by Lisa Jackson
* * *
Liam wanted to meet with Mickelson and his partner alone, but as soon as his father understood who they were, Geoff refused anything but a full-on family meeting in the living room. “Everyone’s got something to say,” he practically roared. “Just say it!”
Stella, with a hard glance at her husband, went out to make sure Candace was still entertaining the children. She returned moments later and retook her seat on the couch near the bay window, where she crossed her legs and somehow managed to look perturbed.
Liam had forgotten that his father had actually liked the retired police detective. He’d had faith in Mickelson for a long while, until he’d retired from the police department—or been put out to pasture, Geoff’s real belief in how the detective had been removed from the job.
Mickelson introduced his partner as Shanice Clayburgh. She was younger, with darker skin, her hair pulled into a tight bun at her nape, but she possessed the same take-no-prisoners attitude as he did. Mickelson himself seemed disinclined to talk to them as a group, but it was clear those were Geoffrey Bastian’s rules, so he launched into why he’d shown up in Portland.
“We would like to talk to you,” he said, directing his attention to Rory. “We’ve talked to the local PD and know about the attack last night, as well as the one at the wedding, both perpetrated by Cal Redmond. And we also know what he’s said the reasons are. We would like to hear the chain of events the night of the wedding.”
Liam’s cell phone rang, and everyone’s eyes swung his way. He saw it was Beth and let it go to voice mail.
“Who was that?” Stella asked, squinting. As if she didn’t trust him.
“Beth. I’ll call her back.”
“Do,” Stella instructed.
Rory ignored her mother-in-law and answered the detective. “I’ve said everything, absolutely everything, I can. Over and over again. Everything I can remember, to the police, both Portland and Laurelton, who talked with Seattle PD.” She was getting angry again. “I’m sorry my mother thought it would be a good idea to tell you how to find me, because it’s a big waste of time.” She leveled her gaze at the big man. “You can ask me a million questions, go at it different ways, but really, there’s just nothing more I can come up with.”
“Your mother invited these . . . people?” Stella asked in that sneering tone Liam detested.
Liam forced himself to ignore her and asked Mickelson, “You’re investigating the wedding shooting, privately? You’re not associated with the police?” His phone beeped faintly, a voice mail message from Beth.
Geoffrey snapped, “I hired them. I want to know who hired DeGrere to shoot up your wedding and put me in this chair.”
All heads turned to look at him.
Mickelson spoke into the stunned moment, “Shanice and I never really gave up on the case. DeGrere’s homicide put it back on a front burner.”
“You mean, Geoff hiring you put it on a front burner,” Stella corrected, looking at her husband. “You couldn’t have told me?”
“I’m telling you now,” Geoff said gruffly. “Damn case had gone cold.”
Liam stared at his father. “You wanted to surprise us?”
“Just Dad’s way,” Derek drawled with a touch of anger.
“I want answers, God damn it!” He rapped his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. “It’s been five years and—”
The door chimes pealed, interrupting him, and seconds later there was a sharp rap, rap, rap of impatient knuckles on the front door.
“Oh, hell. It’s that Pauline Kirby,” Vivian growled as she peered through the half-closed blinds. She sat on the far end of the same couch occupied by her mother, but Viv’s arms hugged her chest tightly as if she couldn’t bear the thought of touching Stella, or probably anyone in the room, for that matter.
“I’ll take care of this,” Derek said, getting up and stalking to the door. In a pleasant voice he told whoever was on the other side to go fuck themselves.
“Derek!” Stella cried and dropped her forehead to one hand. “Oh. God. You’ll be on the news saying that!”
“They’ll bleep me out.” Shrugging, he slid back into the armchair he’d recently vacated and seemed almost pleased with himself.
Stella drilled him with her eyes. “They’ll probably camp out there, you know, at the edge of the driveway. With others. It’s like they breed, you know. One comes up then another, then another . . .” She shivered at the thought. “I’ve seen it on the news.” Glancing to the window, she said, “We should call the police.”
