by Nancy Bush
Shivering violently, she shoved that thought aside.
And Auggie . . . she was giving him everything he wanted on a silver platter! It pissed her off, but mostly it just hurt. She wasn’t so naive as to believe what they’d shared meant anything to him. He’d been soothing a schizoid personality, so that he could keep her in check until he could reach his own ends, that’s all.
Movement in her rearview mirror caught Liv’s eye. She glanced up in time to see the front of a gray truck rushing to her right rear end. Slam! The Jeep’s steering wheel leapt from her hands! She grabbed at it, but it spun around as the Jeep sailed west off the freeway, bounding and thundering across the median toward the southbound lanes.
Shrieking, Liv gripped the steering wheel hard, holding firm, slamming on the brakes. The Jeep’s speed propelled it like a rocket toward the oncoming traffic. The front tires bounced onto the shoulder, jumped the Jeep into the fast lane and stopped.
BWWAAAHHHH!
She heard the horn blast and saw the semi coming straight for her. On automatic, she slammed the vehicle into reverse and smashed her foot to the accelerator.
Blam!
The Jeep spun backward and around, clipped on its front fender.
Liv’s head smacked into the steering wheel and she saw stars.
Oh, God . . .
Auggie’s gaze was on his rearview mirror more than it was on the road ahead of him. He half-expected her to do something rash. Tear away from him, or lag way, way back. He just didn’t believe in her complete capitulation.
She’d lost trust in him, and who could blame her. He’d lied to her and kept that lie going long past its pull date. It was bound to blow up in his face. He’d just thought if he could get her to the department and prove to her they were on the same side . . .
But it hadn’t happened that way. Still, it was just a matter of doing damage control. At least he hoped that’s all it was. He couldn’t bear the idea that they would solve this case and she would walk out of his life forever. Yes, her safety was the most important thing, but his imagination was working overtime and the picture of her thanking him for a job well done while shaking his hand and then turning away felt as if it were a vision of the future.
He switched to the inside lane, needing to pass a truck pulling a trailer full of rakes, ladders, hoses, mowers and other handyman and landscaping tools. He glanced back to his Jeep and was gratified to see Liv follow suit.
With a touch of the gas, the Pilot surged forward. He kind of liked his sister’s rig, although it had a couple of pairs of shoes tossed on the floor in the footwell of the front passenger seat and assorted jackets and papers in the backseat. He kept his vehicle neater, but that didn’t—
His gaze flicked to the rearview where a gray truck was tearing toward the Jeep’s rear end. “Hey, buddy, slow down!” he blasted out just as it smashed into the Jeep and sent it careering over the grassy medium like a bullet toward the opposite lanes.
“Shit! Goddamn! Asshole!” Auggie couldn’t stop. Had to move forward. The truck that hit Liv shot past him and up the freeway. He had the presence of mind to look for a license plate—none on the back—before he wrenched the Pilot to the right and sped forward, chasing the older, gray GMC truck.
“Damn . . . Damn . . . Damn . . .” He scrabbled for his cell phone, which he’d flung on the passenger seat after he’d called D’Annibal and told him that he and Liv would be at the station soon. The Pilot swung into the next lane and a horn bleated behind him.
With a wrench, he straightened the wheels and the cell phone went flying to the floor.
The GMC truck was racing hard. He couldn’t chase it. He had to get off the freeway. Had to turn back to Liv.
“Shit!”
It was the guy. The guy who’d gunned down Trask Martin. That was his truck! The guy with the same Glock used to kill the Zuma employees. The guy!
But he couldn’t chase him. Had to pull off and call. The next exit was coming up and he could cross the overpass and circle back. He jockeyed aggressively to the ramp and slipped in behind an elderly driver, right on his ass. Jesus. H. Christ! Auggie got around the slowpoke, raced across the overpass and down the southbound ramp, merging with rush-hour traffic that luckily was still moving at a fairly good clip. He worked his way to the inside lane, fighting for space, earning a middle finger from a young male driver, who traded lanes with him.
