After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  She and Trent asked a few more questions, but Rinko had no more information to share, and the poor kid was obviously freezing. She couldn’t keep him a second more. “Thanks,” she said. “Now, go inside, and get warm. Dry off and make an aide bring you cocoa.”

  He smiled a bit. “With marshmallows.”

  “Definitely. Oh, and Steven, how did you get Doctor Sherling’s phone?”

  “I have keys to all the rooms. All the lockers. All the doors. All the cupboards.”

  “How?”

  He hesitated. “Sometimes Elmo’s not so careful.”

  Elmo was in charge of maintenance. Cassie had seen him play chess with Rinko. Once in a while, he even won.

  Then again, maybe he never had. Maybe Rinko had lost on purpose. Cassie wouldn’t put it past the kid.

  Before she put the car into gear, Cassie finally asked Rinko one last question. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  He stared at her and said, “Because you didn’t ask.”

  Then he took off, keeping near the shrubbery, sprinting through the wet grass and up the steps to the side of the building where he disappeared and, presumably, crept inside the same way he’d exited minutes before.

  “How did you know he’d be out here?” Cassie asked.

  “I saw him peeking through the same door he’d come through before, around the corner from the receptionist, not visible in any mirrors or cameras, I’m guessing. Maybe he’s fixed it so that he can use it at will. He didn’t even poke his head through, just stared at me through the crack when it was ajar and pointed toward the front door. I figured he’d find us if we went outside. He’s clever and seems to be able to get where he wants to without being seen.”

  “A ghost,” she said, backing out of the parking spot and driving away from the hospital.

  “Why’s he in here?”

  “He slips in and out of reality and gets violent, I guess. No one really knows. His family has a lot of money. I think a wing of the hospital is named after his grandfather, but whatever happened to him, it had to have been really bad.” She looked in her rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the hospital, white bricks and pillared porch visible in the gloom of the dark day.

  For a second she thought she saw someone standing off to the side of the porch, a dark figure half-hidden in the thick rhododendrons and staring down the drive, watching her leave.

  She blinked and the figure was gone. Uneasy, she convinced herself she’d been mistaken, had only seen a shadow in the thick foliage flanking the hospital. There had been nothing sinister lurking in the wet umbra, just her mind playing tricks on her.

  Even with Trent sitting close enough to touch, she couldn’t wait to pass through the gates guarding the grounds and drive away from Mercy Hospital. Whether in her imagination or not, she believed evil lurked within its hallowed walls.

  “Shane Carter wants to see me?” Nash asked into her cell phone as she threw her keys onto the desk in her den. She checked the time. Eight thirty-seven PM. The house was empty. Cold. More of a mausoleum than a home. And it was all hers. Every last slab of Carrera marble, every glossy plank of Brazilian hardwood, every glass tile in the pool and every one of five—count ’em, five—sports cars parked in the six bays of the garage. All hers. The final bay was proud home to the car she drove, her beloved Ford Focus. Everything else had, until recently, been owned by her stepmother, the ultimate collector of things. Now, thank you very much, Edwina Maria Phillips Rolland Nash, they all belonged to Rhonda.

  And all of it, aside from some of the bottles in the wine cellar and the Ford of course, was for sale.

  God, she hated this place.

  “That’s right,” Double T was confirming. “Not only Carter, but Cassie Kramer and her husband want a sit-down.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. Guess we’ll find out.”

  “Guess we will. What time?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Four.”

  “Works for me. It’ll give me time to pull some things together.” She hung up and felt better. Things were looking up. And the real estate agent had called saying she had an offer on this place. She went to the wine cellar, half a flight down to a climate-controlled room behind thick glass, and pulled out a bottle from Edwina’s selection. A Pinot Gris. Good enough. She had no idea what the wine was worth, only that she was going to carry it upstairs to her bedroom, open the bottle, and sip the wine in the bathtub with its amazing view of Portland. That luxury, she would miss. The rest of it, not at all.

