The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  Jensen shook his head. “No. I don’t need you two comparing notes; I want you in separate cars. I want your memories fresh and untainted.”

  “We’re professionals,” Nic protested. She was so angry she could barely speak. How dare he think she would do anything to jeopardize this case.

  He said nothing, just stared at her from under puffy lids. Nic knew she was one word away from feeling the cuffs back on her wrists. And that wouldn’t do Cassidy any good.

  Still, there were a million things she wanted to remind Jensen’s team to do. She knew the criminalist would remember to bag Cassidy’s hands in case there was skin under her nails, but what about getting a sample of the blood on the front of her jacket for DNA testing? The blood on the jacket and the floor might not necessarily even be hers, not if Cassidy had tried to fight someone off.

  Nic wanted to impress upon Jensen the importance of every step. To make sure the responding officers asked Cassidy’s neighbors if they had heard or seen anything unusual: a stranger’s voice, an argument, a phone ringing, the sounds of a struggle. To hand out business cards in case memories surfaced. To search the halls, stairwells, and surrounding streets looking for anything that might have been discarded: the knife, bloody clothing, other weapons, other evidence. To record the license plate of every vehicle parked within a few blocks, in case the perpetrator had left his car behind.

  Instead she turned and left without a word, swimming upstream against the suits and uniforms that now filled the hall. Behind her, she could hear Allison talking again to Jensen, but Nic couldn’t stay in the same room with him any longer. He was just trying to do his job, part of her knew that, but he didn’t understand that Cassidy was far more than a job.

  In the elevator, Nic slipped her phone from her belt and pressed and held a single digit to speed dial. It was late, but she knew he wouldn’t mind.

  “Leif, it’s me.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Wait here,” Detective Jensen told Allison as Nicole stalked out the door, and the hall outside the condo continued to fill with officers. “And do me a favor and don’t touch anything.”

  Allison nodded, trying to remember if she had handled anything earlier. She didn’t think so. But she had been here often enough that her fingerprints would probably still turn up.

  Jensen quickly took charge of the responding officers. Some he dispatched to canvass the neighborhood, others to talk to condominium residents. As Nicole had suggested, he sent one to track down the manager to commandeer an empty unit. Officer Santiago’s assignment was to stand just outside Cassidy’s door and jot down the name and ID number of everyone who responded, noting if they entered the condo.

  Half listening to the controlled chaos behind her, Allison stood rooted in the living room. The air was still and close and incredibly hot.

  A dark-haired man dressed in black pants and a charcoal polo spoke briefly to Santiago and then entered the condo. Allison wondered how he could stand to wear long sleeves, but he looked cool and composed.

  “I’m Kyle Binney, the criminalist.” He shook her hand, then began to put on vinyl gloves.

  “Allison Pierce. I’m a federal prosecutor.”

  His eyebrows pulled together. “Wait—this is a federal case?”

  “No,” she said quickly, hoping Jensen hadn’t overheard. She didn’t want him getting angry again. “Just a coincidence. I’m a friend of the victim’s. We—another woman and I—found her about half an hour ago.”

  “Oh.” He looked uncomfortable, and she guessed he seldom dealt with anyone but the official and the dead. “Sorry for your loss. So, um, where’s the body?”

  “In the kitchen.” Would Cassidy’s lifeless blue eyes haunt her dreams? “Under the sink. There’s also a broken phone under the dining room table with some blood drops near it.”

  “Yeah, they briefed me on that.” Binney started to open the case he carried over his shoulder. “Would you mind standing in the hall for a bit? I need to document the room.”

  Allison stepped outside. Santiago nodded at her, expressionless. Jensen was talking to two men dressed in street clothes, whom Allison assumed were also detectives. She turned back. Flinching at the flash, she watched as Binney took several photos from different angles. Finally he beckoned her back in. He moved to the edge of the room and looked into the kitchen.

  “Oh,” he said in surprise. “That’s the lady from Channel Four, isn’t it? Cassidy Something?”

