by Lis Wiehl
He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “If you think that because you’re a sister that you’re getting a pass, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think any such thing, sir.” The only thing Nic thought was that Bond would never be accused of playing favorites.
“And just so I have all the facts correct, this case has nothing to do with you on a professional level. Is that right?”
Nic matched Bond, unflinching stare for unflinching stare. “While that’s true, sir, I was only trying to ensure that justice is being done.”
Was that what she had been doing? It had all made sense last night, the kind of sense things made when your friend had been murdered and you were operating on no sleep and three drinks.
“But I made an error in judgment in how I went about it.”
“The Portland police are our partners. Honoring that partnership is one of my top priorities. If we don’t work together, we could tear this city apart. I don’t need one of my agents turning them into enemies.”
“No, sir.”
Rather than appearing mollified, Bond was looking angrier. “Too bad you didn’t visit this McEwan while you were on duty. Then I could have had your badge. As it is, you can expect a letter of censure in your file.”
Nic flinched. While a letter of censure was the lowest form of discipline, she had never been censured before. Never. Whatever the FBI required her to do, she did, and she usually landed in the top 5 percent. The letter would be placed in her files at both headquarters and Portland and could negatively impact any promotions for the next year.
Bond was looking at her as if he expected an answer.
“Yes, sir. And I apologize for my behavior.”
“I’m going to be keeping my eye on you. If I hear of anything else untoward, you could be looking at a disciplinary transfer to Butte, Montana, where you can freeze your posterior off while pondering the beauty of the world’s largest open-pit copper mine. So don’t be a distraction, Hedges. Don’t be a liability. Do I make myself clear?” Bond pointed his pen, something gold and expensive looking, directly at her heart.
“Yes, sir.” She met his eyes, her face neutral.
“You’ve made an impression, Hedges. And it’s not a good one. I don’t want to hear one more word about you crossing boundaries.” When she nodded, he said brusquely, “You can go now.”
It was only after Nic got to her feet that she realized that her legs were shaking.
Yes, she had erred in going to see Rick. But something about Cassidy’s death nagged at her. Nic had joined the Bureau to make sure that the bad guys got caught and got what they deserved. Wasn’t that more important than the tiny print of rules and regulations, more important than dividing crimes up into city, state, and federal?
She had been in her cubicle for only a few moments when Leif Larson stepped in. Leif was six two, with red-gold hair and square shoulders. He looked like a Viking warrior. While the FBI had no rules about agents dating other agents, he and Nic normally kept their in-office exchanges polite and professional.
Until now.
She stood up and put her mouth close to his ear. In a low voice she said, “Allison and I went to see Rick last night.”
Looking startled, Leif pulled back. “Why?”
It was the question Nic could no longer answer, even for herself. “I just wanted to understand why it happened. Then this morning Allison figured out Cassidy had been covering a story about a throw-down piece Rick might have used to cover up the killing of an unarmed, mentally ill guy.”
“That would certainly give him a reason to go after her. And you’re the one who thought it might be him in the first place. Everything fits.”
“But it’s like it’s almost too perfect. Why would he leave his prints on the knife—and then leave the knife there?”
“People do stupid things all the time. You know that, Nic. Especially if they’re drunk.”
Leif was referring to Rick, but his words made her inwardly flinch.
“Well, Michael Stone showed up at the jail last night too, and I guess he complained about us this morning. Bond just gave me a talking-to. And a letter of censure.”
“Nic, listen to me.” Leif’s voice was low and urgent. “You’ve got to stop trying to figure out this on your own. The Bureau will not back you up on this. And Bond could be looking to send a message to the higher-ups that he is willing to make the hard choices. You could be looking at a disciplinary transfer or even outright termination.”
Nic didn’t tell him about Bond’s Montana threat. “I just want to know the truth.”
“The truth might be that some part of Rick wanted to be caught.”
“So why is he saying he doesn’t remember anything now? If he wanted to be caught, why didn’t he just call the police himself? Why did he stuff Cassidy under the sink like a piece of garbage and then leave?”
As Nic spoke, Heath sauntered past her cubicle. Was he trying to eavesdrop? Did everyone already know about the censure? She made her voice even softer.
“Even Allison believes Rick really doesn’t remember what happened.”
“Just because he doesn’t remember,” Leif said patiently, “doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”
“But what if he didn’t? Or what if he didn’t act alone?” Keeping her voice low, Nic quickly summarized for Leif the story Cassidy had been working on. “How many cops were on the scene when Vernell Williams was shot? If they knew about the cover-up and didn’t say anything, their careers would be on the line. And then Cassidy started asking questions.”
“Nic, listen to yourself. You know that murders don’t have to make sense. Especially not if the killer is under the influence, which Rick probably was if he was at a strip club beforehand. But if you keep insisting that the pieces don’t fit, then Bond won’t look the other way. You have to let this go before he lets you go. Let PPB figure this out. No matter what happens, Cassidy won’t be any less dead. And your career could be on the line.”
