by Lisa Jackson
It wasn’t as if he’d really intended to kill Luke . . . or had he? Is that what a crumbling marriage had done? Guilt gnawed at his soul. It was more than that. More than a wayward teen rebelling and telling him things like “You’re not my real father.” No, that was an excuse, and when he’d followed the kids to the cannery that night, intent on dragging him home, he was loaded for bear. Because of what he’d discovered, because he knew that Luke . . . holy God, he should never have pulled the trigger; he should have just dressed the kid down and hauled both of them out of there. But fueled by a couple of gin and tonics and the knowledge that his whole life was crumbling, he’d lost his judgment as well as his temper. He’d been out of his mind. The fact that Luke was lying to both his parents and fucking Lila Kostas, Rachel’s friend. Even now, thinking about it, Ned’s hands clenched.
Being Luke Hollander’s stepfather had been holy hell, but still, he should never have pulled his weapon, never fired, never, ever let his daughter take the fall for his crime, an act of passion.
Was it?
Certainly not premeditated.
No, no, no . . .
God, he’d been a fool and a coward. He rubbed the back of his neck and stopped his thoughts from creeping any deeper into that dangerous territory.
The cat meowed and he discovered it had left the bathroom while he’d been considering his options, and the playlist had moved on to a Bon Jovi song, “Wanted Dead or Alive.” Perfect. He was starting to get lost in the lyrics when, with a jolt, it suddenly hit him. The cat shouldn’t be inside. He hadn’t left the door open.
Or had he?
He remembered the click earlier, the tiny little noise he’d dismissed.
Now, the muscles in his shoulders tight, he walked down the hallway to the kitchen and the back door.
Shut tight.
Huh.
This wasn’t right.
The hairs on his nape lifted as he thought that someone might have come inside. But who? And hadn’t he locked the door? No—possibly not. He remembered going outside to his truck for the drop cloth and didn’t recall locking the door behind him.
So someone could be inside.
Stealthily, he made his way back to the bathroom to grab his pistol, stepped inside, and stared at the toilet tank.
No Glock on the lid of the tank.
He swept his gaze to the floor and the closed lid of the bowl, thinking it had dropped, but no and . . .
He heard a floorboard creak behind him and froze.
“Don’t move,” a deep voice said, directly behind him. The barrel of a gun—his, no doubt—was pressed between his shoulder blades. “Don’t fuckin’ breathe.”
In the reflection of the mirror, he saw a shadow of a man behind his shoulder but his features were hidden.
Some freak show had walked in and gotten the drop on him!
Ned’s pulse was pounding in his ears and he tried to think of what to do. If he jabbed back hard with his elbow, maybe he could knock the guy off his feet and the shot might not hit a vital organ and . . .
“Time to pay, dirty cop,” the voice whispered so close that Ned could feel his assailant’s hot breath against his ear.
Ned started to turn, but it was too late.
He felt the gun move, shifting from his back to be pressed to his temple. In the mirror, he caught a clearer glimpse of his assailant and his heart nearly stopped.
“Don’t!” he yelled, suddenly desperately wanting to live. “Son, don’t!”
His plea fell on deaf ears.
The killer pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 36
At nine in the evening, Cade stretched in his desk chair. He was tired, the night before being short. He had a call in to Ned Gaston, but so far hadn’t connected with his ex-father-in-law.
Ever since talking to Richard Moretti, Cade wanted to track down the ex-cop. There was something missing to the story about Luke Hollander’s death, a piece Cade didn’t understand. That mystery, the feeling that there was something just out of his reach, nagged at Cade and had, even during the interview with Denise Aimes.
He and Voss had brought the beagle down to the station. After brushing Freddy, aka Monty, and collecting some of his fur, Voss had reunited the dog with his grateful owner, who was overjoyed at having her “naughty boy” back. At least that’s the way Voss had explained it with a roll of her eyes. “Like he’s a real kid,” she’d said. “Oh, well, to each his own. At least now the lab has something to compare to the hair found on the tape at the crime scene.”