  “Shaw. Cassidy Shaw.” Allison suppressed the crazy urge to smile. Cassidy always liked being recognized. But then again, she wouldn’t want to be seen like this, undignified, her skirt rucked up, the front of her jacket sodden.

  She wouldn’t like being dead.

  Allison started when Jensen touched her shoulder from behind. “Okay, I need you to go down to the station and answer some questions.”

  “I don’t have a car. I came here with Nicole.” She tried to pull herself together. “Look, I apologize for how she reacted. It was just such a terrible shock. I mean, we’re only used to dealing with this kind of thing when it involves someone we don’t know. Not when it’s our best friend.”

  And Allison realized it wouldn’t end here, with hers and Nicole’s devastation. Cassidy’s death would keep rippling out, like a heavy stone thrown into a pond. Her coworkers, her family, her other friends—all of them would be devastated by the news. In addition to the emotional loss, there was also the bruising impact her absence would have on the physical world. Her death was going to mean so much work, not just for the investigators, but also for the people she left behind. Just thinking of the clothes filling Cassidy’s closet, the dishes in her sink, the jumble in her car—it all made Allison tired. Who would take care of all of it?

  Cassidy’s family would have to be told soon. Her parents lived in town, as did her brother.

  “What about her folks?” she asked Jensen. “They still need to be notified, right?”

  He looked at her for a moment before giving a short nod.

  “Please let me go along. I promise I’ll keep it professional. It will be better hearing it from me than from a stranger. I’ve known Cassidy since we were teenagers.”

  It was true, as far as it went. Allison was leaving out the fact that her friendship with Cassidy really only stretched back six years. But she knew Cassidy’s parents well enough to know they would not take the news well. Allison mentally shook herself at the absurdity of the thought. Of course they wouldn’t take it well. Who would?

  Jensen let out a growl of exasperation. “When will you two stop trying to inject yourself into the process? This is a matter for the Portland Police Bureau, nobody else.”

  Allison laid a hand on his forearm, ignoring the sweat.

  “I’m not asking you this as a federal prosecutor. I’m asking you as a person. This is the hardest news a parent could ever receive. Their child is dead. Please do them a kindness and let me make it easier for them.”

  Again Jensen’s eyes narrowed to the point of almost disappearing. In the end he didn’t say yes or no, just, “This is against my better judgment.” He stuck his head out in the hall. “Halstead, can you take Ms. Pierce with you when you go to notify the Shaws? She’s a friend of the family.” He turned back to Allison. “And don’t say one word that will screw up this case. Not one. Do you hear me?”

  “I do.” Allison looked him steadily in the eye. “And thank you.”

  In the elevator, the detective held out his hand to her. “I’m Sean Halstead.” He had a thin face and large eyes that looked as though they had seen a lot. “Derrick Jensen’s partner.”

  “Allison. Allison Pierce.” After shaking his hand, she pushed a sweaty piece of hair off her forehead. “Thanks for letting me come along.”

  “Sure. I’m sorry for your loss. How close was your friend to her family?”

  She chose her words carefully. “Their relationship could be a bit . . . fraught.”

  What would Cassidy’s mother be like
when she was really given something to fall apart over?

  When the elevator doors opened into the lobby, two uniformed officers were already dusting the glass exterior doors for prints. Outside, the formerly empty street was now full with more than a dozen marked and unmarked vehicles. Halstead’s car was a brown Crown Vic, sagging on its wheels, that could be cousin to Nic’s own. To get to it, they had to walk through a small crowd that had already gathered.

  As he started the car, Allison gave him the address.

  “So how long have you known Cassidy Shaw?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  “We went to Catlin Gabel together, but we’ve only been close friends for about six years.” She found it easier to be honest with him than with Jensen.

  “That’s still a long time. You must have some theories on the case.”

  The case. Well, Allison supposed that was what it was. A case.

  “Covering the crime beat put Cassidy in touch with a lot of lowlifes,” she said. “And she was in the public eye, so that can sometimes bring out the crazies.”