  She stripped, put on a robe, and added bubble bath to the tub. Picked up in Paris by Edwina a decade earlier, the soap was mild and non-stinging as if for a child, yet exotic and smelling of lavender. To top off her ritual Nash poured herself a glass of wine and paused to light a candle, as she did every night.

  “Mommy misses you,” she whispered, but didn’t cry as the tiny flame flickered.

  She slipped into the warm water and closed her eyes. She thought briefly of her child. This was the one time of day when she allowed herself a few minutes to remember her baby’s curly hair, blue, blue eyes, and soft giggle. If she thought hard enough, she could recall the smell of her, the oh so softness of skin. Tears pulled at the back of her eyes but she would no longer cry.

  Five years had passed.

  She allowed herself a few minutes of grieving still, but that was all. This was her life now. She cleared her throat. Took another sip of wine. Told herself that things were better, the pain lessening, maybe eventually it would even be tolerable. Finally she opened her eyes to the incredible windows with their spectacular view over trees and rooftops to the winking lights of the city below.

  So this was how the other half lived. Or was it the other one percent these days? Didn’t matter. She didn’t like it. Some of the perks were nice, of course, like the in-home gym that was handy for daily workouts, and this soaking tub with its multiple jets to massage out her muscles, tense from a twelve-hour day, but really, who needed all the luxury?

  Not Rhonda Nash.

  At least not anymore.

  Not with the road she’d traveled.

  Absurdly, wealth seemed banal to her now; well, the trappings of the very rich at least. Money had failed her. There just wasn’t enough to protect the innocent, to fight illness and death and expect to win. That, she knew now, was a fool’s game.

  She would live here for now, but only until she could sell the place and every shiny, expensive thing within its walls. Hopefully this new buyer would take the albatross from her neck. After everything she’d inherited was sold, she planned to move to somewhere a lot more cozy, a lot more homey with a lot less square footage and no amazing city view. Maybe she’d get a cat. Or a dog. Or chickens. More and more people in Portland were keeping chickens these days. Whatever. She smiled a little . . . maybe she should get the chickens now and let them roam over Edwina’s five thousand square feet of opulence, scratching and clucking, pooping and shedding feathers all over the imported rugs.

  Edwina’s ultramodern home had been cut into the hillside, a wall of windows three stories high with a panorama of downtown Portland and several of the bridges that crossed the Willamette. She could also see much farther east to Mount Hood rising out of the Cascades. Now, she stared through the glass. The lights of the city winked in the rain and Hood was invisible in the darkness, but not far from the mountain’s peak, in its shadow, was Falls Crossing, the town where Allie and Cassie Kramer had spent their teenage years, where their mother still lived.

  And now ex-sheriff effin’ Shane Carter himself wanted an audience. That should prove interesting. Did Cassie have a confession to make and needed dear old stepdad and her estranged hubby to accompany her? Were they her little entourage of bodyguards? The woman, after all, was a mental case.

  Not fair, her mind taunted as she sipped from her glass. Ironically one of the neighboring properties, located just on the other side of the slope, was Mercy Hospital.

  It was fun
ny how tangled lives could become, how so many could brush against you only to disappear with the dawn. Again, she felt the pull on her heartstrings when she thought about loss, but she wouldn’t allow her mind to dwell in the painful hole that had once been her life. Instead, as always, she turned her attention to her work, always her work.

  When the Kramer case had first landed on her desk, Nash had wondered about Cassie Kramer admitting herself to the hospital to be placed in psychiatric care. What had forced her through the locked doors of Mercy Hospital on the heels of her sister’s disappearance and Lucinda Rinaldi’s near homicide? Nash had questioned if surrendering to psychiatric care had been a ploy, a slyly planned move that would ultimately be integral in her defense: insanity over guilt.

  Something wasn’t right with the Sisters Kramer; she knew it.

