by Lis Wiehl
Once inside her office, Allison had closed her door so no one would witness just how scattered she was. She would think she was working, only to come to with a jerk and realize she had been doing nothing but staring into space. She leafed through pages of bank transactions without seeing them, then found herself checking her computer for old e-mails from Cassidy. There were fewer than she had thought. Why hadn’t she saved more? E-mail storage was practically free these days.
Cassidy had signed every e-mail with a series of Xs and Os. Looking at all those crosses and circles, kisses and hugs that would never be put into practice, Allison’s eyes burned with tears. She forced herself to turn away from the computer and back to the reams of documents. “Focus, Allison. You need to focus!” she lectured herself. Out loud. Her brain couldn’t hold a thought. Or it could, but only the unceasing drumbeat that Cassidy was dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Her stomach was still touchy. Food poisoning? The flu? It was probably exhaustion, her nerves shot from the stress and the heat. It had been another stifling night. Relief had flooded her when the rising sun finally lit up the blinds, because it meant she no longer had to wrestle with sleep.
Maybe what she needed to do was eat. She hadn’t had any breakfast this morning or any dinner last night. The last thing she had eaten had been those spicy cashews and stuffed dates, and most of that had come right back up in the parking lot after the stress of confronting Rick and Stone.
Allison took out her purse. She was rooting for coins for the vending machine when her fingers closed on the thumb drive Brad had given her. Moot now. Cassidy’s death hadn’t been connected to her work.
But looking at the notes for her stories would be another way to remember her. Maybe an even more intimate way. The notes would show Cassidy’s thoughts. Allison plugged in the thumb drive and clicked.
It held five Word documents that Cassidy had worked on the day she had been murdered. The first one Allison opened was the story of a man who had killed his two children rather than see his ex-wife get custody. It read like a finished story, and she guessed it had already aired on Channel Four, since she had heard about the killings on the radio while driving to Puerto Marquez. The world was a twisted place, one where children were smothered and a woman was left stuffed under the sink.
The next two files also seemed to be complete stories. One was about a sixteen-year-old boy shot by another teen, one whose getaway vehicle was a bicycle. The other was about a burglary suspect who had left his license at the crime scene. Allison thought those two also sounded familiar. But both were stupid people tricks, the kind she ran across again and again.
The fourth story, about a Portland music teacher charged with sexual abuse of a minor, was incomplete. Cassidy had written a list of questions to ask the teacher, but it didn’t look like she had gotten any answers.
Then Allison clicked on the final story. And a piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Now she knew why Rick had been at Cassidy’s condo—and even why he had killed her.
The day that Cassidy died, an informant had called her, saying there had been a police cover-up after the shooting of a homeless man named Vernell Williams. The tipster said he had proof that the cops had planted a throw-down gun on Williams after he was shot by one of the officers chasing him, a cop named Kevin Craine. The caller also said that his life could be in danger. In her notes, Cassidy had guessed that the informant was a cop. But it was the last sentence she had typed—maybe the last sentence Cassidy had ever typed—that stopped Allison: Was Rick involved?
She realized she had forgotten to breathe. She sucked in a gulp of air, all the while thinking, Now it all makes sense.
Cassidy had carried so much anger toward Rick. But even after she had gone public with her accusations, nothing much had happened to him. Sure, the chief of police had ordered an investigation. And Internal Affairs had conducted interviews and analyzed the facts.
Only it turned out that the facts were scant—Cassidy’s word against a decorated veteran of the police force, with no photos or other physical evidence to back up her words—and there wasn’t the necessary preponderance of evidence. It was a he said–she said affair.
One of them had a badge and the other a microphone.
The chief had ordered Rick into counseling. And that was it.
After she got the tip about the throw-down gun, Cassidy must have contacted Rick. Frightened that the truth would come out, he had killed her.
Allison grabbed her phone and called Nicole.
“What’s up, Allison?”
