by Lisa Jackson
Connie did the same, three blocks farther back.
Was this a coincidence? It sure didn’t read that way.
She wished again for a cigarette and nearly drove to the mini-mart at the gas station for a pack of Salem Lights, but was afraid the driver of the Tahoe would recognize her, so she held back until he’d filled up and pulled out of the station. The gray sedan with Washington plates held off for a beat, allowed another car to enter the road, then pulled away from the curb. She did the same, lagging back, wondering what the hell she was witnessing.
At a distance, still following, she watched both vehicles pass through the border crossing into Canada. She followed them, nervous, feeling as if she were in some made-for-TV mystery, as she waited impatiently for the guard to let her pass. It felt like forever, but was in reality only a few minutes, until she drove into British Columbia, too.
She expected the two cars she was following to take the road into the U.S. as soon as they were off the peninsula, but instead of heading east onto the highway that would eventually curve south toward the U.S. and Washington State, the SUV with the gray car behind it continued northward.
“Uh-oh,” Connie said aloud. The man in the Tahoe, Heather’s louse of an ex-husband, must have located her. Still driving, ignoring all safety laws regarding cell phones, she snatched up hers and punched in Heather’s number, hoping the call would go through without problems, a dicey proposition whenever you crossed the border. She heard it ringing, which was a good sign, but Heather wasn’t picking up. “Come on, come on,” Connie muttered, squinting a little as the sun crested the eastern horizon. Frustrated, she hung up, waited two minutes, dialed again.
“Hello?” Heather answered, sounding groggy.
“Heather, it’s Connie,” she said tersely. “That guy who’s looking for you? He’s heading north into Canada right now, doesn’t appear to be going back to the States.”
Heather inhaled on a gasp. “You’re sure?”
“Yep. And I think he’s going to Vancouver.”
“Oh, no!”
“I figured you’d want to know.” Connie had guessed that Heather would head into the large city. “Look, I don’t know where you are and I don’t want to know, but if you’re in that area, he’s probably not just driving blind. Someone or something must’ve tipped him off.”
“I think you’re right.”
“And there’s something more. I think maybe he’s being followed. Another car, a gray sedan with Washington plates that were obscured with mud, kept a tail on him.”
“He’s being tailed?” she asked, sounding incredulous.
Connie nodded, though Heather couldn’t see her. “That’s what it looks like.”
There was a long pause, then Heather seemed to rouse herself. “Thank you, Connie.”
“No problem. You be careful and take care of that little girl,” Connie said as she looked for a place to turn around.
“I will.” Heather promised. Then she was gone.
* * *
As the sun rose, Liam drove northward. The word he’d gotten from Jacoby, just after he’d stopped by the Point Bob Buzz in hopes of spying Rory, was that she was indeed in Canada, and possibly Vancouver. Jacoby had said he’d found out through some relative of Rory’s that a man named Kent Daley was a close personal friend of the family’s and that Rory, as a teenager, had considered him more of a father figure than Harold Stemple. Daley spent a lot of his time in Vancouver, B.C., and because of the city’s proximity to Point Roberts, it seemed a connection, if a weak one. But since Liam was this close, he’d decided to check it out.
And if you actually find her?
He tried to imagine that meeting and couldn’t.
“I’m going to ask her for a divorce,” he said aloud. “Clean that up. Move on.”
He heard his own words. They hung in the air over the hum of the SUV’s engine, mocking him.
You’re so full of shit, Bastian. You want to see her again, to find out why she fled the wedding, if she was involved in the shooting. You want to see her face again, see if she conned you. And deep down you want to wring her neck . . . or make love to her.
He took a corner too fast, braked hard, and brought the vehicle under control. The car behind him nearly rear-ended the Tahoe. He slowed down, raked a hand through his hair, and wondered why it had always been this way with Rory, why she’d always gotten so deeply under his skin. From that first moment when he’d nearly knocked her down on the rainy streets of Seattle, she’d affected him way more than he liked.
