by Lisa Jackson
“Then let’s make plans. I really think we need to leave today. Soon. I’m just feeling . . . uncomfortable.”
“Liam’s heading to the police station now to go over Bethany’s death. I don’t think they suspect he’s involved, but he’s as eager to talk to them as they are to him. When he gets back, we’ll go. Maybe to his place, I don’t know . . .”
“Well, he’s not going to want me there.” Her face pulled into a puckering pout, but only for a second. “No, no, that’s fine. Fine. I’ll go back to my house in Salem. It will be better there. Away from all this—” She waved a hand to encompass the entire house. “But I really think you and Charlotte should come with me.”
“Grandma! Mommmiiiiieee!”
“Just a minute, bug!” Rory hollered. To Darlene, she whispered, “I’m with Liam again. He’s my husband and I think, I mean I hope, we can work things out.” Neither one of them had really broached the subject of getting back together, but they were working toward it, both of them. She looked into Darlene’s worried eyes. “It’s what you wanted. Me and Liam together. And so far, it’s wonderful. So, I’m not leaving him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“No, no! But. Maybe. Just temporarily. You need to get away from—” She hesitated, and then said, “Well, you know. Them.”
Meaning the Bastians. All of them. Except, of course, Liam.
“We are on the same page, Mom.”
“Mommmmmmmm . . . !”
“I gotta answer the call.” She bypassed Darlene and headed for the kitchen, glancing back once to see her mother frowning down at her phone. Probably a tarot card app, Rory thought, before her mind went to a mental picture of Beth’s body crashed and bloody upon a Portland city street.
Her stomach lurched and she forcefully pushed the image aside. She didn’t want to think about Beth, or the other woman who’d swan-dived to her death from one of the Bastian-Flavel Construction sites. No, not a dive. She was pushed. Homicide. Remember?
Rory shivered and turned back to the kitchen. Aura or no aura, her mother was right. It was time to leave.
* * *
Liam was a little surprised to find Mick Mickelson and Shanice Clayburgh waiting inside the station when he arrived. A dark-haired, fiftyish, uniformed officer was with them, and he introduced himself as Zach Pitman.
“Zach and I’ve known each other awhile,” Mick said.
“You’re meeting with Detectives Grant and Susskind about Ms. Van Horne’s death?” Shanice asked.
Liam nodded curtly. The thought of Beth’s tragic demise soured his stomach. “They want to go over it, and so do I.”
Mickelson said, “I don’t think they’d appreciate us in the meeting, but I’d like to talk to them, too. Zach’s letting them know, and if you have no objection . . . ?”
And then it hit him. The reason Mickelson was here. His personal great white whale: the person behind the carnage at his wedding. “So. Wait a sec. You think Bethany’s death is connected to what happened five years ago? In Seattle?” Liam asked him. He was just surfacing enough to start wondering himself. He didn’t believe Beth’s death was suicide, it wasn’t in her psyche, or so he thought, and apparently the police were on the same wavelength.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Mickelson was grim. “But it’s a lot of crimes and tragedies around your family. I left you a voice mail. I’d just like to compare notes.”
“Fine with me,” Liam said. He didn’t care whom he spoke with, just as long as there was some conclusion to the mystery surrounding the attack at his wedding, and if Bethany was really murdered, that sick son of a bitch brought to justice. He put his cards on the table. “Sure. Let’s talk. I just want answers. I want to know who hired Pete DeGrere, and who killed Teri Mulvaney and Bethany. That’s what I want.” His throat closed for a moment.
Zach said, “I’ve talked to Susskind. He’s usually more amenable to talking to retired cops. He said they want to speak to Mr. Bastian alone, first.”
“I understand,” Mickelson said.
But Shanice piped up as Liam was being led through a door to the inner offices by a uniformed cop. “If they start pushing you, call for us.”
Long-sufferingly, Mick said, “Shanice.” The old cop versus the young private investigator.
Here we go, Liam thought, walking into the same airless interrogation room he’d been in earlier.