“I know why he killed her. It wasn’t because he was holding on to a grudge. Or at least that wasn’t the only reason. The day she died, somebody tipped Cassidy off that Rick was dirty. It looks like he planted a gun on an unarmed guy who was shot by the cops last week.”
“Cassidy would be all over that. E-mail me the story, and I’ll see what I can find out. But that has to be it.” Nic sighed. “Are you going to the arraignment today?”
“I thought about it, but no,” Allison said. “You know how it will be. Three minutes to exchange paperwork and statements. It would take me longer to find a parking place than to sit through it.”
“Channel Four’s going to cover it on the noon news,” Nicole said. “How about if I grab some sandwiches and we watch it together in your office?”
Allison had thought about watching, but she didn’t want to be alone. “That sounds good.”
A few minutes before noon, Nicole showed up with deli sandwiches and small bags of chips. At the sight of the food, Allison’s stomach rumbled. Hunger or a warning? She wasn’t sure.
She clicked on the live stream for Channel Four. Phoebe was anchoring, and the story she led off with was the heat, with a warning that there was no end in sight. The city was setting up cooling centers for people who couldn’t afford air conditioners, but already three elderly people had died and several more had been hospitalized. Workers who labored outside were being treated for heat stroke, and motels with air conditioners and pools had no vacancies.
Then the image over Phoebe’s right shoulder changed from a cartoon sun wearing sunglasses to a photo of Cassidy. Allison stopped breathing. Nicole’s sandwich froze halfway to her mouth.
“Police officer Rick McEwan was arraigned earlier today on charges that he murdered Channel Four’s crime reporter, Cassidy Shaw.”
Then Phoebe’s image was replaced by a video showing Rick being brought out from the prisoner holding area to stand in front of Judge Zelda Fanconi, along with Michael Stone and the prosecutor, Tommy McNaught. The swelling had gone down on Rick’s face, but the bruise had spread in lurid colors.
Phoebe spoke over the images. “The prosecutor said that investigators were very concerned that McEwan would flee if he was released, and that as a police officer he had a better understanding of how to do that successfully. Then defense attorney Michael Stone asked that McEwan’s bail be set low.”
On the video, Michael Stone said, “Your Honor, my client is very distraught by his ex-girlfriend’s death. He has cooperated with the investigation by giving a voluntary statement and a DNA sample. Mr. McEwan has a fourteen-year career as a police officer. He has deep roots in the community. I ask that you would grant him reasonable bail to give him a chance to secure his release and seek medical and psychological treatment.”
Judge Fanconi, who had a reputation for cutting to the chase, said, “Mr. McEwan is facing very serious charges. Those who are entrusted to protect and serve the people of Portland cannot expect to be treated with lenience simply because of their status. I consider Mr. McEwan a flight risk and a possible danger to the community.” And then she set his bail at five million dollars.
Allison almost smiled. Five million dollars meant that Rick would have to raise five hundred thousand to pay a bail bondsman. Chances were better than good that he was going to stay in jail.
The next shot in the broadcast showed Stone standing outside the courthouse facing a
dozen microphones. Allison automatically looked for Cassidy at the front of the crowd, then winced when she realized what she was doing.
Stone said, “Rick McEwan is a good man and a good law enforcement officer. It is a disappointment that he is being dragged through this. But we are certain that the truth will prevail. The whole truth.”
Nicole snorted.
And then it was back to Phoebe and the story of a small plane that had crashed near Cannon Beach.
Allison closed the browser window. “A disappointment? Stone acts like Rick was arrested for jaywalking.” She finally took a bite of her sandwich. As the taste of roast turkey spread over her tongue, her mouth filled with water. Hunger, then, not a warning. She chewed and swallowed and hoped it would stay put.
“Yeah. He and Rick are a pair.” Nicole tossed the half-eaten remains of her lunch into the trash. “Rick will always have a million excuses. High blood pressure, post-traumatic stress, temporary insanity, being kidnapped by Martians . . . He’ll never admit the truth.”