Traffic was increasing, commuters driving into the city of Vancouver. He glanced at his phone, hoping Jacoby would call with a definitive address. When the cell didn’t ring, he saw the sign for a diner advertising breakfast and pulled into the lot. Rather than drive without direction in the unfamiliar city, he would order breakfast and do a little research himself. He’d start by Googling this Kent Daley guy, then do Internet searches of all of the members of Rory’s family, double-checking if any one of them had links to Canada, British Columbia, or Vancouver.
Briefly he thought again of the retired detective who’d been so on top of the investigation immediately following the wedding shooting. Mickelson had been after a single perpetrator, hot on the man’s trail, at least in the beginning, but that trail had gone cold very quickly. The detective had not been particularly focused on Rory’s disappearance, believing it to be separate from the shooting, which had both frustrated and relieved Liam. He didn’t want Rory to be involved, so he was glad the investigation seemed to lead away from her. Still, he’d wanted to be kept abreast of every twist and turn, but Mickelson wasn’t interested in keeping him that well informed. It hadn’t helped that Stella and Geoff had seemed more than glad to be left out. They’d wanted to sweep the whole thing under the rug, embarrassed and fearful as the terrible attack had splashed across the papers and every news cycle for days and weeks on end. The shooting that had taken his father’s legs, and Aaron Stemple’s life, had played hell with his parents’ status with their rich, so-called friends, and though they’d given lip service to wanting to find the killer, the larger truth was they just wanted to put it in their rearview and move on. It was only recently that Geoff occasionally spoke of the incident that had changed his life and showed some interest in pursuing justice.
Part of the reason Mickelson had left the police force was because of his single-minded pursuit of one man, Pete DeGrere, when others in his department weren’t as convinced. DeGrere was currently serving a term in prison for an unrelated crime, a convenience store robbery, and Mickelson’s superiors felt the crimes were too disparate to point to DeGrere as the shooter. At least that was the gist of what Liam had learned. Mickelson had become a private detective and Liam had briefly considered using him in his search for Rory. The man was already obsessed with the case and it seemed that if anyone could find her, he could. Except he was an ex-cop, and Liam sensed that there could be unforeseen complications if he actually ran Rory to ground. Mickelson might want to “do the right thing” in that by-the-book cop way, and Liam wasn’t sure that’s what he wanted. So, he’d gone with the Van Horne’s investigator, Jacoby, and the man had delivered.
Now, Liam exhaled heavily, his pulse racing a little as he got out of the car and headed into the diner, wondering if the pies the place advertised as the best around could compete with Connie’s cinnamon rolls. He’d eaten one on the way over, and it had been pretty terrific.
He wondered idly if Rory had ever helped with the baking at the coffee shop, wondering also if today could be the day he actually met up with his runaway, soon-tobe-ex-wife.
* * *
Rory stared into space, frozen where she stood. Her pulse had skyrocketed, her anxiety level to the max. Even though she didn’t want to believe what was so blatantly obvious, she had to. Liam was here. Looking for her. She’d seen him with her own eyes.
Finding her feet, she stepped to the window at the front of the town house and peeked throu
gh the blinds. At this hour there was little traffic, dawn’s light creeping through the streets, the buildings still lying in night-shadow. Swallowing hard, she studied the landscape. Was there someone lurking in the shrubbery near the sidewalk, hidden eyes staring up at her from the crevices between apartment houses? Her heart rate ticked up a beat as she noticed movement, a shadowy figure. Oh. God. He was here!
Then the figure moved into the light and she saw it was only a man in his late twenties walking a small dog.
She exhaled heavily. Get a grip, Rory.
How had Liam found her? Why now? What had changed?
She threw on fresh clothes and wondered if he’d sent someone else, a private investigator of some kind, to locate her. Was that why she’d experienced such cold certainty that someone was following her? Because they had been? She’d thought she’d seen Everett, but maybe it was someone else, someone on Liam’s payroll all along.
It didn’t matter how he’d located her. He had. This was happening.
Galvanized by a sense of urgency, she started packing while Charlotte lay snuggled beneath the rumpled covers on the bed. Heart thudding, Rory carried one bag down the stairs and found Uncle Kent at the kitchen table, reading glasses propped on his nose, the morning paper strewn over the tabletop.
