The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  How many times had Cassidy caught Nic rolling her eyes, quirking her mouth? Her face went hot with shame. Couldn’t she have been more patient? Couldn’t she have realized that the very traits that annoyed her about Cassidy had been the same things she had liked in the first place? Nic should have cut her more slack.

  And now, with Cassidy gone, would Allison grow tired of Nic’s dark moods?

  Allison was probably in another interview room somewhere nearby. Was she also waiting, or was she already being questioned?

  Nic started when the door opened. It was Jensen. The smudges under his eyes made it look like he hadn’t slept in a week. The knot of his shiny tie had been pushed back up. He had a notebook in his hand and a pen behind his ear. Without comment, he took the straight-legged chair. She wished she could remember where she knew him from.

  “So you’re the lead detective?” Nic asked. If only she had thought of that earlier in the evening. She had to keep a lid on her emotions.

  “Yeah. Sean Halstead will be working the case with me.”

  The name didn’t ring any bells. Homicide detectives often worked in pairs, although in most cases they split up the tasks, working together only when they needed backup or a second witness.

  “Did you find any more evidence besides the blood drops?”

  Jensen’s eyes narrowed even further. “I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t tell you even if I did.” A space stretched out between them, threatened to snap. Finally he relented. “No. And the canvass hasn’t picked up anything, at least not so far.” He flipped to a blank page in his notebook. “So could you tell me a little bit more about what you did today, starting at six p.m.?”

  It was the kind of question you asked a suspect. But in the interests of harmony, Nic decided to overlook how ridiculous it was. “I finished up at work and then I drove out to Puerto Marquez in Southeast Portland to meet Allison Pierce and Cassidy for dinner.” She summarized how they had waited for Cassidy, their attempts to reach her, and the anxiety that had begun to grip them.

  Jensen looked back over his notes. “But you just mentioned that Cassidy was known for being late. Why were you worried tonight?”

  “First of all, she’s never been that late before. But what really bothered us was that she didn’t answer her phone. Cassidy always has her phone with her, and she always answers it. She even sleeps with it next to her. I’m not talking on the night table—I mean right next to her pillow.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “About a week and a half ago the three of us got together for lunch.” Nic tried to keep the memory at arm’s length so it wouldn’t swamp her. “I’ve talked with her on the phone a couple of times since then, and we’ve texted each other. But not about anything important.”

  “What about the text she sent you saying she was working on a story?” Jensen raised his eyes to hers. “Do you know what story that was?”

  “No. It could have been anything.”

  Nic knew Jensen would be ordering a trap and trace on Cassidy’s phone. The phone company would turn over a record of the numbers she had called and those that had called her, but of course they wouldn’t have the actual contents of the calls. Jensen would also be getting any text messages that were still available. Depending on the phone company, texts were saved anywhere from forty-eight hours to a couple of weeks. But if Cassidy had kept her texts and they were recoverable from her broken phone, they could date back much earlier.

  “As you drove up to her building, did you see anyone on the street or in a vehicle?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “How about in the parking lot?”

  “No.” The skin on Nic’s face felt tight. “You already asked me these questions.”

  Jensen continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “How did you get inside? Did you have a key to Cassidy’s apartment?”

  “No. When we got there, we found the door unlocked.”

  “Ajar?”

  “No. I put my hand on it and was surprised when it turned.”

  He made a note. “Now, what I could use your help on is understanding a little bit more about Cassidy and what might have happened to her. Does she keep any cash around?”

  Did he really think this was some burglary gone bad?

  “Cassidy? No.” Cassidy was like the grasshopper in the fable. She lived for today and didn’t worry about tomorrow. The condo had represented most of her retirement funds. It struck Nic, sickeningly, that Cassidy hadn’t been wrong. Because for Cassidy there would be no tomorrows. At least not on this earth.

  “Jewelry?”

  “Strictly costume, as far as I know.” Nic realized she was tapping her fingers on the table and made herself stop.

  “Prescription drugs?”

  “She used to take Somulex, but she quit. And nothing since then, at least that I’m aware of.”

  “Illegal drugs?”

  “Cassidy? No. She liked her appletinis and lemon drops, that’s all.”

  “Could you tell me more about what kind of person she was? What were her best and worst traits?”

  Nic bit the inside of her mouth. Was this really a good use of Jensen’s time? But arguing would probably get her nowhere and take up even more time.

  “Cassidy has a lot of energy, a lot of imagination. And she’ll never take no for an answer. But she’s not a big detail person. Not the kind to read the fine print.”

  “So if she came home and someone was burglarizing her condo, she might not notice at first?”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re looking at that angle.”

  He gave her a slit-eyed look.

  “All right, it’s possible, sure, that she might not notice right away. But Allison and I didn’t see anything missing or out of place.”

  “Could you describe your relationship with Cassidy?”

  “The three of us have been good friends for about six years. We’re not only personal friends, but we also end up working a lot of the same cases. Cassidy covers them, and Allison and I work together to get convictions.”