  “How about her love life?”

  “As far as I know, the last person Cassidy dated seriously was Rick McEwan.” She watched the side of Halstead’s face carefully. “You probably know him.”

  He nodded noncommittally.

  “Last year Cassidy spoke about their former relationship for a special on domestic violence. He was furious about it.”

  He looked over at her and then back at the street. “Has he threatened her?” His expression was unreadable.

  “I don’t know,” Allison said. “I know she occasionally gets threats, but they’re almost always anonymous. And she doesn’t take them very seriously, any more than she takes the proposals of marriage from complete strangers. When you’re on TV, it comes with the territory.”

  “What about her friends and family? Statistically, they’re the most likely suspects.”

  “You’re not saying you think—what—that her parents did it? Her brother?” Allison laughed and heard how it bordered on hysteria. “Nicole Hedges? Me?”

  “I’m just saying we can’t rule anything out.”

  He signaled for the Lake Oswego exit, the upscale suburb where the Shaws lived. Their house was dominated by a three-car garage. Allison could see lights in the living room. As they parked and went up the walk, she wished she were anywhere but here.

  Halstead rang the bell. “Let me do the talking, at least at first.”

  “Of course.” This was one bit of news Allison wished she could let someone else give.

  David Shaw answered the door. He was a tall man in his early sixties, with aggressively erect posture and gray hair cut in a flat top. For all that he looked like a retired military man, he had actually made his money building up a small chain of grocery stores. Two years ago he had sold out to a much bigger chain. According to Cassidy, having free time and money had done little to improve his mood.

  “Allison?” He looked from her to Halstead, trying and failing to make a connection between the two of them. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Shaw, I’m Sean Halstead, with the Portland Police Bureau. Is your wife home, sir?”

  Something changed in Cassidy’s father’s face then, a faint flicker. “Why?”

  From behind him came a woman’s voice with a slight Southern accent. “Who is it, dear?”

  A slender woman in a turquoise track suit appeared in the hall. She had Cassidy’s blond hair, or at least the color was from the same bottle.

  “I’m Sean Halstead with the Portland Police,” he repeated. Allison noticed that he didn’t say anything about being a homicide detective. “Could we please come in and sit down?”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Shaw clutched her husband’s shoulder. Under her smooth forehead, the rest of her face suddenly sagged. “Why is he here? What’s wrong, Allison?”

  “If we could all just sit down . . .” Unbidden, Halstead stepped inside, and Cassidy’s parents automatically shuffled back. Allison followed him in and closed the door. They were in a formal entryway, all dark polished wood.

  “Has something happened to Cassidy?” Mr. Shaw asked. “Is she hurt?”

  The detective spoke slowly, as if to let the words sink in. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “How bad is it?” Mr. Shaw looked like a hawk, his eyes glittering.

  Halstead didn’t look away. “It’s very bad, I’m afraid. Now if we could just sit down . . .”

  “How bad?” Cassidy’s father demanded again. “Just tell me. Tell me now.”

  Halstead managed to look as if he was there and not there. “I’m afraid Cassidy has been killed.”

  “No.” Mrs. Shaw looked back and forth from the detective to Allison. “No, no, no.” Her hands went over her ears as her voice got louder. “I just talked to her this morning!”

  Suddenly she crumpled and fell against her husband’s chest. He supported her as they went into the living room and sat down together on a green silk couch. Allison looked at Halstead to see whether they should sit too, but he remained standing.

  “Was it a car accident?” Mr. Shaw asked. “I told her that car had terrible safety ratings.”

  “Actually, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter was murdered.”

  “No!” Mrs. Shaw shook her head again.

  “Murdered?” Mr. Shaw asked. His jaw was set, his eyes slitted.

  Mrs. Shaw put a hand to her mouth, her blue eyes huge. “How do you know it’s her? It could be just someone who looks like her.”

  Halstead glanced at Allison, and she realized it was her cue.

