by Lis Wiehl
Nicole shook her head, and Allison felt the faintest relief.
“So it’s possible it was even a woman, maybe someone who got mad thinking that Cassidy poached her man. Maybe that explains the handcuffs—someone who needed her incapacitated to make sure they were strong enough to kill her.” Allison took a deep breath that shook at the end. “And the third choice is that this has something to do with her work. We need to figure out what stories she’s covered that might have left someone mad at her.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard.” Nicole raised one eyebrow. “Heck, you and I worked a lot of the same cases Cassidy did.”
“I think our first priority is figuring out what lead she was working on when she texted us. I’m going to call Brad and see if he knows what it was about.”
She picked up the phone, but she must not have been the only one calling Channel Four. The only way Allison succeeded in getting through to Brad Buffet was by using her title.
“Have you made an arrest?” he asked as soon as he came on the line. He must think she was officially on the case.
“Not yet,” she said noncommittally. It wasn’t really a lie. “Brad, Cassidy texted me and Nicole Hedges right before she died. She told us she would be late to meet us for dinner because she was following up on a lead. Do you know what story she was working on?”
“The cops already took away her computer and most of the contents of her cubicle.”
“Oh.” Allison should have expected as much.
“But I backed up her most recent files before they did.”
“You did?”
“Hey,” Brad said, sounding defensive, “I need to know what it is we’re dealing with here. What if it’s someone targeting the reporters at Channel Four? There are a lot of crazies out there. We never really take that kind of thing seriously, but maybe Cassidy should have. I mean, look how things turned out.”
“What do you mean, Brad?” Allison asked as Nicole looked at her curiously.
“Don’t you know?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
“Cassidy had a stalker.”
CHAPTER 11
Nic had been so focused on Rick McEwan. Maybe, she realized now, too focused. Was it possible that the person who had killed Cassidy hadn’t really known her at all, except in his twisted imagination?
“Someone like Cassidy was probably stalker bait,” she told Allison as they drove to Channel Four. At the Denver field office, Nic had worked a couple of stalker cases. Both were women in the public eye, like Cassidy. “I should have talked to her more about whether she was having any problems. You know, Cassidy loves—loved—her fans, but sometimes they can cross the line into crazy, and you have to be careful.”
Allison leaned closer to the air-conditioning vent. Her face was shiny with sweat. “What kind of crazy? Some kind of personality disorder?”
“Definitely not in touch with reality. These guys can’t have normal personal relationships, so instead they retreat to fantasy ones.”
A delivery truck had narrowed the road to a single lane, and they were forced to idle in place. Nic imagined she could feel the heat rising off the soft black asphalt. The people shambling by looked like zombies, with slack faces and half-open mouths.
“So you take a guy who’s unbalanced and lonely. He turns on his TV, suddenly he’s looking at a beautiful young woman. She’s warm, she’s talking to him and looking him right in the eye. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who goes through his whole day—his whole week—and no one looks at him. But this girl on TV, she comes on every day at the same time and says hello and good-bye to him. That kind of thing is tailor-made for someone with a delusional disorder.”
Nic managed to nose the Crown Vic into the other lane. The driver she cut off started to make a gesture, then abruptly stopped himself, probably noting the signs that the car belonged to law enforcement.
“These guys think they really have a relationship with their victims,” she continued. “The problem comes when they try to act out their imaginary plots in the real world. Say this guy went to Cassidy’s condo last night and tried to talk to her, maybe even kiss her. A guy like this is convinced that his victim loves him back. That she sends him signals by the words she chooses or how she wears her hair. He believes that the victim is his perfect match and they’re destined to be together forever. It’s not even really sexual. It’s romantic. Idealized.”
“That could explain why Cassidy wasn’t raped,” Allison said. “But if he romanticized her, why would he kill her?”
“Someone like this can go from a love obsession to a hate obsession in the blink of an eye. The love obsession validated his life, and when it’s threatened, his very being is threatened. He panics. He might think, If I can’t have her, then no one can.”
