The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  Nic looked at her watch. It was 4:45. They’d have to talk fast. “I was surprised when you said Cassidy had a stalker. She never mentioned it to us.”

  “You guys really need to coordinate,” Brad said. “This is like the third time I’ve said this stuff today.”

  Nic exchanged a glance with Allison. Allison, who never lied. Ever. But now she let Brad’s supposition stand, the way she had Marcy’s. They both did.

  “Everyone has a crazy guy,” Phoebe said. Her words were slightly distorted as she applied a layer of berry-colored lipstick. “They’re just fans. Really, really eccentric fans. It was the same in Seattle. It can be a little disconcerting, but it’s just one of the hazards of being in the public eye.”

  “It’s more than that, Phoebe.” Brad half turned toward her. “I’ve been in this business longer than you, and things are changing. Now people want to get up close and personal with the talent. It’s not like the old days, when there was a little bit of privacy. Now if you refuse to sign an autograph or leave the house dressed in sweats, someone will film you with their phone and before you know it, you’re viral on YouTube. Meanwhile, you’re supposed to be using social media to promote the station. Social media.” He snorted. “You have no idea how much I hate that term. Jerry thinks they can turn around the decline in viewership by having us blog and Tweet and Facebook. Only I don’t know how that leads to more television viewers.”

  Phoebe shrugged as she capped her lipstick. “TV stations aren’t in the business of selling the news. Not anymore. Everyone else has the same news, and you can get it a lot sooner by going to the Internet rather than waiting for us to come on at five. So what they’ve got left is our personalities. They’re basically selling us. And it’s ten times worse for women. At least men don’t get those head-to-toe body shots or have to worry about keeping their knees together when they’re sitting. I mean, look at the things they say about Cassidy online.”

  “What do you mean?” Nic asked.

  Phoebe picked up her smart phone. “Watch what happens when I type Cassidy’s name into the Google search box.” Her thumbs moved rapidly over the screen, typing in cassidy shaw and then she handed it to Nic. Allison leaned over her shoulder to look at how Google auto-completed the phrase with the most popular search terms.

  cassidy shaw sexy

  cassidy shaw dating

  cassidy shaw nose job

  cassidy shaw breasts

  cassidy shaw married

  cassidy shaw hot

  cassidy shaw upskirt shots

  “Ugh,” Allison said. “It makes me feel creepy just looking at it.”

  Nic nodded, wondering whether Cassidy had known, and how much she minded being discussed as if she were a piece of meat.

  Phoebe gave them a sad smile. “Mine are even worse. You don’t get things like Phoebe Sennett breaks story. Or Phoebe Sennett great reporter. Instead, it’s all about my body and whether I might be pregnant or if I’m dating anyone. It’s all superficial and stupid.” Her upper lip curled. “And the creeps who post sick stuff about us don’t even necessarily live here.”

  “What do you mean?” Allison asked.

  Phoebe took back her phone, typed something, and handed it back to Nic. It showed a website called hotnewsbabes.com.

  Nic scrolled down through tiny photos of TV screens showing one female reporter after another. Each series of photos had a headline like Randi Corlett shows great cleavage in tiny black dress, or Libby Worall looking sexy. And under each photo was a line reading Rate her with check boxes for Ugh, OK, Hot, and Smoking!

  “See the links at the bottom of the photos?” Phoebe asked. “If you click on them, they take you back to the reporter’s bio at whatever station she works at. So in two or three clicks, you could be sending some pretty girl in another state an e-mail—and half the time, the station where she works will have a policy that she has to send a cheerful e-mail back, because they don’t want to make the ‘fans’ angry. Fans? These guys have probably never seen the shows that these photos are taken from.”

  “That’s why I say we’ve got targets on our backs,” Brad said as he knotted his tie. “And the station is painting them there.”

  “These guys are annoying but harmless,” Phoebe said. “They’re just pitiful losers who can’t get real dates. Half of them probably don’t ever get off their couches.”