Susskind and Grant were both seated at a table and Susskind asked Liam to take the remaining empty chair.
As soon as Liam was seated, Grant asked, “Can you tell us where you were between eleven p.m. and four a.m. last night?”
“We went over this before. At my house.”
Susskind’s smile was easy, affable. “Indulge us. This is for the record.” Meaning they were filming the interview, and others were watching from behind the mirror running along one side of the room. They sure as hell didn’t waste any time. And he was going to be nothing but cooperative. “I was sleeping at my place.”
“Alone?”
They’d seen Rory there, but he answered them for the record. “No. My wife spent the night with me.”
“Aurora Abernathy Bastian.”
“Correct.”
They ran him through the usual questions about the events of the evening before he’d gone to bed, what his relationship with the victim was, what had caused their breakup. Finally, it was Liam’s turn to ask a question.
“You think it’s homicide?”
Grant said, “The physical evidence suggests she invited someone in. One of her shoes was just inside the door, the other was near her foot after she fell. There may have been a struggle, some reason the shoe was removed.”
Susskind added, “A neighbor heard a scream that sounded like, ‘Stop.’”
Liam’s empty stomach felt like it flipped over.
“She’d been drinking wine,” Grant went on. “Alone. She was in the process of opening a new bottle, when she stopped. We think she may have heard whoever was at the door. It looks like she opened the door to whoever was on the other side.”
Liam had a sudden memory of going to her house at night. She’d called to him, saying his name, and when he’d answered, “Yes,” she’d opened the door. “Almost didn’t sound like you,” she’d said, laughing, because she’d already been into the wine.
“We understand from David Van Horne that you and she had both hired a private investigator to find your wife.”
“Yes.” Liam’s throat was dry.
“But that you were unaware that Ms. Van Horne had hired him as well.”
“That’s right.” He’d been furious at the time, but now . . . Jesus.
Susskind put in, “We’ve asked Mr. Jacoby to come in today as well. Your wife intimated that she felt someone was always following her while she was out of the country or in Point Roberts, Washington, and she identified this man as Mr. Brian Jacoby.”
“Yes. Though she thought it was someone else for a long time—her stepbrother, Everett Stemple.”
“You agree that Mr. Jacoby was following her, per your agreement with him?” Grant asked.
Liam nodded.
“You’ve given us a lot of background on your relationship with your wife, and you and your wife both believe that Mr. Pete DeGrere was the man who opened fire on your wedding ceremony five years ago,” Grant said.
“Isn’t that what you or the Seattle cops think?”
A pause.
The detectives eyed each other, then Susskind nodded. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of this by any means necessary. Mr. Mickelson and Ms. Clayburgh have asked if they could be part of this exchange of information,” Susskind said.
“I told them that would be fine with me,” Liam said. “Mickelson’s never let go of the wedding shooting.”
“Bring them in,” Grant told Susskind, who left the room and returned a few moments later with Mickelson and Shanice. Mickelson had a file tucked under his arm.
“What is that?” Grant asked him.
“My notes. On the wedding shooting. I’ve been in contact with the Seattle Police Department, where I was employed at the time of the shooting.”
“Personal copies?” Grant asked.
“I’ve cleared this with Seattle PD.” Mickelson didn’t back down.
“He did,” Grant said.
With a faint curving of his lips, as if it was almost possible for his mouth to fully engage in a smile, Susskind said, “You’ve never let this one go.”
“No, I haven’t,” Mickelson said honestly.
“All right, what have you got?” Grant asked. “And tell me how it ties into the death of two Portland women.”
“Anybody want coffee and doughnuts before we start?” Susskind wondered, looking around the table.
Liam nodded, checking his watch. He wanted to get this over with as fast as possible and get back to Rory and Charlotte.
* * *
Rory packed up Charlotte and her meager belongings, thinking everything they owned wouldn’t take up that much space at Liam’s place. Could they move in with him? Should they? Especially now, with Bethany’s death. Just thinking about it made goose bumps pop out on her flesh.
