her flashlight and moved toward the sign.

  “Not really necessary for you to see him,” Boylan cautioned.

  Wh
at? Not appropriate for a woman? she thought and continued to the rail. He wouldn’t say that if I were a man. Shit, Jasmine is right. I’ve got to stop reading into what people say.

  Her friend in the main office was on a campaign to stop Greta from imagining slights, in addition to finding her a boyfriend.

  The smell hit her before she reached the rail. When she leaned over and swept her light downward, the full stench washed over her the same moment that her beam found the body. She fought a gag reflex, moved the beam aside, and held her breath. She clicked off the light, took a step back, and pretended to look around at the trees and pavement. She took a few seconds to compose herself before facing her colleague.

  Boylan was right, it wasn’t something she needed to see, and now she regretted she had seen it.

  Gruesome scenes were one aspect of the job—one of the worst parts. In the past year, she had responded to two fatal traffic accidents. However, this was her first decomposing body. She steeled herself and took another quick look. Persistence was one of her positive traits and sometimes a negative one.

  “Your keen powers of observation have been proven again, Alex. I support your conclusion that he’s dead.”

  Boylan laughed, if a little shakily. He didn’t reveal whether he recognized her attempt at humor as an effort to cover her reaction.

  “I called it back in as confirmed,” said Boylan. “The medical examiner is en route with an ambulance to take the body as soon as the scene has been processed. Sheriff Harward radioed he’s sending a detective and for us to keep the area secure. I told him you were here and assisting.”

  “So, it’s your case? He’s definitely on the Lincoln side of the line?”

  “Looks to me like more than half of him is on our side. Also, since it was reported first to us, it sounds like it’s ours, unless you think your boss wants it.”