by Lis Wiehl
“Who knows? This is the same person who thought he could plant a throw-down piece and nobody would notice. And somebody who’s angry enough to murder is probably not thinking straight. And then by the time he was, it was too late.” Nicole looked at her watch. “I’d better get back to the office.”
Allison walked her to the elevator. As she was turning to go back down the hall, she heard Dan’s voice.
“Allison, may I see you in my office?”
She was suddenly sorry she had eaten half her sandwich. At a nod from Dan, she closed the door and sat down across from him.
Dan’s lean, boyish face was expressionless. Dapper Dan—as he was known only out of his hearing, since he hated the nickname—could easily have passed for a decade younger than his fifty-two years. For a long moment he said nothing, just steepled his fingers and skewered her with his gaze. Today, his pale blue eyes had all the warmth of marbles.
He tapped his index fingers together. “Allison, you are one of the best prosecutors I have working for me.”
She said nothing. She knew there was a but coming.
Dan didn’t disappoint.
“But I will not stand for insubordination. Last night you used your official credentials to get in to see Rick McEwan.”
Allison didn’t say anything. There was no excuse she could make that Dan wouldn’t punch through like tissue paper.
“Do you see how this looks?” His chin jutted forward. “Do you know how poorly this reflects on me? I haven’t made this public yet, but I’m planning on running for DA next year. You see my problem here, don’t you, Allison?”
Allison did indeed. And it had nothing to do with Cassidy and everything to do with perception. Yes, she had been in the wrong last night, but she had been seeking answers, not acclaim. She nodded.
“I will not have your behavior be a millstone around my neck. What if the media gets hold of it? You are lucky that you are not losing your job. Michael Stone would have been happy to have your head on a spike. I had to call in a lot of favors to save your behind.”
Allison swallowed. “I appreciate that.”
“No, you don’t.” The bridge of Dan’s nose was white. “You don’t know what those favors cost me. They’re gone now. And I wasted them because you couldn’t let something go. Cassidy Shaw is dead, and yes, that is a terrible tragedy, but her murder is not a federal crime. This case belongs to the Portland Police Bureau. And PPB has already done their job and caught the guy who did it, even though he’s one of their own. And now he’ll go to trial and then to prison.” He leaned forward. “Let me make this perfectly clear.” His finger stabbed the air. “You are not any part of that process. Yes, you may be called to testify about finding the body. But I don’t want to hear another word about you muddying the waters. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, Dan, but—”
He cut her off with a slashing gesture. “There are no buts. You are a professional, and I expect you to act like one.”
Feeling like a sullen teenager, Allison muttered, “Yes, Dan.” Not meeting his eyes.
CHAPTER 16
The heat was like a weight on Nic’s chest, making it hard to draw a breath. The car’s air conditioner was set on high, but the air coming from the vents seemed hotter than the air outside. Hoping to catch a breeze, Nic rolled down the windows and left the air conditioner setting where it was. It was too hot to care how much gas she might be wasting. Even if it was the government’s dime.
The punishing heat couldn’t distract her from wondering if Allison’s hunch was right. Was it possible Rick had been telling the truth?
It was true that she hadn’t seen him make any of the subtle body movements that usually accompanied lies. He hadn’t touched his hair or wiped his index finger across his face. He hadn’t looked up and to his left, the way most right-handed people did when they were lying. He hadn’t even leaned back in an unconscious effort to put more distance between them.
How much energy and agility would it take to fake it? Was Rick capable of it? Was Rick capable of it even after the stress of having been arrested and attacked?
Besides, it was possible that he wasn’t faking it—and that he wasn’t truly innocent either. He claimed that he didn’t remember that evening. Maybe that part was true. Maybe something inside Rick had snapped, had made him step across the line. After all, they knew he had crossed that line before, when he pulled a gun on Cassidy. And again when he planted the throw-down piece, as she had been about to reveal. Only this time, had Rick left his conscious thoughts behind?
When Nic came back into the office, Dixie, the FBI’s long-term receptionist, stopped her before she went back to her cubicle. “Mr. Bond would like to see you in his office.”
Nic’s skin tightened. “Did he say what it was about?”
“No.” Dixie pursed her lips and looked away. Nic could tell she didn’t think it was anything good.
A few months earlier John Drood had finally retired as SAC—special agent in charge—of the Portland field office. His replacement, Lincoln Bond, had only been in the office for a week. Other than to shake his hand hello, Nic hadn’t spoken to him.
“Lucky you, Nicole,” Heath, another agent, had said to her after their first general meeting with Bond.
