The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  “People were always looking online for shots of her with her bra showing or her skirt riding up when she sat down. I was just trying to keep her from embarrassing herself.”

  Allison thought of what Phoebe had shown them. Was there a kind of truth to what he was saying? But a guy like Rick would always have an excuse for everything. “Then what’s your explanation for how you left those bruises on her when you were dating? Or how you broke into her condo and pulled a gun on her?”

  He said nothing. Allison watched his body as well as his face, alert for the slightest change in expression. Even the best liars couldn’t control everything.

  Nicole took the phone. “So why didn’t you shoot her last night, Rick? Was it just not hands-on enough for you? Did that make you feel like some big man, choking the life out of her? You must have seventy pounds on her.”

  Eyeing how tight the orange jumpsuit was over Rick’s biceps, Allison wondered if he was taking steroids. Rage and ’roids went hand in hand. It was probably too late to do a urine test. Steroids cleared in a day or two.

  Nicole continued her accusations. “So what—you came over, you two argued, and then things just went too far? Is that why you strangled her from behind, Rick? So you wouldn’t have to look her in the eyes?”

  “I don’t remember.” His gaze dropped to his hands.

  “What do you mean, you don’t remember?” Nicole’s tone was sarcastic.

  “I don’t remember being there. I don’t even remember talking to her last night, let alone killing her.”

  “What do you remember, then?” She issued the words like a challenge.

  “Here’s what I remember about yesterday.”

  Allison read Rick’s lips as much as she heard his words through the receiver Nicole held between them.

  “Yesterday I was called out to a house to do a welfare check. When I got out of my car, I could hear the flies before I even got up on the porch. The windows were black with them.”

  Allison’s imagination obligingly supplied the details. She wished she hadn’t eaten anything at VQ.

  “I didn’t want to go in there. I knew what I was going to find. But I’m the police. I don’t get to say no. I’m the one who gets to find some old guy who died two weeks ago. So it was a very bad day. And then later I went to Diamonds.”

  Diamonds was a strip club.

  “All I wanted to do was try to relax and take my mind off things. And then I must have gone home. That’s all that I remember.”

  “What are you saying?” Nicole asked.

  He brought his face within an inch of the glass. “As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t even talked to Cassidy for months. I know what they say I did, but I have no memory of it.”

  Suddenly Allison saw the way it would go. Rick would claim posttraumatic stress. Or some kind of flashback. Or temporary insanity. Michael Stone would construct an elaborate theory to explain how Rick briefly went crazy, lost it so bad that once he regained his sanity, he didn’t even remember the terrible thing he had done. Could you really be guilty if you didn’t even remember the crime?

  Meanwhile Stone would trot out stories of Rick’s heroic actions as a cop, and a few more of the terrible things he had faced in the line of duty, things that would make a bloated dead guy in a fly-filled house look like a cakewalk. Whatever happened, Stone would say, was a terrible anomaly.

  And a jury might even buy it.

  “If I was thinking clearly, would I have left my fingerprints on that knife?” Rick demanded.

  Nicole sighed theatrically. Her sigh said it all. That she wouldn’t take any more lies from Rick. That she was bored by his lies.

  Allison took the phone from her. “People do a lot of stupid things in the heat of the moment. You can’t say that because you left your fingerprints on the murder weapon, ipso facto, you weren’t in your right mind.”

  “I must have blacked out,” Rick said. “It’s happened to me before.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Here came the lies. Allison waited for his hands to busy themselves. Liars unconsciously created jobs for their hands, like grooming or lint picking. Anything to fill the pause while they figured out what response was in their best interest.

  Rick kept his free hand flat on the counter. “Last week I was out at Diamonds. The next thing I knew it was morning and I was in bed feeling like I had to hold my head together with both hands.” He looked from Allison to Nicole. “I woke up with no idea what had happened the night before, who I was with, what I did. Luckily I still had all my money, but when I went outside, my car was parked in someone else’s space at my complex. It was just a complete blackout. Last night wasn’t quite as bad, but I still don’t remember getting home.”