Anger stiffened Nic’s spine. She stepped back. “What about the truth? And justice? Aren’t they more important than my career?”
As the afternoon wore on, Nic tried to work, but she kept having brief flashes of Wednesday night. The broken phone. The small dark pool of blood under the cupboards. The cool slack skin of Cassidy’s neck.
A half hour later she slapped her hand on her desk when she suddenly realized what had been bothering her about that night.
But was it a clue or just a coincidence?
Her cubicle was too open. She thought of Heath. It was too hard to have a hushed conversation on a cell phone. Anyone walking by could hear her, even if she kept her voice low. Nic took her phone and went out into the stairwell.
When Allison answered the phone, Nic said, “Can you talk?”
“Yeah.”
“I got the same talking-to you did, but that’s not what’s important.”
“It’s not?” Allison sounded surprised.
“No,” Nic said. “What’s important is I just realized what was bugging me about the murder scene.”
“What?”
“That knife block of Cassidy’s had just two empty slots, right? And remember how you pointed out that there were a paring knife and a bread knife on the counter?”
Allison caught on. “So where did the knife come from that was next to her body?”
Nic gave voice to the argument she knew she would hear if she shared this observation with anyone else. “Cassidy could have extra knives that didn’t fit in the block.”
She didn’t believe it, though, not for a second. Cassidy was no cook. She might slice a baguette or a brick of Tillamook cheese, but that was as far as it went. Cassidy was the kind of woman who hid old newspapers in her oven when company came over.
Allison said, “Rick must have brought the knife with him. But if he did, that means it’s premeditated.”
“We need to find out if the knife matched the knives he had at home. And if it does,
the question is: if he was thinking clearly enough to bring the knife there to kill her, why didn’t he think to take it away? Or at least wear gloves. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, but what murder ever does? And remember, Nicole—we’ve both been told to stop asking questions.”
“Don’t we owe it to Cassidy to find out the truth?” Nic asked.
Allison’s reply was a long time in coming. “Of course we do. We’ve just got to think of some way that doesn’t end up with both of us fired.”
CHAPTER 17
As she walked into the funeral home’s already crowded chapel, clutching a program with Cassidy’s picture on it, Allison suddenly stopped short. Marshall bumped into her. Behind her, she could hear Nicole’s gasp as they all saw what had made Allison halt in her tracks.
A mahogany casket, trimmed in gold, stood at the front of the chapel. Silhouetted by the open top of the lid, Cassidy lay on a white satin pillow. More white pleated satin edged the casket and lined the lid.
A wave of dizziness passed over Allison. She steadied herself on Marshall.
“I haven’t been to an open casket funeral since I was a kid,” he whispered.
Allison forced her legs to start moving again. “I think they do them more in the South. And her mother’s from . . .” Her voice trailed off when she couldn’t remember. Mississippi? Georgia?
Lindsay’s mouth was still open in shock. “Why did they do that?” Her voice was loud enough that a few heads turned.
Letting go of Marshall’s arm, Allison turned back and drew Lindsay to her. “I think some people believe it helps bring closure. It lets them say their good-byes.”
Her sister’s nose wrinkled as she peeped again at Cassidy and then pointedly turned her head away. “Do you think she would like to be lying on display?”
“Well, maybe,” Nic said from behind them. “She looks good.”
Leif nodded agreement.
“But she doesn’t look like herself.” Lindsay shivered. “I’d rather be cremated than end up looking like some kind of life-sized doll. It’s creepy.”
Halfway down the aisle, the five of them—Lindsay, Marshall, Allison, Leif, and Nicole—found a pew that had room for all of them. As they settled into their places, Allison found it impossible to take her eyes off Cassidy. The expanse of unsullied white framing her denied the grim reality of her death and its aftermath. Cassidy was even dressed in white, wearing a dress cut high enough to cover the Y-shaped incision from the autopsy. Her hands were folded demurely on her chest.
Cassidy was a bride and a beauty queen, all rolled into one. Or Sleeping Beauty. Her hair was like spun gold. It had been teased and fluffed to twice its normal volume, presumably to hide the black stitches where Tony had cut open her scalp.
Allison half turned to watch new mourners file in. At the sight of the open casket, nearly every face registered a degree of shock. Now that no one died at home, people were so insulated from death. No one washed the bodies of the dead, straightened their limbs, closed their eyes. Even the realities of dying—the pain and stink and mess of it all—often took place behind closed hospital doors under the impersonal gaze of paid caregivers. Cassidy’s corpse, with its pink lips and carefully arranged hair, represented another way to deal with death, another way to make it palatable. But for Allison, the pretty shell could not erase the memory of what she had seen crammed under the sink.
The chapel was nearly full. It was a long, windowless, wooden box lit by a row of sconces along the side walls. Even the ceiling was made of dark polished wood. The lack of windows made Allison claustrophobic, as did the people crowding into the pews. The air tasted as if it had already cycled through a dozen people’s lungs. Within a few minutes the remaining spaces had filled and ushers were directing people to an annex where clattering folding chairs were being set up.