She headed out to the car with her bags, put them inside, then sat down behind the steering wheel, her mind splintered with thoughts of life and death, weddings and funerals, her life and how it had changed. Looking at the stately house, she felt cold inside and couldn’t wait to leave. Maybe Darlene had infected her, but she definitely had the heebie-jeebies. She suddenly wanted to be at the police station with Liam, hearing everything he was hearing, being beside him. Maybe she would tell Darlene to take Charlotte now and head to Salem.
Was that crazy paranoid? Yes.
Was it part of her own MO she couldn’t seem to shake? Also, yes.
Darlene suddenly opened the front door and stepped into the morning sunshine. “Where are you going?” she called as bees buzzed near a row of lavender near the front gates.
Rory rolled down her window to release some of the heat. Felt like it was going to be a scorcher today. “Nowhere yet. I’d like to meet Liam at the police station. I just feel I should be with him. I’ve got all our stuff in the car, so we leave later today.”
“Good.”
“Or, maybe now.”
As they were talking, Derek’s green truck rumbled into the drive. He pulled up and got out, looking grim and tired as he slammed the Ford F1’s door. He hadn’t bothered to shave and he was dressed in jeans and a work shirt, as if making a quick detour on his way to one of Bastian’s construction sites.
“You’re working today?” Rory asked him.
“Wasn’t going to. But with the news . . .” He shook his head and made a face. “Can’t just sit around and think about it.”
“I know. I feel exactly the same way. I’m heading out right now.” She looked over at her mother, silently asking if they were on the same page with that.
Darlene nodded, waved her away, and headed for the house. “I’ll get us both ready while you’re gone,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t be long.”
“Ready for what?” Derek asked without much interest. He, too, was starting to saunter to the house.
“We’re leaving, Mom, Charlotte, and I.”
He stopped short. “Leaving? Does Liam know?”
“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome here. I’m on my way to the police station to tell Liam now. Darlene’s taking Charlotte to her home in Salem, and I don’t know until I talk to Liam exactly what my plans are.”
“I get it,” he said and raked a hand through his hair just as she switched on the ignition. The starter ground, then caught for a second, only to die. “Oh, no, not now,” she said, and tried again. A grinding sound, another attempt at ignition, but the little car choked and coughed. “Damn it.” Counting to ten, more for herself than the car, she gave it another go, but this time there was just a sickening ticking noise.
The little Honda wasn’t going anywhere.
She slapped the steering wheel, then decided she’d have to rely on Darlene. Oh, great. “For God’s sake,” she muttered.
Derek came back and stood outside her window. “Didn’t you get this thing fixed?”
“I thought so. But . . . maybe not.”
She tried again and swore inside her head. She felt hot, tired, and sick over what had happened to Beth.
“Come on, I’ll give you a ride to the station.” He waved for her to get out of the car and follow him to his truck. “If I’d known, I woulda brought the Corvette.”
Rory wanted to bang her fist on the car’s hood. It always failed her at the worst times.
Stuffing her phone into her back pocket, she grabbed her purse, got out of the car, mentally cursing its undependability, then slid into the passenger seat of his truck, which was pushed so far forward that her knees nearly banged into the glove box.
“Sorry,” Derek said, putting an arm over the back of the vehicle, preparing to back up.
“I’ve got it.” She pushed the seat back and reached for the seat belt that was tangled beneath it. “Come on,” she said, jerking on the belt.
“Sorry. It’s a little jacked. But it should work.”
She yanked again and the seat belt snapped back as if whatever had wedged it had released. She started to strap in when she noticed a red plastic cap that rolled from beneath the seat. No wonder the belt was jacked. The pickup was a mess. Not only was the cap littering the floor, but she also found a crumpled coffee cup and an empty beer can.
“I didn’t drink it while I was driving,” Derek said.
“I didn’t say you did.”
They smiled at each other. Derek’s gaze touched on the left side of her face and she asked, “Are my bruises still bad? Geez. I tried to cover them up.”
“Nah, they’re fine.”
