Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

“Okay, that would have been a problem.”

  “To put it mildly.”

  “But did you? See me?”

  “Well . . . no . . .”

  “And wouldn’t you have recognized my pickup?”

  “In the dark? Probably. But I still would have ended up pissed.”

  He actually grinned. “One of your most endearing qualities.”

  “You are a bastard. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s A-one bastard. But yeah.”

  God, she hated it when he was being charming, or self-deprecating or clever. And she didn’t like thinking that the beard shadow on his face was actually kind of sexy. As he leaned over her shoulder to look at her computer screen, she saw the way his hair curled near the back of his ear. She’d always found that little whorl intriguing.

  Stop this now!

  * * *

  Harper was pissed.

  What were her parents thinking?

  Ganging up on her?

  Everything in her life was turning to shit and she hated that Xander was so far away. Her heart ached and she kept looking at her phone, hoping he’d text her, but so far, nothing but radio silence.

  It occurred to her that he might just want to break up with her. There were tons of cute girls in college; he didn’t need a high school girl with a lot of problems who lived like a million miles away. Sitting up in bed, she texted him again, hoping that she didn’t appear desperate, which, of course, she was.

  He hadn’t texted since they’d left the police department early this morning and she was dying—dying—to hear from him.

  She’d already called and left two voice messages asking him to call her back, and then there were various texts, which she scrolled through:

  * * *

  The first: That was so awful and bizarre. Where are you? Are you okay?

  Next: Miss U

  An hour later: Is something wrong? Text or IM me.

  Maybe he’d lost his phone or it was out of battery or charging or whatever . . . still she was miserable.

  She’d written again: I heard that you had to move back to Eugene. That sucks!!!

  * * *

  Still nothing. Hours later. It just wasn’t like him. Had the police taken his phone? Had it been lost in the chaos of finding the dying woman at that horrible old church that had become a crime scene? She shuddered thinking of it now.

  For a second she wondered if something had happened to him and her stomach soured at the thought. No, no, no! Xander was tall and smart and . . . he was fine. And probably was just over her. Her heart squeezed and she felt like breaking into a million pieces but didn’t much like that approach.

  No, there had to be another way. Had to be.

  Then, miracle of miracles, he texted back.

  And all her worries and pain disappeared.

  CHAPTER 34

  Cade’s phone rang just as he reached for his third slice of pizza. He had actually taken time to eat dinner with the family, allowing his daughter, who was in a much better mood, to drive to get take-out. Harper had improved since the last time she’d been at the wheel but still seemed to have the same love of speed he did. They had returned home to sit familiarly around the kitchen table as they had for years, each grabbing pieces from two of their favorite pies—meat lover’s versus vegetarian—Dylan devouring slice after slice.

  “Gotta take this,” he said, spying Voss’s number on his phone, then saying into the cell, “I was just about to head back to the office; what’s up?”

  “We know where Hollander lives,” Voss said, all business. “Got hold of his parole officer and he gave me the address, which is an apartment in Astoria. The unit is registered to Denise Aimes, who just happens to be Bruce Hollander’s first cousin.”

  “Let’s go.” He was already out of his chair and heading for the back door. Rachel, who’d sat across from him at the table, was on her feet. “I’ll be at the station in ten. Wait for me.”

  “Make it eight. I want to bust this guy.”

  He clicked off and Rachel, deadly serious, asked, “What?”

  Glancing back at the kids, he said, “Looks like we might have a lead on Hollander.” He looked like he was going to say more, something important, but instead just added, “I’ll let you know. Sit tight.” Both Dylan and Harper were staring at him, the dog still patrolling under the table for any scraps that may have fallen. “You two, stay in tonight.”

  “Like we were going anywhere,” Dylan complained.

  “It’s like a jail here.” Harper’s bad mood had apparently returned.

  “Hopefully not for long.”

  He pulled Rachel onto the back porch, yanked the door shut, and said, “Sit tight. This could be the end of it, but we don’t know. I’ll call you. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t say right now, but when I get back . . .”