“Along with the samples from the Sperrys’ dogs.”
“Okay, so now the lab has more to compare,” she’d said sourly.
He was about ready to pack it in for the night—go home and get a few hours of much-needed shut-eye or cruise back to Rachel’s place and check on his family—when the phone on his desk rang. Yawning, he picked up and Donna Jean said she was routing a call from the Seaside police department.
“This is Ryder,” he said as the call came through.
“Yeah. Deputy Max Swanson down here with the Seaside PD. We’ve got a visual on the ’97 Buick LeSabre, Idaho plates. Same number as you’re looking for.” To confirm he read the numbers.
Cade was instantly alert, his sleep deprivation forgotten. “That’s it.”
“Well, okay then. The car is parked in front of the Luxor Apartments—they rent by the day—but we think he walked into town. One of our patrol guys spotted the vehicle, and saw the driver head toward Broadway and followed. We think he’s in the Wooden Nickel, on Fourth. Near the river. I’m putting a man inside to keep an eye on him.”
“We’re on our way. The subject is Bruce Hollander, not long out of the pen.”
“We got that.”
“So, approach with caution. He could be armed.” He thought about Violet Sperry’s missing pistol. “Make that he’s probably armed. I’ll be there in half an hour, maybe a little longer.” The drive was forty-five minutes, but he’d push it.
“You want us to go in after him?”
“Not till I get there, but don’t lose him.” Cade wanted to talk to Hollander before he dealt with any other officers and decided to lawyer up. An ex-con like Hollander knew the ropes, but he might spill a little before he clammed up. “We think if he’s the guy on the tape, then he’s the last person to have been seen with Nathan Moretti, who’s missing, though Moretti might be a suspect himself. Hollander was in the vicinity of a violent homicide, and, believe it or not, he’s a prime suspect in a dognapping, which has been solved.”
“A what?”
“Don’t ask. Just focus on keeping track of him.” Cade was already reaching for his service weapon.
“You’ve got it.”
“Okay. We’re on our way,” he said, then gave Swanson his cell number, slipped on his holster, and made certain he had his sidearm and an extra clip. “It’s showtime,” he told Voss. “Bruce Hollander’s been spotted in Seaside. Grab your gun.”
* * *
“What do you mean, it’s feline?” Kayleigh demanded. She’d just gotten home and was peeling off her clothes when she’d taken the call from Akira Wu, the lab tech working on the hair found on the painter’s tape. Wu had promised to get back to Kayleigh no matter what the time and she was as good as her word. “You’re saying the hair on the roll of tape was from a cat?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re sure?” Kayleigh asked and the radio silence she received said it all: Akira rarely, if ever, made mistakes. “Okay, fine, it’s just that the woman who was killed lived with three dogs and one of the suspects had dog-napped a beagle and—”
“Feline.” The word was clipped. “Definitely.”
“Okay. Got it.” And what was she going to do with it? “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” And then Akira clicked off, leaving Kayleigh a little deflated and wondering about her next step.
“Forget it,” she told herself; the whole cat hair thing was probably a false
clue. The hair could have been picked up anywhere, the tape having a shelf life of forever. She’d run down the manufacturer, and that particular painter’s tape had been produced for over ten years and was common across the country and into Canada.
So what had they gotten from it? A big, fat zero.
She dropped her clothes haphazardly into a hamper, and headed for the shower, where she intended to wash off the grit and worries of the day. And think. She was bone weary as she stepped under the hot spray and lathered both her body and hair. The case was getting to her, her thoughts swirling around the victims—two women, and now possibly a third, a man, all who knew one another, graduated together, and were working on a damned twenty-year reunion.
Unless the third victim, Nate Moretti, wasn’t a victim at all, but the killer.
Did that make any sense?
And would he string his lover up in a bell tower?