Suddenly he had to practically stand on his brakes. Traffic was stopped.
Liv, Auggie realized. The accident. Rubberneckers were creating a traffic snarl.
Oh . . . God . . . please . . . let her be all right....
When he couldn’t move forward anymore he pulled onto the shoulder and drove past the stopped cars that were now on his right. He could feel their outrage but he didn’t care. The Jeep was up there. On the shoulder. Out of harm’s way. He slammed the Pilot to a stop half on the shoulder, half on the grassy median, and ran for the Jeep, where some well-meaning, good Samaritan who’d pulled to the shoulder in front of Liv was at the driver’s side window.
“Livvie!” Auggie yelled, spying her through the windshield.
She put a hand up, reaching for him, touching the glass. He practically shoved the good Samaritan aside and yanked at the driver’s door. It opened with a squeal of metal and then Liv was in his arms, her face buried in his neck, her arms around him.
“Shhh . . . shhh . . .” he said, though she wasn’t saying a word, just trembling in his arms.
“I called 911,” the would-be helper said.
“Good. Thanks. I’m with the police,” Auggie said with a sharp nod.
“Okay, then.” He looked a little dubious, but he turned back toward his car.
“Liv, it was the GMC truck. I’ve gotta call it in.”
“What?” she asked dully.
“The 2005 GMC truck. Gray. That’s what your neighbor said, right?”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Yes.” Auggie reluctantly pulled her back and held her at arm’s length. “It is about you, Liv. This whole thing. It’s about you.”
The sound of a siren split the air. Exhaust fumes were starting to overwhelm them, so Auggie helped Liv back in the Jeep. “The cavalry’s coming,” he said. “Take it easy. We’ll get you to an emergency room.”
“No. No. The police,” she said. “I want to go to the police.”
“I’ve got to call the truck in. Just wait . . .”
He rapidly punched in his sister’s direct line at the station and when she answered, he quickly related the information about the truck, then added, “Get an APB out. Front-end damage. Catch this bastard!”
“A license number would help,” she said.
“Goddammit, Nine. If I had one I’d give it to you. He ran Liv off the freeway and damn near into oncoming traffic! Just—take care of it!”
He hung up and turned to Liv, noticing how pale her skin was. “You really need to be looked at. You’ve got a cut and swelling on your head.” He pointed to her hairline above her right eye.
She reached up, touched the knot and winced. “I can’t do the circus, Auggie. When my name gets out there, and all the questions and everything . . .”
He saw the wisdom of that. “We’ll go in the Pilot. I’ll take care of it.” With that he helped her to her feet and though her legs wobbled, they made it to the Honda. Auggie tucked her inside, then climbed in the driver’s seat, fired the engine and merged into the slow traffic, heading southbound. He called D’Annibal’s line and left a message asking him to run interference as they’d just left the scene of an accident.
Fifteen minutes later, they took another exit and crossed back to the northbound lanes. Forty-five minutes after that they drove into the Laurelton Police Department’s parking lot, still arguing if she should go to the ER or not.
Auggie got out and came around the car, opening the passenger door. Liv looked at the building for long moments, her breathing escalating. Then she lifted her chin and clim
bed from the vehicle.
“Let’s do this,” she said grimly, and Auggie led her inside.
September and Gretchen sat in the Ford Escape across the street from Jason Jaffe and Jessica Maltona’s home for over an hour with Gretchen muttering under her breath about douche bags masquerading as “artistes.” September was trying very hard not to start up her own rant about her brother and Lieutenant D’Annibal and the unfairness of the universe.
Though she’d opted for this stakeout in a fit of pique, now she was having serious second thoughts. This was taking far longer than it should, and she could feel time ticking away. Now, she wanted to be there when Auggie brought in Olivia Dugan. She wanted to get her eyes on Dugan; needed to see for herself what about this woman seemed to hold her brother in thrall.
