by Lisa Jackson
Cade sucked the ice water through the straw, soothing his parched tongue and throat. As his memory returned with a slow clarity, he recalled the fuckup at the stakeout, how he’d given in to temptation with Kayleigh, and how he’d almost let his marriage go.
What had he been thinking?
“My wife?” he said, but the nurse had disappeared through the door again. Of course Rachel knew he was here. She would have been the first one notified. He thought to call her but his damned cell phone wasn’t anywhere in sight, and the old landline phone sat across the room on the windowsill. Pushing his palms into the mattress, he tried to sit up, get up, get to the phone. But failed. He was sleepy again. Succumbing to the pain medication. He closed his eyes and was gone again.
When he reopened them, it seemed like a moment had passed, but he sensed more time than he imagined had lapsed.
Someone squeezed his hand.
He blinked.
Kayleigh, her green eyes dark with guilt, her face pale. “So you decided not to leave us after all,” she said. “You scared the hell out of me. Out of all of us.” She cleared her throat. “I . . . I . . . shit, I don’t know what to say. I made a mistake. Nope, I made a lot of them last night. I, um, I’m sorry. God, so sorry.”
He paused a second, then had to ask, “Is Rachel here?”
Her eyes slid away. “Not sure. But she’s been called.”
He wondered if she’d show up. Their last fight . . .
“So, seriously,” she said, clearing her throat. “How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”
“I think I’m on pretty good meds. Just can’t move much. I need to get up and—”
“Don’t think so, Detective.” She attempted to put on a brave face, lighten things up. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got doctor’s orders to stay put.” Her auburn hair, which she usually pulled back, hung down loose and thick now, falling onto the hospital gown over his chest as she leaned in. “You stay where you are and follow every single doctor’s order, Ryder. You just scared the hell out of me, and I’m going to make it my personal mission to make sure you take it easy until you’re back to one hundred percent.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Too bad. Already decided.” Some of her guard had fallen away and he witnessed a deeper emotion in her eyes, something neither one of them wanted to acknowledge.
“Kayleigh, don’t,” he whispered just as the door to the room opened and Rachel appeared, looking frazzled and rushed, her jacket billowing, her dark hair springing from its ponytail.
Everything about her said: I’m here for you. I dropped everything. I rushed over.
But in the next heartbeat the intense desperation in her eyes gave way to shock and pain as she took in the scene.
Kayleigh dropped his fingers as if they’d burned her.
“What the hell?” Rachel whispered, her eyes wide.
“I was just leaving.” Kayleigh started for the door.
“Cade?” Rachel said, then shook her head slowly as Kayleigh’s footsteps echoed down the hallway.
“Hey, Rach.” He almost added, I know this looks bad, which was the truth, or It’s not what you think, which was a little bit of a lie, all things considered, but he didn’t want to stoop to clichés.
“Hey, Cade,” she responded, not getting too close to the bed, her chin set, her gaze damning. “You take care, okay?” And then she’d turned and left.
They’d tried to patch things up. He’d moved back home, but their marriage had never been the same. A few months after the shooting, once he’d been on his feet again, he had quit his job with Chinook County and taken this job with the Edgewater PD. He’d hoped to create a more normal life. He’d thought that he would be able to repair the cracks in his marriage, that he would become an active father on a more regular schedule.
Six months after the shooting, Rachel had asked him to move out, though she seemed to think he was the one who wanted to separate. Again. Theirs had never been an easy, steady union. She’d filed for divorce. He hadn’t fought it.
And he’d learned the hard way that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
CHAPTER 22
It was late.
Ned should just shut off the damned TV and go to bed.
But he knew he wouldn’t sleep.
Not that he ever did.
Instead he tossed the newspaper he’d been reading into the trash, then walked to the kitchen, delved into the refrigerator, and cracked another beer. Over the sink, where several dirty plates and a couple of glasses resided, he looked out the window at the dark yard, but all he saw was the headline, in bold type, burned into his brain:
TWENTY-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY STILL HAUNTS TOWN
“You bet it does,” he said to himself and saw the ghost of his reflection. He noticed that his jawline wasn’t as tight as it had been and he scowled, then looked past the watery image to watch a stray cat tiptoe along the boney laurel that marked the edges of the yard. The scrawny thing sniffed the night air and cast a thin shadow in the fake light from Ned’s back porch.
He took a long swallow from his can, then snapped the blinds shut.
The night of Luke’s death had changed his life forever. Changed Melinda’s and Rachel’s, too.
Disturbed, he walked back to his sparse living room and retrieved the paper, stared down at the smaller print.
WHO KILLED LUKE HOLLANDER?
“Jesus,” he whispered, and it was half prayer as he remembered that night, the confusion of the dark interior of the cannery, the kids shouting and running, firecrackers or something going off and, of course, gunfire.
A genuine clusterfuck, if ever there had been.
He felt a deep sadness and more than a little guilt for how he’d handled the situation, first cop on the scene and the one who had ultimately helped his daughter into the back of a squad car.
It seemed like a million years ago.
And it seemed like yesterday.
He’d hoped it would slowly disappear, the pain subsiding, time dulling its edges, and it had. Until now. Until the renewed interest due to the article.
