After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  Frustrated, Nash reminded herself to double- and triple-check the chain of command on the prop gun again. Someone had messed with the weapon. Someone who had access. It seemed a very unlikely coincidence that Allie Kramer’s double had been gunned down on the last day of filming when Allie herself hadn’t been on the set. The actual shooter, Sig Masters, was still on the list of suspects, but from all outward purposes he had no reason to try to kill either Lucinda Rinaldi or either one of the Kramer girls, each of whom, at one time in the script, Nash had learned, was to be the target of the killer in the movie.

  She was missing something, she knew it.

  The obvious link was Cassie Kramer, sister to Allie, daughter of Jenna, but that was just too easy, Nash thought.

  One killing had occurred in LA.

  The next happened in Portland.

  Of course Cassie Kramer had been in the area of each homicide when it had been committed.

  Convenient.

  Others connected to Dead Heat had been up and down the coast.

  It seemed unlikely that there were two killers, so whoever had shot Holly had come to Portland in the last few days and killed Brandi Potts.

  Nash tapped her pencil on her notepad. Every damned lead was guiding her back to Cassie Kramer. She’d been on the set when Rinaldi had been shot, here in Portland on location, she’d been in LA and had drinks with Holly Dennison the night before the woman was murdered, and she was back in Oregon last night when Brandi Potts had been gunned down.

  And, of course, there were the notes on the backs of the hideous masks: Sister. Mother.

  Who else would refer to the women in the pictures as such?

  Someone who wanted to set Cassie Kramer up as the fall guy while he or she had her own reasons for wanting the two women killed? What if the masks were a distraction? What if they were left with the sole purpose of keeping the police guessing and pointing them in the wrong direction? What if there were some other unknown links between the women? An ex-lover? The only witness, Peggy Gates, had said she’d seen a woman or small man running from the scene. Hell, that person, male or female, might not be the shooter. He or she could be a witness to the crime, who ran off or was running for some other reason.

  Except there was another piece of damning evidence that had just come in via e-mail from the traffic department. Nash looked up at her computer monitor to study an image captured by a traffic cam late last night. A woman driving a Honda making an illegal U-turn within half a mile of where the murder took place. The traffic cam had time-stamped the picture at 1:14 AM and the woman behind the wheel of the car registered to her name? None other than Cassie Kramer.

  Cassie was not only in the area, she’d been within blocks of the murder within the time frame that the crime had been committed.

  Yeah, it was harder and harder to think Cassie effin’ Kramer, certified mental case, wasn’t involved with two homicides, one attempted homicide, and her sister’s disappearance.

  Still, it didn’t sit right.

  Disgusted, she threw her pencil onto the desk just as she heard someone outside the opening to her cubicle. As she looked up she found Double T entering her space.

  Somewhere between the middle of the damned night and now, he’d managed to change into fresh jeans, an open-collared shirt, and jacket. In his right hand, he carried a bag with a sticker indicating that he’d stopped at her favorite local deli, located on the opposite side of the next block. In his left, he held a drink carrier with two oversize cups. “Figured you could use something besides bad coffee and ibuprofen.”

  “You’re right.” And to confirm, her stomach growled.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” Pointing at the bag she asked, “What’ve you got?”

  “Vegetarian Delight or some such crap. And a Diet Coke. I know you’re a purist these days and try to avoid soda and sweets and whatever, but go ahead, indulge. Live a little. A little caffeine and pseudo sugar could do you some good.”

  “Or more harm than good, but okay. I’m in.” She needed a kick start and some days all the body cleansing, organic foods, and meatless Mondays got to her, so she broke training. Today just happened to be one of those days.

  Double T set the drinks and white sack on the corner of her desk, then pulled up the visitor’s chair and spread out the lunch. After a morning of bitter coffee, two power bars, and yes, the ibuprofen, the contents of the bag smelled like heaven.