“Coffee’s on,” he said without looking up.
She smelled the warm scent of a fresh brew. “Liam’s on his way here.”
Kent looked up in surprise, crumpling the paper. “What?”
“Connie called me. She followed him and he’s heading this way.”
Kent was on his feet. “You’re certain? How did he find you?”
“I don’t know. He came to the drive-through at the Buzz this morning, just after Connie opened the shop.” She gave him a quick rundown of her short conversation with Connie.
“Oh, dear.” Maude appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She’d obviously heard most of what Rory had said. “You can’t stay here then.” She was shaking her head sadly as she walked to the coffeepot gurgling on the counter, pulled out a couple of mugs from the cupboard and filled them both. Handing a ceramic cup to Rory, she asked, “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes.” It was a lie. She wasn’t sure about anything. Not one solitary thing.
“Why now?” Maude asked, voicing Rory’s thoughts as she laid a hand on her arm.
Rory shook her head.
Kent said, “If he found you, he probably found us. Or vice versa.”
Rory took a swallow of coffee, not really tasting it. Her mind was already spinning ahead, plotting her escape. “I have to wake Charlotte and leave. Now. He could show up at any second. I just needed you to know what was going on.”
“We’ll handle it if he shows up here,” Kent said. “If Liam asks about you, I’ll say I haven’t heard a word.”
“What if he knows you were the one who helped me get away from the wedding?”
Within his goatee, Kent’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll stonewall or something.” He was always up for a challenge, a chance to match wits with an opponent or, if necessary, elude the authorities. He hadn’t been dubbed The Magician by Rory’s family for nothing. Her mother had joked once that “Kent could make bodies disappear if he wanted to.” Rory had remembered that line when she’d called him in desperation at the wedding.
“Okay, then. Thank you.” She had to trust him.
Maude slid into one of the chairs at the table, her eyes troubled. “So where are you going?”
“Good question . . .” Rory hadn’t thought that far ahead. All she knew was that she had to flee immediately.
Kent took off his glasses and regarded the lenses critically, looking for smudges. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but—”
“Don’t tell me to talk to the police, okay?” Rory interjected, even though she’d suffered the same thought. “I just need to get somewhere safe.”
“And where is that?” Kent asked.
There’s nowhere safe. “I don’t know yet, but I can’t stay here. I’ve involved you both enough.” She took another swallow of coffee, felt it burn in her stomach, and left the cup on the counter. “I’ve got to go.”
Where? Where? The question followed her up the stairs and into the bedroom, where she found Charlotte had roused. “Hey, sweetheart,” Rory said in a strained voice. She sat down next to her on the rumpled bedclothes. “How’re you feeling?”
Her daughter’s lower lip extended. “Not good.”
“No?” Worriedly, Rory eyed her daughter closely, pushing the girl’s mussed hair from her face. “How about breakfast?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not hungry.” This, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual. It took Charlotte a little while after she woke up to want food.
“Okay, we’ll take something with us.”
“Where are we going?” Charlotte asked, perking up a bit.
I wish I knew, Rory thought, but said, “Somewhere interesting. It’s . . . a surprise.” For both of us.
“Disneyland!” her daughter guessed, and Rory’s heart sank. “Silas was there! He saw Mickey!”
“Nooo, not Disneyland this time.”
“Where?” Charlotte demanded, her little brows slamming together, disappointment radiating from her.
“You’ll see. Come on, get dressed, and you can help me pack.” Rory was already off the bed and retrieving a pair of shorts and a T-shirt for her daughter from their hastily packed bag.
“Are we going home?” Charlotte pulled off her nightgown and picked up the shirt.
“Not right now.” Rory felt a pang of regret. Point Roberts was the only home Charlotte remembered, the place Rory had once considered a sanctuary.
She’d been wrong.
Does he know he has a daughter?
The question made her go cold. Had he somehow learned about Charlotte? If a PI had tracked her down, wouldn’t he have discovered that she had a child? Oh. God. Would he try to take Charlotte away? And what about the would-be assassin? The man who had attacked her at the hotel and had whispered terrible threats in her ear. The one who may have shot and killed her stepbrother.