“So if this guy showed up at her condo, acting like they really were a couple,” Allison said slowly, “and Cassidy managed to convince him that her feelings didn’t match his . . .”
“If he realized he could never be part of Cassidy’s life,” Nic said grimly, “then maybe he decided to kill her.”
Aside from Marcy, the station’s receptionist, Channel Four’s huge lobby was unoccupied. Empty overstuffed chairs and couches were grouped around a low table topped with a fan of the latest magazines. No one was watching the flat-screen TV—showing Channel Four, of course—that murmured in one corner.
Heels echoing on the wooden floor, they walked the fifty feet toward the reception desk. Even from a distance it was clear that Marcy’s eyes were red, her nose swollen. She pushed back her chair and gave them each a hug. Nic submitted to it though her history with Marcy did not go much beyond hello and good-bye.
“I can’t believe Cassidy’s gone.” Marcy sniffed. “I didn’t even say good-bye to her last night.”
“So she was still at work when you left?” Nic asked.
“I saw her walking out as I was pulling out of the parking lot.” Marcy’s gaze was unfocused. “That was about six fifteen. I waved, but I don’t think she saw me. That’s what I told the detective who was here earlier.” Marcy seemed to think the two of them were there in their official capacity.
“A lot of leads are being followed,” Allison said, neatly sidestepping just who was following those leads.
“Where can we find Brad?” Nic asked.
“He’s in the makeup room getting ready for the five o’clock.” Marcy plucked a tissue from a box and blew her nose with a loud honk.
Nic and Allison walked down a short hallway that doglegged to the right and then opened up into the newsroom. This room definitely wasn’t meant for public consumption. A single large open space, the newsroom was crowded with cheap metal desks split up by a few waist-high partitions. It smelled faintly of sweat and stale food. The desks were cluttered with coffee cups, half-eaten bags of chips, family photos, and advertiser or station giveaways: logo-laden mugs, sports bottles, pens, lunch bags, and even bobblehead dolls.
Nic had always liked seeing behind the facade. She liked knowing that when Cassidy appeared on the news in the studio next door, the skyline behind her was a huge photograph framed by a fake window. A photograph that on closer inspection showed a few dings.
Normally the newsroom would be filled with the buzz of talk and the click-clack of computer keys. Now people stood in knots on the stained carpet, speaking in low voices while the air-conditioning labored mightily to bring the temperature below eighty degrees.
Heads turned and conversation stilled as Nic and Allison walked back toward the makeup room. Most of the women and quite a few of the men looked like they’d been crying. Nic nodded and made eye contact, but kept her expression unreadable. Her blouse stuck to the small of her back, and she reached back to pluck it free, wondering why she had even bothered to iron it.
Brad wasn’t alone in the makeup room. Sitting next to him was Phoebe Sennett, his latest co-anchor. Both were using what looked liked turbo-powered silver pens to carefully apply spray-on foundati
on. Unforgiving HD cameras required perfect skin—or at least skin that appeared perfect.
When he caught sight of them in the mirror, Brad tugged a small white towel out of his shirt collar and set it and the airbrush on the long, cluttered counter. He got to his feet and gave them each an awkward embrace—the hug equivalent of an air kiss. Phoebe settled for nods.
Three months earlier Phoebe had joined Channel Four when the station once again passed over Cassidy for the co-anchor spot. The previous co-anchor, Alissa Fontaine, had only lasted nine months. While on vacation in Florida and under the influence of too much rum, she had entered a wet T-shirt contest that had degenerated into an impromptu striptease. Which, of course, ended up all over the Web. Rather than being hounded out in shame, Alissa had quit the station to star on a reality show.
After the station hired Phoebe, Cassidy had consoled herself with the idea that the other woman at least had a degree in broadcasting. Before the stripping incident, Alissa’s sole claim to fame had been being a former Miss Connecticut.
