The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  Cassidy looked away. “I don’t know if it was worth it. If I really got through. I should have thought about it more.”

  After a pause, Nicole said in a low voice, “Look, Cassidy, there was something I’ve been keeping to myself that I recently told one person. Just one. But it made me feel like it wasn’t such a burden. Such a secret. Sometimes when you keep things to yourself, they feel heavier than they really are.”

  A spark finally lit up Cassidy’s turquoise eyes. “So what was the secret?”

  Allison was also intrigued. She guessed it had something to do with Leif.

  “I promise I’ll tell you guys sometime.” Nicole looked past them. “Just not today.”

  Cassidy slumped back in her chair. “I keep thinking it would have been better if I had kept my mouth shut. People are accusing me of lying, imagining it. According to them, I’m crazy, jealous, vindictive, and a whore. And that’s just the stuff I can say in public. I had to disable Google Alerts on my name, because all it was giving me were links to bloggers who call me fat or old or insane.”

  Allison bit her lip. “Aren’t you hearing from other people, people who are glad that you came forward?”

  With a shrug, Cassidy said, “Yeah. I mean, there are victims out there who say they’re grateful that I spoke out. But in some ways I just feel like I made myself a target.” She pressed her manicured fingers against her lips and was silent for a few seconds. “I’ve been thinking lately that I’ve been looking at things wrong. It’s not like everyone out in viewer land loves me. It’s not even like they know me. Not really. I mean, look at Jim. He didn’t have any close friends, not really. His friends were like imaginary friends—all those people who tuned in to him every day. But that’s not really a friendship. Not like what we have.” She looked around the table, a smile trembling on her lips.

  “So how are you dealing with all this?” Trying to forestall an automatic answer, Allison put her hand on Cassidy’s wrist. “It seems like you’ve been right in the middle of every bad thing that’s happened lately, from being friends with Jim Fate to being with Glover when he killed himself.”

  Cassidy blinked, and a tear ran from each eye.

  “To be honest, I’m terrible. I’ve been having trouble sleeping for months. It started with Rick and then what happened at Katie Converse’s house. Work has been awful. And everything has just snowballed since Jim died. He was the one who suggested I try taking Somulex so I could sleep better. Now I think I might be, well . . .” Her voice dropped to a near whisper: “. . . addicted.”

  Nicole leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m taking more than I should.”

  “But it’s a prescription drug,” Allison pointed out. “You should be able to only take so much.”

  Cassidy took a ragged breath. “But I take more than one doctor would prescribe. I’m actually going to three doctors now. None of them know about each other. I know it’s stupid, but it’s the only way I can get any sleep. But I’ve been doing some weird things. Like last night, I must have been sleepwalking. I woke up in the parking garage wearing just my pj’s, and I was trying to open my car door with a fork! Thank goodness I was able to get back into my condo without anyone seeing me—but that was only because I had left the door wide-open. And the night that Jim died, I basically passed out in the bathtub after taking a couple of Somulex and then drinking wine.”

  “Oh, Cassidy,” Allison said. “You need help now.”

  Cassidy’s eyes flicked from one friend’s face to the other’s. “I can’t—I’m too busy. There’s too much going on.”

  “You’re always going to be too busy,” Nicole said matter-of-factly.

  Allison squeezed Cassidy’s wrist. “This is your life we’re talking about, Cass. Look at you. You’re shaking. You’re not yourself anymore.”

  With a trembling hand, Cassidy raised her napkin to dab at her wet eyes. “I’m a professional. I tell myself I keep a distance between myself and what’s going on. That it’s not real. That’s how I got through reporting from downtown when everyone thought it was terrorists. I just told myself that I had a job to do. That it didn’t have anything to do with me.” She poked herself in the chest. “But when I’m home alone at night, it all comes flooding back.”

  “You need to go to Narcotics Anonymous, girl,” Nicole said. “They helped my brother turn his life around.”