  “Seems like it’d be pretty easy to cross some lines there.” Jensen gave her a knowing look. “Give her information she shouldn’t have.”

  Nic took a deep breath. Was he baiting her?

  “Allison and I are more than aware of our relationship’s challenges. We would never jeopardize an investigation. At the same time, Cassidy sometimes has sources we don’t, or we can use her to leak a story and control how it’s shaped.”

  Jensen stiffened. “So does that have anything to do with how she got the story about the jail smuggling ring?”

  “What?” And then Nic remembered. Six months earlier Channel Four had broken the story of a Multnomah County inmate running an illegal business from his cell, funneling thousands of dollars of drugs and cigarettes into the jail. Of course, the inmate hadn’t been able to do it on his own—three guards were also implicated.

  The DA’s office had already been investigating. Cassidy had been doing a routine check of public documents, trawling for story ideas, when she ran across the search warrant. A search warrant that should have been sealed, but had been filed in the wrong place.

  How could Jensen think she or Allison had anything to do with that?

  “No. Of course not. She did that on her own. We were upset with her too.”

  Nic’s words didn’t seem to register. Jensen spoke through gritted teeth. “She tipped off the bad guys and ruined our investigation. The confidential informant got scared. The DA had to pull the plug. The whole case, months of work”—he made a spiraling motion with his hand—“down the drain.”

  Nic remembered how the three of them had argued about it. After the fact. Cassidy hadn’t dared tell them what she planned to do, knowing they would have tried mightily to talk her out of it.

  As if anyone could talk Cassidy out of anything.

  Her argument—and the one that Channel Four later made when it got push-back—was that it
was important to run the story based on the jail’s recent problematic history. Only a few weeks earlier the jail had been on lockdown after a gun had been discovered hidden in a hollowed-out space in a wall.

  Nic crossed her arms. “You’re not going to let that color your hunt for her killer, are you?”

  He pressed his lips together. “I am a professional, as you are, Special Agent Hedges.” He turned a page in his notebook. “Does Cassidy have a boyfriend?”

  So he was finally getting to the heart of the matter, or at least circling around it.

  “No.” She amended it to, “I guess it’s possible. Cassidy liked men, and men liked Cassidy. But as far as I know, she hasn’t dated anyone new for months.” Nic took a deep breath. “Look. You and I both know that you have to look at Rick McEwan. It doesn’t matter that he’s a cop. They dated, and it became an abusive relationship.”

  Jensen blew air out of pursed lips. “Whatever was between him and Cassidy is long over.”

  “So? She dragged his name through the mud. After that special on domestic violence aired, people figured out who he was. It was an open secret. And I heard that the chief ordered him into counseling. Knowing Rick, all of that must have been humiliating. And I still remember the way he treated her. We were over there once and found all her bras and panties in the garbage. Rick had made her cut them up in front of him, because he thought they were too sexy. And whenever they were out with other people, he would accuse her of flirting with other men. He pushed her around. I saw the bruises he left. Are you telling me that someone like Rick just forgave and forgot and moved on? I don’t think so. That’s not the Rick McEwan I remember.”

  “If you’re saying whoever did this had a long memory, what about any of the people she covered? It seems like they were all rapists and murderers and molesters.” Jensen pointed his pen at her. “Maybe one of them wanted to get back at her. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out where she lived. And then all he would need to do is pretend to have a delivery that needed a signature. Show up in any kind of uniform, and people will let you in.”

  It was true that Cassidy had never kept her guard up as much as she should have. Nic tried to picture it. Cassidy stopping by her condo on her way over to the restaurant, a knock at the door, and then—

  “But whoever did it hid her body. Like he was ashamed. I don’t think whoever killed her was a stranger. You need to at least take a look at Rick.”

  His face reddened. “Look, I want to remind you again that when it comes to this case, you are a civilian. We already have investigators. We don’t need you muddying the waters. We don’t need you running your mouth about Rick.”

  Nic’s spine stiffened. “You’re supposed to be listening to my answers, not challenging them. If you have personal feelings about this, maybe you shouldn’t be the one asking the questions.”

  Jensen shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, do you know that? You don’t remember the other time we worked together, do you?”

  Nic was so tired. Suddenly it was as if she could lay her head right down on the pale laminate of the table and fall asleep. “To be honest, no. No, I don’t. But don’t let whatever happened in the past between us affect what you do here.”

  He slapped his hands on his knees. Hard. “Look. You are going to have to trust me, Agent Hedges. Trust me that I will get this right. Because it’s not about you. It’s not even about Cassidy Shaw. It’s about justice.”

  They both jumped when the door opened. Leif Larson walked in. He was well over six feet, with the muscled body of a warrior. The interview room suddenly seemed very small.

  “I think we’re done for tonight,” Leif said. “Okay, Detective Jensen? If you need to talk to Agent Hedges again, you can do it in the morning. After everyone’s gotten some sleep.”

  Nic stood up on legs that were suddenly almost too weak to hold her. Head high, she followed Leif onto the elevator.

  It was only when they were safely in a shadowy corner of the parking lot that she let herself crumble.