Nic saw Brad press something into Allison’s hand. A thumb drive, which she guessed held the stories Brad had surreptitiously copied from Cassidy’s computer. He gave them both a nod and then shot a meaningful glance in Phoebe’s direction. Nic took the hint and didn’t say anything.
“How are you guys holding up?” Brad asked.
“We’re in shock,” Allison said. “Like everyone else.”
“And yet the show must go on.” Brad settled back down into his chair and regarded his jawline critically. “We’re leading off the newscast with a special tribute to Cassidy.”
Nic looked at her watch. It was 4:45. They’d have to talk fast. “I was surprised when you said Cassidy had a stalker. She never mentioned it to us.”
“You guys really need to coordinate,” Brad said. “This is like the third time I’ve said this stuff today.”
Nic exchanged a glance with Allison. Allison, who never lied. Ever. But now she let Brad’s supposition stand, the way she had Marcy’s. They both did.
“Everyone has a crazy guy,” Phoebe said. Her words were slightly distorted as she applied a layer of berry-colored lipstick. “They’re just fans. Really, really eccentric fans. It was the same in Seattle. It can be a little disconcerting, but it’s just one of the hazards of being in the public eye.”
“It’s more than that, Phoebe.” Brad half turned toward her. “I’ve been in this business longer than you, and things are changing. Now people want to get up close and personal with the talent. It’s not like the old days, when there was a little bit of privacy. Now if you refuse to sign an autograph or leave the house dressed in sweats, someone will film you with their phone and before you know it, you’re viral on YouTube. Meanwhile, you’re supposed to be using social media to promote the station. Social media.” He snorted. “You have no idea how much I hate that term. Jerry thinks they can turn around the decline in viewership by having us blog and Tweet and Facebook. Only I don’t know how that leads to more television viewers.”
Phoebe shrugged as she capped her lipstick. “TV stations aren’t in the business of selling the news. Not anymore. Everyone else has the same news, and you can get it a lot sooner by going to the Internet rather than waiting for us to come on at five. So what they’ve got left is our personalities. They’re basically selling us. And it’s ten times worse for women. At least men don’t get those head-to-toe body shots or have to worry about keeping their knees together when they’re sitting. I mean, look at the things they say about Cassidy online.”
“What do you mean?” Nic asked.
Phoebe picked up her smart phone. “Watch what happens when I type Cassidy’s name into the Google search box.” Her thumbs moved rapidly over the screen, typing in cassidy shaw and then she handed it to Nic. Allison leaned over her shoulder to look at how Google auto-completed the phrase with the most popular search terms.
cassidy shaw sexy
cassidy shaw dating
cassidy shaw nose job
cassidy shaw breasts
cassidy shaw married
cassidy shaw hot
cassidy shaw upskirt shots
“Ugh,” Allison said. “It makes me feel creepy just looking at it.”
Nic nodded, wondering whether Cassidy had known, and how much she minded being discussed as if she were a piece of meat.
Phoebe gave them a sad smile. “Mine are even worse. You don’t get things like Phoebe Sennett breaks story. Or Phoebe Sennett great reporter. Instead, it’s all about my body and whether I might be pregnant or if I’m dating anyone. It’s all superficial and stupid.” Her upper lip curled. “And the creeps who post sick stuff about us don’t even necessarily live here.”
“What do you mean?” Allison asked.
Phoebe took back her phone, typed something, and handed it back to Nic. It showed a website called hotnewsbabes.com.
Nic scrolled down through tiny photos of TV screens showing one female reporter after another. Each series of photos had a headline like Randi Corlett shows great cleavage in tiny black dress, or Libby Worall looking sexy. And under each photo was a line reading Rate her with check boxes for Ugh, OK, Hot, and Smoking!
“See the links at the bottom of the photos?” Phoebe asked. “If you click on them, they take you back to the reporter’s bio at whatever station she works at. So in two or three clicks, you could be sending some pretty girl in another state an e-mail—and half the time, the station where she works will have a policy that she has to send a cheerful e-mail back, because they don’t want to make the ‘fans’ angry. Fans? These guys have probably never seen the shows that these photos are taken from.”
