Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set

by Amy Waeschle

  A rumbling roar of an engine decelerated nearby, and Cassidy looked up to see a shiny black motorcycle driven by a man in black leather chaps pull to the curb behind her Subaru which was now being winched onto the back of the tow truck.

  The man parked the bike and slid off the saddle, slipping the helmet off his head.

  Dutch.

  Cassidy had to look away from his bemused grin, but heard his boots approach over the hiss of passing cars.

  “How does a smart girl like you run out of gas?” he asked.

  Cassidy stared at her unpainted toenails. “I didn’t run out of gas,” she hissed, feeling venom pour into her veins.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “My radiator blew,” she offered, squinting up at him.

  He bobbed his head. “Tough break,” he replied.

  Cassidy wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Are you following me?” she asked. True, this was the only route from the rally to San Francisco, but she couldn’t shake the idea that his arrival was no coincidence.

  Dutch’s face gave nothing away. “You going to Redding?” he asked, bracing a hand on his hip.

  Cassidy shaded her eyes and glanced in the direction of the tow truck where Gary was attaching tail lights to her Subaru. “Yeah. I’ll drop it off at a garage.”

  Dutch wandered over to where Gary was removing his gloves. The two men exchanged words Cassidy couldn’t hear. Gary nodded, then Dutch returned to her side.

  “I got a buddy owns a garage there,” he said. He glanced at her car. “Not that he’ll be able to do much if you’ve got a blown head gasket.”

  “Wait, you mean I can’t fix it?” she asked, feeling a desperate form of panic rise up inside her.

  “Oh, you can,” he said, his grin widening. “But it’d be a whole lot better to sell it for junk and start over.”

  Cassidy felt the prickling behind her eyes that signaled she was about to cry. She glanced at her Subaru, hoisted like a fallen soldier, and thought of Pete in the front seat, feeding her snacks or queuing a podcast he wanted to share while she sped them towards another adventure: Mt. Baker, Tofino, Mt. St. Helens.

  A little over a year ago she had donated Pete’s old Jetta. It had been one of the hardest things to part with because it still smelled like him, and because of the memories it held.

  “Hey, you okay?” Dutch asked.

  Cassidy stood. “Thank you for the help,” she said, not looking at him.

  He didn’t reply, and she finally looked at him. The bemused smile was gone, replaced by a stillness in his eyes that grounded her. But it was too much, and she quickly glanced away.

  Gary waved her over, then climbed into the cab.

  “I’ll follow you there, make sure you can get into the lot,” Dutch said.

  Cassidy felt a jolt of emotion. “You don’t have to do that,” she protested.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  Cassidy watched him carefully for a moment, then turned and stepped to her side of the tow truck.

  Inside the cab, Cassidy asked permission to charge her phone, and when Gary grunted his consent, she attached the cord and set her phone on the console.

  “Friend of yours?” Gary asked as they pulled onto the freeway and Dutch’s engine revved up behind them.

  “Not really,” Cassidy said, and looked out the window. The cab felt stuffy even though Gary had cranked the A/C. She watched Dutch in her side mirror, his expression completely calm, his posture confident, at ease, as if nothing in the world could knock him from his throne.

  Gary shook his head, adjusted his haunches.

  Feeling uneasy, Cassidy watched him for more, but he kept quiet. The radio played country music low in the background. Soon they were crossing a section of Shasta Lake, its indigo waters being plied by power boats, the shores lined with a brown rim like rings in a bathtub—wave deposits for each level of the reservoir’s storage. Scattered in the prickly-looking trees, she noticed a campground and nearby beach and swimming area enclosed by a string of buoys.

  By the time they pulled into the parking lot for Shane’s Automotive, Cassidy had used her phone’s web browser to locate the airport and the rental car agencies and name of a local taxi service. But where should she go? Home to Seattle or on to San Francisco?

  The obvious choice was Seattle. Even though it was cutting it close, she might still make her flight. She could close the door on the search for Izzy and move on to the exciting task of working on the flank of an active volcano. She would take a helicopter flight over the destruction zone, observe the rare event of lava flowing into the sea. Maybe she could even fit in a day of surfing, after the work was complete.