  “How much did you have to drink?” Allison asked.

  “Three or four drinks. That’s all. I’m not an alcoholic. But I’ve been on high blood pressure medication for six or seven years. It could have been a spike in my blood pressure.”

  So if the explanations about temporary insanity or post-traumatic stress or on-the-job horrors didn’t work out, there was always his blood pressure. Allison had never heard of high blood pressure causing blackouts, but Michael Stone could probably find a physician for hire who would testify that it was possible.

  But the strange thing was that Rick didn’t act like a liar. His body hadn’t contradicted his words once. But he had also been a cop for fourteen years. He knew the tells as well as Allison and Nicole did. He was probably practicing for the jury.

  “Cassidy talked about you two, you know,” he offered. “She said you were always interfering in her life.”

  Inwardly Allison flinched, but she tried not to let it show on her face. Had Cassidy really said that? Or was Rick just lobbing shots in the dark? There was no way to know.

  Through clenched teeth, Nicole said, “If we had done a better job of interfering in her life, you would never have been part of it.” She didn’t have the phone, but Allison could tell Rick still understood what she had said. Nicole got to her feet, the chair scraping back on the floor. “I think we’re done here.”

  Allison’s next words surprised even herself. “I’ll pray for you, Rick.”

  He snorted. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need your crocodile tears. I don’t need you pretending that you care about my soul.”

  She was opening her mouth to reply when a voice spoke from behind them.

  “What are you two doing here? Why are you talking to my client?”

  Allison jerked around. It was Michael Stone, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and looking as natty as if it wasn’t several hours past quitting time. Rumor had it that he slept just four hours a day—and found ways to bill for all twenty-four.

  He stepped uncomfortably close to Allison, close enough that she could smell his cologne, something with the mingled scents of musk and money. Bitter bile flooded her mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

  “We’re here as citizens,” Allison said flatly.

  “Citizens who used their officially issued IDs to get in after hours?” Stone let out a two-note laugh. “I can’t wait to find out how much weight that will carry with Dan. He won’t like this much, will he, Allison? Especially if I leak it to the Oregonian. ‘Federal prosecutor abuses powers to harass prisoner.’”

  “We weren’t threatening him.” The calm in Nicole’s voice was belied by the tiniest twitch under her left eye. “We just had a few questions.”

  “Just wait until I talk to your new SAC about it. One of his agents abusing her credentials, threatening and taunting a suspect. Do you know how many lines you both crossed just being here?”

  “We were just leaving,” Nicole said, and swept out past him.

  Allison followed. She made it to the parking lot before she threw up.

  CHAPTER 15

  Allison was useless the next day. No matter how much she tried to focus on the case she was building—a Ponzi scheme that had masqueraded
as a real estate investment—her mind kept jumping from thought to thought.

  She had braced herself in the morning for a talking-to from Dan, but all he had done was pat her on the shoulder and ask her how she was holding up. Stone must have been bluffing, then. That was Michael Stone, all bluff and bluster.

  Once inside her office, Allison had closed her door so no one would witness just how scattered she was. She would think she was working, only to come to with a jerk and realize she had been doing nothing but staring into space. She leafed through pages of bank transactions without seeing them, then found herself checking her computer for old e-mails from Cassidy. There were fewer than she had thought. Why hadn’t she saved more? E-mail storage was practically free these days.

  Cassidy had signed every e-mail with a series of Xs and Os. Looking at all those crosses and circles, kisses and hugs that would never be put into practice, Allison’s eyes burned with tears. She forced herself to turn away from the computer and back to the reams of documents. “Focus, Allison. You need to focus!” she lectured herself. Out loud. Her brain couldn’t hold a thought. Or it could, but only the unceasing drumbeat that Cassidy was dead.

  Dead. Dead. Dead.