  From the first bite, the toasted sandwich of melted cheese, onions, tomatoes, and avocado topped with some kind of wasabi mayo hit the spot. Washing a bite down with the soda didn’t hurt either. She could almost feel her energy level rise while Double T dug into meatballs, sauce, and melted cheese oozing over a thick slab of bread.

  “Getting anywhere?” he asked, hitching his chin at her notes.

  “Nowhere fast . . . or nowhere slow. Take your pick.” She took another bite. “Forensics isn’t back on the bullets from the victims, but I bet they match. And the lab is still working on trying to find any DNA on the laminated masks, also checking the paper and elastic bands so we can start tracking down anyone who might have bought the products used.”

  “A long shot.”

  “But a shot. Right now I’ll take one from a BB gun fired two miles away.” Another bite. Yeah, she was definitely feeling better. “What about you?”

  “Got a call from Larry Sparks.” At the raise of her eyebrows, he clarified, “Sparks is a lieutenant with the OSP. Get this, he’s been tracking down registrations for a 2007 Hyundai. Santa Fe. An SUV.”

  “And you’re telling me this now . . . why?”

  “He’s doing it as a favor to a friend.”

  She still didn’t get it, but from the smug smile on Double T’s face, this information meant something. “And I, or we, care?”

  “Hmm.” He took another bite followed by a long swallow from his cup. “His friend is Shane Carter.”

  “Jenna Hughes’s husband.” Now he had her attention.

  “Yep. And they’re looking for the vehicle because . . . well, here’s where it gets a little off the grid.” She waited impatiently while he chewed, then he said, “Some kid at the hospital where Cassie Kramer was a patient saw this car in the lot. An unusual car for the lot . . . well, the kid’s unusual, too, knows all sorts of trivia shit and cars are one of his interests. Supposedly he can name any make and model since they were invented, or something like that.” He waved his explanation away, as if it didn’t matter. “Anyway, because Cassie thought someone came into her room and told her that her sister was alive, but you know, left without giving any information, she’s trying to track the woman down.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait. Back up. Why is this the first time we’ve heard about a woman with information about Allie Kramer?”

  “Well, that’s the ‘off the grid’ part. Turns out the woman was wearing an old-time nurse’s uniform, you know, with the stiff cap, white dress, and shoes? And there’s no nurse at the hospital fitting that description.”

  “Of course,” she said dryly, her sandwich temporarily forgotten. “So . . . what’re you saying?”

  “According to Carter—because I talked to him after I got the call from Sparks—Cassie Kramer didn’t want to come off sounding like some kind of a nut.”

  “You mean more of a nut.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

  “So now she’s got the OSP chasing ghosts?” she asked. She picked up her sandwich again.

  “Maybe.”

  “Good use of the taxpayers’ dollars,” she observed.

  “There’s more.”

  “Of course there is. Hopefully not more detective work courtesy of a patient in a mental ward.”

  “Nope. According to Carter, they’re bringing in another mask.”

  “What?” She was raising half the sandwich to her mouth, but stopped. “A mask? Like the ones found on the victims?”

  “That’s right. Of Allie Kra
mer again, and yeah, all messed up. Disfigured.”

  Nash leaned back in her chair, her gaze pinned on her partner, her interest spiked. She felt a little uptick in her pulse. The mask actually linked Cassie to the crimes, was concrete physical evidence. “Why does she have a mask? How did she get it?”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “Get this: She claims it was left in her apartment in California, she found it in a suitcase after she thought her place was broken into.”

  “She file a report?”

