A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

and Haviland, a mixture of surprise and delight replaced his sullen expression.
    “Don’t get up,” Olivia said as Rawlings moved to stand. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I know the local press has gotten wind of your case and you must be very busy.”
    “I wish there was something for me to be busy doing .” Rawlings was obviously irked. “We still have no ID for our victim and no matching dental records either. I’m going to have to ask for the public’s help and I can’t tell you how many fruitcakes will call or drop by the second the television announcement runs.” He waved at the window. “Everyone with a Superman complex will line up in the lobby.”
    Without waiting to be asked, Olivia sat in one of the two chairs facing the chief’s tidy desk. “I take it the medical examiner’s report provided no additional clues.”
    “Only that our victim wasn’t drugged.” Rawlings picked up a rubber band and wound it around his thumb and index finger. “There was duct tape residue on his neck, implying that a bag was taped over his head long enough to cause him to lose consciousness. Before burying the victim in the sand, the killer tried to remove all signs of the tape but missed a few pieces.”
    Olivia tried to push away the picture forming in her mind of a man fighting desperately to breathe, his lips drawing in plastic while his frantic exhalations fogged up the bag, blurring the movements of his attacker. “Run-of-the-mill silver duct tape?”
    Rawlings nodded. “Yes. Even if I got a record of every duct tape sale over the last thirty days from Hampton’s Hardware, there are still dozens of places across the county to buy the stuff. Grocery stores, auto parts centers, gas stations.” He ran a hand over his cheek, pausing to rub an area of stubble he’d missed while shaving that morning.
    “I wish I could tell you that I was here because I had useful information, but I don’t.” Olivia withdrew the envelope from her purse. “My visit is purely selfish. I’d like your opinion on this if you can spare the time.”
    The lines on Rawlings’ forehead deepened as he accepted the letter. He paused, and Olivia knew he was seeing something in her face he’d never seen there before. Sorrow, carefully tucked away for many years, surfaced in her dark blue eyes.
    She could feel him nearly reach for her hand, but when she gazed at the lined paper in his grasp, he turned his attention to the words written in bold black ink.
    When he was finished, he didn’t speak right away but turned to the window and stared out at the purple crape myrtle trees lining the parking lot.
    “The author of this letter is interested in money,” he said eventually. “If you give him the initial payment, he will ask for more.” He laced his fingers together and looked at Olivia. “Do you think there’s a possibility that this claim is true? That your father is alive and possibly unwell?”
    Hesitating, Olivia smoothed out the letter’s envelope in her lap. She didn’t answer for a long time. “I do. I think someone recently discovered that he and I are related and decided to profit from that knowledge. For example, my father could be in a hospital where one of his nurses figured out our connection.” She pointed at the letter. “This person wrote me because my father is sick. That strikes me as being the truth.”
    Rawlings considered this theory. “Not a nurse. Someone with less education.” he said. “So we’re assuming that your father has been lying low for thirty years?”
    “Yes,” Olivia answered through tight lips.
    “Without filing for taxes or leaving a paper trail of any kind.” The chief appeared impressed. “Your grandmother hired a private investigator to search for him, didn’t she?”
    “Several. They all came up empty-handed. My father’s boat was found adrift with all his gear aboard. I don’t see how he could make a living without that trawler.” Her memory strayed back to the night she’d pushed the little dingy away from the hull of her father’s boat, away from his rage and his raised fist, the hate in his black eyes and the stink of whiskey on his breath. “They found several empty liquor bottles on board. Everyone came to the conclusion he’d drowned. He was an alcoholic. He was depressed. And that night, he was raving. I could see him—have often imagined him—losing his balance and pitching backward into the ocean.”
    Rawlings sat very still. “Thereby acquiring