Rachel swallows. Her eyes slide to Tony, who’s up on one elbow. His bulldog expression holds a certain smug satisfaction. Rachel allows distaste to cross her face, then looks, tight-lipped, back to Rosa. “How do you expect to pay the bills around here? He certainly isn’t helping.”
“We’re sending you out on the streets.” Tony guffaws at his own joke.
Rosa fakes an Oh, you bad boy frown and smacks him on the leg. “Don’t you worry about it, Rachel.” Her tone mixes pride and irritation. “Tony and me together are gonna make more money than you’ve ever seen. I’ll be able to buy you more things. You should be happy, so wipe that accusing look off your face.”
Tony — make money? Whatever scheme he’s concocted is sure to fall through soon. Worse, it probably isn’t legal. In quick succession Rachel pictures Rosa and herself losing their house, forced out on the streets.
“How are you going to make money?” Rachel wishes she could relax, feign indifference. But her chest is tightening more and more.
“None of your business.” Tony sits up and glares at her. “Just go hide in your room like you always do. I don’t see you doing anything around here to help.”
The words shoot fire through Rachel’s veins. “I don’t do anything? How about cleaning the house and doing all the cooking and dishes and laundry? What do you do, Mr. Lie on the Couch?”
Tony is on his feet in an instant, mouth curling. He pushes Rosa aside, lunges for Rachel. “I’ll teach you to talk to me like — ”
Rosa grabs the back of his shirt. “Forget it, Tony. Leave her alone.”
He yanks away, points a finger at Rosa. “No, I’m gonna teach her this time. I’m sick of the way she looks at me.”
Rachel backs up toward the front door, eyes on Tony. Every muscle in her body is poised to turn and run. If he’s going to beat her, he’ll have to chase her down the street in front of everybody.
Let’s just see how fast you land in jail, Mr. Big Man.
“Tony!” Rosa pushes off the couch and grasps his wrist. “I said leave her alone.”
Rachel shuffles back two more steps. A third. Rosa and Tony argue, exchanging curses, Rosa’s voice shrilling and Tony’s hoarse with anger. “Okay, Rosa!” he finally yells, thrusting his face in hers. “You control your brat yourself, hear me? Or I’m outta here, and the deals go with me. Then where will you be?”
Rosa glares at him, breathing hard. Abruptly she snaps toward Rachel. “Look what you’ve done! You want us out on the street?” She pushes around the end of the couch and stomps into the entryway. Stops two feet from Rachel, cheeks flaring red. “You want to know where the money’s coming from, Little Miss Smart Aleck? Fine, I’ll tell you. We’re passing some products along; that’s all you need to know. Satisfied?”
Rachel freezes. Two, maybe three seconds pass as she stares at Rosa, a harsh wind blowing through her head. A dozen thoughts bombard her at once — the realization that her mother has resorted to selling drugs and could be arrested, that she and Rosa are now inextricably tied to Tony because if he falls they both go down with him, that Rosa and Tony could wind up in jail and Rachel would be left alone.
Truly alone.
“Answer me, girl.” Rosa grabs Rachel’s shoulders and shakes her.
Rachel jerks away from the hated touch. “Fine, Rosa, do whatever you want. Just don’t get caught, okay? You need to think about that.”
Rosa’s anger turns to smugness. “You think we’re stupid? Tony knows people, cops included. We got nothin’ to worry about.”
“And you” — Tony points at her — “keep your mouth shut. Or I’ll shut it for ya.”
Rachel looks from him to Rosa, overwhelming loneliness wrapping around her heart. They are a team. United, with a mission. She is the outsider. Now more than ever before.
She pulls in her shoulders. Turns away so they won’t see the pain on her face. “Just who in my life would I have to tell?”
TWENTY-SIX
“Jared, I’m out of here.”
And I can’t believe this is happening!