  “She’s right,” Allison said. The only way Cassidy could conquer this was to turn it over to God, even if NA called Him “a higher power.”

  Nicole added, “When I get back to the office, I’ll find out what meetings are near you and send you an e-mail.”

  Cassidy’s back had gone rigid. “I’m not some junkie sticking a needle in my arm. I’m using a drug that was legally prescribed for me.”

  Nicole was unfazed. “NA is for anyone who has problems with drugs, street or legal. And anyone who is going to three doctors who don’t know about each other certainly meets that definition.”

  “But there’d probably be people there who recognize me.” Cassidy shook her head. “What if it gets back to the station?”

  “But in NA—,” Nicole started to say, when Allison’s phone rang.

  It was her office. She excused herself and took the phone outside. Once there, she realized that Cassidy had never reparked her car.

  “Allison, I’ve got someone on the phone who says he has to talk to you. But he won’t tell me why.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Chris Sorenson.”

  “Put him through . . . Chris?”

  “Allison, I wanted to talk to you because I didn’t think anyone else would believe me.”

  “Believe you about what?”

  “I’ve been watching the tapes of Glover’s last press conference.”

  Allison winced. “I wish they wouldn’t keep rebroadcasting it, even if they do cut away at the end. It’s ghoulish.”

  “The thing is,” Chris said, “that’s not his voice. That’s not Quentin Glover’s voice at the press conference.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Remember how I said Glover had called in three or four times to threaten Jim? Whoever called is not the same person who spoke at the press conference.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know voices.” Chris’s tone was matter-of-fact. “My whole job revolves around that.”

  Allison remembered his saying that he could recognize previously banned callers even if they called in on another person’s phone.

  “There’s no doubt that was Glover who killed himself,” she pointed out. “A hundred people were at that press conference, mostly reporters who’d been covering Glover for years. So that means whoever called you must have just pretended to be him.”

  “It was more than someone just pretending,” Chris said. “The caller ID said it was Quentin Glover. It had his phone number, his name, everything. But I swear to you, it wasn’t him.”

  Back in the restaurant, Allison found Cassidy calm, her tears wiped away. Nicole gave Allison a small nod that let her know that things were going in the right direction. And in front of them was a single plate filled with the restaurant’s chocolate tartufo, a whipped cream– topped chocolate cake with a chocolate truffle center.

  Nicole ceremoniously handed out the three forks. After first warning Cassidy that she couldn’t run with this—at least not yet— Allison told them what Chris had said.

  “The weird thing is that I believe him. But if it wasn’t Glover who called the show, how could it say his name on the caller ID?”

  “I think I know what happened,” Nicole said slowly. “They used a spoof card.”

  “I can’t remember what those are,” Cassidy said.

  “You can buy them on the Internet. They sell them for ‘entertainment purposes only.’” Sarcasm colored Nicole’s voice. “Right. Then you dial a toll-free number and key in the number you want to call and the caller ID number to displa
y on the phone. On the other end, they see not only the fake phone number on the caller ID but even the name associated with that number.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Cassidy asked.

  “It’s a gray area. Sometimes they’re used for bad reasons. On the other hand, a social worker can use a spoof card to call an abused woman and spoof a safe number. That way the husband doesn’t see a suspicious number on the caller ID.”

  Cassidy said, “But why would someone use a spoof card to make people think Glover was threatening Jim Fate?”

  “To make us think Glover was the killer. I would bet the same person knew Glover helped get funding to make smoke grenades, and that gave them the idea to kill Fate with one.” Nicole was speaking faster and faster as she began to connect the dots. “Karl tells me we haven’t been able to match the grenade that killed Fate to any of the ones made here in Oregon. And so far, none of the carpet fibers from Glover’s house, offices, or cars have matched the one in the package. We’ve got nothing that ties Glover to Fate except the fact that Fate kept riding him, and that Glover returned the favor by hating Jim’s guts. And that he killed himself before we could ask too many questions.”