And not just one.
A series.
“Great,” he muttered, scratching his chin. “Just great.” That night had killed whatever hope he’d had of repairing his faltering marriage. Luke’s death had shattered Melinda. The fact that her daughter had been accused of the murder had caused an emotional chasm so deep, no amount of penance, tears, or family counseling had been able to bridge it.
And really, who could blame Melinda, he wondered as he settled into his recliner in his small living room. Certainly not he. No, Ned Gaston, the cop who had put her first husband away on assault charges, a man she’d thought was her hero, had certainly proved himself fallible, or worse. Melinda had learned that sorry fact too little, too late.
And so their marriage had died, along with her son.
Another swallow and he told himself again that he should give up the booze, but hell, it was only beer and light beer at that.
If he could change things, God knew he would. His connections to what remained of his family, his daughter and grandkids, were frail at best and sometimes seemed to be unraveling.
Probably his fault.
He needed to try harder. Hadn’t Rachel told him that over and over again, that if he wanted to know his grandkids he needed to make an effort? Harper would graduate from high school next year, was about the same age Rachel had been when Luke had died. And Dylan, that kid was only a couple of years behind. It was probably already too late.
“Shit.” Another deep swig.
He’d observed that Melinda and Rachel had a decent if far from perfect relationship. All things considered, that was more than he could ask for.
Melinda still blamed him for Luke’s death. He knew that. He’d heard her arguments: Ned should have been around, more invested in the marriage and family. Ned should have been more of a positive influence on Luke as his biological father
was an ass-wipe and a felon. Ned should have been more of a hands-on father to Rachel, more of a loving, faithful husband to her. Maybe then her kids wouldn’t have lied to her, Melinda had rationalized, maybe they wouldn’t have been at the cannery that night, maybe the tragedy that had ripped their lives apart would have been averted.
“Maybe,” he said, pointing his remote at the oversized flat-screen.
But he didn’t believe it for a second.
He wondered if the article in the newspaper would stir any interest in the police department. Probably not. The case had been long forgotten.
Until now.
Shit.
He didn’t like that pot being stirred. His family, fractured as it was, couldn’t take the hit.
Nor could he.
He hesitated a second, staring at the TV as the late-night host interviewed some beautiful young star he didn’t recognize, then reached into the side pocket of his chair and pulled out his laptop. Unbeknownst to anyone currently working in the department, he could still access the Edgewater PD database.
Before he’d retired, he’d dated the secretary/computer whiz for a while. He’d spent a lot of time with her at the office, then later after hours, often at her house. He’d found passwords that were long out of date, but had learned how to access her account and knew where she kept her list of user names and passwords. Whenever he was blocked, he logged in as if he were she, remotely, and checked her own password manager and, presto, he was in. He felt a little bad about using Donna as he had, but a guy had to do what a guy had to do.
He finished his beer, crushed the can, tossed it into the trash along with the newspaper, and logged in as D.J. Larimer in the department and tried the latest password she’d concocted using a combination of her mother’s birth date, a symbol, and an old family pet’s name. He entered 19Rosco46* and was in. A smile crept across his jaw, and not for the first time he was thankful that the sleepy little police department was small enough not to have up-to-the-second technology. At least so far. He started searching and, as the late-night host paused for a commercial break, whispered, “Thank you, Donna Jean.”
* * *
Cade rubbed the kinks from the back of his neck as he stared at his ex-wife’s cottage. So far, the night had been quiet and he wondered if he was wasting his time. He checked his watch. Almost two. He’d give it another two hours, then go home and sleep for a few before work. He was used to little sleep and was fortunate enough to be someone who could catch up on hours lost by logging in more hours the next night.
So far.
He kept telling himself that the text Rachel had received might have been in error or some kind of stupid prank, but why the message “I forgive you”? Didn’t make sense. And the vandalism on the door? That, too, could be a nasty prank spurred by the article in the newspaper; God knew there was a lot of hate to go around these days. He wondered if Frank Quinn was involved—and was that even his real name? Had he been at Rachel’s house? With the dog? Or was that a cover? Was Quinn the person who’d marred the door? If so, why?
He slouched in the pickup. Then there was Violet Sperry’s murder. Who would kill Violet and why now?
He kept coming back to the article in the newspaper and the twentieth anniversary of Luke Hollander’s murder.
Were all the events, including that long-ago homicide, connected?
He didn’t know, and it didn’t seem likely.
Yet the murder, vandalism, and weird text had happened over a matter of only a few days.
Coincidence?
He didn’t think so.
He would contact Kayleigh in the morning and see how her investigation was going, and then talk to Richard Moretti, the doctor who had declared Luke DOA at the hospital. And while he was at it, he needed to talk to Ned Gaston, his ex-father-in-law. Ned wouldn’t want to talk about the long-ago murder of his stepson, or the fact that his only child had been the primary suspect in the homicide, but if the events were somehow related, and they seemed so, then Cade would need Ned’s insights. Like it or not, Rachel’s old man had been first on the scene.
He yawned, leaned back, and felt his cell phone vibrate. Glancing at the screen, he saw Ed Nowak’s name and number as he answered.
