The last person she couldn’t find was Alison Horne, and that was another name that could belong to someone of any age, but it was also such a common name that finding the right Alison Horne might prove to be very difficult.
Wanting to find out more about Frank Hopkins, she decided to call the Kennewick Police Department.
After identifying herself as an FBI agent, she asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the Frank Hopkins homicide.
“That’s gone to state, honey,” the receptionist said. “But Detective Hamilton’s still here. He was at the scene of the crime if that’s helpful to you.”
“That’d be great.”
After about thirty seconds, the detective came on the line and introduced himself.
“Detective, this is Agent Winslow of the Federal Bureau out of Albany. Do you have a minute?”
“Your first name isn’t Jessica, is it?”
“It is. You’ve seen the list.”
“Oh. To tell the truth I was kind of half-joking. Was that actually your name on the list?”
“Yep. I received an identical letter to the one that was found near Frank Hopkins this morning. That’s being kept under wraps for now, though.”
“What is?”
“The existence of the letter, and the list.”
“Oh, right, I heard that,” the detective said. “So what’s it all about? Do you know the other people on the list?”
“None of them. And we’ve tracked down a few of the others. No connection, at least not that we’ve figured.”
“It’s very strange, the whole thing,” Detective Hamilton said.
“It’s even stranger when your name is on it.”
“I imagine it is.”
“So what can you tell me about Frank Hopkins?”
“He’d lived up here in Kennewick his whole life. Married twice, no kids. He’d taken over a family-run resort that his parents had started called the Windward Resort.”
“That’s in Kennewick, too?” Jessica asked. Something about that name had seemed just a little bit familiar.
“On Kennewick Beach, yeah. It used to be kind of fancy way back when. The type of place that families would come to for a month at a time. All the meals included, organized shuffleboard, martinis on the veranda. But it’s pretty down at the heels now. I think Frank kept it operating just so he’d have a bar to drink at while pretending he was running a business.”
“He was an alcoholic?”
“I guess so. A functioning alcoholic like half the people I know. He never caused any trouble, though. Most people seemed to like him.”
“Including you?”
“Sure, including me. I’ve been known to have an occasional Friday night drink at the Windward and Frank was always friendly.”
“You were at the crime scene?”
“I was. I didn’t get too close, but it was clear that it was a crime scene. Well, not clear, but for whatever reason I didn’t think it was a natural death. It looked like someone had pushed his head pretty hard into the sand.”
“I thought he was in a tide pool.”
“It was a tide pool when he died, but the tide was going out.”
“Right. And he had the envelope and list with him?”
“He was holding both of them, sort of crumpled up in his hand. The envelope didn’t have a stamp on it.”
“Okay, I hadn’t heard that.”
“You’ll find out more if you talk with the State Police. The detective heading the investigation is named Mary Parkinson. She’ll be helpful.”
“I’ll call her.”
“So how many of the people on the list have you found?” the detective asked.
“Everyone but Jack Radebaugh, Alison Horne, and Jay Coates.”
“Oh, really. That was fast. Anyone know anything?”
“Like I said, far as I know we’re all strangers. Nothing in common except for the list.”
“Well, you do have something in common then.”
“Right. I suppose we do,” Jessica said.
“There’s a Jay Coates who’s an actor in Hollywood. He has a website.”
“Oh, you’ve been looking into it, too?”
“A little bit. I had some free time today, so I thought I’d google the names, see what came up.”
“I did leave a message for Jay Coates the actor,” Jessica said, “but haven’t heard back. It’s earlier in California so you never know. He might be at work.”