  But leaving California without knowing Izzy was safe felt wrong, like a betrayal. She’s gone from one bad decision to the next, each one becoming more dangerous, Cassidy thought again. Like she’s spinning out of control.

  Who would rescue her? Not Preston Ford, she realized.

  Gary got out of the cab just as a battered blue truck turned into the driveway, followed by Dutch. A man in black sunglasses, jeans, and boots, climbed down from the truck. He and Dutch embraced man-hug style, and then Gary began to unhook her car.

  Cassidy unplugged her phone from the dash. The screen lit up with the usual series of voicemail messages, but one had a name that made her freeze. She stared at the screen as the sounds of the men talking faded to nothing and her heart thudded hard into her temples. She pressed the “play” button then squeezed the phone against her ear.

  There was a long pause where Cassidy could hear nothing, then, as if from far away, a sound. Cassidy plugged her other ear and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus every ounce of energy on the noise. Was someone whispering? The recording ended and she immediately tapped “play” again, cranking the volume and blocking out all other sensory input.

  Again, the long pause, where she heard a complete absence of sound, as if the recording was made in a vacuum. And then she heard it, so faint but Cassidy felt sure now: weeping, soft and constant, as if the person in distress was trying to hide it. Just when Cassidy identified this, the voice spoke, but it was so indistinct that Cassidy didn’t catch it. She played it again, straining to hear the words. This time, she caught them: “I’m sorry.”

  The tow truck cab door was yanked open, startling her.

  “You waiting for an invitation, princess?” Dutch growled. Cassidy blinked, noticing her car locked behind a chain-link fence. The tow truck driver stood on the back of his rig, reconfiguring his gear for the next tow.

  Dutch’s scowl softened when he saw the look on her face. “What?” he said.

  “It’s Izzy,” Cassidy whispered.

  She quickly called Richard while Dutch watched her with scowling eyes. “I need Preston Ford’s number,” she said.

  “Why? What’s happened?” Richard asked.

  “I just got a message from Izzy. She’s in trouble.”

  “Did she say where she is?” Richard asked.

  “No, I’m not even sure she knew the phone was on.” The possibility had occurred to her that the phone had called Cassidy automatically somehow. Maybe one of Cassidy’s messages was at the top of her call log, and had been accidentally triggered. But was Izzy apologizing to Cassidy? Or someone else?

  “Well, I can call him and let him know.”

  “Richard, can’t you just give me the number? I promise I won’t abuse it.”

  “Alright,” Richard said softly.

  Cassidy copied down the number on her hand, then dialed, bracing herself.

  “Yes,” a deep, rich voice answered.

  Cassidy introduced herself, then launched into the news. “I just got a call from Izzy. She sounded upset, like she might be in trouble.”

  “Did she say where she was?” he asked.

  “No,” Cassidy replied.

  Cassidy waited through a long silence, wondering if the call dropped.

  “Thank you,” he said finally. “If she calls ba
ck, don’t hesitate to call me at this number.”

  “So, are you going to go find her?” Cassidy said.

  “Izzy knows how to reach me. I appreciate the call, but I wouldn’t worry about my daughter. She has quite the flair for drama, as I’m sure you know.”

  “I’m not so sure this is drama,” Cassidy said, as a flutter of nerves tickled the inside of her rib cage. “Saxon Pike is—”

  But Preston Ford cut her off. “Izzy has done this kind of thing before to get what she wants. Let me handle it, please. Meanwhile you have important research to complete!” he added with flourish. “I look forward to reading more about your work.”

  Cassidy tried to formulate a reply, but her mouth wouldn’t comply.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to deal with right now.”

  “Like going to San Francisco,” Cassidy blurted, but Preston Ford had already hung up.

  A call bleeped and without thinking, Cassidy answered it.

  “Hello, Cassidy, Sebastian Ovenell, Huff Post, care to defend your actions regarding misuse of important grant money?”