  Her stomach was still touchy. Food poisoning? The flu? It was probably exhaustion, her nerves shot from the stress and the heat. It had been another stifling night. Relief had flooded her when the rising sun finally lit up the blinds, because it meant she no longer had to wrestle with sleep.

  Maybe what she needed to do was eat. She hadn’t had any breakfast this morning or any dinner last night. The last thing she had eaten had been those spicy cashews and stuffed dates, and most of that had come right back up in the parking lot after the stress of confronting Rick and Stone.

  Allison took out her purse. She was rooting for coins for the vending machine when her fingers closed on the thumb drive Brad had given her. Moot now. Cassidy’s death hadn’t been connected to her work.

  But looking at the notes for her stories would be another way to remember her. Maybe an even more intimate way. The notes would show Cassidy’s thoughts. Allison plugged in the thumb drive and clicked.

  It held five Word documents that Cassidy had worked on the day she had been murdered. The first one Allison opened was the story of a man who had killed his two children rather than see his ex-wife get custody. It read like a finished story, and she guessed it had already aired on Channel Four, since she had heard about the killings on the radio while driving to Puerto Marquez. The world was a twisted place, one where children were smothered and a woman was left stuffed under the sink.

  The next two files also seemed to be complete stories. One was about a sixteen-year-old boy shot by another teen, one whose getaway vehicle was a bicycle. The other was about a burglary suspect who had left his license at the crime scene. Allison thought those two also sounded familiar. But both were stupid people tricks, the kind she ran across again and again.

  The fourth story, about a Portland music teacher charged with sexual abuse of a minor, was incomplete. Cassidy had written a list of questions to ask the teacher, but it didn’t look like she had gotten any answers.

  Then Allison clicked on the final story. And a piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  Now she knew why Rick had been at Cassidy’s condo—and even why he had killed her.

  The day that Cassidy died, an informant had called her, saying there had been a police cover-up after the shooting of a homeless man named Vernell Williams. The tipster said he had proof that the cops had planted a throw-down gun on Williams after he was shot by one of the officers chasing him, a cop named Kevin Craine. The caller also said that his life could be in danger. In her notes, Cassidy had guessed that the informant was a cop. But it was the last sentence she had typed—maybe the last sentence Cassidy had ever typed—that stopped Allison: Was Rick involved?

  She realized she had forgotten to breathe. She sucked in a gulp of air, all the while thinking, Now it all makes sense.

  Cassidy had carried so much anger toward Rick. But even after she had gone public with her accusations, nothing much had happened to him. Sure, the chief of police had ordered an investigation. And Internal Affairs had conducted interviews and analyzed the facts.

  Only it turned out that the facts were scant—Cassidy’s word against a decorated veteran of the police force, with no photos or other physical evidence to back up her words—and there wasn’t the necessary preponderance of evidence. It was a he said–she said affair.

  One of them had a badge and the other a microphone.

  The chief had ordered Rick into counseling. And that was it.

  After she got the tip about the throw-down gun, Cassidy must have contacted Rick. Frightened that the truth would come out, he had killed her.

  Allison grabbed her phone and called Nicole.

  “What’s up, Allison?”

  “I know why he killed her. It wasn’t because he was holding on to a grudge. Or at least that wasn’t the only reason. The day she died, somebody tipped Cassidy off that Rick was dirty. It looks like he planted a gun on an unarmed guy who was shot by the cops last week.”

  “Cassidy would be all over that. E-mail me the story, and I’ll see what I can find out. But that has to be it.” Nic sighed. “Are you going to the arraignment today?”

  “I thought about it, but no,” Allison said. “You know how it will be. Three minutes to exchange paperwork and statements. It would take me longer to find a parking place than to sit through it.”

  “Channel Four’s going to cover it on the noon news,” Nicole said. “How about if I grab some sandwiches and we watch it together in your office?”

  Allison had thought about watching, but she didn’t want to be alone. “That sounds good.”

