One Last Breath

by Lisa Jackson

  Mick glanced at the phone. “You wanna get that?”

  “Uh-uh. Redmond and DeGrere?”

  “Unknown. Redmond is claiming he wasn’t involved in the shooting. Didn’t have any idea it was going down, is completely innocent of that crime. He was just there to break up the wedding, I guess, maybe slice up his ex—scare her or kill her, still unclear—but mess up everything. Don’t know if he knew she was already legally married to Liam Bastian. If he did, it was all for show.”

  “And vengeance.”

  “Yeah.” Mick rubbed his neck in frustration. “Redmond’s in custody now. Clammed up. Demanded a lawyer, but so far, his story checks out. Once they compare his blood to the sample on the wedding dress that Abernathy ditched, we’ll know.”

  Shanice took a quick check over her shoulder, then switched lanes to pass a semi even though it was barreling down the freeway at a few miles over the speed limit. She eased off on the accelerator but hated slowing down, even a few miles an hour. The trip was long, three to four hours depending on traffic, and she had the feeling that time was of the essence, that she was in some kind of race with an invisible enemy. She couldn’t hide her anticipation that she was going to finally meet the disappearing Abernathy and be able to ask her the questions that had kept her awake for the past five years. And finally, maybe Aaron would get some justice. “Hard to believe that the two attacks that day were completely separate and unrelated.”

  “Stranger things have happened, I suppose,” Mick said, not sounding convinced. They talked it out a bit, going around in circles just as the tires of her little car kept spinning down the freeway.

  Finally, Shanice posed, “What are the chances that Redmond’s lying and he was the one who killed DeGrere?”

  “Police are checking his alibi now. He claims he was at work when Pete was offed. He works with his girlfriend in a catering business. She says he was around, but maybe she’s covering for him. He could’ve driven up to the Nile, killed Pete, and driven back without raising notice if she wasn’t paying attention or is covering for him now.”

  “And somewhere in there an Abernathy look-alike falls off a building at one of the Bastian-Flavel real estate deals,” she reminded him.

  “Look-alike?” he repeated. “The leaper?”

  “Red hair. Same kind of body type. That was your description of her. What’s her name?”

  “McVaney . . . no, Mulvaney. Teri. No one knows if she fell, jumped, or was pushed.”

  “Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind that there might be some connection. She dies soon after DeGrere is killed, when Rory Abernathy reappears, before the latest attack on her.”

  “Look-alike,” he said again. He could admit the resemblance between Aurora Abernathy and Teri Mulvaney was uncanny. Shanice had hit on it the second she saw the photo on the driver’s license of the dead woman. “They’re not dead ringers, but . . .”

  “Red hair, fine features, about the same build . . . they could be sisters, if not twins.” She slid him another glance.

  “She could have just fallen. Someone gets drunk, decides to climb to the upper story and slips and falls. Not often, but it does happen.”

  “Why not go up to one of the restaurants with elevators and a view, then? Nah, she was up there for a reason,” Shanice said. “Maybe with someone.”

  “She had sex with someone shortly before her death.”

  “The guy who gave her a little push?” Shanice suggested, then, “Damn! Watch out!” She slammed on her brakes, holding tight to the wheel. The little car slewed sideways but stayed in the lane as she hit the brakes.

  A motorcycle cut through the space between her Escape and the pickup she was following, then hit the gas in the slow lane, accelerating and whining to whip around a slower vehicle. The bike wove in and out of traffic doing eighty-five or ninety. “Where the hell is a cop when you need one?” she asked rhetorically before picking up the conversation again. “So, what—Seattle PD thinks Rory Abernathy’s reappearance is all a coincidence?”

  “They’re not saying. Ex-cops aren’t on the need to know list.”

  “Hey, we’re the ones who finally got through to DeGrere’s sister. Being an ex-cop helped you. Ex being the word.”

  Pete DeGrere’s sister, Sally, had no use for the authorities, and only by promises and pleas that no, he was no longer with the police department or any other law enforcement agency had she agreed to see them. Just yesterday they’d driven to Sally DeGrere Brown’s house, a mobile home set on a brick foundation in a park. She’d been upset and red-eyed, weeping and smoking, carrying on about her brother. She’d clearly wanted to talk to someone, but had adamantly refused to speak to the police, saying she knew nothing about her brother, and that was that.