  “Oh really?” Brad straightened the knot. “Then what about that Texas TV anchor who was shot to death when some guy broke into her apartment? What about the Iowa reporter who called her producer to say that she was leaving for work and then never showed? All they found were her shoes, earrings, and blow dryer on the ground next to her car. And there was that sports reporter in Montana. Somebody ambushed him when he walked out to his car. They never caught the one who did that either.”

  “But bad things happen to people in all kinds of professions,” Phoebe said. “And that guy who liked Cassidy was harmless. I saw the stuff he sent her. Cards and flowers and really bad poems that rhymed love with move. I don’t think some guy who sent her a card with a white kitten on the front is going to be the one who stabbed her to death.”

  It was clearly the same argument Brad and Phoebe had been having all day.

  “What was his name?” Nicole asked. “The guy who sent Cassidy all this stuff?”

  “Roland.” Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “Does that sound like the name of a guy who is ever going to have a real girlfriend? Roland Baxter. He called her and sent her weird letters and left messages on her Facebook page. Cassidy said he was harmless. Besides, there wasn’t really anything she could do about it unless he threatened her. And he didn’t. Not really. He mostly just said he loved her. Once he left a letter on her windshield calling her ‘my fair lady.’ ”

  Brad said darkly, “Don’t you remember the rest of that one? He also said that if she ever noticed an unfamiliar car with tinted windows pulling in behind her, she had better hope it was him.”

  “But even that wasn’t really a threat,” Phoebe said.

  “Yeah.” Brad made a raspberry sound. “More like a promise. And now look what happened.”

  Nic shivered a little, thinking Brad had it right. It did sound like a promise. “You said he left the card on her windshield. Was that at the station or someplace else?” If it had been in the condo’s parking garage, then that meant he knew where Cassidy lived.

  “Here,” Brad said. “In our parking lot. We don’t have a fenced lot for employees, so anyone can get at your car.”

  “Do you know if he knew where she lived?” Allison asked.

  Brad shrugged, but Phoebe said, “Last month Cassidy told me that when she opened her door one morning to get the newspaper, the hallway was littered with rose petals. But no note, no message. She didn’t know who had done it. I think she thought it was halfway romantic.”

  “Can we see the card?” Allison asked. “Or anything else he sent her?”

  “Like I keep telling you people, Cassidy didn’t hang on to any of that stuff,” Brad said. “She just looked and threw it away. Sometimes she showed things around and sometimes she didn’t. But this one guy, this Roland, he was in love with her. Or something like love.”

  A woman Allison recognized as the producer for the five o’clock news stuck her head in the room. “We need you guys out on the set,” she said.

  “Why don’t you stay and watch the show in the studio?” Brad offered.

  “We’re going to have to slip out at some point,” Nic said. “We don’t want to cause any distraction.”

  “We’ll catch it in the lobby,” Allison said. She was already halfway out the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  Back in Channel Four’s lobby with Nicole, Allison felt too keyed up to sit down. She paced back and forth in front of the TV set, which was showing two women earnestly discussing bladder control drugs.

  “Can’t you stand still for one second?” Nicole snapped.

  “Sorry.” She stopped in he
r tracks.

  “No, wait. I’m sorry, Allison.” Her friend heaved a sigh. “It’s all just too much, you know?”

  Allison did know. Nervous energy still thrummed in her, but she willed herself to stay still. She lifted one hand and lightly rested her fingers on her cross.

  God was in this situation as surely as He was in any other. Wasn’t He? It was so much easier to rely on God when it felt like things could still be changed. Cassidy was gone, and nothing could bring her back.

  Allison’s days were normally filled with prayers, large and small, but Cassidy’s death had rocked her. Her guts felt like they had been pulled out and replaced with twisting snakes.

  On the screen, the theme song for Channel Four’s nightly newscast sounded. File footage swooped dizzyingly around the city skyline before the camera cut to Brad Buffet, looking solemn.