  “You’re leaving it like that, teasing me so I can worry?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m handling it.” He winked at her.

  Her eyes were filled with concern, but as she attempted a brave smile, he couldn’t help himself. On impulse, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Nothing earth shattering, just a quick, light buzz against her surprised, soft lips.

  “Stay safe,” he said as he let her go, and she blinked, stepping backward touching her lips.

  He thought she might say something about him kissing her being “not okay,” or “uncool,” or protest in any way she could. Instead she just stared at him as he jogged to his truck, parked in front of the garage, and roared off. “Lock up!” he yelled through the pickup’s open window and then he turned his attention to the street ahead, his focus on finding Hollander. If that prick turned out to be the murderer who was hell-bent on terrifying Cade’s family, it would be all Cade could do not to beat the son of a bitch up one side and down the other.

  * * *

  Voss was waiting outside and motioned to the police SUV they’d driven earlier.

  “I’ll drive!” he yelled as he collected his service weapon from its locked case, slid the pistol into his holster, and grabbed an extra clip, then stepped out of his truck. No way would he be able to stand her puttering along at two miles below the limit. Before she could argue, he was behind the wheel, so she handed him the keys, and by the time she was clicking on her seat belt, he was already driving out of the lot, bouncing over the skirt to the street and hitting the gas. “Tell me what you know,” he said, connecting from the side street to the highway, turning on his lights, and deciding against the siren as he headed west. Dusk was falling, the sun having just set, traffic sparse.

  “According to the parole officer, so far Hollander’s kept his nose clean. Stayed out of trouble.”

  “Yeah, right,” Cade said as he sped toward a slower-moving vehicle, a pickup with a camper attached. He nosed out, saw there was no oncoming traffic, and shot around the long vehicle, then tucked back into his lane but kept up his speed.

  “Goin’ to a fire?” Voss asked, holding on to the armrest.

  “Worse. What about the footage at The Right Spot? And Moretti’s car?”

  “Still unclear. Could be that Hollander was the driver, but maybe not.”

  “And still no sign of Moretti.” Cade’s jaw clenched. He wanted to nail the ex-con, put him away forever and solve this case. It seemed likely as hell that Hollander was out and seeking revenge for the murder of his son.

  Except...

  Why hadn’t he contacted Lucas, his grandson? Wouldn’t that have been a normal thing to do? Lucas was his only grandchild, at least as far as Cade knew, and the only remaining link to Luke. Then again, what was normal about Hollander?

  But why start killing with Violet and Annessa?

  They’re just the first. Could be he’s just warming up.

  The road curved as they approached Astoria, the lights along the riverfront twinkling.

  “South end of town,” Voss said, “before you get to
the roundabout and the bridge over the bay, not the big one over the Columbia.”

  “I know that.” He had to slow through the heart of the town, where taillights and stoplights greeted them. Under the overpass leading to the Astoria-Megler Bridge linking Oregon to Washington, past businesses tucked shoulder to shoulder along the highway, he drove, cars moving to the side when his lights were spotted.

  “There!” She pointed to the cross street that he’d already spotted on the GPS, and he cut across traffic and up the hill for several blocks before Voss pointed to another corner where a rundown two-story apartment complex came into view. Shaped like an L around the parking lot, it was two toned at this point, in the middle of a much-needed paint job.

  Cade checked the lot as he parked. No white Buick. A quick scan of the streets didn’t provide one either.

  He was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

  “Up top. Unit 201, on the end, next to the stairs.”

  “Got it.” Cade got out of the SUV and made his way to the stairs and up the single flight, Voss right behind. He knocked on the door, stood to one side, and waited. His fingers gripped his weapon. Voss already had her own sidearm out of its holster, thumbing off the safety.

  Just in case.

  Footsteps sounded from inside and a dog began to bark loudly, baying as the door swung open and a short, round woman pushing sixty peered through a slim opening held in place by a small chain. She appeared to have just awoken, her graying hair pinned up at odd angles, her eyes squinting behind wire-rimmed granny-type glasses.