  “What?” Cassidy gasped.

  “Surfing on the government’s dime, that’s a serious offense.”

  Cassidy gritted her teeth. “What are you talking about? I would never do that!” she said.

  “Not according to my sources,” he asked, sounding smug.

  Cassidy realized the trap and hung up, flipping her phone facedown on the counter. After a series of deep breaths, she worked her way through Shane’s paperwork. Yes, she consented to him running diagnostics. Yes, she wanted a quote for both fixing the engine and disposing of her vehicle if it wasn’t fixable. No, she wasn’t in a hurry to get the car back because she would likely be miles away when it was fixed—possibly across the ocean in Hawaii. Once everything was finished, Cassidy shouldered her daypack, thanked Shane, and stepped back outside into the hot sun.

  A nagging feeling tugged at her thoughts. Why wasn’t Preston Ford hurrying to San Francisco? She’s done this kind of thing before to get what she wants.

  Cassidy slipped out her phone and dialed the number for the taxi she’d found earlier. Shane closed up the shop behind her, and she heard him and Dutch talking.

  “Ace Taxi,” a female voice chirped.

  “Hi, I need a ride from Shane’s Automotive to the airport,” she said, the hot air making her lungs feel tight. Izzy’s message had been a simple: I’m sorry. What did that mean? Sorry for abandoning the van? For leading Cassidy on this quest? Or was she apologizing to someone else? Or for something she hadn’t yet done? Either way, the idea of Izzy upset to the point of weeping put her on edge. But maybe her father was right: that this was some act. But for what gain?

  “Hmmm,” the woman on the other end of the line answered. Cassidy heard the chomping of her gum. “I can get a car to you in sixty minutes?” the woman finally said.

  “Don’t you have anything sooner?” Cassidy replied, her gut tightening. The earliest flight to Seattle via San Francisco left at noon, which would put her back home with a few hours to spare to pack and return to the airport.

  She could also rent a car and drive to either San Francisco or Seattle, but flights were cheap, though with all the connecting and transfer to and from SeaTac, not much faster.

  But what about Izzy? Cassidy couldn’t shake the conviction that Preston Ford had no intention of going after his daughter. If Cassidy continued to San Francisco, she would likely beat Preston Ford there, unless he had his own plane.

  “So, it’s Beer Week?” the woman replied, popping her gum. “Like, we’re super busy?”

  Cassidy sighed, feeling like the weight of the skies had sunk to her shoulders. She reserved the taxi, despite the extended wait, and hung up.

  Meanwhile, Cassidy walked to what looked like a bus stop halfway down the block and peered at the sign. Stops on Sundays were rare: one at eight in the morning and another at six pm. Well, that option’s out. Then, she mapped the distance to the airport. Though it was only four miles, she would have to hike along a barren freeway for over half the route. She was better off waiting for the taxi.

  Shane’s truck coasted to the exit. He turned onto the road, giving her a wave as he passed by. Cassidy wiped her sweaty hands on her shorts. She was about to call the taxi company back when she heard Dutch’s motorcycle rumble to life behind her. He cruised to the strip of empty parking lot behind the bus stop.

  “You hear any more from your girl?” he asked, lowering his feet to the pavement.

  “No,” Cassidy said. “But I talked to her father,” she added. “I’m not really sure he’s going to help her.”

  Dutch raised his eyebrows but his face stayed slack.

  Cassidy heard Izzy’s voice from her voicemail. I’m sorry.

  “You goin’ to find her?” Dutch asked.

  Cassidy inhaled a long breath, letting it fill all the way up to her shoulders. “It can’t hurt to at least ask around at the club,” she answered. The realization had already sifted up through her thoughts: she couldn’t leave Izzy.

  “Sure you know what you’re doin’?” Dutch asked, the skin around his eyes pinching slightly.

  Anger rose up inside her chest. “Of course,” she replied.

  “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” he asked.

  The question caught her by surprise. She opened her mouth but no words came.

  “C’mon,” he said, jerking his head to the space behind him.

  “What?”

