by Lis Wiehl
As he started the car, Allison gave him the address.
“So how long have you known Cassidy Shaw?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.
“We went to Catlin Gabel together, but we’ve only been close friends for about six years.” She found it easier to be honest with him than with Jensen.
“That’s still a long time. You must have some theories on the case.”
The case. Well, Allison supposed that was what it was. A case.
“Covering the crime beat put Cassidy in touch with a lot of lowlifes,” she said. “And she was in the public eye, so that can sometimes bring out the crazies.”
“How about her love life?”
“As far as I know, the last person Cassidy dated seriously was Rick McEwan.” She watched the side of Halstead’s face carefully. “You probably know him.”
He nodded noncommittally.
“Last year Cassidy spoke about their former relationship for a special on domestic violence. He was furious about it.”
He looked over at her and then back at the street. “Has he threatened her?” His expression was unreadable.
“I don’t know,” Allison said. “I know she occasionally gets threats, but they’re almost always anonymous. And she doesn’t take them very seriously, any more than she takes the proposals of marriage from complete strangers. When you’re on TV, it comes with the territory.”
“What about her friends and family? Statistically, they’re the most likely suspects.”
“You’re not saying you think—what—that her parents did it? Her brother?” Allison laughed and heard how it bordered on hysteria. “Nicole Hedges? Me?”
“I’m just saying we can’t rule anything out.”
He signaled for the Lake Oswego exit, the upscale suburb where the Shaws lived. Their house was dominated by a three-car garage. Allison could see lights in the living room. As they parked and went up the walk, she wished she were anywhere but here.
Halstead rang the bell. “Let me do the talking, at least at first.”
“Of course.” This was one bit of news Allison wished she could let someone else give.
David Shaw answered the door. He was a tall man in his early sixties, with aggressively erect posture and gray hair cut in a flat top. For all that he looked like a retired military man, he had actually made his money building up a small chain of grocery stores. Two years ago he had sold out to a much bigger chain. According to Cassidy, having free time and money had done little to improve his mood.
“Allison?” He looked from her to Halstead, trying and failing to make a connection between the two of them. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Shaw, I’m Sean Halstead, with the Portland Police Bureau. Is your wife home, sir?”
Something changed in Cassidy’s father’s face then, a faint flicker. “Why?”
From behind him came a woman’s voice with a slight Southern accent. “Who is it, dear?”
A slender woman in a turquoise track suit appeared in the hall. She had Cassidy’s blond hair, or at least the color was from the same bottle.
“I’m Sean Halstead with the Portland Police,” he repeated. Allison noticed that he didn’t say anything about being a homicide detective. “Could we please come in and sit down?”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Shaw clutched her husband’s shoulder. Under her smooth forehead, the rest of her face suddenly sagged. “Why is he here? What’s wrong, Allison?”
“If we could all just sit down . . .” Unbidden, Halstead stepped inside, and Cassidy’s parents automatically shuffled back. Allison followed him in and closed the door. They were in a formal entryway, all dark polished wood.
“Has something happened to Cassidy?” Mr. Shaw asked. “Is she hurt?”
The detective spoke slowly, as if to let the words sink in. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“How bad is it?” Mr. Shaw looked like a hawk, his eyes glittering.
Halstead didn’t look away. “It’s very bad, I’m afraid. Now if we could just sit down . . .”
“How bad?” Cassidy’s father demanded again. “Just tell me. Tell me now.”
Halstead managed to look as if he was there and not there. “I’m afraid Cassidy has been killed.”
“No.” Mrs. Shaw looked back and forth from the detective to Allison. “No, no, no.” Her hands went over her ears as her voice got louder. “I just talked to her this morning!”
Suddenly she crumpled and fell against her husband’s chest. He supported her as they went into the living room and sat down together on a green silk couch. Allison looked at Halstead to see whether they should sit too, but he remained standing.
“Was it a car accident?” Mr. Shaw asked. “I told her that car had terrible safety ratings.”
“Actually, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter was murdered.”
“No!” Mrs. Shaw shook her head again.
“Murdered?” Mr. Shaw asked. His jaw was set, his eyes slitted.
Mrs. Shaw put a hand to her mouth, her blue eyes huge. “How do you know it’s her? It could be just someone who looks like her.”
Halstead glanced at Allison, and she realized it was her cue.
“Nicole and I were the ones who found her, Mrs. Shaw. I’m sorry, but it’s definitely Cassidy.” Maybe it would have been better after all, Allison thought bleakly, if they had heard the news from a stranger. She certainly wasn’t doing anything to help them. “We found her in her condo.”
“But . . . how . . . ?”
“It looks like she was stabbed.”
Cassidy’s mother got to her feet. “I need to go to her. She’s always been afraid of the dark. I need to be with her so she’s not all on her own.”
Her husband grabbed her wrist. “You can’t, Gretchen.” His voice was harsh. Near, Allison thought, to breaking. “Don’t you understand? She’s dead. Our daughter is dead.”
“That doesn’t mean she won’t know I’m there.” Mrs. Shaw tried to tug free. “I just want to hold her hand, brush her hair.”