  A few minutes before noon, Nicole showed up with deli sandwiches and small bags of chips. At the sight of the food, Allison’s stomach rumbled. Hunger or a warning? She wasn’t sure.

  She clicked on the live stream for Channel Four. Phoebe was anchoring, and the story she led off with was the heat, with a warning that there was no end in sight. The city was setting up cooling centers for people who couldn’t afford air conditioners, but already three elderly people had died and several more had been hospitalized. Workers who labored outside were being treated for heat stroke, and motels with air conditioners and pools had no vacancies.

  Then the image over Phoebe’s right shoulder changed from a cartoon sun wearing sunglasses to a photo of Cassidy. Allison stopped breathing. Nicole’s sandwich froze halfway to her mouth.

  “Police officer Rick McEwan was arraigned earlier today on charges that he murdered Channel Four’s crime reporter, Cassidy Shaw.”

  Then Phoebe’s image was replaced by a video showing Rick being brought out from the prisoner holding area to stand in front of Judge Zelda Fanconi, along with Michael Stone and the prosecutor, Tommy McNaught. The swelling had gone down on Rick’s face, but the bruise had spread in lurid colors.

  Phoebe spoke over the images. “The prosecutor said that investigators were very concerned that McEwan would flee if he was released, and that as a police officer he had a better understanding of how to do that successfully. Then defense attorney Michael Stone asked that McEwan’s bail be set low.”

  On the video, Michael Stone said, “Your Honor, my client is very distraught by his ex-girlfriend’s death. He has cooperated with the investigation by giving a voluntary statement and a DNA sample. Mr. McEwan has a fourteen-year career as a police officer. He has deep roots in the community. I ask that you would grant him reasonable bail to give him a chance to secure his release and seek medical and psychological treatment.”

  Judge Fanconi, who had a reputation for cutting to the chase, said, “Mr. McEwan is facing very serious charges. Those who are entrusted to protect and serve the people of Portland cannot expect to be treated with lenience simply because of their status. I consider Mr. McEwan a flight risk and a possible danger to the community.” And then she set
his bail at five million dollars.

  Allison almost smiled. Five million dollars meant that Rick would have to raise five hundred thousand to pay a bail bondsman. Chances were better than good that he was going to stay in jail.

  The next shot in the broadcast showed Stone standing outside the courthouse facing a dozen microphones. Allison automatically looked for Cassidy at the front of the crowd, then winced when she realized what she was doing.

  Stone said, “Rick McEwan is a good man and a good law enforcement officer. It is a disappointment that he is being dragged through this. But we are certain that the truth will prevail. The whole truth.”

  Nicole snorted.

  And then it was back to Phoebe and the story of a small plane that had crashed near Cannon Beach.

  Allison closed the browser window. “A disappointment? Stone acts like Rick was arrested for jaywalking.” She finally took a bite of her sandwich. As the taste of roast turkey spread over her tongue, her mouth filled with water. Hunger, then, not a warning. She chewed and swallowed and hoped it would stay put.

  “Yeah. He and Rick are a pair.” Nicole tossed the half-eaten remains of her lunch into the trash. “Rick will always have a million excuses. High blood pressure, post-traumatic stress, temporary insanity, being kidnapped by Martians . . . He’ll never admit the truth.”

  Allison finally put into words what had been bothering her since their visit to the jail. “The weird thing was, it didn’t seem like Rick was lying. He wasn’t all ‘honestly’ or ‘truthfully’—you know those ly words liars always use. It felt—” She hesitated, knowing Nicole would not agree. “It felt almost like he was telling the truth.”

  Nicole shrugged. “Rick knows the same things we do. He knows the signs and the tells. He just edited himself. I’m sure all he’s done since he was arrested is sit in his cell and figure out how to sell his bull.”

  “You’re probably right.” It was the same thing Allison had told herself. “But if Rick knows anything, it would be not to leave fingerprints. So why would he be stupid enough to stab Cassidy and then just toss the knife under the sink?”