Leslie had practically freaked when her boss called with the news of Edna San’s disappearance. She’d been dressed in her bathing suit — a red two-piece that made her look fine indeed, thank you very much — preparing to lie out in the sun and contemplate her move from Kanner Lake. Within ten minutes after hanging up the phone, she’d thrown on some makeup and pulled on a light-blue cotton top and fitted jeans studded with rhinestones. She’d raced downtown in her bright yellow VW bug with a large pink daisy on each side to pick up her steno pad and camera. The camera was now slung over her shoulder along with her purse, the notebook clutched in her hands. Adrenaline zinged her nerves. Her train to fame had finally come, and she was catching it, oh yeah, baby. Ahead of all other media. Heaven knew they’d come running soon enough.
Jared paced behind his gray steel desk, hands jingling coins in his pockets. From the animated expression on his wizened features, Leslie knew he shared her excitement, although he’d die before admitting it. Jared had owned the Times so long he considered himself a veteran of sleuth reporting, and a poker face came with the territory.
“All right, girl, now I want you to phone me at every turn, hear?” Jared pointed a long, bony finger, his blue eyes glimmering. “Try my cell phone if you can’t get through on the land line. I’ll be making calls, getting all the background information I can. We’ve got to work fast. If this thing keeps going, we’ll turn out an extra paper on Monday.”
“I’m on it.” Leslie reached into her purse for her car keys. Her fingers closed around the large rubber sunflower attached to her key chain. She yanked it out.
“Don’t let those big-time Spokane reporters push you around!”
“No way, this story’s mine.” She threw the words at him as she shoved through the door. On the sidewalk she squinted in the bright sun, then turned left to trot down the block to her car.
Carpe diem and all that. Leslie intended to seize this day like it was the last one of her life.
In high gear she walked past Hamburgers on Main, The Leather Shop, and Java Joint, her peripheral vision registering the regular gang inside the coffee shop.
Extra ears.
Leslie skidded to a halt. Swung around and skittered into the café. Numerous Ts dotted the tables, lolling over their lattes and pastries as if this day weren’t a world-changing event.
“Hi, Leslie,” Bailey called. “Love your jeans.”
“Hey!” Jake Tremaine leaned toward her with raised eyebrows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny throat. “You heard about Ed — ”
“Shh!” Leslie flung a meaningful glance toward the tourists. She scurried to the counter, pushing in between Wilbur and Hank, lowering her breathless voice. “Yes, I’ve heard. I’m headed out to the San estate now. I want you all to call me if you hear any rumors, okay? And don’t talk to any Spokane reporters.”
“Go, Leslie, you’re our girl.” Wilbur grinned, showing crooked teeth.
The rest chimed in with their support. Leslie gave them a thumbs-up and pushed away from the counter.
As she turned toward the door, Terry Branton, her high school writing teacher, entered the café. Mr. Branton was a tall and gangling sort of man with an angular, serious-looking face that belied his bookishness. “Hi, Leslie.” His thin lips stretched widely. “How’s my best student doing today?”
Best student. She’d been out of high school for two years and still he called her that. Probably would until doomsday. Not that Leslie minded. Mr. Branton had always believed in her, and that belief had helped her through many a day. “Great, Mr. Branton.” Leslie drew close to him and lowered her voice. “I’m onto something big. You always told me I’d make it — maybe this is it!” As his mouth started to open, she jerked a thumb toward the counter. “If you haven’t heard, they’ll fill you in.” She squeezed his arm and hurried for the exit.
“Hey, Les!”
S-Man’s voice. Leslie pulled up s
hort, impatience tightening her expression. “What?”
He leaned back from his computer, bushy brows almost touching each other. Slowly he raised a hand from the keyboard, tapped the side of his computer screen. “Rakjear says, ‘Nizer benduh rillin.’ ”
A few tourists eyed him in wonder.
Leslie sighed. “What on earth does that mean?”
He shot her a look of dark warning. “Not on earth. On Sauria. And it means — be verrry careful.” He drew out the phrase.
Strange. Funny as Ted may have sounded, something about those words writhed in Leslie’s brain. She stared at S-Man, wondering how he’d cast such a pall on her. Maybe it was his bony face, the intensity of his gaze. Whatever quality, it was . . .spooky.
