by Lisa Jackson
He gave her the exact address and she said, “I’ll be there in fifteen, maybe sooner.” Leaning over, she found her boots where she’d left them, pulled them on, and zipped them up.
“For once traffic shouldn’t hold you up.”
She located her service weapon, slid it into her shoulder harness, then slipped on her jacket. “I’m on my way.” Another murder? The victim left with a mask of Jenna Hughes? This time in Portland? What the hell was this all about? She slipped her phone into a pocket and sped down the stairs, her boots clattering loudly on each of Edwina’s marble steps. At the front closet, she snagged her raincoat, then took another half flight of stairs to the garage. Her mind was as clear as if she’d had a shot of caffeine administered by a syringe right into her veins. On the fly she slapped first the button to open the garage, then the second one, to do the same for the gates.
She was in her little Ford and starting down the hill before the garage door had locked back into place again.
Ignoring the speed limit, she sped down the winding streets of Portland’s West Hills. Traffic was nearly nonexistent, the beams of her headlights cutting through the darkness to catch on the beady eyes of a raccoon that stopped to stare a second before waddling into the thick laurels that surrounded the neighboring estates. Soon the shrubbery and manicured grounds of the houses upon the hills gave way to the edges of the city where apartments rose, traffic lights glowed, and the energy of Portland pulsed around her. The rain was ever-present, her wipers working overtime. As she neared the waterfront, more cars and a few pedestrians were out, braving the rain in the very early morning hours.
Her thoughts were on the victim, crime scene, and killer. Who had done this? Why? What possible motive was behind this newest homicide? It didn’t take a great leap of intuition to know the crimes were linked. Lucinda Rinaldi had been shot on this very street, and there was the mask again. What point was the killer trying to make? She couldn’t help but feel that the murderer was taunting them by leaving a clue, toying with the cops and playing that psychological I’m Smarter Than All of You game. Or maybe, he or she was just whacked out, acting out some kind of inner fantasy.
Like someone who might have been a patient in a mental ward? Like Cassie Kramer, who so recently waltzed out the door of Mercy Hospital?
“Keep an objective point of view. Look over the facts,” she said, not realizing she’d actually voiced her inner thoughts out loud. Now who’s mental? God, she needed to get a dog or cat or some other living thing to talk to. Her jaw slid to the side and she cranked the wipers up a notch.
Frustrated, she drove around a final corner and spied three cruisers, lights flashing, blocking a section of the street. Another two were parked at the far end where already a news van was pulling up to the curb. Good. Maybe the press would be able to help this time. She squeezed her car into a spot marked as a loading zone, ignored the sign, climbed out of her car, and flipped up her hood. At the barricade blocking off the street she met a cop who looked about twenty-two and who went by the book, page by page, letter for letter. She showed him her badge, then crossed a string of yellow tape.
In a rainproof jacket and baseball cap, Double T was crouched near the body of a woman sprawled upon the street. She lay half on the sidewalk near a parking meter, her shoulders raised slightly on the curb, her legs stretched onto the pavement.
“So this is our girl?” she asked, and Double T turned his head to look up at her.
“Brandi Potts. Hit from behind.”
Leaning closer, Nash studied the victim. She appeared to be about five foot six or seven. Her face was serene in death, her long hair, clamped back in a ponytail, appeared a deep red, darker because of the rain. Her body was lean and fit, dressed in tight gray running gear with reflective piping. Rings decorated her hands, some of them diamonds, but the third finger on her left hand was bare. “Single?”
“Still checking.”
“Out for a late-night run? Or is she one of those super-early risers?” Jesus, who would jog at this hour in a rainstorm? An idiot. Or a very dedicated runner.
“Looks like.”
“Alone?”
“We’re still sorting that out. Appears that way, but you’d think she wouldn’t go alone at this time of night.”
“You’d think.”
“As I said, we’ve got a couple of uniforms checking out her apartment to see if anyone’s home. Thought you and I might roll over there.”
Nash stared down at the victim’s face, a beautiful face, a young face, wet with the rain. As always, Nash felt an overwhelming sense of despair when she viewed a young life taken by another. The senselessness of it all. She wondered at the psyche of human beings. Who would shoot this woman? Her gaze traveled from Brandi Potts’s face to her torso and the thick, dark stain beneath her, staining her tight running jacket.
As if reading her thoughts, Double T said, “Found this searching for shell casings.” He held up a small canister that winked in the weak lamplight.
“Mace?”
“Pepper spray.”
“It was hers?” She nodded toward the dead woman.
“Won’t know until we fingerprint it. Maybe not then. Waiting for the crime scene guys.” He glanced down the street. “Where the hell are they? Shoulda been here by now.”
“What about the ME?”
“On his way, too.” Double T looked down at the body again. “Looks like the shooting occurred less than half an hour ago. That’s according to the witnesses, and the body’s still warm.”
So less than an hour ago, this woman was alive. Until someone decided to change all that. Nash’s gut tightened. “I’ll want to talk to any witnesses. Keep them here.” She looked again at the corpse, lips blue, skin ashen. “Where’s the mask?”