She shifted in her seat and wondered if she would ever feel that way about anybody. The last truly meaningful relationship she’d had was in high school, and it was basically a one-night stand her senior year with a handsome jock and a lot of months spent mooning about him, wondering if he really liked her. She wondered now why it had mattered so, as this was the same guy who’d teased her in grade school, mainly because her family was wealthy and his father worked for hers for a time, and who’d wanted to score with a virgin, or so her friends had warned her after the fact. At least that’s how September remembered it.
The whole thing had been torture and had pretty much soured her on relationships and men ever since.
“Goddamn, there he is,” Gretchen said. “As much as I can’t stand the guy, it’s not gonna be good telling him his girlfriend’s dead.”
“Wait.” September grabbed her arm, stopping her from opening the door.
Jaffe was pulling into his driveway and putting the brakes on his Trailblazer, but he wasn’t alone. Another head was visible in the passenger seat.
Gretchen sat tensely, as did September. “That look like a woman to you?” Gretchen asked.
As they watched, the passenger door opened and a long-legged blonde with a very short skirt and heels stepped out. She carefully walked across the sloped driveway, clasping Jaffe’s hand as she tiptoed up the broken asphalt. They disappeared inside the garage.
“What do you make of that?” Gretchen asked.
“Nothing good.”
“Let’s go.”
September fought back her urge to get to the station and met up with Gretchen as she strode across the road and toward Jaffe’s house.
The man door was open and Gretchen didn’t bother knocking though Jaffe and his girl were already in a heated embrace with hands yanking her blouse and his shirt from their pants.
“Sorry to bother you,” Gretchen said, and the girl squeaked out a half-scream, jerked away and yanked her blouse down in one movement.
“What the fuck?” Jaffe asked, glaring at them.
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” Gretchen said. “You don’t turn your phone on?”
“What the hell do you want? I’m busy.” He had the grace to color as he looked over at his “date.”
“It’s about Jessica Maltona. Your—girlfriend. I’m sorry to tell you that she did not survive her wounds. She died this morning.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Jaffe’s friend turned scared eyes to him. “Oh, shit, Jason.”
Jaffe just stared at Gretchen as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “That’s not true,” he said. “Jessica’s nice.”
Gretchen frowned. She’d gone in loaded for bear, but Jason was clearly pole-axed. “Death doesn’t discriminate,” she pointed out.
“No . . . she can’t be dead . . . how . . . why . . . no, she’s supposed to survive!” The color leached from his face and he swayed on his feet. September moved forward to catch him, but he took a step back, holding up his hands as if to ward her off. “Upjohn killed her! He killed her! Arrest him. It’s his fault!”
“Jason . . . ?” the girl said on a trembling note.
He swung around, looking at her through hollow eyes. “I love Jess. I do.”
“Yeah . . .” Gretchen said, sliding September a look.
The blonde didn’t know what to make of that. “You want me to go?” she asked in a small voice.
But Jaffe had forgotten her the moment Jessica Maltona’s name was mentioned. He didn’t even bother to respond.
“I need to see her. Can I see her? I need to see her.”
Blondie gave a hurt little cry then tottered out, half-tripping on an uneven piece of asphalt just outside the garage man door. Gretchen looked at Jaffe, calculating the sincerity of his response, then said on a sigh, “I’ll take you to the hospital morgue.”
“Swing by the station first,” September reminded Gretchen.
Liv sat in a chair beside Auggie’s desk. He actually had a desk, although he said that he rarely used it; he was usually undercover. They’d entered the station through the front doors, and Auggie had pointed a finger at the guy at the desk who looked as if he wanted to protest them passing by without checking with him, but Auggie’s finger quelled his objections.