  “No. Nothing was taken, nothing disturbed. She’s not really sure when the mask was left in her bag. It was a piece of luggage she hadn’t used for a while, or so she claims. The only reason she thinks it was left when she was in California this last time was because not only did she find it when she started packing up, but somehow the neighbor’s cat had gotten in and was trapped in her place and scared the hell out of her.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait a second. Start over. Tell me the chain of events, I want to get this straight.” Nash pushed the remains of her sandwich aside and grabbed her pencil again before turning over a new page on her tablet. As Double T explained everything he’d heard about Cassie Kramer supposedly finding a mask in her luggage that sounded just like the ones left at the crime scenes, Nash took notes. It didn’t make any sense. If Cassie were the killer, why would she come up with a mask herself? To throw the police off? As yet, information about the masks being left on the victims hadn’t been leaked to the press. The few people who had seen the bodies, witnesses and cops, had so far held their tongues. So how the hell had Cassie Kramer come up with one?

  “This really connects her,” Nash thought aloud.

  “Or makes her a victim?”

  “You mean makes her look like a victim.” Nash was playing devil’s advocate, as Double T’s doubts echoed her own, but she didn’t want to ignore the obvious just on principle or gut feelings.

  “You don’t think she’s a vic?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you’re second-guessing yourself, too.”

  “Just looking at the big picture,” she said, but still had the niggling feeling that something was off. She set her pencil down and rotated the computer monitor so that it was more visible to her partner. “Look who was out cruising late last night and got caught pulling a U-ey.”

  Double T let out a long, low whistle as he stared at the snapshot of Cassie Kramer behind the wheel of a Honda. “Nail-in-the-coffin time. All we need now is a murder weapon with her fingerprints on it.”

  “Or a confession.” She started in on what was left of her sandwich again, but she barely tasted it as her mind was reeling ahead to the interview with Cassie Kramer, the questions she would ask. “This afternoon should be interesting.”

  “Hopefully she doesn’t lawyer up.” He wadded up the waxy paper in which his sandwich had been wrapped and tossed it toward the wastebasket near her desk. Banking off the wall of her file cabinet, he hit the shot. “Two points.” He flashed her a smile. “See, the day’s getting better already.”

  “Is it?”

  “Just wait until we talk to Cassie Kramer,” Double T said as his cell phone jangled and he answered, walking out of her cubicle.

  “I can’t,” Nash said, and it was the truth. She couldn’t wait. And she was a little worried that she’d made a major mistake in not driving out to Falls Crossing and interviewing Cassie immediately. Cassie did have a history of mental issues and probably didn’t want to speak to the cops. Nash didn’t blame her on that one; she was the prime suspect in their case. However, Shane Carter had promised she’d show, so Nash was staking her job on the fact that the ex-lawman would be as good as his word, even if his stepdaughter fought him.

  She drained the rest of her drink and cleaned up the corner of her desk they’d used as a table, then turned back to work. For the moment, her headache was at bay and she was energized again.

  Until Kowalski strolled by. “How’s it goin’?” he asked, poking his head around the corner, the scent of a recent cigarette following him.

  “Goin’.”

  “Heard you caught another one. Dead person linked to the movie, found wearing a fuckin’ mask. Weird shit.”

  “Weird,” she agreed.

  “Forensics find anything?”

  “No report yet.”

  “Prints on the mask?”

  “None that mean anything.”

  “Weird shit,” he said again, and made his way to his desk. He settled behind it and turned to his computer, but his wife’s glamour shot was still staring at her from the corner of his desk. Oh, what she would have done for a door to shut off the sultry pout captured on Marcia Kowalski’s face nearly thirty years earlier. Marcia’s near-blond hair floated all around her face in permed curls, jewelry sparkled under the camera’s lights, and her shoulders were bare as she cast a sultry look over her shoulder. The photograph was fading with the passage of time, Marcia Kowalski was twice the age she’d been in the shot, but still Kowalski kept it framed on his desk. Probably would until he retired. So Marcia would stare at Nash for at least five more years.

  Her cell phone chirped. Whitney Stone’s number appeared. For the fourth time today. Did the woman never rest?

  Without a second thought Nash let the call go to voice mail.