“That’s why I say we’ve got targets on our backs,” Brad said as he knotted his tie. “And the station is painting them there.”
“These guys are annoying but harmless,” Phoebe said. “They’re just pitiful losers who can’t get real dates. Half of them probably don’t ever get off their couches.”
“Oh really?” Brad straightened the knot. “Then what about that Texas TV anchor who was shot to death when some guy broke into her apartment? What about the Iowa reporter who called her producer to say that she was leaving for work and then never showed? All they found were her shoes, earrings, and blow dryer on the ground next to her car. And there was that sports reporter in Montana. Somebody ambushed him when he walked out to his car. They never caught the one who did that either.”
“But bad things happen to people in all kinds of professions,” Phoebe said. “And that guy who liked Cassidy was harmless. I saw the stuff he sent her. Cards and flowers and really bad poems that rhymed love with move. I don’t think some guy who sent her a card with a white kitten on the front is going to be the one who stabbed her to death.”
It was clearly the same argument Brad and Phoebe had been having all day.
“What was his name?” Nicole asked. “The guy who sent Cassidy all this stuff?”
“Roland.” Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “Does that sound like the name of a guy who is ever going to have a real girlfriend? Roland Baxter. He called her and sent her weird letters and left messages on her Facebook page. Cassidy said he was harmless. Besides, there wasn’t really anything she could do about it unless he threatened her. And he didn’t. Not really. He mostly just said he loved her. Once he left a letter on her windshield calling her ‘my fair lady.’ ”
Brad said darkly, “Don’t you remember the rest of that one? He also said that if she ever noticed an unfamiliar car with tinted windows pulling in behind her, she had better hope it was him.”
“But even that wasn’t really a threat,” Phoebe said.
“Yeah.” Brad made a raspberry sound. “More like a promise. And now look what happened.”
Nic shivered a little, thinking Brad had it right. It did sound like a promise. “You said he left the card on her windshield. Was that at the station or someplace else?” If it had been in the condo’s parking garage, then that meant he knew whe
re Cassidy lived.
“Here,” Brad said. “In our parking lot. We don’t have a fenced lot for employees, so anyone can get at your car.”
“Do you know if he knew where she lived?” Allison asked.
Brad shrugged, but Phoebe said, “Last month Cassidy told me that when she opened her door one morning to get the newspaper, the hallway was littered with rose petals. But no note, no message. She didn’t know who had done it. I think she thought it was halfway romantic.”
“Can we see the card?” Allison asked. “Or anything else he sent her?”
“Like I keep telling you people, Cassidy didn’t hang on to any of that stuff,” Brad said. “She just looked and threw it away. Sometimes she showed things around and sometimes she didn’t. But this one guy, this Roland, he was in love with her. Or something like love.”
A woman Allison recognized as the producer for the five o’clock news stuck her head in the room. “We need you guys out on the set,” she said.
“Why don’t you stay and watch the show in the studio?” Brad offered.
“We’re going to have to slip out at some point,” Nic said. “We don’t want to cause any distraction.”
“We’ll catch it in the lobby,” Allison said. She was already halfway out the door.
CHAPTER 12
Back in Channel Four’s lobby with Nicole, Allison felt too keyed up to sit down. She paced back and forth in front of the TV set, which was showing two women earnestly discussing bladder control drugs.
“Can’t you stand still for one second?” Nicole snapped.
“Sorry.” She stopped in her tracks.
“No, wait. I’m sorry, Allison.” Her friend heaved a sigh. “It’s all just too much, you know?”
Allison did know. Nervous energy still thrummed in her, but she willed herself to stay still. She lifted one hand and lightly rested her fingers on her cross.
God was in this situation as surely as He was in any other. Wasn’t He? It was so much easier to rely on God when it felt like things could still be changed. Cassidy was gone, and nothing could bring her back.