  “Denise Aimes?” Cade asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Detective Cade Ryder and this is my partner, Detective Patricia Voss.” She squinted as he pulled out his wallet and showed his badge and ID. “We’re here looking for Bruce Hollander.”

  “Of course you are,” she said sourly over the ruckus the dog was making. “Monty, shut up!” she yelled at the dog, who ignored her. To Cade she said, “I figured you’d show up and so did Bruce. He left early this morning. I wasn’t even up yet, but I heard him tear out of here in that beater of a car of his. And guess what? He left me a present. Monty here. Lucky me.”

  The beagle’s nose appeared in the crack of the partially open door.

  “You have any idea where he may have gone?”

  “None,” she said.

  “Mind if we come in and talk to you?”

  Denise slid a glance at Voss. “Mind if you put your damned gun away? They kinda make me nervous.” But she unhooked the chain. It rattled as it dropped. She opened the door and reminded the dog to stay rather than bolt onto the portico.

  Dressed in a rainbow-colored kimono, she led them three steps into a small living room stuffed with mismatched furniture. “Look, I know you want to know all about Bruce, but I can’t tell you much. He got out of the big house, needed a place to crash, and I said, ‘Okay, but you gotta get a job, pay rent, and be out in two months; that’s what I told him. Well, the only thing he did to keep his promise was to vamoose.” She rolled her eyes and waved them into two overstuffed chairs and fell onto a well-worn couch. Monty kept near the door.

  “Can you tell us where he’s been the last few days? Give us a timeline of when you saw him?”

  “Well, not hardly. You’re lucky you caught me between shifts. During the day I work at Tommy’s Boat Dock, running the register, and four nights a week I waitress down at Barbie’s Ales and Eats in Warranto, across the bay, y’know. Here’s the funny thing about it. Tommy and Barbie, they were married when I was first hired, but they split the sheets a couple of years ago and I still work for the both of ’em.” She laughed at the thought and reached onto the coffee table for her e-cig before lighting up and breathing out a cloud of fragrant vapor that dissipated quickly. “Anyway, most of the time, Bruce was gone, doin’ whatever. He claimed to be lookin’ for a job or meetin’ with his parole officer or . . .” She let the sentence drop as a sudden thought hit her. “Hey, wait a minute. Why’re you here? Is he in trouble? Jesus, I knew I should never have let that SOB in. Bruce has been nothin’ but trouble all his life, but I figured he could use a break. Just call me stupid.” Another big lungful of vapor and Cade got down to business.

  “Have you ever seen him with this man?” he asked, scooting a picture of Nate Moretti across the coffee table.

  “I never seen him with anyone. Like I said, we were like ships passing in the night, only my ship was sailing to work and his . . . God knows.” She picked up the picture of Nate Moretti and frowned, drawing on her e-cig. “This is the guy who’s missin’, right? I seen it on the news.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think Bruce had something to do with that?” As the light dawned, her eyes widened. “Wait a gosh-darn minute. You’re not tryin’ to connect him with those murders, are ya?” She took a long drag on her e-cig. “He wouldn’t do that,” and before Cade could cut in she added in another cloud, “Yeah, I know he had his troubles in his past but that was because he was young and dumb and into drugs and God knows what all, but he’s outgrown that.” She glanced at the dog, who was still in position at the door, nose close to the panels. “I guess Bruce is just into petnapping now. I asked him where he got Monty and he said the local shelter, but that there dog?” She pointed a puffy, blue-tipped finger at the animal. “I’m bettin’ he’s a purebred and he belongs to someone. I used to work as a dog groomer, so I can spot one that’s been loved. And that one there, someone’s missin’ him.”

  “We’re in touch with the owner,” Voss said.

  “Then take him with you when you go.” Aimes eyed the dog. “Monty doesn’t like me much, nor Bruce either. Fussy little thing, that beagle.”

  Cade turned the conversation back to her cousin. “Do you have any idea where Bruce was last Friday night and last night?”