“In my car. The first responders had the presence of mind to take pictures before removing it. They had to take it off to try to save the vic, but she was gone already.”
“Forensics isn’t going to like it.”
“Too bad.” He walked her to his Jeep and she noticed a small crowd was gathering around the barricades, people milling as near to the scene as they could get, vultures wearing rain hats and hoods, sweatshirts and slickers, even a couple with umbrellas, all twisting their necks to catch a peek.
“We need a shot of the people who’ve come out in the rain to get a look.”
“Already got an officer on it.”
“It’s amazing that many people are up.”
“Big city. Night dwellers.”
“Well, I want to know who they are, what they saw.” The story was definitely breaking as a reporter and cameraman were already talking to the by-the-book cop, trying to get information. Looking up, Nash saw lights from the surrounding apartments coming to life, the occupants inside standing at the windows or on the decks. A second news van arrived and was trying to wedge into a parking spot. “Looks like we’re having a damned party here.”
“You know this is always how it is.” Unruffled by the looky-loos who bugged the crap out of Nash, Double T unlocked his vehicle, then reached onto the front seat and withdrew a plastic envelope. He handed it to Nash.
Through the clear plastic, she viewed the image, which was, as Double T had said, a warped, laminated picture of Jenna Hughes cut into a mask, complete with an elastic band. Jenna’s eyes were missing, the two jagged black holes that remained only making the bizarre image appear more evil. “Jesus,” Nash whispered as she flipped the envelope over and saw that on the back of the mask, just as Double T had said, was a single word scrawled wildly in red letters: Mother.
The meaning was obvious.
“So Jenna Hughes is Cassie and Allie Kramer’s mother. Allie’s missing, but Cassie’s back in the area.”
Double T nodded. “Yep.”
Her eyes narrowed on the back of the mask and the stark clue. “Makes you wonder.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hopefully, the killer left prints.”
“Yep. We�
��ll look into it.”
“Does Jenna Hughes have any other kids?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What about any other family members who are on the outs with her or jealous of her and her daughters? Someone with a grudge. A major grudge.”
“Again, unknown.”
“We should double-check.”
He nodded, rain dripping from the brim of his cap just as the ME’s van arrived. A second later the forensic team’s vehicle appeared. “Showtime,” she said, handing the plastic case back to her partner.
“Let’s talk to the witnesses.”
He locked the mask in his Jeep again, then hitched his chin to a heavy-set woman of about fifty. Pale as death, she was bundled in a ski jacket, jeans, and boots. She held an oversize umbrella aloft even though she stood under the awning of a store whose window display was filled with baby clothes and toys.
“Not a native,” Nash observed, and ignored a sharp little pang when she noticed a pink raincoat and matching boots in the window. Quickly, she moved her gaze, turning her attention to the witness.
“Peggy Gates. Just moved here from Phoenix.”
“Big change.”
“Yep. She’s recently divorced and living temporarily with her sister. Unit 806-B at the Jamison,” he said, indicating a building that rose at least fifteen stories. “Anyway, she says she couldn’t sleep, walked out on the balcony to look upriver. They’ve got a view of the Marquam and Hawthorne bridges, I guess. But ‘something’ on the street below caught her eye. Probably movement. She didn’t actually see the attack, but noticed a woman running toward the river, that direction.”
“She’s certain it was a woman?”
“No. She admitted it might be a small, thin man with long, dark hair, but the way the person moved, she’s leaning toward a female.”
Nash let her gaze follow along the path Gates had described.
“From her balcony, Gates could only see the victim’s head, but she realized the person needed help, so she hurried downstairs to check it out and flipped out when she saw the mask.”
“She didn’t call nine-one-one immediately?”
“She had to run back upstairs for her phone. Then she called. But by then she heard sirens heading this way.”
“The bouncer called it in.”
“Right.”
“The guy next to her, I’m guessing.”
“Bingo.”
Standing a few feet from Gates was a burly African-American man who stood over six feet tall. His head was shaved and earrings glittered in the lamplight. In the driving rain he was bareheaded and wearing only a thin jacket over jeans and a black T-shirt. With his muscular arms folded over his chest, he looked like a black version of Mr. Clean.
“Conrad Jones,” Double T said. “Works down at The Ring, three blocks east.”
“Guess I’d better talk to them.”
As she walked to the small group beneath the awning, she thought again about the mask and the word Mother scrawled over its back. It seemed like a too-obvious clue pointing toward either Allie or Cassie Kramer.
An icy drop of rain slid down her neck and she shivered. It definitely felt like she was being played, and Detective Rhonda Nash didn’t like it one bit.
“In here.”
Trent’s voice stopped Cassie cold.
She’d prayed he was asleep as she stepped through the front door of his house. She was late. Very late. He was obviously waiting up for her in the den.
Cassie had lost track of time. Again. Worse yet, she didn’t know where she’d been. She remembered feeling as if she’d seen Allie and then following the bus and then . . . nothing. She couldn’t remember leaving the city, merging onto I-84 to head east. Somehow, she’d maneuvered her way back to Falls Crossing and Trent’s ranch, but she’d zoned out, driving by rote, her gas tank nearly as drained as the battery of her mobile phone.
