One Last Breath

by Lisa Jackson

  He sped through a yellow light, found the Sunset Highway and headed east, managing to find his sunglasses in the visor and slip them on. Threading his way through the thickening traffic, he headed through the canyon and tunnel, skimmed by the downtown area and over the river. The view of Mount Hood was spectacular, the sun rising over its jagged silhouette, but his mind was on the job site and the dead woman. Who the hell was she? Why was she there? His foot was heavy on the accelerator, and he had to remind himself over and over that there was no reason to go at breakneck speed. He just needed to arrive in one piece, without being slapped with a speeding ticket by some cop hiding in the alleyways between the buildings.

  A dead woman.

  On Bastian property.

  Maybe it was one of the homeless people who’d wandered onto the site and discovered a way inside?

  He turned off the main road, found the gravel entrance to the job site, a temporary gate in the wire fencing that ran the perimeter of the property. The gate was wide-open and his Tahoe bounced over several potholes.

  He arrived just ahead of the police and found Les, white-faced and drawing hard on a cigarette, standing at the southeastern corner of the building. Liam slammed out of the Tahoe as the police cruiser skidded to a stop, effectively blocking the entrance to the Hallifax site. Two uniformed officers stepped from the vehicle, only steps behind Liam.

  “Where?” Liam asked Les as he reached the shorter man.

  “Right there.” Les hitched his chin to a spot behind him, then tossed the butt of his cigarette into the dry dirt and gravel, squashing what was left of it with the heel of a work boot.

  Liam held up, peering into the shadows where a body lay. He could just see a woman’s leg, bent at an odd angle, her foot encased in a black, heeled sandal, and a tangled matt of red hair. Red . . .

  Stumbling past Les, his vision blurred as he thought of Rory, that she could be the victim, her visage pale, her eyes staring blankly in death, he blinked hard. He stopped a few feet from the dead woman and forced himself to stare at the pooling blood beneath her head.

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please . . . God, no . . .” So caught up in the horrifying imagery in his head, he was unaware that the officers had joined him until one spoke.

  “Officer Donnelly, Portland Police.” The words brought him back. “Sir? Do you know the victim?”

  He couldn’t answer for a moment.

  It wasn’t Rory. It couldn’t be. He let out his breath slowly and studied the body from a distance. Come on, you know this woman can’t be Rory. You know it, man. You’re just caught up in her because of Jacoby. Pull yourself together.

  The police officer—Donnelly, did he say his name was?—asked him, “Sir. Are you okay?”

  Donnelly’s partner, the shorter of the two cops, inched forward to bend down and ascertain what was patently obvious: The woman, whoever she was, had died. Horrifically. From a fall. He then looked up to the half-renovated building and its six floors.

  Swallowing hard, Liam was pretty sure it wasn’t Rory. It didn’t make sense. There was just no reason for this poor, broken, dead woman to be Rory.

  But he didn’t know for certain . . .

  “Sir?” Again the serious baritone voice of the taller officer.

  “I’m fine,” he lied, and knew everyone there was aware that he was far from being anywhere near “fine.”

  Rory was at the hospital, he told himself. Jacoby had said she was there with a sick kid.

  Barely registering what the sound was, he heard the roar of an engine, a screech of tires, and the slam of a vehicle’s door. He glanced over his shoulder, still lost in thought. His brother, unshaven, dark sunglasses in place, serious set to his jaw, in jeans and a T-shirt, was striding toward them.

  “I called Derek, too,” Les explained, scrabbling in the pocket of his shirt beneath a neon vest, obviously in search of another cigarette.

  “What the hell,” Derek said, brushing past Les to where Liam was standing with the police. He gazed down at the body and his intake of breath was a gasp. “Rory?” he said in a strangled voice.

  “No,” Liam snapped.

  “Jesus, same color hair.”

  “You know this woman?” Donnelly asked Derek.

  “No . . . I don’t think so.” Derek stared at the corpse in shock.

  “Are you the owners of this property?” the shorter officer asked. Liam read his name tag. DVORAK.