He pulled out onto the road and started heading down into the city. They drove for several minutes and Rory’s gaze landed on the red plastic cap. It looked like it belonged on a can of window cleaner, or a spray can of paint.
Derek saw her looking at it and, as if of their own volition, his eyes moved from the cap to the crumpled coffee cup. As if in a dream Rory bent down and picked up the paper cup, unfolding it.
Her heart nearly stopped as she read the label.
THE POINT BOB BUZZ stood out in its all too familiar script.
“Well, well,” Derek drawled. “Would you look at that.”
Chapter 25
“We’re going to have to make a detour, I’m afraid,” Derek said as Rory’s heart pounded.
Derek had been to the Buzz? He’d been the one who had been following her. Oh, holy . . .
“Excuse me.” He reached across Rory, popped open the glove box, pulled out a handgun, set it gingerly in the side pocket beside him as he drove with one hand down the twisting roads of the West Hills. “It’s loaded. Yes, I know it’s unsafe, but I’m pretty careful . . . usually.”
Rory stared at him. The crumpled cup was still in her hands. The red cap was by her feet. Her mind was racing. So many thoughts. So many connections. She couldn’t think! “You’re the saboteur,” was what came out of her mouth, sounding as poleaxed as she felt.
“Yes.”
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
Run, Rory. Get out! Jump out of the truck before it picks up any more speed. This isn’t right.
He shrugged. Hit the gas. The truck sped around a corner and Rory’s seat belt snapped to attention. Holding her in place. There was something about him not only vile, but also careless and wild and oh, so dangerous.
“What do you think’s going to happen?” she asked.
“Dunno, really. I thought my life was going to be one way, and then it wasn’t, and now it’s something else.”
“But . . . that sabotage . . . Liam told me what awful things you wrote . . . against your family.”
“My family?” He made a deprecating noise as he took another corner. A Volkswagen van
had to veer to the side of the road as Derek swung into the oncoming lane. The driver laid on his horn then flipped Derek off.
“Fuck you, too,” Derek yelled, as if the guy could hear him. Then, back to Rory. “I’m not a part of that family. You know that. You know what it’s like not to be part of a family. You’re not a Stemple.”
“Of course not.”
“Well, there you go. I never wanted to be a Bastian. You know how my father is. Dear old Dad. He divorced my mother for Stella. And you know what? My mom? She was more than happy to leave him and me. Get that. She left me with that miserable dickwad, left me in his care. And he cared for me, all right,” he said bitterly.
Rory felt herself go cold. She glanced out the window. They were traveling fast, but these were city streets. There was bound to be a stoplight, a traffic jam, a blockade of road construction. He wouldn’t shoot her. He wasn’t a killer, he was just a deeply angry man.
Except Teri Mulvaney was there during some of the sabotage.
No. No, no, no. “How did Teri Mulvaney die?” she whispered.
“What? You think I killed her?” he asked in horror.
Rory stared at him, her heart pounding so hard it hurt her chest. There was a little smile on his lips and they twitched a bit, proving that his horror was fake. His eyes darkened evilly.
“I didn’t know her last name until after she was dead and everyone was talking about her. I only knew her as Teri.”
“You did kill her.” She could barely get the words out. She reached for the door handle, but if she opened it now, at the speed they were going, she would be thrown out, down the hillside, surely breaking her neck. Think, Rory, think. Find a way to escape. You can . . . just try. “Why did you do it?”
“I just wanted to,” he said easily. “She was too easy. Wanted to have sex with me, no matter what I did. I took her to the top of Hallifax and showed her how to break out windows with a hammer. Then I swung it at her head and threw her over. I don’t know if the police even know I bludgeoned her first. I like that word, bludgeoned. You can feel it, y’know?”
“You’re lying!” she blurted out, hoping against hope. “You’re not this unfeeling. This cruel. Derek, my God. This isn’t real!” This madman, this homicidal maniac, if he was to be believed, was her brother-in-law, a man she’d known nearly as long as she’d known Liam.