How was that crime tied to Violet Sperry’s homicide?
By the fricking painter’s tape.
“Arrrgh.” She let out the frustrated sound as she rinsed off, letting the warm water cascade over her naked body. Finally, she twisted off the taps and toweled off, and pulled on an oversized T-shirt and fresh underwear. Sleep. That was what she needed. Eight hours. Maybe nine. Or even ten. She’d take whatever she could.
She heard her phone ring as she was combing the tangles from her wet hair. Cade’s number appeared on the screen. Her heart leapt but she told herself it was because of the case and had nothing to do with her emotions. Nothing.
“Hi.”
“Wanted you to know,” he said brusquely. All business. “We’ve got a visual on Bruce Hollander.”
“Tell me.” She put the phone on speaker and as she wound her hair into a knot on her head, snapping a band around it, then stepped into clean jeans and a sweatshirt, he relayed his conversation with the Seaside PD and also told her about his meeting with Denise Aimes, Hollander’s cousin.
“So he has an alibi for the night of Violet Sperry’s homicide?”
“That’s right.”
She let out a sigh. “Well, here’s another kicker. The hair found on the painter’s tape?”
“Yeah?”
“Doesn’t belong to a dog. It’s feline.”
“A cat?”
“Bingo.”
“But—”
“I know . . . all the dogs.”
“Crap.” He paused a second, then said, “We still need to talk to this guy. Hollander’s involved. We just have to figure out how.”
“Agreed,” she said. “I can be there in twenty.”
“Meet you there.” He clicked off and she wasted no time calling Biggs, filling him in and ending with, “I’m on my way.”
“Pick me up. I’m ready.” In the background she heard Biggs’s wife’s groggy voice protesting, but then he clicked off and by the time she’d driven to his home, with its fresh coat of gray paint, he was waiting, leaning against the porch support. At the sight of her Honda pulling up to the curb, he jogged to the passenger side and slid inside.
“Explain to me again why we’re interested in this dude.” Biggs snapped his seat belt into place as she drove toward the highway, merging with the thin flow of traffic heading south. “What’s the ex-con got to do with the Sperry homicide?”
“That’s what we hope to find out.” She slowed for the roundabout, then hit the gas on the far side and sped across the bridge spanning Youngs Bay, where water dark as pitch stretched out on either side of 101.
Her pulse was ticking and she felt a mix of apprehension and excitement. This could be the turning point in the case. As she squinted into the night, the wheels of her car humming along the dry pavement, she reminded herself to keep a cool head. Bruce Hollander could turn out to have nothing to do with the Sperry murder. This could all be a wild-goose chase. Cade Ryder had been wrong before.
Still, what did she have to lose?
* * *
Cade had been on the phone the entire drive to Seaside, not just alerting Kayleigh of what was going down, but also keeping in contact with the Seaside PD.
The town itself had a carnival feel to it and had been a destination for Portlanders seeking sand and surf for over a hundred years. Its long promenade stretched along the shoreline of the Pacific Ocean, separating the heart of the town from the beach. Broadway was the main street of the town, linking the Pacific Coast highway to the business district and ending in a turnaround at the prom. As such, Broadway was lined with shops and warehouse-type malls, taverns, and amusements like putt-putt golf and bumper cars. In the summer, the sidewalks were packed with pedestrians, the streets clogged with cars, bicycles, and surreys.
Now, near midnight, at the end of May, the streets were quiet, cars parked in lots or along the street, a few people strolling the sidewalk. Smokers were hanging close to the entrances of taverns, where music and laughter rolled out of open doors, but the bumper cars, T-shirt and souvenir shops, and ice cream vendors had closed for the night.
It was the hope that Hollander would come quietly, and it was the expectation that he would not. Rather than risk a shoot-out in the brewery, where bystanders could be wounded or killed, the cops were situated around both the front and back of the building, watching the exits. Dillinger, a deputy situated inside, communicated to them through a hidden mic. They were all wired up, able to speak to one another.