  Liam managed to pull himself back to the present. “Yes, I’m Liam Bastian. This is my brother, Derek Bastian. The Hallifax apartment building is a Bastian-Flavel Construction renovation project.” He turned to Steele and added, “Les Steele is project manager. He called us as well as the police.”

  “Could I get a closer look?” Derek asked.

  Donnelly said, “Just don’t touch her.”

  “Don’t worry. Not happening.”

  “Call it in,” Donnelly said to Dvorak, and the shorter officer double-timed it back to the cruiser. By now a small crowd had started to collect on the other side of the street at a coffee shop. Three people were huddled together, all with white coffee cups, eyeing them with concern. The woman was holding the leash of a bouncing Jack Russell terrier in her free hand; the kid of nineteen or so in a long-sleeved tee, baggy jeans, and stocking cap, was drinking from his cup while balanced on a skateboard; and the third person, an older black guy in glasses and a Blazers’ cap, was slowly shaking his head, as if making some kind of judgment call. “We’ll need the coroner and crime scene,” Donnelly called after Dvorak.

  “Got it,” the shorter cop yelled back.

  When Derek moved toward the body, Liam did as well. He wanted to know. Dreaded to know. Had to know.

  The dead woman’s head was twisted, facing away from them. The left side of her face looked normal and her eyes were open. Brown eyes. Dark roots. Dyed hair. Not Rory.

  Liam felt something give inside him. The invisible steel rod that had been holding up his backbone. It wasn’t Rory. The dead woman wasn’t Rory.

  Derek verbalized his thoughts. “I don’t know her. I thought it might be . . . well, but it’s not. It’s not anyone we know. Or . . . you don’t know her, do you?” he asked Liam.

  “No.”

  “Shit. She’s a mess.”

  Les, smoking and keeping his distance, grunted his agreement.

  Dvorak returned to stay with the body, his cell phone in his hand while Donnelly trooped to the front of the building. Derek and Liam followed after him and Les brought up the rear. “Front door’s open,” Donnelly observed. “Lock broken. Jamb splintered.”

  “It was a crappy lock,” Derek muttered, shooting Les a look of accusation.

  Les said, “Temporary door. We’re putting the steel one on today. Just a couple more hours and she wouldn’t have gotten in.” He looked shattered, as if he might break down completely. “This homeless problem . . .”

  “She doesn’t look like a homeless woman,” Liam pointed out, still slightly dazed.

  “Uh-uh,” Derek agreed. “Nice clothes and shoes.”

  Donnelly headed inside the building, ducking a little even though there was plenty of headroom. Liam, Derek, and Les were requested to stay outside until the coroner’s wagon arrived. The three of them collected near the guarding officer who’d returned from the cruiser to stand by the body.

  “Did she jump?” Derek asked.

  Les squinted up at the top floor of the building and shrugged.

  Liam was lost in thought. He was undone. The image of the dead girl seemingly imprinted on his retina. Still, he was relieved she wasn’t Rory. But she was someone. Someone’s daughter, or sister, or wife, or even possibly mother. Though he’d escaped the particular agony of losing a loved one, someone—several people, no doubt—hadn’t been so lucky.

  A loved one.

  To change the course of his thoughts, he eyed his brother. “Why did you call her Rory?”

  “Don’t know. Just reacted. Probably becau
se we’ve been talking about her and, come on, you saw it too. That woman back there”—he turned his thumb toward the mangled body—“she looked like Rory.”

  “But Rory knows nothing about this project,” Liam said. “She’s been gone for years.”

  “Come on, man. That dead girl looks like her! Why couldn’t it have been her? You were just chasing after her. I thought maybe she came back and . . . I don’t know . . . followed you.”

  Donnelly cut in. “So none of you have any idea who the victim is?”

  Derek and Liam and Les all shook their heads. Les let out a long stream of smoke. “You know, that lock was stiff. Hard to work. Even Charlie has trouble with it.” Charlie Zenk was a framer, big, burly guy. “So I don’t know how she broke it open by herself. You’d need a crowbar.”