  But she didn’t know if Allie Kramer was dead or alive. That was a problem, a serious problem. Allie, and maybe Cassie, too, could be part of some intricate publicity stunt gone bad, or worse yet the victim of kidnapping or homicide.

  So where’s the body?

  Where’s the crime scene?

  Why was Holly Dennison killed, her body left where it could be found, a bizarre mask placed over her face?

  Where the hell is frickin’ Allie Kramer?

  Her ruminations brought more questions than answers, and her thoughts switched to the movie that was about to be released. Allie Kramer, Lucinda Rinaldi, and Holly Dennison were all a part of Dead Heat, which was to be released soon. A party to celebrate its opening was going to be held in the Hotel Danvers here in Portland. Everyone associated, at least those who could attend, would be in town, which might aid her in her investigation. She liked to talk to witnesses in person, face-to-face without relying on telephone calls or another cop’s notes and instincts.

  Warm water lapped over her, foamy bubbles hissing lightly as they disintegrated. The wine helped ease the day’s tensions and frustrations from her muscles and bones. But her mind was spinning with half-baked theories and questions for Cassie Kramer.

  There were more angles to consider as well.

  Tomorrow, Nash thought, and finished her wine. Then she slid lower in the tub and stared upward through the surface of the water to look through the disappearing bubbles to the chandelier suspended overhead. The fixture dangled from the twenty-foot ceiling. She wondered, not for the first time, if the chandelier would ever fall and crash into the tub, maybe even kill her. Who, if anyone, would care? With no answer she held her breath as long as she could, silently counting off the seconds, trying to stay under as long as possible, fixating on the soft lights glowing overhead.

  Her lungs began to ache.

  Longer. Just a little longer.

  She remained submerged.

  How is Cassie Kramer involved in her sister’s death?

  Where was she when the bullets in the prop gun were exchanged?

  She heard her heart beating in her ears under the water.

  What was the fight with Allie about right before she disappeared?

  Her lungs were starting to scream.

  Why did Cassie just happen to be in LA when Holly Dennison was murdered?

  Why would the killer leave the mask? Some sick joke? How did it tie in? What was that all about?

  Pain burned through her chest. Serious pain.

  Why kill Holly? What was the motive? Did she know something? Her murder wasn’t a random act, couldn’t be, not with the mask. So why her?

  Her lungs were on fire.

  What about Allie’s interest in Cassie’s husba—

  She launched herself from the bottom of the tub and gulped in air. Huge lungfuls of air. She’d held her breath three seconds less than her best time.

  Damn it all to fucking hell!

  No—don’t get angry. You’ll do better next time. Take a few more breaths. Regain your equilibrium.

  Slowly, she drew in air through her nose and expelled it through her mouth. Her heartbeat slowed and her anger melted away. It was still early enough that she could read a chapter or two of the paperback that had been sitting on her night table, or watch TV before turning in. She should probably catch the news. But she probably wouldn’t. A much more likely scenario would be that she would spend the next few hours in bed, with her computer, perhaps a last glass of wine, while going over her notes in the Allie Kramer disappearance case.

  Finally, as the bathwater cooled, she climbed out of the tub and didn’t bother to towel off, just slipped on the plush robe and bent down to blow out the candle and whisper softly, “ ’Night, Love.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Do you know what time it is?” Dr. Sherling asked. Her voice was groggy with sleep.

  Cassie had dialed the doctor’s cell phone number on impulse. She really hadn’t expected the psychiatrist to answer. She’d gotten lucky. She glanced at the readout on Trent’s DVR player. It read nine forty-seven.

  “I know it’s late,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Grumpily, Dr. Sherling said, “All right. I’m awake now. Sort of. But I have rounds tomorrow at six.” She yawned. “I suppose you’re calling about that television documentary, or docudrama, or whatever it’s called these days, and my advice is to not watch it. If you want, you can schedule a session and we’ll discuss it. Call my office. In the morning.”

  “What docudrama?”