Hey, Les, this ain’t The Twilight Zone.
She raised her hands, palms out. “Sure, Ted. Don’t you worry.”
Leslie turned on her heel, out of there. Two seconds later she was back on the sidewalk, making for her train to fame.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Frank’s background checks on Francesca and Paige came up clean. Vince considered neither off the hook, however. His gut told him Francesca hadn’t lied to him. As for Paige, the first minute he could question her, he would.
That earring they’d found weighed on his mind. It was at the lab already, being checked for prints.
Shortly after eleven o’clock Vince heard the distant thwap-thwap of the chopper from the air force base. Standing next to Frank in Edna San’s driveway, he surveyed the sky.
“There.” Frank pointed, eagerness in his voice. “Over the lake.”
Vince nodded. The search had begun. He’d told the chopper crew about Bravo’s body in the woods, since the dog had not yet been moved.
Once he’d found Bravo shot in the head, Vince strongly suspected he was dealing with foul play. No point in guessing Edna San had wandered off on a jaunt — unless she’d gone crazy enough to kill her own dog. Vince decided to request the chopper at the same time he called for the SAR team. No time to waste now. They had a famous woman to find, and the media would come running in a hurry, which could complicate matters. Vince knew for a fact that the Kanner Lake Times never turned off its eavesdropping police scanner, even on a weekend. Jared Moore probably figured he’d hit a gold mine.
Francesca stepped out onto the porch, face pallid and hands tightly clasped. Her color had not returned since she heard about Bravo. “The men are here with the search dog. I just opened the gate for them.”
“All right, thanks.” Vince turned to look up the driveway and spotted Lester O’Reilly’s familiar white pickup. He peered at the windshield. “Good, looks like he’s got Mick Rummin with him.” He was glad these men were available. They formed the best SAR team around.
Frank watched the hound. “Dog looks ready to go.”
No doubt about it. Lester’s bloodhound, Trace, roamed the back of the pickup with impatience, tail crooked and high. The dog was ready to play. Sniff, trail, find . . . receive reward — that’s what the dog knew.
Lester waved, pulling up behind Vince’s police car. Lester and Mick climbed out of the truck, leaving the dog to his pacing while the four men gathered to confer about the task.
“Morning, Lester, Mick.” Vince shook hands with the Mutt and Jeff pair. Lester was in his midforties, standing six foot three and lanky, with a nose that never quite set straight after he broke it during a high school softball game. Mick, pushing fifty, was a good six inches shorter and muscular, his round cheeks already red from the heat.
Vince gestured toward the house. Francesca remained near the front door, ready for her cue to lead the searchers to Edna’s bedroom to retrieve a piece of the missing woman’s clothing.“We had an unlocked back door leading from the kitchen out to the patio. Probably the exit point. A good place for you two to start.”
“All right, we’re ready.” Lester waved a fly away from his face.
Vince showed them a crude map he’d drawn of the San estate. The property ran down to the water, with about two hundred feet of cleared beach, then extended into natural forest on either side. Most of the acreage lay to the left of the men as they stood facing the house.
As the chopper cruised the sky in search of a body, Lester and Trace, with Mick as observer, began their search. Lester carried a blouse worn by Edna San the day before she disappeared. On the back patio he let Trace sniff the clothing. The dog then followed his nose along the ground for a moment — and quickly picked up the scent. He headed off, straining at his lead, an amazing olfactory machine capable of filtering out all other stimuli to hone in on the one he sought. Lester trotted to keep up.
The dog cut straight south from the patio, toward the woods. “That’s it, boy, find her,” Vince whispered as he watched them disappear into the trees. Mick carried a radio. Vince would be informed if they made a discovery.
Discovery.
Vince catapulted back in time to a camping trip years ago with ten-year-old Tim, his son’s face flushed with anguish. “Dad, Dad, come see what I found in the woods!”
He’d discovered a baby osprey, wing broken and unable to fly. It fluttered weakly, then froze as they drew near, heartbeat visibly pulsing in its little chest.