“Pretty fancy for your little town,” Cade had remarked when given his earpiece.
“That’s what we’re known for down here: fancy,” Swanson had remarked, his voice deep with sarcasm.
Kayleigh and her partner had arrived. They were also linked by headsets and taking positions on the street.
Now it was only a matter of time.
So they waited.
Hidden in the recessed doorway of a closed restaurant next to the pub, Cade glanced at his watch.
Nearly 1 a.m.
The brewery would close soon.
Good.
Time ticked slowly past. A few cars rolled along the roadway only to curve around the turnabout at the west end of Broadway, then wander through the blocks. A cluster of teenagers laughing and swearing, probably high, jaywalked noisily, running between parked cars to disappear down a side street, never knowing they’d just passed several armed cops.
Suddenly there was movement in the doorway of the Wooden Nickel.
Cade braced himself, his weapon in hand.
A couple in their early twenties emerged. Their hands were all over each other, their mouths kissing hungrily as they moved as one toward a shiny Nissan four-door parked near the bridge where Kayleigh was positioned. Someone, probably Swanson, whispered into his headset, “Jesus, get a room!”
“That’s the idea,” another cop said. “Ooohwee.”
“Shh!” someone reprimanded sharply.
The man helped his obviously inebriated date tumble into the passenger side, then hurried around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel, only, once the door was closed, to pull the woman close. They went at it again, going so far as to start the windows steaming before the embrace was broken.
Cade had ignored them for the most part, keeping his gaze trained on the door.
With a roar, the Nissan tore away from the curb, sped down the street, the red glow of its taillights disappearing as the driver turned a corner to disappear between the buildings.
The street was once again quiet, the eerie silence interrupted only by the hum of traffic on the highway, the rumble of the sea to the west, and an occasional burst of raucous laughter from the pub.
Cade waited.
But not for long. Within minutes the word came through his headset. “He’s settling his tab,” Dillinger whispered. “Get ready. Wearing a Mariners cap and a camo jacket.”
Cade’s fingers tightened over his pistol.
Dillinger again: “He’s headin’ for the door.”
Cade saw the movement of shadows in his peripheral vision. Other member
s of the team had stepped closer to the entryway. He told himself to be calm, even though every muscle in his body was tense, his nerves strung tight as bowstrings.
He set his jaw.
He saw a figure appear in the open doorway, a guy in a baseball cap and denim jacket. Hollander? The size was right, but his face was shaded beneath the brim of his cap. And didn’t the man inside say he was in camo?
Cade’s heart was pounding.
“Oh, shit,” Dillinger said, just as the suspect stepped onto the street to stand in front of a neon sign in the window of the pub and then, as if sensing something wasn’t right, cocked his head for an instant. Listening as he reached into his jacket pocket.
Was he reaching for his gun?
“Hold your fire,” Dillinger whispered. “He’s not the guy! He’s not the guy!”
Swanson appeared from around the corner and, as the man started to cross the street between two parked cars, leveled his gun at him. “Police!”
Cade moved from the doorway of the adjacent building. Something was wrong.
Swanson yelled, “Bruce Hollander, put your hands where we can see them!”
“What?” the man in the cap said and looked up. “Oh. Jesus.” He looked like he was about to pee his pants. “Who the hell are you?”
“He’s not the guy! He’s not the guy!” Dillinger was repeating. “It’s not Hollander. Hold your fire. It’s not Hollander!”
Three cops exposed themselves, their pistols drawn.
Through his earpiece Cade heard the frantic sound of Dillinger’s voice. “He’s coming out now! Watch out! The other guy snuck out in front of him, but Hollander’s coming out now!”
“Oh, shit,” Swanson swore.
“What the fuck?” the man in the cap said.
“Get him out of here,” Cade ordered Swanson, then to the man, “Sir, step aside. Now! Get down! Get down!”