“Standing room only,” Nicole said. “She would have liked that.”
Allison thought of Tom Sawyer eavesdropping on his own funeral. Too bad that Cassidy’s body could no longer hear or see. And her spirit—did it care about the size of the crowd, the prestige of the mourners, the way people caught their breath when they first saw her laid out in her coffin? Did it care about the TV camera set up in the back corner?
Among the mourners were many people Allison recognized, at least by sight. There were prosecutors, defense attorneys, cops, PR flacks, minor political figures, crime victims, staff from Channel Four, and other media folks from radio, newspapers, and even rival TV stations. Derrick Jensen and Sean Halstead were seated near the back. On the other side of the chapel was a guy Cassidy had dated five or six years ago. He spotted Allison and waved. She lifted her hand. She couldn’t remember if he was the surfer or the vegetarian or the dentist.
But as many people as Allison recognized, even more faces were unfamiliar. Were these the people who handed Cassidy her lattes and dry cleaning? Or strangers who had only seen her image on a TV screen?
The crush of people meant that the time listed for the service came and went. Nic leaned over to Allison. “Just like Cassidy to be late,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Finally the pastor, a man with a silver tonsure and plain dark suit, came in through a side door. He started by leading them in the Lord’s Prayer, with the audience’s usual hesitation and stumbling over “trespasses” or “debts.”
Allison’s debts to Cassidy weighed on her. She could have been a better friend. She could have warned Cassidy about Rick. Chided Cassidy more about the chances she took. She also could have said yes more when Cassidy suggested they get together. How many times had she begged off, citing a pressing case? Those cases had come and gone, and no matter what, she would have gotten all the work done somehow. But the time with her friend? That she could never recapture.
“The death of Cassidy Shaw reminds us that all of us will die,” the pastor said. “This is a thought we usually try to keep far away. Someday each of us will step from this life into another, a life without end, and leave our earthly body behind. It is not that we are a body and have a soul. It’s that we are a soul and have a body. Cassidy has left the temporal body you see here, but her soul still lives.”
He opened up a Bible and began to read:
“There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.”
When he was finished, he cleared his throat. “Despite his honest acknowledgment of the pain and tragedies and challenges of life, the writer of Ecclesiastes also wrote about the good things: healing, rebuilding, laughing, dancing, embracing, love, and peace. All those things are still possible in the world and in our lives.
“We give heartfelt thanks to God for His gift of Cassidy. We remember with joy and delight that there was also a time for Cassidy to be born. The evil we now suffer does not cancel out the joyful memories. Instead, it makes them sweeter. Thank God for the gift of Cassidy.”
His gaze swept out over the crowd. “We do not know what the future holds. But what we can do is make sure the people we love know it. Show and tell them today. Tomorrow may be too late.”
Marshall squeezed Allison’s hand. Nicole smiled at her. She was surrounded by people she loved. Cassidy was dead, and nothing coul
d change that. But if her death inspired more love, more joy, more laughter, more people who took the time to see what was really important, then a blessing could come even from evil.
“Now Cassidy’s family would like to share a few words about their precious daughter.”
Gretchen Shaw’s face was drawn, as if she hadn’t eaten since Allison brought her the bad news.
“Ever since she was born,” Mrs. Shaw began, “Cassidy was just the sunniest little thing. Her smile could light up a room. When we gave parties, she would sneak out of bed, and I’d catch her in the kitchen entertaining a group of grown-ups.” With every word her Southern accent grew more pronounced. “Cassidy was my baby. A mother is not supposed to outlive her child.”
Before David Shaw spoke, he took a long look at Cassidy in her coffin. “As you can see, my daughter was beautiful. She was a light in this world. And now that light has been put out. Put out by some scumbag who wasn’t worth her little finger.” He addressed the still figure of his daughter. “But don’t worry, honey, we’ll make sure he gets what’s coming to him. He’ll never hurt another woman again. In your name, we’ll make sure justice will be done. And we’ll never, ever forget you.”
Duncan Shaw was the last of Cassidy’s family to speak. Her older brother had something of Cassidy in the shape of his nose and chin, although he had brown hair instead of blond and he was at least six inches taller. An engineer, Duncan did something in the aerospace industry that Allison had never quite understood. His words were so low that the audience stilled, straining to hear him.
“How could he hurt you like that, Cassie? How could he? He took you from me and for what? For what?” He stopped, his head hanging low, his breath rattling with the beginning of a sob. He scuffed his palms over his eyes and left the microphone without saying another word.
Allison was reminded by his words what the end must have been like for Cassidy, her lungs screaming for oxygen, her hands unable to do anything but twist helplessly in the handcuffs. Others must have been thinking similarly dark thoughts. Sniffles and even sobs broke out. The stale air was still and hot, smelling of dust and mothballs and sweat. People were fanning themselves with their programs, dozens of photos of Cassidy’s face moving back and forth, back and forth. Allison tried to breathe more deeply. Her chest rose, but it was as if no air went in or out.