“Can we help him?” Tim bent over the bird, hands on his knees, his forehead wrinkled. Vince could smell the familiar scent of him — the sun-drenched skin and young boy sweat that spoke of summer and life and wide-eyed vitality. “Please, Dad, we have to do something.”
They captured the bird, took it to the vet, even though Vince knew there was no hope. The osprey died within a day.
Vince blinked hard. Standing now amid the opulence of Edna San’s back patio, he flinched at the soul-wrenching poverty of his loss.
It occurred to him, now that the time had passed, how blessed the last two hours had been, the tyranny of the task at hand blocking thoughts of Tim. This was what life had reduced him to. Either he writhed under pressing grief or mourned blissfully distracted moments already passed.
“Hey, Chief.”
Vince brought his gaze around to his young colleague.
“Yeah.”
Frank stood with feet apart and arms crossed, one leg jiggling. “I can start trying to locate Ms. San’s son and daughter.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Maybe park myself at the table there, or in the library, and make the calls.”
Edna San’s adult children might be able to shed some light on what may have happened to their mother. Their whereabouts during the past night also needed to be checked. Either one of them probably stood to inherit a handsome sum upon their mother’s death, provided they weren’t so estranged, as Francesca had put it, that they’d been cut out of the family will.
At the same time, in the space of one minute Vince could list a good twenty people in Kanner Lake who wouldn’t mourn Edna San’s passing.
“Yeah, go ahead.” Vince turned back to peer at the woods, even though the SAR team had long faded from sight. Thoughts of Tim still sprayed his mind. “First call Wally Keller and inform him of the search. I forgot to do that. If the team keeps heading in that direction, they’ll end up on his property. No doubt he’ll give us permission to be there, but we still need to ask. I’ll head out front to meet the coroner’s wagon.”
The county coroner’s office was sending a wagon to pick up Bravo and take his body back to the morgue. They would remove the bullet and have it sent to the lab for analysis, plus perform an autopsy to determine cause of death. Sure looked like the dog had died from the bullet wound, but what if he’d been poisoned first? A certain poison traced to a point of purchase might offer a lead to the perpetrator.
Vince and Frank stepped through the french doors into the kitchen. Vince made his way toward the front door.
“Mr. Edwards.” Francesca hustled toward him in the hallway, her face grim. “A reporter’s already at the front gate. Said her name is Leslie Brymes. I didn’t let her in, of course, but I thought you should know.”
V
ince sighed. “Wish I could tell you she’ll be the only one.”
“No matter.” Francesca waved a hand, drawing herself up to her full height, a territorial hardness defining her jaw. “I’ll dispatch with the lot of them if I have to. We have No Trespassing signs posted everywhere. Anyone who walks in through the woods will have charges pressed against them.”
Vince suppressed a smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll help you handle it. The media can be a pain sometimes, but they can also offer tremendous help if we need to get word out to the public. It’s just a matter of knowing how to work ’em.”
Francesca harrumphed. A two-note bell sounded and she tossed Vince a worn look. “That’s the gate again.”
“Better answer — it may be the coroner’s wagon.”
It was. For the next half hour Vince remained busy, leading the coroner’s assistant to Bravo and helping load the dog. As they worked, he could hear the chopper making passes in its pattern overhead. No word yet that the medic aboard with his scanner had spotted any sign of Edna San.
Mick and Lester radioed in a couple times, reporting that Trace still followed the scent. “Looks like an old logging road up ahead,” Mick noted in his second call, which came in as the coroner’s wagon was rolling up Edna San’s driveway toward the gate. Between one dead canine and one live one, they just might get some leads on this case. “I think we’re off the San property and on Wally’s at this point.”
“Yeah, Mick, you are. Wait just a minute.” Vince hurried into the house and back to the kitchen, where Frank sat at the table, talking on the phone and taking notes. He motioned to Frank to interrupt him.
“You talk with Wally?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
Vince nodded and raised the radio to his mouth. “Mick, you’re fine. Keller’s not gonna come shootin’ at you.”
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