Derek gave a little snort. “Oh, right. Now there’s a great idea.”
“Got a better one?” she countered.
“Mother!” Liam cut in, tired of Stella’s theatrics.
“Mrs. Bastian?” Mickelson inquired, seeming unruffled by the display.
Stella turned sharply toward him, but the detective was looking at Rory. The other Mrs. Bastian. “Would you mind going over it one more time?” When he saw that Rory was about to protest, he held up a hand. “I know. I heard you. You’re sick of telling the story. But, please. Just one more time. I’d like to hear your take on the events of the wedding day and what you did, where you were, what you thought.”
Liam thought Rory was going to tell Mickelson to beat it and leave her alone as she looked tired and beyond stressed. The makeup on her face was fading and the dark bruising and swelling was apparent now. She didn’t need this.
He started to step in and cut Mickelson off. “Maybe another time would be better—”
“No. If I’m going to do this at all, it may as well be now. And here.” Somehow Rory seemed to marshal her strength and gamely did as the ex-detective had requested, answering his questions truthfully. She sat perched on the edge of an ottoman, with Mickelson and his partner occupying two matching chairs near the foyer. Derek leaned against the fireplace and Geoffrey positioned himself near the coffee table, his chair out of any walking path. Standing next to the chair Rory had taken, Liam glanced at the phone that had been vibrating in his pocket. The call identified as being from a news station. Sick of reporters, he clicked his phone off. They could wait.
She was saying, “So I was getting ready, had my dress on and was kind of freaking out because I was already late . . .” She explained once again about the knock on the door, the helium balloons, and the weird, high-pitched voice threatening her.
When she mentioned Cal, Liam saw his mother roll her eyes. God, she could be a bitch, and Vivian had a weird expression on her face. Was she even listening?
Rory went on to explain about the knife attack, the blood, and the fear that propelled her to race out the door and down the hall of the unfamiliar hotel. She’d ended up in the basement and then up the ramp to the exit. “I didn’t know what was happening, why anyone would want to kill me, and I heard the music from the wedding . . . and . . . and . . .”
Her words faded, her story interrupted, and she stared through the window, not seeing the manicured grounds of the Bastian home but something else, another panorama seen only in her mind’s eye. “Oh.” She swallowed. Lost in thought. “But there was . . . Oh, God,” she whispered and the ensuing silence was deafening.
“What?” Mickelson asked softly.
“I think . . . I mean . . .” Biting her lip, she thought, her eyes narrowing as if she were focusing on an object just out of view. “There was a silver car. I was running in the parking structure, trying to get out, but . . . but it was racing, almost careening into the lot. It headed up the ramp and I could hear the tires squealing. It was going fast and I remember thinking he should be careful, he could hurt someone . . .” She gazed at Mickelson and her expression turned to one of regret. “I didn’t think about it again. It was like not even in my memory. And at the time I didn’t know what happened at the wedding, not till later.” She bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Maybe not,” Mickelson encouraged, his voice low.
She swallowed. Hard. “Could . .
. do you think that the driver may have been the shooter?” All the color had drained from her face at the thought.
Mickelson had gone still, as if afraid to move. “It was a silver car?”
“Or gray . . . maybe?”
“Do you know what make it was?”
Rory shook her head slowly, her eyebrows drawn in concentration. “Oh, I’m . . . I’m just so bad about cars. I don’t know.”
“Okay. How about this,” Mickelson said. “Was it a sedan, or an SUV, or a truck?”
“No. Not a truck. Yeah, just a car—a sedan.”
“Four door?” he asked. “Two?”
“I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed even further. “He went by in a blur.”
“He?” Mickelson waited.
“I mean. It.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“No—uh, no.” She was shaking her head.
The partner, Shanice, asked, “What about a passenger?” and when Rory responded negatively, she asked about license plates, or dents, or parking permits, or bumper stickers, or anything that would make identifying the vehicle easier. Each time she struck out.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I even remember that, about the car, now. All of a sudden.”
“But you’re sure it was gray.”