  However, with Shanice, an understanding woman, paving the way, Sally had reluctantly opened her door to them. “He wasn’t all bad,” she’d said, dabbing at her eyes as her three cats eyed Mick and Shanice with unblinking suspicion. A calico was hidden under the couch, peering fearfully from beneath the frayed and sparse fringe; a tuxedo sat on a window ledge eyeing a bird feeder with lust, his long, black tail twitching, his white whiskers shivering as he studied the sparrows flitting around the strewn seeds; and a big gray tabby watched the intruders with disdain from its spot on the dining room table, right on top of a lacy cloth.

  Sally, her frosted, thinning hair pulled into a ponytail, had beseeched them. “He didn’t do it. I’ve said it over and over. He wouldn’t shoot anybody . . . kill anybody. I just don’t understand.”

  Mick wanted to remind her that her brother had been a marksman in the service, but that would have gotten him nowhere. Instead, he and Shanice nodded sympathetically and she’d finally allowed them into the room she’d set up for him, a paneled eight-by-ten bedroom with a twin bed, sleeping bag, and narrow plastic dresser. On the dresser stood a bowling trophy, a framed high school graduation diploma, and a sharpshooter award from a local range.

  Shanice had casually asked about it, and Sally had nodded so fast her ponytail had quivered. “Oh, yes, he was a good shot. Learned hunting from Dad. He got his first rifle, a twenty-two if I remember correctly, probably by the time he was eight, maybe nine. Loved to hunt. Anything—birds, squirrels, deer, you name it. He’d draw a bead on it and . . .” She seemed to finally hear herself and broke off . . . switching to, “Petey had his faults, you know. Couldn’t pass a bar without going in, but he was a good man, good brother.”

  Mick thought about where Pete DeGrere had been found, behind a pussy parlor called the Nile, but he kept listening earnestly. Sally’s thoughts apparently were traveling down the same path, because she said, “That Nile place . . . that was his downfall. Girls. Well, and booze.” She’d walked them back to the main living area where a fourth cat, this one orange and skittish, had dived under the table occupied by the fat gray one, then hopped up on a chair, eyeing Shanice through the draped lace. When it hissed loudly, Sally giggled and said, “Oh, Dizzy, you stop that,” temporarily drawn from her grief. “Don’t worry about her, she’s all talk, that one. Wouldn’t hurt a flea and I should know. I’ve been fighting that battle for a long time now. Once those things get into the rug you can never get them out.”

  Shanice had eyed the brown shag rug, matted in some places, with newfound concern. The cats hadn’t bothered her in the least, not even with the acrid aroma of a hidden litter box filtering through the room, but she didn’t like the idea of fleas.

  They’d stayed another fifteen minutes and listened to Sally’s reminiscences. The only glimmer of information had been her contention that DeGrere had a thing against rich people. “He was always looking for a get-rich-quick scheme,” she said. “Had all kinds of ideas that would’ve panned out if he’d gotten a break, but things didn’t work out for Petey. He always got caught doing something, and it wasn’t always his fault. He just couldn’t catch a break,” she repeated, a phrase that sounded like a theme song for the hapless Pete DeGrere. “Those pe
ople on TV with all the money? Lots of cars and houses . . . he just felt like that should’ve been him. Maybe we all feel that way.”

  They’d left soon after, promising to let Sally know if they found anything. Hours later, upon hearing that Aurora Abernathy Bastian had appeared within days of Pete DeGrere’s release from prison and subsequent murder, they’d decided to meet with the runaway bride face-to-face.

  If they could.

  That was still in question.

  They hadn’t talked to Abernathy herself, and so far, the once-jilted husband was putting up roadblocks.

  Now, Mick said, “There’s one guy I know. Worked with him before he transferred south to the Portland PD. Owes me a favor for taking over a couple of his shifts when his kid was having drug/detox problems. Zach Pitman.”

  “Think he’ll give you some information on Abernathy?”

  “I’ll try to locate him, call in my marks.” He was already checking his phone for the number. He grunted when he found it and placed the call, only to run into the man’s voice mail. He left his name and a request that Zach call him, then clicked off, hoping Pitman would follow up.