Allison finally put into words what had been bothering her since their visit to the jail. “The weird thing was, it didn’t seem like Rick was lying. He wasn’t all ‘honestly’ or ‘truthfully’—you know those ly words liars always use. It felt—” She hesitated, knowing Nicole would not agree. “It felt almost like he was telling the truth.”
Nicole shrugged. “Rick knows the same things we do. He knows the signs and the tells. He just edited himself. I’m sure all he’s done since he was arrested is sit in his cell and figure out how to sell his bull.”
“You’re probably right.” It was the same thing Allison had told herself. “But if Rick knows anything, it would be not to leave fingerprints. So why would he be stupid enough to stab Cassidy and then just toss the knife under the sink?”
“Who knows? This is the same person who thought he could plant a throw-down piece and nobody would notice. And somebody who’s angry enough to murder is probably not thinking straight. And then by the time he was, it was too late.” Nicole looked at her watch. “I’d better get back to the office.”
Allison walked her to the elevator. As she was turning to go back down the hall, she heard Dan’s voice.
“Allison, may I see you in my office?”
She was suddenly sorry she had eaten half her sandwich. At a nod from Dan, she closed the door and sat down across from him.
Dan’s lean, boyish face was expressionless. Dapper Dan—as he was known only out of his hearing, since he hated the nickname—could easily have passed for a decade younger than his fifty-two years. For a long moment he said nothing, just steepled his fingers and skewered her with his gaze. Today, his pale blue eyes had all the warmth of marbles.
He tapped his index fingers together. “Allison, you are one of the best prosecutors I have working for me.”
She said nothing. She knew there was a but coming.
Dan didn’t disappoint.
“But I will not stand for insubordination. Last night you used your official credentials to get in to see Rick McEwan.”
Allison didn’t say anything. There was no excuse she could make that Dan wouldn’t punch through like tissue paper.
“Do you see how this looks?” His chin jutted forward. “Do you know how poorly this reflects on me? I haven’t made this public yet, but I’m planning on running for DA next year. You see my problem here, don’t you, Allison?”
Allison did indeed. And it had nothing to do with Cassidy and everything to do with perception. Yes, she had been in the wrong last night, but she had been seeking answers, not acclaim. She nodded.
“I will not have your behavior be a millstone around my neck. What if the media gets hold of it? You are lucky that you are not losing your job. Michael Stone would have been happy to have your head on a spike. I had to call in a lot of favors to save your behind.”
Allison swallowed. “I appreciate that.”
“No, you don’t.” The bridge of Dan’s nose was white. “You don’t know what those favors cost me. They’re gone now. And I wasted them because you couldn’t let something go. Cassidy Shaw is dead, and yes, that is a terrible tragedy, but her murder is not a federal crime. This case belongs to the Portland Police Bureau. And PPB has already done their job and caught the guy who did it, even though he’s one of their own. And now he’ll go to trial and then to prison.” He leaned forward. “Let me make this perfectly clear.” His finger stabbed the air. “You are not any part of that process. Yes, you may be called to testify about finding the body. But I don’t want to hear another word about you muddying the waters. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, Dan, but—”
He cut her off with a slashing gesture. “There are no buts. You are a professional, and I expect you to act like one.”
Feeling like a sullen teenager, Allison muttered, “Yes, Dan.” Not meeting his eyes.
CHAPTER 16
The heat was like a weight on Nic’s chest, making it hard to draw a breath. The car’s air conditioner was set on high, but the air coming from the vents seemed hotter than the air outside. Hoping to catch a breeze, Nic rolled down the windows and left the air conditioner setting where it was. It was too hot to care how much gas she might be wasting. Even if it was the government’s dime.
The punishing heat couldn’t distract her from wondering if Allison’s hunch was right. Was it possible Rick had been telling the truth?