  He gave her a look. “Get on,” he said. “I’ll take you to the airport if that’s where you want to go.”

  Cassidy shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  His face flashed hot with anger. “I know there’s not gonna be a bus. You wanna get to the airport or not? I’m not offering again.”

  Cassidy felt a rush of sickly warmth erupt in her chest. The air around suddenly felt hotter, as if the pavement was a lava field burning her feet. “I appreciate your offer,” she said in a voice that sounded strangled. Images of Pete’s crash site floated to the surface of her mind. “But I can’t.”

  “Aw, are you nervous?” he guffawed.

  Cassidy looked away, swallowing hot anger. She began to walk in fast, determined strides. Behind her, Dutch’s motorcycle engine quit and she heard his boots behind her.

  “Leave me alone!” she said.

  “Hey, take it easy,” he said.

  “Take it easy?” she cried, stopping. “You think I don’t see what this is?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Enlighten me.”

  “Some giant come-on, that’s what. Cash, grass, or ass, right?”

  He crossed his arms, his face halfway to a scowl. “If I wanted any of those things from you, I would have already made that clear.” He paused. “You need a ride, I’m here. It’s pretty simple.”

  “Why do you want to help me so much?” she asked.

  He seemed to think about his answer. “I know what it’s like to want to help someone you care about,” he said, his lips curled into a grimace.

  Cassidy thought about the tattoo on his bicep, the young face, the long, flowing hair, the haunted eyes.

  “Contrary to what you might think I’m a decent guy,” he finally said. “And you’re out of your element. What do you think they’ll say to you when you walk in to that club and start asking questions?”

  “I don’t know,” Cassidy said with a huff. “Enlighten me.”

  He didn’t flinch at her sass. “Nothing, that’s what.”

  “And you can do better?” she asked.

  His eyebrows arched up. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m willing to help.” He turned to look at his bike. “And it looks like you need it.” He gazed at her, his icy blue eyes so sharp she had to look away.

  Cassidy felt exposed, like a fly trapped in some web, and he was the spider offering to set her free. “The bike, I can’t . . . ” But before she could finish, her mind went back to the intersecting skid marks acros
s the gray pavement and the embankment that fell away into the trees. She saw Pete in bandages, his face so swollen she hardly recognized him. She whimpered softly as the fear came from deep inside her, filling her with an anger that grew stronger by the second until she was clenching her knuckles ached.

  “Whoa, there,” Dutch said, looking concerned.

  Cassidy pressed her fists into her eyes, trying to recall what she and Jay used to do when this happened. Breathe. So she tried it. Breathe in and out. In and out. She heard her breath suck in through her windpipe and felt her chest expand. In and out. In and out. Slowly, the crushing fear lessened. When she opened her eyes, Dutch was watching her carefully.

  Cassidy drew herself inwards. “A few years ago, my . . . friend died in a motorcycle crash,” she said. It had become her new way of being able to talk about Pete—calling him “her friend” not her fiancé, which was too hard, too awkward. It led to too many questions she couldn’t answer, and looks of pity she loathed. However, her calling Pete a friend felt like a betrayal.

  Dutch’s chest expanded in a giant breath, which he let out in a slow sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  A long silence stretched between them. Cassidy focused on the sound of the passing cars. The heat from the pavement seemed to bake her cheeks, and she wiped her face with her forearms which felt blazing hot. She needed shade soon. Or water. Or both.

  “C’mon, Cassidy,” he said, holding out his hand. “I promise you’ll be safe with me.”

  Nineteen

  Cassidy stood staring at the motorcycle, her heart fluttery and fast.

  Dutch released his helmet from the strap holding it to the back. “You ever ridden a bike before?” he asked.

  “A few times with my brother, but never on the freeway,” she answered.

  Dutch offered her his helmet.

  She recoiled. “I can’t take this,” she said. “What about you?”

  “I could use some fresh air,” he said with a grin.

  Cassidy tried to take a breath but the hot air made her pipes clam down. The helmet felt heavy in her hands, like a bowling ball.