  “Nicole and I were the ones who found her, Mrs. Shaw. I’m sorry, but it’s definitely Cassidy.” Maybe it would have been better after all, Allison thought bleakly, if they had heard the news from a stranger. She certainly wasn’t doing anything to help them. “We found her in her condo.”

  “But . . . how . . . ?”

  “It looks like she was stabbed.”

  Cassidy’s mother got to her feet. “I need to go to her. She’s always been afraid of the dark. I need to be with her so she’s not all on her own.”

  Her husband grabbed her wrist. “You can’t, Gretchen.” His voice was harsh. Near, Allison thought, to breaking. “Don’t you understand? She’s dead. Our daughter is dead.”

  “That doesn’t mean she won’t know I’m there.” Mrs. Shaw tried to tug free. “I just want to hold her hand, brush her hair.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t, Mrs. Shaw,” Halstead said gently. “We need to do an autopsy. Then we can release the body to you.”

  “What—you’re going to cut her open?” Her eyes widened. “Saw the top of my baby’s head off? No. You can’t. I won’t allow it. She’s not police property. She’s my child.” She was shaking as if she would fly apart.

  Allison stepped forward and touched Cassidy’s mother’s shoulder. “Do you believe in God, Mrs. Shaw?”

  Halstead shot her a quick look, and she knew she was going wildly off-script. So be it. This would be on her head.

  Mrs. Shaw’s eyes slowly focused on Allison’s face. There was a long pause, then she nodded.

  “I know this is devastating news, Mrs. Shaw. God never promised that we won’t experience loss or heartache, but He has promised peace and His presence in the midst of our pain. I’ll be praying that you find that peace.”

  For a moment Allison thought Mrs. Shaw had heard her. Then the other woman’s face changed, revealing all the years she had managed to keep at bay. “How would you understand? You’ve never lost a child!”

  Allison bit her lip. She had lost a child. A year ago she had had a miscarriage, early enough in the pregnancy that most people hadn’t known about it. But then again, Allison had only dreamed of holding her baby. Cassidy’s mother had had her daughter for thirty-four years before she was cruelly ripped away.

  “I promise you both that we will find justice for Cassidy,” she said, ignoring the look Ha
lstead gave her—the look that said there were no promises on heaven or earth that would bring peace to the Shaws.

  CHAPTER 7

  Nic had been in dozens of interview rooms—but never like this. Never as the interviewee.

  The walls were blank. A long table had been shoved up against one corner of the room. Two chairs were the only other furniture. One had straight legs, the other wheels.

  The whole setup of “the box” was deliberate. Bare walls meant that a bad guy had zero distractions, forcing him to focus on the person questioning him.

  When it came to the chairs, the one on rollers would normally be occupied by the interrogator, who would then have the suspect brought in. The cop might start off four feet away from his quarry, but when it was time to coax a confession, he or she could roll forward to reduce the distance to inches.

  As soon as she walked into the box, Nicole claimed the rolling chair.

  And she dared anyone to try to take it from her.

  She checked the time on her phone. Again. It had been over an hour since she had been put in this room. She rubbed her hands up and down her goose-pimpled arms. Her jacket was still in her car. The tank top that had been barely tolerable in the smothering heat offered little protection against aggressive air-conditioning.

  Cassidy was dead. Dead.

  Last year Nic had worried so much about dying. She had found a lump in her breast, undergone surgery and then radiation. She had been forced to come to terms with the idea that she could die. Even with the idea that she would die, someday.

  But seeing Cassidy stuffed under her own sink, turned into an ugly sack of flesh—it was almost impossible to believe. Nic’s mind kept replaying it. The blood on the floor. Opening the cupboard door. Finding her friend. Even seeing the horror on Allison’s face had not made it any more real.

  The friendship among the three of them—the Triple Threat—was like a fulcrum, with Allison in the middle and Nic and Cassidy occupying opposite ends. Allison was the glue that held them together.

  Cassidy was so different from Nic. Talkative while Nic was quiet. Brash while Nic was reserved. Jumping in with both feet while Nic decided whether it was worthwhile to commit at all.