Those thoughts propelled her. Throat dry, she scooped up her daughter’s stuffed rabbit and handed it to her. “Come on, Charlotte. We’re outta here.”
Chapter 9
“So Pete DeGrere is scheduled to be released today,” Shanice Clayburgh announced as she shouldered open the door of Mickelson’s office. Balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, she plopped into one of the two worn chairs facing the battle-scarred desk.
“Today?” Mickelson repeated, scowling. The senior partner of Mickelson and Hernandez, Private Investigations LLC, Roger “Mick” Mickelson was a big bear of a man. He’d once played college football, a lineman for Washington State, though that had been thirty years and as many pounds earlier. After marrying his college sweetheart, he’d joined the Seattle Police Department where he’d become a detective, before his marriage and career had blown up. He’d started his own small investigative firm four years earlier. Now he was huddled over the scarred top of his desk, papers strewn haphazardly before him, an ever-present oversized soda cup placed within arm’s reach. The office was sparse, a few pieces of battered, used furniture in a suite of three rooms, Mickelson’s being the largest, the one with a view of the dusty concrete building that stood not twenty feet away. “I thought tomorrow or . . .” He glanced at the calendar tacked on the wall near an ancient file cabinet.
“Nope. Today’s his lucky day. As of today, Pete DeGrere is a private U.S. citizen.” She forced a humorless smile and ignored the excitement coursing through her veins. Finally. She had the opportunity to nail the sick dick-wad. “Ain’t we lucky?”
“We sure are.” Mick returned the grin. He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin where reddish stubble was visible. “Scumbag,” he said with a frown. “No, wait. Sack of shit is more appropriate.” Mickelson was never one to m
ince words or keep an opinion to himself. He’d retired from the force to open his own PI firm, but even as a cop, his mouth had gotten him into trouble. Hence, his early retirement. “Let’s find him.”
“One step ahead of you,” Shanice said. Her phone vibrated in her hand and with a quick glance she saw a text had come in from Deon, her on-again, off-again boyfriend. She’d thought they were in “off” mode. Apparently not. She ignored the text and said, “I figure DeGrere will find the nearest bar and strip club, spend whatever cash he’s got, then, once he sobers up and realizes he’s broke, he’ll land at his sister’s place, just outside of Tacoma.”
“Why there?” Mick raised an eyebrow, encouraging her. He knew a lot about DeGrere, had made it a personal quest, but he liked it when Shanice got her teeth into a case.
“Because she’s always got his back. One of the few. His best friend, Ralph Stutz? Remember him? Went to high school with Pete back in the seventies? He’s dead. Embolism last May. Out of the blue.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. DeGrere’s only real friend. He’s got no one else to turn to. He’ll look up Sally and she won’t be able to turn her only brother away.”
Mick agreed, but asked, “You know this . . . how?”
“Oh, come on. You know I keep up.”
“Good.”
“DeGrere’s a loser. A braggart as well as a snitch. It’s what got him into trouble.”
Mick grunted his agreement. “He boasted about the Bastian job.”
She took a sip of coffee. “Told his cell mate, who passed it on. Police questioned him but he denied it, and the guy who spilled the beans reneged. Said he was just jokin’, tryin’ to get DeGrere in trouble.”
“I know.”
In prison, Pete DeGrere had boasted about his part in the assault at the Bastian wedding five years earlier, and the man had been a marksman during his stint in the army. A little checking and the police had discovered DeGrere had indeed been in the area at the time. A known thief who had a previous assault charge on his record, DeGrere had been elevated from person of interest to suspect, but there just hadn’t been enough evidence to nail him. Despite the department’s best efforts, the DA wouldn’t go to trial on a case that didn’t look like it could be won. And then DeGrere had been caught on camera breaking into a convenience store and the rest was history: He was convicted and sent up the river, and Seattle PD hadn’t been able to find another suspect, witness, or enough evidence to convict DeGrere of taking part in the Bastian wedding assault.