“Ryder.”
“Nowak here. I’m down at St. Augustine’s,” he said curtly, all business. “You’d better get down here. We’ve got a victim. Deceased. Homicide. Strung up on a bell rope and blindfolded.”
“What?”
“There’s more. Hell, Cade, your daughter and her friend discovered the woman.”
Harper? “Wait—what?” He glanced back at Rachel’s cottage. “My daughter?” But that was impossible. Harper was right here, in that house . . .
“That’s what I said. She’s here with a young man. Xander Vale. They are both fine. Got that? Your kid is okay.”
Cade threw another look at the house. No way would Rachel have let Harper be with that kid at two in the damned morning. And on a school night... Wait. Oh Jesus. “Who is it? The victim?”
“Still working on that.”
“But Harper’s okay?”
“Yeah. Didn’t I just say that? She’s gonna be okay.”
“Fuck.” He was already starting his truck while dread seeped through his guts. “I’ll be there in ten.”
He made it in seven and parked half a block away from the school complex as the street was cordoned off. Police cars, lights flashing, blocked one entrance to the street, while another was barricaded at the far corner. In between, taking up a full city block, was the St. Augustine property and the two-story building owned by his father. Only a parking lot separated the two. An older Jeep had been parked against the aging plank fence while two rescue vehicles had been backed to the gate.
What the devil had Harper gotten herself into?
Cade was out of his truck in an instant and running to a spot where a huge gate to the school yard hung open, the chain that had held it closed now broken.
Inside the complex, he found Nowak huddled with several other people, one he recognized as his own daughter. “What the hell happened here?” he demanded and Harper seemed to shrink. Xander Vale, one arm draped over Harper’s shoulders, stood rigid, his face white, his demeanor grim.
“Daddy!” Harper flung herself into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Shh. It’s okay,” he said, holding her close, knowing he was lying. Whatever had happened here, it was not okay. Definitely not okay.
“But I saw it. I saw her . . . oh, God! It’s horrible!”
“Shh. Slow down.” Wrapping his arms around her, he breathed into her hair. “It’ll be all right, just calm down, okay?” He waited for her body to quiet, the sobs to slow, the tears to stem.
“But she’s dead. She’s dead.” Harper was shaking. “They couldn’t save her.” Crying, hiccuping, and sobbing nearly hysterically, Harper clung to him. “We tried to save her. We did. Really. Xander cut her down. But it was too late.” Her voice was a squeak, and as Cade held her, he stared over Harper’s head to Vale, whose jaw was clenched. Though Vale appeared to wish he was anywhere else in the whole damned world, he stood his ground while other police personnel and rescue workers moved through the dark school yard. Their flashlight beams cut swaths of illumination over the mounds of dirt and broken equipment.
Cade’s gaze narrowed on Vale. “What happened?”
“It’s like she said—”
“From the beginning,” Cade cut in, and the kid stiffened.
“These two,” Nowak said, hooking a finger at Harper and Xander, “heard moaning, came to investigate, and ended up finding a woman hanging upside down from the ropes of the bell tower. Gruesome, just like she said. Look, I called Voss, too. She’s inside.”
“Good.”
“I figured—”
“That because my kid found the body, someone with a little more perspective should be involved.”
“Yeah.”
Cade didn’t blame him.
Protocol. No blurred lines. Not like Ned Gaston handling a case involving his stepson and daughter.
Nonetheless he needed answers. Cade stared straight at Vale. “I want to hear it from you. Start with how you got here.”
“It’s my fault,” Vale said.
“Your fault?” Hell, was the kid going to confess?
“Whoa. Not about what happened, but that we’re here,” the kid clarified, obviously stricken at his choice of words. He held up a hand. “I mean it’s my fault because I talked Harper into sneaking out. We met at the corner of Height and Grange a little after midnight, I think. We texted and I picked her up and brought her up to . . . to my apartment.” He hooked a finger to the building next door where the law offices of Charles H. Ryder were housed.
Cade felt sick inside. He knew that apartment. Well.
“We just got there when we heard something, someone crying for help. So we came over here, climbed the fence, and found her in the chapel. She was hanging facedown and . . . suffering.”
“It was awful!” Harper said, her voice high.
“Yeah.” Xander Vale was nodding, his expression grim. “I cut her down and Harper called nine-one-one. They got here fast.”
“Not fast enough,” Nowak said. “She was too far gone. The EMTs worked on her, but it was too late.”
“Anyone know who she is? ID?”
Nowak nodded. “Phone and driver’s license in her back pocket. Annessa Cooper. Got a car registered to Clint Cooper, a Mercedes, parked two blocks over on Chinook.” Nowak looked at him. “Must be the husband. Isn’t he part of some financial group buying up properties around here? I read about it. Like from Seattle or Tacoma or someplace up there?”
“Yeah. I think so,” Cade said slowly, his gaze moving to the spire of the chapel, his stomach turning a little. The name meant something to him. “Annessa was local. Originally from here. Last name of Bell.” Was it possible? Another classmate of Rachel’s, an alumni of Edgewater High, murdered? Within a week of Violet Sperry’s death?