  “What if someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure all the clues pointed in Congressman Glover’s direction?” Allison’s words tumbled over each other. “What if they set him up—and then he snapped?”

  CHAPTER 37

  Mark O. Hatfield United States Courthouse

  As soon as she got back to the office, Allison went to Dan and laid it all out for him. But as she spoke, she realized how insubstantial it was. All she had was one person’s word that it wasn’t Glover who had called the radio station to threaten Jim Fate. And even if that were true, there was still Glover’s ready access to fentanyl pain patches, his connection to smoke grenades, his note that both denied and hinted at wrongdoing, and his last, desperate act of suicide as the net closed around him. Dan finally agreed to give the investigation more time, but he was clearly skeptical.

  It was two in the afternoon before Allison finally went to the bathroom. And she saw blood. She stared at it stupidly, almost too tired to switch gears. How could there be blood?

  On the phone, the nurse told Allison that she didn’t need to worry unless the bleeding continued or she started to cramp. For the next hour Allison went through the motions of work, but her mind was on her belly. Was something wrong? Maybe. Did she feel crampy? Maybe. She went to the bathroom every few minutes. The bleeding wasn’t slowing down. But it wasn’t that much either. She tried to pray, but all she could manage was to touch the cross she wore around her neck, the one her father had given her, and think the word Please.

  Finally she gave up and called the doctor’s office again. They arranged for her to come in after work.

  Then she called Marshall. “Can you meet me at Dr. Dubruski’s at five?”

  “Why?” His voice sharpened. “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with the baby?”

  “It’s probably nothing. I’m probably just imagining things.” Dear God, let it be true. “I’m having a little bit of spotting, that’s all. I just want to go in to be safe.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m taking you home so you can lie down.”

  “What? No, Marshall, I have too much to do. And besides, the nurse said if I was going to”—she hesitated, then made herself say the word—“miscarry, that this early there wasn’t anything they could do to stop it.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion, Allison. I’ll be there in five.”

  In a strange way, it was a relief to be told what to do, even if it might be more symbolic than anything else. She marked herself out for the day and took the elevator down to meet Marshall. If he showed up at work in the middle of the day, there would be too many questions.

  At home, he insisted she lie down and then sat beside her, stroking her hair. But his very touch distracted her. She was listening. Listening to her body. Before, there had been a little hum of connection between her and the baby. Now it was gone. Or was it gone? Maybe she was just imagining it. Everything was probably fine.

  Finally she asked, “Can you just hold me?” They lay together in the darkened room, his knees pressing into the backs of hers, each of them with a hand on her belly. Marshall whispered prayers into the nape of her neck until it was time for them to go.

  In the doctor’s office, the receptionist told them to wait. Allison turned obediently toward one of the flowered couches, but Marshall said to the receptionist, “Look, something might be wrong. Isn’t there any way you can get us back there now?”

  “Oh.” The young woman nodded as she looked from Marshall to Allison. “Of course. I’ll see what they can do.” It was only a few minutes before they were called back, a minor miracle.

  The nurse weighed Allison—up one pound—and took her blood pressure—normal. They had to wait a few minutes in the exam room. Allison sat on the edge of the exam table. Marshall put his hand on her shoulder.

  Dr. Dubruski finally came into the exam room. “How are you today?” She turned her head to look at them as she washed her hands in the sink.

  “I’ve had some spotting.” Tears slipped down Allison’s face before she could will them away.

  The doctor dried her hands and then handed Allison a tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” Allison said, trying to stop crying. Marshall put his arm around her.

  “No, I’ll bet you’ve been holding this in all afternoon, haven’t you?” Dr. Dubruski wasn’t much older than Allison and Marshall, but her words had the calming cadence of a mother’s. “Let’s check right now. Once we’ve heard a heartbeat, it’s very unusual for spotting to mean anything serious.”