  “Tonight we’re going to depart from our usual format to open with a tribute to Channel Four’s own Cassidy Shaw, our crime reporter, who, in a terrible twist of irony, has become a crime victim herself. As you may have heard, last night Cassidy was found murdered in her Portland condominium. Police are investigating. All we know is that the death occurred sometime after she broadcast her last story. We’ll be sure to bring you the latest information as it develops.”

  At Brad’s words, Allison found her mind flashing back to that terrible moment when Nicole had opened the cabinet under the sink. She again saw Cassidy’s flat blue eyes, staring at nothing. Someone had done that to her friend, discarded her like a piece of trash.

  Brad continued, “Like our viewers and all of us at Channel Four, I am in shock and in mourning over this tragedy. I had the pleasure and the privilege of working with Cassidy for the last eight years.”

  As he spoke, a montage of photos appeared behind him. Cassidy laughing. Cassidy holding a mike. Cassidy at the front of a pack of press. Cassidy with both hands raised as she talked to a cop. Arguing, if Allison had to guess.

  It was the photo of the impassive cop and the always-anything-but-impassive Cassidy that nearly brought Allison to her knees. Or maybe it was the finality of the unchanging words underneath the flurry of photos: Cassidy’s name and the dates of her birth and death.

  A choking sob forced its way out of Allison’s mouth. She put the flat of her hand between her teeth and bit down. Hard. The external pain was a welcome distraction from what was inside her.

  Nicole leaned in close. “That’s right,” she whispered. “Crying’s not going to do us any good. We can’t cry for her. We have to get whoever did this.”

  Allison freed her hand and took a shaky breath.

  Meanwhile Brad was saying, “Cassidy had the biggest smile and the loudest laugh of anyone I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine our newsroom, or my life, without her. She was the heartbeat of the station, and in many ways the heartbeat of our community.” He paused to clear his throat, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Cassidy was never afraid to ask the hard questions or tackle the tough issues. She exuded energy in everything she did. She walked fast, she talked fast, and”—he managed a shaky smile—“boy, did she love to eat.”

  Allison tried to hold on to that familiar image of Cassidy relishing a bite of food. Often it was a bite of someone else’s food. Cassidy was never shy about sharing—or waiting for an invitation.

  “I’d like to read you some tributes from viewers.” Brad picked up the top piece of paper from a two-inch-thick pile. “This one comes to us from Diane Short of Portland. She writes: ‘My husband and I felt like we knew Cassidy because we have watched Channel Four for so many years. When our son died from a drug overdose and we felt no one was paying attention to the terrible drug problem out there, to how these pushers are making thousands of dollars and their customers are dying, I contacted the only media person I “knew.” ’ ” Brad’s inflection indicated the quotes. “ ‘That was Cassidy. She took the time to e-mail me back with some good advice, and she helped us get in touch with a group working to toughen the sentencing laws. She touched our lives for a brief moment in time. But at a time when we needed someone, she was there for us. Thank you, Cassidy.’ ”

  Brad looked into the camera and nodded, then set the paper aside and picked up the next. “Suzanne Sheffield writes, ‘I am certain that God had a reason for your life and a reason for your death. Your life had a purpose and your work was part of His plan.’ ”

  Allison felt a pang of something like jealousy. She didn’t feel certain of anything. Instead she felt lost and alone. The only thing keeping her going was anger. Anger at the man who had done this to her friend. But was it also anger at God for allowing it to happen?

  Even when she had lost her baby, Allison had been able to tell herself that there must have been a reason. Maybe something had been wrong with the baby. Perhaps God had spared them when He decided to take the child before it had even been born. But what purpose did Cassidy’s death serve?

  Last night Allison had cried and prayed in the darkest hours of the night. She had knelt on the oak floor of the living room, her elbows resting on the well-worn brown leather of the couch, stifling her sobs so they wouldn’t wake Marshall or Lindsay. She had asked God why He had taken her friend.

  And she had gotten no answers.

  God’s ways were not man’s ways, she knew that. Could she be at peace without understanding why?

  Maybe Nicole was right. Maybe peace would not come from the why, but the who. All they could do for Cassidy now was to find the man who had done this to her and bring him to justice.