  Shanice said, “I’m thinking Everett Stemple killed Pete DeGrere for taking the life of his brother.”

  Mick grunted. This was old territory.

  “It just makes sense. Everett’s old man, Harold, knew when Pete was getting out and he probably knew where he was going. Pete didn’t keep his fondness for strip clubs a secret. So Harold tipped Everett off and he did the job. Both Harold and Everett wanted revenge.”

  “We think,” he reminded her. They’d theorized the same thing a number of times before. “But where’s the proof?” he grumbled. “Did Everett know DeGrere?”

  “DeGrere knew his old man.”

  “Again, that’s conjecture. Emphasis on con.”

  “I wish they’d given you more information than they did,” Shanice said on a sigh.

  “Cons will tell you anything you want to hear. You just gotta sort through all the bullshit.”

  As soon as he learned of DeGrere’s murder, Mick had set up interviews with a couple of the felons who’d known Pete before and after he was incarcerated. Both men had said what he already knew: Pete was a blowhard. You couldn’t trust anything he said. He was a braggart and kind of a pain in the ass. Mick had even been granted a visit to Harold Stemple, who’d acted like he barely knew Pete DeGrere existed, which Mick knew was a full-out lie by the smile on the man’s ruggedly handsome face as he made his denial. But there was no making him talk. He was already in prison, and though Mick had brought up his son Everett’s name, hoping for a reaction, Harold had just shrugged and said, “My son didn’t kill his own brother.”

  “Maybe Aaron got in the way.”

  “Of what? Eh? Who would my son want dead?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me,” Mick had told the con, who’d snorted and said, “Ask him yourself, but you’ll have to stand in line. The police are trying to frame him, too, but he didn’t do it. Has an iron-clad alibi.”

  “He could have paid DeGrere.”

  “So could a lot of guys.”

  He’d been right about that, Mick thought now. But Shanice hadn’t given up on the idea.

  “Everett was probably Harold Stemple’s outside man during that botched home invasion. He owed his dad for keeping quiet about him, and he wanted to get payback for Aaron’s death, so he took Pete out.”

  Shanice was verbalizing Mick’s own version of the crime, but it felt like there were big missing pieces. Maybe Liam Bastian or his wife could fill them in.

  They rode in silence for the next twenty miles and slowed as traffic became congested as they passed through Vancouver, Washington, and inched their way across the I-5 bridge spanning the Columbia River. As they drove under a sign that read ENTERING OREGON, Shanice felt more than a little tingle of anticipation tinged with a taste of revenge. The truth was she’d never been much of a fan of the cowardly runaway bride. She’d told herself it was because she wanted justice for Aaron, but it sure tasted good. She couldn’t wait to finally meet the woman who had somehow escaped the carnage of her own damned wedding.

  Chapter 21

  By the time Liam returned to his parents’ house it was afternoon. He’d texted Rory, explaining, and she’d texted back that she was handling things. How, he didn’t know, but the thought made him smile as he parked in the circular drive and noted that Rory’s car was angled near an older model Toyota plastered with bumper stickers. Darlene, he guessed. Good. He only hoped that when he walked inside, all hell hadn’t broken loose. His parents weren’t exactly models of temperance, and the house had sometimes been more like a war zone than a haven when he was growing up. That’s why he’d lammed out as early as possible, finding refuge in college and his own independence. And yet . . . he’d returned, not to live under the same roof as Stella and Geoff, but to work for the company.

  You sold out. As did Derek, and now even Viv wants to be part of the Bastian fold.

  The thought tightened his stomach a little as he climbed from the Tahoe. He’d barely put one foot out when Derek wheeled up in a shiny black sports car. He climbed out and glanced at the house. For a second his face was severe as he stared at the stone-and-cedar walls, and Liam remembered his half brother as a younger man, full of piss and vinegar, as they say, a young buck always battling the old man. Derek had fought with Geoff long and often, though those fights had abated after Geoff had been confined to a wheelchair. Before Geoff’s injury, Geoff and Derek had almost always been at odds. In those days Geoffrey had been fit, worked out at a gym, even taken on younger men as sparring partners and boxed for sport. He and Derek had come to physical blows more than once, and even the week before Liam’s wedding had gone at it so hard, wrestling in the den and rolling against a table leg, that it caused one of Stella’s treasures, a crystal vase, to roll and crash to the floor. Derek had ended up with glass in the heel of his hand, and when Stella, hearing the smash of glass, had run to the den and seen them lying on the floor, breathing hard, their clothes disheveled and torn, blood smearing the hardwood, she’d snarled, “You’re barbarians! Both of you! Clean up yourselves and this mess right now!”