“Yes. Uh-huh.”
There was a moment of silence, and then, as if he couldn’t stand the suspense, Derek blurted out, “What?”
It was their father who answered. Geoff’s voice was hard, the words brittle. “Pete DeGrere’s car was a gray sedan. It was found abandoned miles from the hotel. No gun. He was either aided and abetted by someone or dropped the rifle somewhere, though it was never found.”
Shanice said, “Good memory.”
Geoff looked at her coolly and rapped his fingers on his wheelchair. “I’ve had a lot of time to go over that day and everything that’s happened since.” His lips turned downward. “You know, I think I was the target.”
Mickelson’s head jerked as he turned to face the old man. “You?”
Shanice asked, “Why?”
“Just a gut feeling, I guess you’d say,” Geoff said, but his brittle joke fell flat. “I don’t have any proof, if that’s what you mean, but . . . you’re talking about a real marksman in DeGrere. Would he make such a mistake?”
“He could have been distracted. His timing off,” Derek said.
Vivian glared at her father. “Oh, so that’s it now? DeGrere for sure? Well, I didn’t have anything to do with it!” Vivian said through her teeth, her eyes shooting daggers at both Derek and Geoff.
“You think it was Pete DeGrere that I saw, then? In the car?” Rory asked, still piecing it together. There had been speculation, of course. DeGrere had been a “person of interest” in the unsolved case.
Mickelson was nodding. “I’ve always felt it was DeGrere. The hotel had one camera on that exit ramp, and it wasn’t working. The whole place was being retrofitted, but it hadn’t happened by the time of the shooting. DeGrere probably knew that. During the search we found his car, abandoned. He said it was because he’d been drinking and he didn’t want to get picked up, so he got out and started walking. It was on a side street. Older industrial. No cameras there, either. He couldn’t ever explain what he was doing in that area besides that he’d gotten lost. We searched the surrounding warehouses. No gun. Then Pete, being Pete, tried holding up a convenience store, waving a handgun around, and got himself a prison sentence. We had no corroboration that Pete’s car was at the hotel that day. We just knew he’d been in the area. He frequented a bar a few blocks from the hotel. More upscale than his usual haunts, but he was sweet on one of the bartenders, who we believe was involved in some minor prostitution with the occasional customer to make ends meet. Possibly Pete was one of those customers. She was fired soon after Pete’s incarceration.”
“She picked him up that day,” Geoff said with certainty.
“No,” Shanice answered. “She was at the bar during the entire wedding ceremony. She’s the one who first fingered DeGrere. Said he was talking a big score. Taking out one of those fat cats who had too much money.”
“You see!” Geoff said. “I knew it! That low-life bastard.”
It was Mickelson’s turn to disagree. “DeGrere talked like that a lot, even in prison. He claimed other jobs that he couldn’t have done, all because ‘those fat cats had too much money.’ He bragged about a lot of things. He had grandiose ideas about himself.”
“He was crazy,” Stella stated flatly.
“Come on, Mom,” Viv said with an expressive roll of her eyes. “Like you knew him. Like you’d ever know anyone like him. Give me a break!”
“More accurately,” Shanice said, “I’d say Pete DeGrere was someone who occasionally broke with reality.”
Mickelson added, “DeGrere was paid for the job. He didn’t just act on impulse. Someone knew he was a marksman, although they may not have known he was unstable. He took the job and maybe, Geoff, because you’re wealthy, you were on his radar, too. Could be. He was a real nutcase. Or, someone knew that about him and appealed to his prejudice, the icing on the cake to perform the job.” He cleared his throat. “There is a chance he was hired to simply create chaos.”
“Would someone in your family actually kill your stepbrother Aaron?” Shanice asked Rory in an icy voice.
Liam wasn’t sure what that was about, but it felt personal, as if the woman PI had a personal grudge against Rory, but his wife, if she sensed there was anything but professionalism in the question, didn’t show it. Rory just shook her head, and tears glistened in her eyes. She sniffed, swatted away any tears, then said, “No.” Clearing her throat she repeated, “No. Of course not. Everyone . . . we all . . . loved Aaron.”