  “Maybe she had one,” Derek said. “Or found one on the job site. The subs are always leaving their tools around.”

  “Not if I catch ’em. Most are pretty careful. Their tools are their livelihood, but even if she had a tool, why? Just doesn’t seem like she’d go to all the trouble, dressed like she was.”

  “You think someone was with her?” Liam asked Les, then checked the time on his phone. He’d gotten the call from Jacoby at five thirty and now it was just after seven.

  “I don’t know.” Another contemplative drag on his Marlboro.

  “If there was another person here, forensics might be able to find some trace of them,” Dvorak said. His eyes seemed to assess the three of them with more suspicion than his taller partner.

  Derek frowned and turned to Liam. “What do you think?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where’s your head, man? We got a dead body here.”

  Liam looked away. He was having trouble focusing on the suicide victim, which was how he was viewing her, because of Rory. Her death would have to be investigated by the authorities, and if they determined it wasn’t an accident or suicide, a homicide investigation would ensue.

  Homicide?

  Was it possible that she was murdered?

  Liam glanced to the top of the building. Had there been a struggle? Was she pushed? Did she stumble and fall? Was she alone? Or . . . ?

  Who knew?

  Someone.

  The crowd by the coffee shop entrance was growing. More lookie-loos staring, the skateboarder gliding across the street for a closer vantage point.

  Cognizant of time ticking away, he glanced at his watch. He didn’t know why this poor girl had come to the Bastian-Flavel Construction building, but she had. Maybe she’d been partying nearby and the party had transferred to the empty building. “If you don’t need anything further from me, I’ve got to go,” he said to Dvorak, then reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and retrieved a business card. “If you need me for anything else, you can reach me either at the office or on my cell.”

  Dvorak took his card. “We may have more questions. The detectives, you know.”

  “Have them call me.”

  “Where are you going?” Derek demanded.

  “To work. At the office.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No.” Liam was firm. “Stay and wait with them for the coroner.”

  Derek gazed in shock at his brother, who was usually the more responsible of the two. He appeared about to protest, but held himself back. Instead he explained to both Liam and the cops, “Look. We’ve been having some sabotage around here. Those broken windows? Those weren’t accidental. And I know who did it, or I got a best guess anyway.”

  Donnelly looked from Derek to the building. “You want to make a report?”

  “You bet I do. The perp, the guy who’s been breaking in? His name is Everett Stemple.”

  “Derek,” Liam snapped. “You can’t just make accu—”

  “That’s right.” Derek rolled right over him. “Everett Stemple. He’s related to Liam’s ex and his dad’s in prison for a crime the two of them did together.”

  Liam’s ex . . . Not yet, but soon. Annoyed, Liam yelled back at them as he walked away, “Derek, don’t make conjecture sound like fact.”

  He heard the officer ask, “But this Everett wasn’t arrested?”

  “Skated somehow. But he’s got a record. Probably a rap sheet a mile long.” Derek was serious. The last thing Liam heard was his brother saying, “I don’t know who this girl is, but check on Everett Stemple. I’d bet a trip to Las Vegas that he’s involved in this somehow . . .”

  * * *

  Laurelton General was twenty minutes from the Hallifax building, but with morning traffic it took about double that time now. By the time Liam wheeled into the parking lot, he felt hot and anxious and angry. He hadn’t gone to the office. He’d said that for Derek’s benefit. Instead he’d driven straight here, pushing the speed limit when he could, his head wrapped in thoughts of Rory, her sick kid, and a mysterious redheaded woman who’d wound up dead at the Hallifax apartment project.

  Inside the concrete-and-steel building on the west side of town, he strode to the information desk, asking for Rory Abernathy, a name which got him nowhere, so he tried Heather Johnson and mentioned that she was here with her child, who was ill and had been admitted.

  “What’s the patient’s first name?” the helpful woman at the desk asked, smiling at him. He returned the smile, realizing he needed more information from Jacoby.

  “I don’t know. I know . . . Heather, she’s the mother. I think they were admitted yesterday.”