  “On one of those mystery channels. You know, unsolved cases or whatever. The woman . . . oh, what’s her name, the nosy reporter, she’s on it.”

  “Whitney Stone.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s the one.”

  Cassie’s insides tightened. “It’s on tonight?”

  “Yes, in a few minutes, I think, but it might be best if you don’t watch it. I saw a preview for it, and the story isn’t about your sister going missing, but about the near-death experience when you and your mother were kidnapped.”

  Cassie’s pulse sped up. “I wasn’t calling about the program,” she said, and explained about her visit to the hospital during the day, how she’d wanted to see Steven Rinko and not being allowed, how she’d been thwarted and belittled by the receptionist.

  “Constance can get a little territorial,” the doctor admitted.

  “Downright nasty. And judgmental.”

  “Really? I don’t think so.”

  “For sure. Tre—my husband was with me. He can confirm.”

  “You’re back with him?”

  Cassie ignored the question. “The truth is I was so rattled I forgot to ask for the security tapes of my room.”

  “There are none.”

  “But there was a camera.”

  “Never operational. New laws. No tapes.”

  Cassie was flummoxed. She felt the air go out of her lungs. The tapes would have proven that the nurse out of the last century was inside her room.

  “I think I was being watched.”

  “Nonsense.” She said it as if it were fact, that anything untoward that Cassie may have felt or seen was paranoia and hallucinations. “The only ones watching you were the nurses who were assigned to you, and then not by camera. Only in person. We have hallway monitors and cameras, of course, but nothing in the patient rooms.”

  “So if a nurse or doctor or aide slipped something they shouldn’t into my IV or food or whatever, there would be no record of it?”

  “Not by camera. But we’d know from your monitors or lab results.”

  “It might be too late then.”

  “Too late?”

  “If someone put something in my meds and I, you know, ended up dying.”

  Dr. Sherling sighed audibly. “But you didn’t die.”

  “Of course not. That was just a hypothetical situation.”

  “All of our staff members, including Ms. Unger, go through rigorous background checks before they’re hired. Is that the reason you called so late on my private number?”

  Didn’t she know that everything in Cassie’s life was an emergency? “I know it’s not life a
nd death, but I need to know some things. Does anyone on the staff ever dress in uniforms from the past?”

  “What?”

  “Like the uniforms nurses used to wear,” Cassie went on doggedly.

  “Not the scrubs they have on most of the time, but the outfits with heavy white shoes and white stockings and white dresses. Sometimes pointed caps and a blue cape.”

  There was a long hesitation, then finally, very seriously, “Why are you asking?”

  The truth would not help her cause. “Just curious.”

  “There has to be a reason, and it has something more than curiosity behind it.”

  “I thought I saw someone wearing an outfit like that one night.”

  Another weighty pause. “I think we should talk about this in a session. In the office. If you’re having hallucinations again, then—”

  “I’m not hallucinating. She was there. In my room. In that uniform, and she even left an earring.”

  “An earring?”

  “Yes! Red. In the shape of a cross.”

  “And you know it was hers?”

  That stopped her. Was it possible that someone else could have dropped it?

  “Most of the nurses wear earrings.”

  Had she seen the earrings on an actual caregiver at the hospital and then created them in her nightmarish dream? No, no, no. Steven Rinko had seen the nurse, too. He even knew the kind of car she drove and . . . but he suffered from delusions and hallucinations and boundary difficulties between what was real and what wasn’t.

  Cassie’s throat went dry. She didn’t know what to say. Had she really put all her faith in a genius of a boy who often lived in a fantasy world?

  “Listen, Cassie.” Dr. Sherling’s voice was soft again. Kind and caring. Or so it sounded. “Call my office in the morning. I’ll tell the staff I want to see you and they’ll fit you in tomorrow after rounds. I really do think it would be a good thing if we talked again. About your treatment. If not in the hospital then outpatient.”

  All the spit dried in Cassie’s mouth. The doubts that were always with her assailed her again and she heard herself saying, “I will.”