She’d finally snapped out of her reverie or whatever it was and become aware of where she was when she’d turned onto the lane leading to this farmhouse and parked near the garage. Then, gathering her courage and hoping Trent was fast asleep, she’d dashed through the storm to the wide porch, getting soaked in the process.
She’d been careful of the door, winced when she heard it creak, and then had been greeted by Trent’s low voice.
Now she closed the door behind her.
A low woof from the den followed by clicking toenails on hardwood told Cassie that she’d woken the dog as well. She’d hoped to sneak in quietly, not waking either man or beast. It looked like she failed on both counts.
Hud appeared in the doorway to the den, his tail wagging wildly and thudding against the jamb when he saw her. Wriggling, he sidled up to greet her with happy little yips. “Late, huh?” She bent down to pat his soft head. “Yeah. You’re a good boy,” she assured the dog, then straightened. Her hair was wet, her jeans damp, and the cold seemed to seep all the way to her bones.
She walked into the den. Trent was seated on the couch. No lamps had been lit and the television was dark. The only light came from the dying embers of the fire.
“You waited up?”
“Yeah.” He was pissed.
“You didn’t need to—”
“Didn’t I?” he snapped, his face in shadow. “When all hell’s been breaking out? If you haven’t noticed, people all around you have been disappearing or assaulted or killed.”
“Still.”
“Still what? I shouldn’t have worried? Is that what you’re saying?” He climbed to his feet and for a second a bit of firelight reflected in his eyes. “Hell yes, I waited up. More than that, I tried to chase you down.”
She felt her heart sink.
“What was I supposed to do? You wouldn’t answer my calls. And when you finally texted that you were on your way home, I came back here.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced pointedly at the digital display of the time on the television. “That was hours ago.”
“I . . . I know.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Driving around. Thinking,” she hedged as he crossed the short distance between them. What could she say that didn’t sound like a lie or whacked or both? How could she explain losing two hours?
“In the middle of the damned night? When people have been killed?”
“In LA. Lucinda was—”
“Lucky,” he cut her off. He was towering over her, his face etched with concern. “If you can call it that. She could have died just as easily. What were you thinking?”
“My cell phone was nearly dead.”
“Nearly.”
“I thought I should save it for an emergency.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. Warm, strong hands. Deeply worried eyes. “This is a fucking emergency. You’re living it.”
She wanted to argue, started, then thought better of it. “Okay. All right. I should have called.”
She could see him struggle to rein in his own ragged emotions. He dropped his hands and took a step back. “So why the hell did you meet Brandon McNary? I thought you didn’t like the son of a bitch.”
“I didn’t. I don’t.”
“Then why? What information did he have that was so all-fired important that you had to go racing off in the middle of the night?”
She crossed the room and put some space between them as she stood before the glass door of the wood stove and felt the heat radiating, warming the back of her legs. “He thought he’d seen Allie, in Oregon City, and of course he couldn’t get near to her. When he tried to chase her down? Poof!” Cassie snapped her fingers. “She was gone.”
“Big surprise,” he said sarcastically.
“And then he got this text that he thought was from her. It came from an untraceable cell phone.”
Trent’s eyes seemed to bore into her and she shifted slightly.
“All it said was ‘I’m okay.’ ”
He waited, then asked, “That
’s it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The text could have come from anyone.”
“He’s convinced it was from Allie.”
“Someone’s just messing with him,” Trent said, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. He was close enough to touch her again, but didn’t reach forward.
“That’s what I told him.”
“Or he’s messing with you.”
“I suppose.”
“He could have sent the text to himself from a burner phone he bought. It wouldn’t take a genius for him to leave his real cell at his place, drive ten miles away, to like, oh, I don’t know, Oregon City? Then he could call himself so that if the police ever got involved, they could trace the ping from a tower there. They might think the message was legit. As long as no one saw him or his vehicle, he’d be home free.”
Cassie thought about the older Chevy Tahoe Brandon had been driving. Definitely not his style.
Trent added, “Or he could have had someone else make the call, then toss the phone into the river near the falls. The fact that he got a text from someone doesn’t mean it was Allie.”
“I know. I essentially told him the same thing.” She was finally starting to warm up.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that he lured you to leave, told you to not tell anyone, right? Why not go to the police? Why target you?”
“He knows I’m trying to find Allie.”
“So are the cops.” Trent’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either. But Trent, I can’t leave any stone unturned. And I can’t go to the police. Detective Nash already thinks I somehow had something to do with Allie’s vanishing act or . . . or whatever.” She closed her eyes and was suddenly dead-tired and angry as hell. “None of this makes any sense.” She just wanted to collapse and forget about everything. She felt as if she could sleep for hours, maybe even days.
“Hey,” Trent said. “You okay?” He took her hand and made a sound of dismay. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.” She was still chilled but didn’t want to admit it. “Just a little wet.”
“A lot wet.” He smiled faintly in that heartbreaking way that always got to her, touched her at a very private level. Though not exactly Hollywood handsome, Trent Kittle was rugged-looking, almost rangy, his face interesting, his eyes sometimes distant, other times focused sharply, his nose no longer straight, if it ever had been.