  The welcoming glow was starting to drift from her face. “I’ll check on them,” she said, and Liam could tell he was being dismissed. Privacy laws. He realized the prim woman with the sharp, bespectacled eyes was on guard, ready to call security at the least little suspicious act. Damn it all to hell.

  “Okay, I’ll be back,” he said congenially. “I’m going to hit the cafeteria.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  But Liam had turned away and pretended not to hear. Hell, no, he wasn’t going to announce his presence. He headed in the direction of the cafeteria, then finding an elevator, rang for it, having no idea where to go next.

  His heart was pounding rapidly. Maybe he should wait out in the parking lot. Eventually she would come out, if she was here. But what if it was another wild-goose chase? Who could he call to get past the gatekeepers and find out if Rory was truly on site?

  He fished his cell phone from his pocket and contacted Jacoby. The PI didn’t pick up and Liam clicked off in frustration. He could text the man, and was in the process of thinking what to compose, when one of the elevators reached the main floor and its doors whispered open. He was turned slightly away, involved in his would-be call, but he looked over his shoulder and saw Darlene Stemple, dressed in some long, flowing dress, step out of the car and into the wide hallway.

  He froze.

  She saw him at the same moment and her mouth opened in an O of surprise. “Liam!” she shrieked as a red-haired woman stepped out of the elevator behind her, nearly colliding with her as Darlene had stopped short.

  The woman’s head snapped up. She stared at him and shock registered on her oh, so beautiful and familiar face.

  His heart slammed into his rib cage but he didn’t so much as crack a smile.

  “Hi, Rory,” Liam said calmly, his tone cold enough to start a new Ice Age.

  Chapter 13

  Rory stared at Liam in disbelief.

  He was here? At Laurelton General Hospital?

  Her stomach curled into a tight ball even as her heart did a tiny little flip at the sight of his face, older now, even more handsome, if possible. She was immediately infuriated with herself that his appearance was what she noticed first.

  A part of her noticed he appeared as poleaxed as she felt, and that, at least, felt a little bit good.

  “Liam,” she said, swallowing, her voice a strangled whisper. “How—how did you—?” Find me. Find us. But it didn’t matter. He was here and glaring at her, and she sensed the anger a
nd fury and hatred he was trying to hold under control. She felt herself cringing inside. Her overriding need to flee, to escape, came to the fore, and she wanted to grab Charlotte and run as fast and faraway as possible. The condemnation on his face was nearly unbearable.

  Of course she knew how he’d found her. He’d hired someone, a private investigator or ex-cop or someone who knew how to track a person. But she’d thought, she’d hoped, she’d lost him, shaken off whoever was following her.

  No such luck.

  “How did I . . . end up here? Locate you?” he asked, stepping closer.

  It was all she could do to stand her ground. As the elevator dinged, its doors whooshing open, hospital staff, patients, and visitors all stepping in and out of the cars, she squared off with her husband, the man she hadn’t laid eyes on since the day of their “wedding” five years earlier.

  “It took a while.” He ran a hand frustratedly through his still thick hair, a gesture she’d witnessed so many times before, in much, much happier days, that it caused her heart to ache. As if he realized that people were passing, some staring, he grabbed her arm and threaded her between two nurses deep in conversation and an aide pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair, all the while surreptitiously checking the cell phone he’d pulled from his pocket as he shepherded her along the hallway.

  Rory yanked her arm away and her mother, who had been initially dumbstruck, came hurrying after them, saying, “You don’t have to force her, Liam! If you want more privacy, come back up to the ICU. There’s a couch in a little nook area where Rory spent the night.”

  “No!” Rory practically screamed. What was her mother thinking? She didn’t want Liam anywhere near Charlotte. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Not only was she stunned at the sight of him, she was worried sick about her kid, sleep-deprived from worry and her restless night. Hour upon hour she’d roused herself as the alarm on her cell phone had gone off. She’d then jump at the sound, force herself awake, rotate the kinks from her neck, stretch her back and legs a bit, then go to check on her sleeping child. Luckily, Charlotte always seemed to be sleeping fairly peacefully.