  “Oh, geez . . . I already told ya, I can’t vouch for him all that much—who knew where he went—but, let me think, Friday . . . ?” She thought for a minute, vaping as she did. “Well, hell yeah, I can. I worked an early shift at the restaurant and was home by nine, and wouldn’t ya know, here he was right here on this couch, watchin’ some movie, one of them Rocky movies, maybe number four or five, I think. Not that I really know. How many of them did they make—like ten? Still at it, I think. Anyway, Bruce, he never moved from the couch. I know. I wasn’t feelin’ well, and I went to bed around midnight and there he was, and around one-thirty or two, I got up and got me a glass of water and a couple of Tums in the kitchen and he was still there, the boob tube on. I shut it off and found him in the exact same position at seven the next mornin’, when I got up to go to the bathroom.” She must’ve read Cade’s skepticism, because she added, “Hey, if ya don’t believe me, check with management. They’ve got security tapes of the place.”

  “We will.” He glanced out the window, noted that he could, even from his position, spy a camera tucked under the eave. “So when do you expect Bruce to return?”

  “Haven’t you been listenin’? He’s gone. Outta here. In the wind.” She flipped a wrist to indicate that he’d taken off. “Took his stuff, and maybe some of mine, and got the hell out.”

  “What about a cell phone? Did he have one?”

  “Oh, sure. Course. Who doesn’t? But it was one of those prepaid thingies. He wanted to be on my account with my cell phone company but I said, “No way, Jose! I wasn’t gonna get tied up with him financially, let me tell you. He may have turned around as far as his flyin’ fists is concerned, but once a deadbeat, always a deadbeat, that’s what I say. That’s why I laid down the law and insisted he get a job.”

  When asked about where he slept, she showed them the spare bedroom, which was used mainly for storage, but had a twin bed with a TV tray next to it, all pushed into one corner. “That’s where he crashed,” she said, pointing with her vaping device to the bed. “Look, I’m pretty sure he won’t be back. He had a backpack with a couple changes of clothes, that cell you were talking about, a shaving k
it that was in the bathroom, and now everything gone.”

  “Can you give us his number?”

  “Sure. But he won’t answer. I’m not even sure the call or text goes through. Probably needs him to pay for more airtime or data or whatever. Don’t really know how it all works, but I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. The man’s never had a pot to piss in, so my guess is the phone is dead until he buys hisself some more minutes or airtime, y’know?” Still she gave them the number, and when they asked about friends, she couldn’t come up with a name. “Oh, he had some guys he talked about who served time, y’know, but no one around here.”

  “How about the car he’s driving?” Voss asked.

  “The Buick? Big boat of a thing. I don’t know where he got it, just showed up in it. Had Idaho plates. He kept saying he was gonna register it, even got some paperwork from the DMV, I think, but he needed an address and I wasn’t about to let him use mine.”

  “Did you see that paperwork?” Cade asked.

  “Yeah.” She scowled, thinking, flipping her e-cigarette end over end between her fingers. “Come to think of it, I might still have it . . . just a sec.” She led them back to the kitchen, where cold coffee looked to be congealing in a glass pot and a pile of dirty dishes stretched from the sink and across a short counter to the stove. “Probably in here.” She opened a small drawer stuffed with junk, rifled through it, then opened a second drawer overflowing with papers, envelopes, and receipts. “Let’s see . . . yeah, here it is.” She handed him the partially filled-out paperwork, and there in black and white was the Idaho license plate and VIN for the old Buick.

  “We’d like to keep these,” Cade said.

  “Sure, fine. I don’t need ’em.” She slid her gaze to the overstuffed drawer. “Probably don’t need half of what’s in there, maybe all of it.”

  “Can you tell me if he ever brought up his son?” Cade asked. “Luke?”

  She frowned, thought about it. “No. Not recently. As far as I know, he’d barely met the kid, maybe just as an infant, and Melinda, that bitch, she didn’t let Luke write to his father or visit him. Never once.”