  Liam had heard about the battle later that day when Derek had called him and confessed, “He’s such an asshole, you know. Our old man. Only out for number one. I hate him.”

  Liam had only said, “You might try to avoid him, or at least not provoke him.”

  “He provokes me. Hell, he provokes everyone. Including Stella.”

  “They’re married.”

  “And so are you, bro. You should take a good look at what it’s all about. Shit. And now this farce of a wedding when you’ve already tied the knot.”

  “Mom’s idea.”

  “Well, it’s a piss-poor one, and the fact that you agreed to go along with it only shows what a wimp you are.” He’d hung up then.

  Liam hadn’t called him back.

  For the most part, these days, everyone got along—at least on the surface—but remembering the days when father and son had gone at it brought the bile up the back of Liam’s throat to burn in his mouth.

  Lifting a hand, sun at his back, Derek yelled, “Hey, bro!”

  Bro.

  His brother’s name for him. As if they’d always had each other’s back, but both of Geoffrey Bastian’s sons had been hellions, just as the old man had probably been. That’s why they’d always been at loggerheads, always spoiling for a fight. In Derek’s case, he’d felt the back of the old man’s hand and his wrath more often than not.

  “When’d you get the Corvette?” Liam asked.

  Derek grinned like a devil. “Think the old man’ll finally loosen the purse strings and help me pay for it? Or maybe, like Uller, I’ll ask for a loan from the company. Whad’ya say, Mr. CEO?”

  “You’d have a better chance with the old man.”

  Derek laughed, made a gun out of his hand, and pointed it at him. “What I figure
d.”

  They headed toward the house together. The acid in Liam’s gut roiled at a particular memory, one he’d forgotten, or more likely buried, from long ago. He’d been fourteen at the time and it was summer. He and his friends had planned an overnight by the river on property belonging to the Bastians. Somehow everyone’s parents had agreed to the campout, mainly because Derek, older, had promised to look in on the younger boys. Of course the whole plot had been a recipe for disaster, but even Geoff and Stella had given Derek and Liam the green light as long as they “were responsible” and “made good choices.” This was in a time when cell phones weren’t as prevalent by any means, but Stella had offered hers up to Derek, “in case of an emergency, which, by the way, I don’t think there will be.” She’d leveled her most don’t-disappoint-me glare at both boys, and dropped the massive phone into Derek’s outstretched palm.

  They’d been home free.

  But Liam hadn’t left it at that and had decided it would be an awesome idea to pour a mixture of his father’s whiskey from the decanters on his desk into a flask he’d found in Geoff’s hunting gear. He thought about telling Derek what he’d done, then decided against it. Derek didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. Where Liam had chosen a select few times to test the boundaries, Derek was always on the wrong side of something.

  Late that afternoon, Liam had taken his pilfered treasures, rolled up in his sleeping bag, to a spot by the Willamette’s shore. A few boats were speeding across the clear water, pulling skiers, while fishermen, mostly drinking beer, were lazily trolling, their poles visible, lines disappearing into the river’s uneven surface.

  A hawk circled above the water, wings spread against a blue sky, where gauzy clouds slowly scudded. The summer sun hung low, casting ever-longer shadows onto the shallows as Liam stashed his booty into the root hole of a huge fir tree standing guard on the crumbling bank. A rocky beach stretched out below the ridge and the fresh, wet smell of the river filled his nostrils as a gust of wind toyed with his hair, which was “far too shaggy” to meet Stella’s standard. Well, tough, it was summer, he was free except for the hours he helped out at his old man’s job sites—too young to officially be on the payroll but old enough to help load trash and scraps into a Dumpster. He considered taking a pull on the flask, just for the hell of it—after all, he’d taken all the risks that day and he owed himself a swallow of the booze.