As soon as they were in the squad room Auggie demanded to know if the gray GMC truck with front-end damage had been found. A roundish detective with his face tuned to his computer monitor looked his way and shook his head. Auggie had some choice words to say about that, then introduced Liv to his superior, Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal, who came out of a glass-walled office to greet Liv and interview her. Like Auggie, he suggested she get checked out at the hospital first, glancing at the injury to her head, but Liv assured him she was fine.
Was she fine? That was definitely a matter up for debate. But she wanted this interview with the police to be behind her. In her head, she kept replaying her interview with the officer from Rock Springs after her mother’s death, and she could still feel how small he’d made her feel during the worst time of her life.
“The Portland PD got a call from the director of Hathaway House, saying a young woman came in demanding information on Dr. Frank Navarone,” D’Annibal said, causing what little color Liv had to drain from her face. “She threatened them with a gun.”
Auggie inserted calmly, “That was Liv, but she didn’t actually threaten them with a gun. She just said she had a gun. She didn’t show one. It was a comment, nothing more.”
“What are you, a lawyer now?” the lieutenant asked him.
“I’m just saying she didn’t hold anyone at gunpoint,” he answered.
Except you, Liv thought.
D’Annibal shook his head and flapped a hand in the air, as if swatting the whole mess away. “I’ll give Portland PD a head’s up. Let’s move on.”
Liv hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until D’Annibal turned back to her. She expected him to start asking questions, but he turned that job over to a lean, black detective named Wes Pelligree. Pelligree ran her through the events of the previous Friday, before and after the shooter entered Zuma’s front doors. She could tell Auggie wanted to intervene; that he was worried about her, but the lieutenant had designated Pelligree and there was nothing to do but for Liv to review the sequence of events that had led her here.
She told them about Zuma, and about jumping into Auggie’s car. Before she could even wonder how much to tell about that, Auggie broke in, saying she had a deep-seated fear of the authorities and that he’d spent a lot of time earning her trust. That was why it had taken them so long to come to the station. To Liv, he said, “Tell them about the package.”
He was trying to protect her, she realized, and though she felt a spurt of resentment after the way he’d betrayed her, she decided to let him guide her discourse. No reason to get into deeper trouble than she already was. If Auggie was okay with it, then so was she.
Still, her heart was heavy as she told them all about how she’d received a manila envelope from her mother shortly after her twenty-fifth birthday and that ever since the package arrived, she’d felt a heightened fear that she was being followed, that someone was after
her. When asked about the contents of the envelope, she explained about her mother’s “suicide” and the serial strangler who’d been terrorizing Rock Springs at the time.
“The strangler could very well be Dr. Frank Navarone,” Auggie put in when Liv wound down. “He knew Liv’s mother and brother. He worked at Grandview Mental Hospital when Hague Dugan was a patient there, and he’s the man identified in one of the pictures that was in the package.” Liv reached for her backpack and handed it to Auggie who unzipped it, pulled out the package, then laid out the photographs.
Pelligree stood beside Auggie’s desk, looking at the spread-out pictures. “You think this same guy shot up Zuma?”
“I think he was after Liv,” Auggie said. “He knows she got the package and he thinks she’s a threat to him.”
“And that’s why he went to Zuma?” Pelligree’s voice was full of doubts. “How did he know about the package?”
Liv said, “I don’t know. I told my brother and father and stepmother about it, and my brother’s caretaker was there when I showed the photos and my birth certificate to Hague. My neighbor, Trask Martin, also saw the contents, and then he was shot . . . and killed.”
“By the same Glock that was used in the Zuma shootings,” Auggie reminded her. “There’s a connection between the two crimes.”
“And a serial murderer . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” Auggie admitted. “But it’s all pieces of the same puzzle.”
“My brother orates at the street-level bar in his building,” Liv added. “He may have inadvertently told Dr. Navarone about the package during one of his—rants. He has followers. . . maybe one of them is Navarone? Or someone who’s close to him?”
“What have you got on Navarone?” D’ Annibal suddenly clipped out to the black detective.