  CHAPTER 30

  Another mask? Cassie stared in horror at the mask of her mother that lay faceup on the table in the interview room at the police department. She physically recoiled from the hideous image. “Oh, God,” she whispered, hand to her mouth, eyes wide. Her stomach felt as if she might heave and yet she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the mask. Jenna’s beautiful face appeared to be melting, her mouth open as if in a silent, terror-riddled scream.

  For a second Cassie couldn’t focus, couldn’t process. The room spun and she held onto the table for support. How could there be more than one of the gut-wrenching, horrid masks?

  Despite the fact it was covered in plastic, the laminated visage of Jenna Hughes seemed to glare at her, those dark, empty eye sockets drilling into Cassie’s soul as it lay on the table between Cassie and Detective Nash. It was all Cassie could do to stay in her seat in the small room furnished only with the scarred but functional table and two uncomfortable chairs. A camera was mounted high on the same colorless wall where a mirror was displayed. On the other side, she realized from all the cop shows she’d watched over the years, was a darkened viewing room where other detectives and maybe a DA were watching her and gauging her reaction.

  “Where—where did you get this?” she managed to whisper.

  “You’ve never seen it before?”

  “No!”

  “And yet you have another mask. The one you brought in.”

  “Yes.” What was she getting at?

  “Similar to this one,” Nash said, pushing yet another piece of paper forward, across the table, closer to Cassie, who actually scooted her chair back an inch. The sheet of paper was a copy of another horrendous, twisted picture of Allie, her eyes missing, her mouth a red curling slash. “This is just a copy, of course. The original is in LA, with the detective who’s investigating Holly Dennison’s murder.”

  “Hayes,” Cassie said, her voice a croak, her stomach threatening to heave. “Detective Hayes. He called. I talked to him.”

  “Briefly.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, her gaze glued to the hideous masks. “Where . . . where did you get these?”

  “You can’t tell me?”

  “No!” Cassie said.

  “You’re sure?” Nash was so damned calm. Cassie was suddenly claustrophobic, the walls seeming to shrink.

  “Of course I’m sure. I’ve never seen those two before in my life. I thought . . . I mean I believed I had the only one. Where did you . . . where did you get these?” she asked, her voice strangled, her mind whirling. What the hell was going on here? What was with all the masks? Why would the police have them?

  “These were found on the victims.”
/>   “What?” Cassie’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t understand.” She didn’t want to.

  “On the bodies. Placed over their heads. Both here and in LA, when they were killed on nights you were in both cities.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” She felt the blood drain from her face. “I don’t understand.” This was making no sense at all. Why in God’s name would anyone go to the trouble to leave the masks on the dead women? And why was the detective staring at her so intently, as if she expected Cassie to tell her something new, offer up more information? Or . . . Jesus God, was she waiting for some kind of confession? No . . . that couldn’t be it. Sweat broke out between her shoulder blades.

  “How well did you know Brandi Potts?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Did you ever see her?”

  “I—I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?” Nash’s gaze was hard. Scrutinizing.

  “Well, maybe on the set? That last day? But I don’t remember her.”

  Nash slid another piece of paper forward, the picture of a pretty woman with red hair and sharp features. “This is Brandi Potts.”

  Cassie stared down at the photo and shook her head. “I might have seen her. But really, I don’t remember.”

  Another picture was pushed over the top of the first, the same woman, staring upward, her face ashen, her open eyes with a fixed gaze. She was obviously dead.

  “Jesus,” Cassie whispered and her stomach roiled. Spit collected in her mouth and she had to look away. “I don’t remember her.”

  Nash hesitated a minute, then said gently, as if they were good friends,“Why don’t you tell me how you found the mask that you brought in?”

  “I thought I already did.” Cassie wasn’t going to be fooled by the sudden shift in attitude. Rhonda Nash was anything but her friend. She set her jaw and stared right back at the detective. She explained again about discovering the mask in her suitcase after being scared to death by the cat and feeling that someone had been in her apartment. After a few clarifying questions, Nash steered the conversation to the previous night.