  Brad was still reading viewers’ notes. “ ‘You may be gone here on earth, Cassidy, but we know you are in heaven. You were loved and respected by many. Thanks for being part of our lives, and may your name live on.’” He glanced back up at the camera. “You’ll find these comments and many more on our website, where you are welcome to leave your own.

  “As for me . . .” Brad’s voice hitched. “I’ll always remember the time I asked Cassidy what her favorite was of all the stories she had covered. And she told me, ‘The next one.’ That is so like Cassidy. Always surprising. Always looking forward. And that is how I will always remember her.”

  Allison heard a muffled gasp. When she glanced over at Nicole, she was shocked. Nic’s face was wet with tears. Nicole, who never cried. Nicole, who had perfected the art of wearing no expression at all. Nicole, who, even when Allison knew she must be angry or sad or worried, just retreated behind a stony facade until her eyes were looking out from little caves.

  Allison put her arm around her friend’s shoulder, at first tentatively, then more tightly when she felt how Nicole trembled. They leaned into each other.

  “Well, isn’t this a touching sight?”

  They turned to see Detective Jensen.

  “I can’t believe my eyes. Didn’t we just talk about jurisdiction last night?”

  Nicole straightened up and wiped her hand over her face. Her expression was so cold that Allison shivered just looking at it.

  “It’s after five,” Allison pointed out. “We’re off the clock.” It was true, as far as it went.

  “Public servants are never off the clock,” he growled. He had foregone the tie today, as well as the jacket. His badge was clipped to his belt.

  “And you seem to keep forgetting that Cassidy was our friend,” Allison said, “not just a case. Brad told us about Roland Baxter. Are you looking at him?” She wanted to put the focus back on finding Cassidy’s killer.

  Jensen bounced on his toes like a boxer in the ring. “Brad can’t have told you everything.”

  “Like what?” Allison narrowed her eyes.

  “Like how this Roland left Cassidy a voice mail saying how much he loved her, no matter what. But that she needed to be true to him.”

  Nicole’s head snapped up. Allison waited for Jensen to say that he had arrested Baxter. Instead he just shook his head and said, “He left that message around eight o’clock this morning. Before news broke that Cassidy was dead. But way
after she was.”

  “It could be a ruse,” Allison said. “He could have left that message knowing it would throw everyone off the scent.”

  “It’s possible,” Jensen said in a tone that made it clear he didn’t believe it was. “But while that guy’s thinking is definitely twisted, I’m pretty sure it’s not twisted like that. It’s not twisted in a way that would lead him to commit murder. He was falling down and crying and begging us to tell him it wasn’t true, that she wasn’t really dead. Personally, I don’t think he’s that good of an actor.”

  Nicole started to say something, but the phone on Jensen’s belt buzzed. He flipped it open and walked away from them. “Jensen,” he said. And then after a long pause, “No.” He repeated it. And swore. And listened some more. And when he turned back toward them, a muscle was twitching under his right eye.

  “They made a match to the prints on the knife they found under Cassidy’s body,” he said. “They’re only partials, but they matched them. They were already in the database.”

  “And?” Nicole prompted.

  “They say they’re Rick’s.” Jensen suddenly looked empty, as if he might dwindle and collapse like a leaking balloon. “They just arrested him for her murder.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Rick and me came up together fourteen years ago. We were in the same class. That’s not the Rick I know. Sure, he’s got a temper. Who doesn’t? But to do that? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “It most definitely does make sense,” Nicole said. “It’s like I tried to tell you last night. Cassidy exposed Rick McEwan to the world, and he found a way to get back at her.”

  “But he’d have to be crazy to do it the way he did. Stab her and leave the knife right next to her body?”

  “Maybe even as he did it, he knew he was wrong,” Allison ventured. “Maybe he wanted to get caught.”

  No one answered her. Both Jensen and Nicole were quiet, caught in their own thoughts.

  So that’s that, Allison thought. The hunt was over before it had even begun. Rick had killed Cassidy. He had bided his time and then he had killed her. Stuffed her under the sink like garbage.