“I’m afraid you can’t, Mrs. Shaw,” Halstead said gently. “We need to do an autopsy. Then we can release the body to you.”
“What—you’re going to cut her open?” Her eyes widened. “Saw the top of my baby’s head off? No. You can’t. I won’t allow it. She’s not police property. She’s my child.” She was shaking as if she would fly apart.
Allison stepped forward and touched Cassidy’s mother’s shoulder. “Do you believe in God, Mrs. Shaw?”
Halstead shot her a quick look, and she knew she was going wildly off-script. So be it. This would be on her head.
Mrs. Shaw’s eyes slowly focused on Allison’s face. There was a long pause, then she nodded.
“I know this is devastating news, Mrs. Shaw. God never promised that we won’t experience loss or heartache, but He has promised peace and His presence in the midst of our pain. I’ll be praying that you find that peace.”
For a moment Allison thought Mrs. Shaw had heard her. Then the other woman’s face changed, revealing all the years she had managed to keep at bay. “How would you understand? You’ve never lost a child!”
Allison bit her lip. She had lost a child. A year ago she had had a miscarriage, early enough in the pregnancy that most people hadn’t known about it. But then again, Allison had only dreamed of holding her baby. Cassidy’s mother had had her daughter for thirty-four years before she was cruelly ripped away.
“I promise you both that we will find justice for Cassidy,” she said, ignoring the look Halstead gave her—the look that said there were no promises on heaven or earth that would bring peace to the Shaws.
CHAPTER 7
Nic had been in dozens of interview rooms—but never like this. Never as the interviewee.
The walls were blank. A long table had been shoved up against one corner of the room. Two chairs were the only other furniture. One had straight legs, the other wheels.
The whole setup of “
the box” was deliberate. Bare walls meant that a bad guy had zero distractions, forcing him to focus on the person questioning him.
When it came to the chairs, the one on rollers would normally be occupied by the interrogator, who would then have the suspect brought in. The cop might start off four feet away from his quarry, but when it was time to coax a confession, he or she could roll forward to reduce the distance to inches.
As soon as she walked into the box, Nicole claimed the rolling chair.
And she dared anyone to try to take it from her.
She checked the time on her phone. Again. It had been over an hour since she had been put in this room. She rubbed her hands up and down her goose-pimpled arms. Her jacket was still in her car. The tank top that had been barely tolerable in the smothering heat offered little protection against aggressive air-conditioning.
Cassidy was dead. Dead.
Last year Nic had worried so much about dying. She had found a lump in her breast, undergone surgery and then radiation. She had been forced to come to terms with the idea that she could die. Even with the idea that she would die, someday.
But seeing Cassidy stuffed under her own sink, turned into an ugly sack of flesh—it was almost impossible to believe. Nic’s mind kept replaying it. The blood on the floor. Opening the cupboard door. Finding her friend. Even seeing the horror on Allison’s face had not made it any more real.
The friendship among the three of them—the Triple Threat—was like a fulcrum, with Allison in the middle and Nic and Cassidy occupying opposite ends. Allison was the glue that held them together.
Cassidy was so different from Nic. Talkative while Nic was quiet. Brash while Nic was reserved. Jumping in with both feet while Nic decided whether it was worthwhile to commit at all.
How many times had Cassidy caught Nic rolling her eyes, quirking her mouth? Her face went hot with shame. Couldn’t she have been more patient? Couldn’t she have realized that the very traits that annoyed her about Cassidy had been the same things she had liked in the first place? Nic should have cut her more slack.
And now, with Cassidy gone, would Allison grow tired of Nic’s dark moods?
Allison was probably in another interview room somewhere nearby. Was she also waiting, or was she already being questioned?
Nic started when the door opened. It was Jensen. The smudges under his eyes made it look like he hadn’t slept in a week. The knot of his shiny tie had been pushed back up. He had a notebook in his hand and a pen behind his ear. Without comment, he took the straight-legged chair. She wished she could remember where she knew him from.
“So you’re the lead detective?” Nic asked. If only she had thought of that earlier in the evening. She had to keep a lid on her emotions.
“Yeah. Sean Halstead will be working the case with me.”
The name didn’t ring any bells. Homicide detectives often worked in pairs, although in most cases they split up the tasks, working together only when they needed backup or a second witness.
“Did you find any more evidence besides the blood drops?”
Jensen’s eyes narrowed even further. “I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t tell you even if I did.” A space stretched out between them, threatened to snap. Finally he relented. “No. And the canvass hasn’t picked up anything, at least not so far.” He flipped to a blank page in his notebook. “So could you tell me a little bit more about what you did today, starting at six p.m.?”
It was the kind of question you asked a suspect. But in the interests of harmony, Nic decided to overlook how ridiculous it was. “I finished up at work and then I drove out to Puerto Marquez in Southeast Portland to meet Allison Pierce and Cassidy for dinner.” She summarized how they had waited for Cassidy, their attempts to reach her, and the anxiety that had begun to grip them.
Jensen looked back over his notes. “But you just mentioned that Cassidy was known for being late. Why were you worried tonight?”