“Let’s go at this from a different direction,” Mickelson suggested as the rest of the room had gone deathly still.
Liam watched his family members as they were all focused on the private investigator, and he wondered what each of them was thinking. Vivian, calmer now, but still wary. Stella haughty as ever, but lines of strain around her mouth. Derek, ever the rogue, still appearing bored. And Geoff, agitated as always, needing answers, needing control. A sorry lot, this, his family.
Mickelson said, “I’ve been going over my notes from five years ago. Reexamining information. Talking to both Seattle PD and the Portland police.”
Did Vivian’s eyes widen?
Did his mother wince just a bit?
Was he imagining things?
Mickelson went on, “I’ve learned that you’ve had some sabotage on your job sites recently, and a homicide.”
“Homicide?” Derek repeated.
“Teri Mulvaney’s death was a homicide?” Liam asked at the same time.
“That’s how it’s been ruled. So, in the last two weeks, less really, there have been two deaths related to your family, DeGrere’s and Mulvaney’s, and you’ve had the reappearance of a missing person.”
Rory.
She stiffened a bit and he knew she felt the weight of everyone’s eyes in the room boring into her.
Shanice said, “We believe there’s a connection. Whoever killed Teri Mulvaney was sloppy, left his semen and therefore DNA. If he’s in the system, he’ll be found. The Portland police are working on it. If he’s not, DNA samples will be requested from anyone associated with Mulvaney or the Bastians.”
“The women, too?” Stella said with distaste.
“It’s strictly voluntary,” she answered.
“Leaving DNA behind is more than sloppy,” Derek observed.
Shanice answered, “Maybe the condom broke. Maybe he never intended it to go that far.”
“Maybe he wants to be caught,” Mickelson said.
Vivian finally spoke up. “I don’t understand what this Teri Mulvaney could have to do with the wedding shooting.” She’d recovered her composure somewhat, but now looked pale and sober.
“Maybe nothing,” Shanice said.
E
xcept she looked a lot like my wife and her hair was almost the exact same shade as Rory’s. Liam caught his brother glancing at Rory, then when he looked away, Liam wondered if Derek had been thinking the very same thing.
“Hey!” a voice called from the other side of one of the doors to the living room, and Candace, wearing shorts and a T-shirt over her swimsuit, stepped into the room, then paused as she saw everyone. “Oh, whoa. Sorry. Um.” She zeroed in on Vivian and pulled a face. “I uh, need to get going and, you know, need to be paid.”
“Oh, right! Uh—just a sec,” Vivian said, forcing herself from the couch. “Of course.”
With a sigh, Stella said, “Let me get my purse.”
“Really, Mom?” Vivian shot her mother a withering glance. “I can take care of it. Come on, come on, let’s go,” she said to Candace, ushering the babysitter to the door.
“Fine.” Stella threw up a hand. “I was just trying to help. You’re the one always complaining about money, you know,” Stella called after her daughter, then, staring at the detective, added, “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do. We all do. I think we’ve helped you as much as we can.” Her smile held no warmth.
“I think we’re done here,” Mickelson said. Though he didn’t seem satisfied, both he and his partner got to their feet. Geoff waited until the two private detectives were securely out the door behind Vivian, then muttered that he was going to his den to have a drink.
“Helluva day,” he said to no one in particular as he rolled along the corridor. “Helluva day.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Derek said, rubbing the back of his neck and staring after his old man. “Can you believe that?”
“What?”
“About the shooter? That it was that DeGrere character all along? Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.” Derek started into the family room and, realizing that Estella and Landon had fallen asleep on the couch, motioned for Rory and Liam to wend their way past the couch to the door leading outside to the patio, where he found the drink cart. He uncorked a bottle of whiskey. “So,” he said, pouring a glass and offering it to Rory, who shook her head, then to Liam, who accepted it, “you buying the DeGrere theory?”