  Leif caught her in his arms.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was after midnight when Allison finally tried to put her key in the lock of her front door. Tried and failed.

  Two hours earlier, after she and Halstead had left Cassidy’s parents’ house, she had called Marshall from the Shaws’ driveway to let him know what was happening. She’d thought nothing could be worse than breaking the news to Cassidy’s parents, but telling her husband had nearly breached her defenses.

  She had wanted to go home immediately, but first Halstead took her to the police station to formally interview her. Afterward she looked around the station for Nicole, but all she found was Detective Jensen, who said Nic had already left. Judging by the way he said it, things hadn’t gone well.

  Allison hitched a ride with a patrol officer to retrieve her car from Puerto Marquez’s otherwise empty parking lot. The meal she and Nicole had eaten there seemed like it had taken place in another year. Another century. She drove home in a blur, too beaten down to offer more than an inarticulate prayer.

  Help us. Help them get through this, help them find who did it, help Cassidy get the justice she deserves.

  Now Allison’s hand shook so badly that the key danced over the lock, making a scratching sound. Suddenly the door swung open, and she started back, her hand over her mouth.

  “It’s just me, Allison.” Marshall’s blue eyes were full of sadness.

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  Cassidy was dead. Cassidy was dead, and the world didn’t make any sense.

  Marshall held out his arms. Allison stepped forward, and he wrapped them around her. She tucked her head under his chin. With a jangle the keys fell from her hand and landed on the mat. The veneer of professionalism that had been the only thing holding her together for the past few hours crumbled. Tears choked her throat, clouded her eyes. Marshall tightened his grip until he bore most of her weight, and she pressed against him, skin on skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

  “Oh, Marshall, it was so awful,” she muttered, her mouth against his damp, salty shoulder.

  Even close to midnight, it was still too hot to touch, but she needed it too much to care. Marshall was wearing shorts and a tank top. If Lindsay, Allison’s sister, hadn’t been living with them, it probably would have been only shorts. For the past year Allison and Marshall had been living a slightly artificial version of their life, one that was braced for a third party at any time.

  “I just can’t believe it, Marshall,” she finally said. “Who would do that to Cassidy?”

  It was the same question she had explored with Halstead, both in the car and in the interview room. Cassidy had such a strong personality that it was pretty much guaranteed no one could ever feel neutral about her. But who in the world could possibly hate her enough to drive a knife into her body?

  Marshall sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know, babe. I don’t know. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Finally Allison unpeeled herself from him, stepped back, and wiped her eyes on her forearm. Her head ached. The door to the living room was still open, and she stepped inside after picking up her keys. Lindsay had been stretched out on the couch. Now she sat up. The TV was turned to the news with the sound on low. On the screen were pictures of some war on the other side of the world—civilian men being rounded up at gunpoint, the bodies of men and women and even children sprawled in a dusty street. Allison grabbed the clicker from the arm of the couch and turned it off.

  Lindsay got up and ran her hands through her pink-streaked hair, her expression tentative. “Ally, I’m so sorry about Cassidy. What a terrible thing.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Allison had no idea what to say back. The future was sure to be filled with many such conversations. Thanks wasn’t right, but what was?

  Looking at her sister, dressed in orange-and-white shortie pajamas that had once been Allison’s, just made her even more tired. It was selfish, she knew, but for a minut
e she wished she and Marshall were alone in the house. She didn’t have the energy for a third person, not tonight. Sometimes Lindsay felt more like an observer than a sister, an anthropologist sent to study the upper middle class.

  “Why are you still up?” Allison asked.

  Lindsay gestured toward an open notebook on the couch. “I was working on plans for my cart.”

  Lindsay’s dream was to open a coffee and cookie cart in one of Portland’s food pods. The pods were former parking lots now filled with food carts. They attracted everyone from businessmen to hard-partying hipsters to foodies looking for something a little different and eminently affordable.

  Allison nodded numbly, incapable of small talk or of any talk at all. “I’m going to take a shower.” Moving like a robot, she went upstairs. With each step, the heat seemed to rise a degree. Upstairs, all the windows were wide open, but there wasn’t even the hint of a breeze, and the air was close and still. In the shower she let the cool water wash away the grime, sweat, and tears of the day. And then she wept, thinking of how she would never see Cassidy again, never hear her voice or her laugh.

  Afterward, Allison toweled herself off. She left her hair wet in the hopes it would keep her cool. When she opened the door, she saw that Marshall was already in bed, a long dark shadow on top of the sheets. She tiptoed across the room and lay down beside him. She had imagined sliding between crisp and cool sheets, but instead the very mattress seemed to radiate warmth.

  “It must have been terrible for you,” Marshall said in the darkness, “finding her like that.”

  “Nicole knew right away that something was wrong, but I was in denial. Before she saw the blood on the floor, I was trying to tell myself that everything was okay. And even after we saw the blood, I kept trying to think of reasons that would explain it all away.”

  “It’s pretty unbelievable. Cassidy was one of the most alive people I knew,” Marshall said. “Do you think it had something to do with a story she’s covering?”