“First of all, she’s never been that late before. But what really bothered us was that she didn’t answer her phone. Cassidy always has her phone with her, and she always answers it. She even sleeps with it next to her. I’m not talking on the night table—I mean right next to her pillow.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“About a week and a half ago the three of us got together for lunch.” Nic tried to keep the memory at arm’s length so it wouldn’t swamp her. “I’ve talked with her on the phone a couple of times since then, and we’ve texted each other. But not about anything important.”
“What about the text she sent you saying she was working on a story?” Jensen raised his eyes to hers. “Do you know what story that was?”
“No. It could have been anything.”
Nic knew Jensen would be ordering a trap and trace on Cassidy’s phone. The phone company would turn over a record of the numbers she had called and those that had called her, but of course they wouldn’t have the actual contents of the calls. Jensen would also be getting any text messages that were still available. Depending on the phone company, texts were saved anywhere from forty-eight hours to a couple of weeks. But if Cassidy had kept her texts and they were recoverable from her broken phone, they could date back much earlier.
“As you drove up to her building, did you see anyone on the street or in a vehicle?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“How about in the parking lot?”
“No.” The skin on Nic’s face felt tight. “You already asked me these questions.”
Jensen continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “How did you get inside? Did you have a key to Cassidy’s apartment?”
“No. When we got there, we found the door unlocked.”
“Ajar?”
“No. I put my hand on it and was surprised when it turned.”
He made a note. “Now, what I could use your help on is understanding a little bit more about Cassidy and what might have happened to her. Does she keep any cash around?”
Did he really think this was some burglary gone bad?
“Cassidy? No.” Cassidy was like the grasshopper in the fable. She lived for today and didn’t worry about tomorrow. The condo had represented most of her retirement funds. It struck Nic, sickeningly, that Cassidy hadn’t been wrong. Because for Cassidy there would be no tomorrows. At least not on this earth.
“Jewelry?”
“Strictly costume, as far as I know.” Nic realized she was tapping her fingers on the table and made herself stop.
“Prescription drugs?”
“She used to take Somulex, but she quit. And nothing since then, at least that I’m aware of.”
“Illegal drugs?”
“Cassidy? No. She liked her appletinis and lemon drops, that’s all.”
“Could you tell me more about what kind of person she was? What were her best and worst traits?”
Nic bit the inside of her mouth. Was this really a good use of Jensen’s time? But arguing would probably get her nowhere and take up even more time.
“Cassidy has a lot of energy, a lot of imagination. And she’ll never take no for an answer. But she’s not a big detail person. Not the kind to read the fine print.”
“So if she came home and someone was burglarizing her condo, she might not notice at first?”
“Please don’t tell me you’re looking at that angle.”
He gave her a slit-eyed look.
“All right, it’s possible, sure, that she might not notice right away. But Allison and I didn’t see anything missing or out of place.”
“Could you describe your relationship with Cassidy?”
“The three of us have been good friends for about six years. We’re not only personal friends, but we also end up working a lot of the same cases. Cassidy covers them, and Allison and I work together to get convictions.”
“Seems like it’d be pretty easy to cross some lines there.” Jensen gave her a knowing look. “Give her information she shouldn’t have.”<
br />
Nic took a deep breath. Was he baiting her?
“Allison and I are more than aware of our relationship’s challenges. We would never jeopardize an investigation. At the same time, Cassidy sometimes has sources we don’t, or we can use her to leak a story and control how it’s shaped.”
Jensen stiffened. “So does that have anything to do with how she got the story about the jail smuggling ring?”
“What?” And then Nic remembered. Six months earlier Channel Four had broken the story of a Multnomah County inmate running an illegal business from his cell, funneling thousands of dollars of drugs and cigarettes into the jail. Of course, the inmate hadn’t been able to do it on his own—three guards were also implicated.
The DA’s office had already been investigating. Cassidy had been doing a routine check of public documents, trawling for story ideas, when she ran across the search warrant. A search warrant that should have been sealed, but had been filed in the wrong place.
How could Jensen think she or Allison had anything to do with that?
“No. Of course not. She did that on her own. We were upset with her too.”
Nic’s words didn’t seem to register. Jensen spoke through gritted teeth. “She tipped off the bad guys and ruined our investigation. The confidential informant got scared. The DA had to pull the plug. The whole case, months of work”—he made a spiraling motion with his hand—“down the drain.”
Nic remembered how the three of them had argued about it. After the fact. Cassidy hadn’t dared tell them what she planned to do, knowing they would have tried mightily to talk her out of it.
As if anyone could talk Cassidy out of anything.
Her argument—and the one that Channel Four later made when it got push-back—was that it was important to run the story based on the jail’s recent problematic history. Only a few weeks earlier the jail had been on lockdown after a gun had been discovered hidden in a hollowed-out space in a wall.
Nic crossed her arms. “You’re not going to let that color your hunt for her killer, are you?”
He pressed his lips together. “I am a professional, as you are, Special Agent Hedges.” He turned a page in his notebook. “Does Cassidy have a boyfriend?”