It was true that she hadn’t seen him make any of the subtle body movements that usually accompanied lies. He hadn’t touched his hair or wiped his index finger across his face. He hadn’t looked up and to his left, the way most right-handed people did when they were lying. He hadn’t even leaned back in an unconscious effort to put more distance between them.
How much energy and agility would it take to fake it? Was Rick capable of it? Was Rick capable of it even after the stress of having been arrested and attacked?
Besides, it was possible that he wasn’t faking it—and that he wasn’t truly innocent either. He claimed that he didn’t remember that evening. Maybe that part was true. Maybe something inside Rick had snapped, had made him step across the line. After all, they knew he had crossed that line before, when he pulled a gun on Cassidy. And again when he planted the throw-down piece, as she had been about to reveal. Only this time, had Rick left his conscious thoughts behind?
When Nic came back into the office, Dixie, the FBI’s long-term receptionist, stopped her before she went back to her cubicle. “Mr. Bond would like to see you in his office.”
Nic’s skin tightened. “Did he say what it was about?”
“No.” Dixie pursed her lips and looked away. Nic could tell she didn’t think it was anything good.
A few months earlier John Drood had finally retired as SAC—special agent in charge—of the Portland field office. His replacement, Lincoln Bond, had only been in the office for a week. Other than to shake his hand hello, Nic hadn’t spoken to him.
“Lucky you, Nicole,” Heath, another agent, had said to her after their first general meeting with Bond.
“What do you mean?” Nic gave him the evil eye, but Heath, as usual, was immune to it.
“Bond’s black. Excuse me, African American.” Like you, he didn’t say, but he didn’t have to.
“Do you think I’m going to flash him some secret signal?” Nic had said and then shut her mouth and hadn’t said anything more. Heath lived to get a reaction.
Like all of them, though, Nic had been looking for clues as to what their new boss would be like. The press release announcing his hire had said that Bond had a bachelor of science degree in biblical/pastoral studies, which was an unusual background for an agent. Then he had become a cop and started studying criminal justice at night. Eventually he had become a special agent.
The way to get ahead in the FBI was to transfer from field office to field office, with a promotion each time, and that’s what Bond had done. He had worked violent crimes in Detroit, Mexican drug traffic
king at Quantico, organized crime in Cincinnati, and, most recently, held the position of assistant SAC in Tampa. Now he was in Portland, although chances were good he might not stay that long.
When Nic knocked on Bond’s half-open door, he told her to come in and close the door.
It was the first time she had been in the office since Drood left. There was a new addition to the décor: over Bond’s left shoulder hung a framed photo of J. Edgar Hoover. Nic blinked. Was it some sort of joke? Hoover had considered Martin Luther King, Jr., a Communist. And when Hoover died in 1972, less than 1 percent of agents were black—and there were zero female agents.
“It’s Nicole Hedges, right?” Bond’s expression conveyed that even this was suspect information.
“Yes, sir.” She sat in the visitor’s chair, but held herself erect. This was no social call.
“How long have you been with the Bureau?”
It felt like a trick question. A file with her name on it sat in the middle of his otherwise empty desk.
“Nine years.”
“Nine years.” Bond’s voice somehow managed to convey disappointment. “I have just had a very disturbing phone call from a defense attorney named Michael Stone.”
Nic kept her expression neutral. On her hip, her phone started to buzz. She silenced it without breaking eye contact with Bond. She didn’t need to glance at the display to know it was Allison. Too late. But even if Allison had given Nic a heads-up, what could she have done?
“Mr. Stone accused you of interfering in a case that does not fall under the FBI’s jurisdiction. Is his accusation true?”
One look at Bond’s face, as cold as if it had been carved from ebony, and she knew there was no point in appealing to his emotions. To explain that Cassidy had been her friend.
“I know both Stone’s client, Rick McEwan, and the woman McEwan is accused of murdering. I was trying to make sense of what really happened that night.”
“So you decided to waltz down to the jail and harass him?”
“I just asked a few questions, sir.”