  She squirted jelly on Allison’s belly. But no matter where the doctor pressed with the Doppler, nothing but an agonizing silence filled the room. Allison turned to look at Marshall. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he listened for the sound that never came.

  Dr. Dubruski finally lifted the Doppler. “We should really look with the ultrasound. With you only barely being at twelve weeks, sometimes the baby can just be in the wrong position for us to hear it on the Doppler. I’m sorry. I should have thought of that.”

  Marshall helped Allison pull on a gown, and they walked down the hall to the ultrasound room. There the doctor began to move the ultrasound sensor over Allison’s belly. Allison watched Dr. Dubruski’s kind face as she leaned toward the screen. She looked serious, but not worried. That’s what Allison kept telling herself. That the doctor simply looked intent.

  Dr. Dubruski peered closer at the screen, then pulled back a little. At the same time she moved the sensor around, picked it up, put it down, pushed it from one side to the other, tried a new angle, started again.

  “I know this must be uncomfortable,” she said at one point. “I’m sorry.”

  And there all along on the screen was the baby-shaped gray blob inside the black space of Allison’s uterus, quiet and still.

  “I’m not seeing what I want to see,” Dr. Dubruski said. “But I am not sure . . .”

  Minutes passed. Marshall moved to Allison’s side and took her hand, his forehead creased with worry. She willed herself to be quiet. She was not going to jump to conclusions. She was not going to panic.

  She was not going to be the one to say it first.

  Finally, the doctor stopped looking. “Let me take some measurements,” she said. “Yes, I think . . .” she said, and looked down. “This is measuring at about eleven weeks. And I can’t find a heartbeat.” Dr. Dubruski looked at them. “I’m so sorry.”

  Even though she was flat on her back, Allison felt as if she were falling. The table couldn’t keep her from tumbling into the abyss.

  CHAPTER 38

  Hedges Residence

  Moving like a sleepwalker, Nic shuffled up her front steps, past the overgrown camellia. Pink-tipped buds were already showing. She needed to trim it back, but just thinking about it made her feel even
more exhausted. She was so tired. So tired. The string of eighteen-hour days was catching up with her. And now, with Chris Sorenson claiming that it hadn’t been Congressman Glover’s voice on the phone, it felt like she couldn’t even put the Jim Fate case to bed. Plus, there was the little matter of Cassidy’s Somulex addiction. Sometimes Cassidy got on her nerves, but seeing her so vulnerable had touched something inside Nic.

  Letting herself inside the house, she locked the door behind her. With the alarm beeping, she hurried to the back of the house and entered the code on the control panel next to the back door. She left the alarm off, because Makayla would be home soon. In her bedroom, Nic took off her jacket and unbuckled her holster. She put her gun in the safe on her closet shelf, and then set her keys, handcuffs, and badge on the bureau.

  She looked longingly at the double bed that no man had ever slept in. She should probably eat before she went to bed, but it seemed like too much trouble. And Mama would have fed Makayla before bringing her home.

  She was taking off her jacket when she heard the front door open and her daughter cry out. Just one word, but it held a bottomless well of terror and fear.

  “Mama!”

  Nic ran out into the hall, her stockinged feet slipping on the oak floor. In the living room, a tall white guy was holding her daughter’s shoulder in one hand. In his other hand he held a gun. Nic identified it as a SIG Sauer. And, though she hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years, she identified the guy holding it as Donny Miller.

  “She’s tall like me,” he observed.

  The words flew out of Nic’s mouth before she could weigh their wisdom. “She is nothing at all like you.” Her blood ran hot in her veins. She wanted to take each finger that was touching her daughter and snap it off like a stick.

  “Mama, he shoved the door open as I was locking it,” Makayla said, as if she would get in trouble.

  Miller pushed Makayla toward Nic. Nic’s rage turned to ice. Her daughter ran to her and wrapped both arms around Nic’s waist, pressing her head against her chest. Shaking so hard it was a wonder they both didn’t fall over.