“What do you mean?” Nic gave him the evil eye, but Heath, as usual, was immune to it.
“Bond’s black. Excuse me, African American.” Like you, he didn’t say, but he didn’t have to.
“Do you think I’m going to flash him some secret signal?” Nic had said and then shut her mouth and hadn’t said anything more. Heath lived to get a reaction.
Like all of them, though, Nic had been looking for clues as to what their new boss would be like. The press release announcing his hire had said that Bond had a bachelor of science degree in biblical/pastoral studies, which was an unusual background for an agent. Then he had become a cop and started studying criminal justice at night. Eventually he had become a special agent.
The way to get ahead in the FBI was to transfer from field office to field office, with a promotion each time, and that’s what Bond had done. He had worked violent crimes in Detroit, Mexican drug trafficking at Quantico, organized crime in Cincinnati, and, most recently, held the position of assistant SAC in Tampa. Now he was in Portland, although chances were good he might not stay that long.
When Nic knocked on Bond’s half-open door, he told her to come in and close the door.
It was the first time she had been in the office since Drood left. There was a new addition to the décor: over Bond’s left shoulder hung a framed photo of J. Edgar Hoover. Nic blinked. Was it some sort of joke? Hoover had considered Martin Luther King, Jr., a Communist. And when Hoover died in 1972, less than 1 percent of agents were black—and there were zero female agents.
“It’s Nicole Hedges, right?” Bond’s expression conveyed that even this was suspect information.
“Yes, sir.” She sat in the visitor’s chair, but held herself erect. This was no social call.
“How long have you been with the Bureau?”
It felt like a trick question. A file with her name on it sat in the middle of his otherwise empty desk.
“Nine years.”
“Nine years.” Bond’s voice somehow managed to convey disappointment. “I have just had a very disturbing phone call from a defense attorney named Michael Stone.”
Nic kept her expression neutral. On her hip, her phone started to buzz. She silenced it without breaking eye contact with Bond. She didn’t need to glance at the display to know it was Allison. Too late. But even if Allison had given Nic a heads-up, what could she have done?
“Mr. Stone accused you of interfering in a case that does not fall under the FBI’s jurisdiction. Is his accusation true?”
One look at Bond’s face, as cold as if it had been carved from ebony, and she knew there was no point in appealing to his emotions. To explain that Cassidy had been her friend.
“I know
both Stone’s client, Rick McEwan, and the woman McEwan is accused of murdering. I was trying to make sense of what really happened that night.”
“So you decided to waltz down to the jail and harass him?”
“I just asked a few questions, sir.”
He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “If you think that because you’re a sister that you’re getting a pass, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think any such thing, sir.” The only thing Nic thought was that Bond would never be accused of playing favorites.
“And just so I have all the facts correct, this case has nothing to do with you on a professional level. Is that right?”
Nic matched Bond, unflinching stare for unflinching stare. “While that’s true, sir, I was only trying to ensure that justice is being done.”
Was that what she had been doing? It had all made sense last night, the kind of sense things made when your friend had been murdered and you were operating on no sleep and three drinks.
“But I made an error in judgment in how I went about it.”
“The Portland police are our partners. Honoring that partnership is one of my top priorities. If we don’t work together, we could tear this city apart. I don’t need one of my agents turning them into enemies.”
“No, sir.”
Rather than appearing mollified, Bond was looking angrier. “Too bad you didn’t visit this McEwan while you were on duty. Then I could have had your badge. As it is, you can expect a letter of censure in your file.”
Nic flinched. While a letter of censure was the lowest form of discipline, she had never been censured before. Never. Whatever the FBI required her to do, she did, and she usually landed in the top 5 percent. The letter would be placed in her files at both headquarters and Portland and could negatively impact any promotions for the next year.
Bond was looking at her as if he expected an answer.
“Yes, sir. And I apologize for my behavior.”
“I’m going to be keeping my eye on you. If I hear of anything else untoward, you could be looking at a disciplinary transfer to Butte, Montana, where you can freeze your posterior off while pondering the beauty of the world’s largest open-pit copper mine. So don’t be a distraction, Hedges. Don’t be a liability. Do I make myself clear?” Bond pointed his pen, something gold and expensive looking, directly at her heart.
“Yes, sir.” She met his eyes, her face neutral.
“You’ve made an impression, Hedges. And it’s not a good one. I don’t want to hear one more word about you crossing boundaries.” When she nodded, he said brusquely, “You can go now.”
It was only after Nic got to her feet that she realized that her legs were shaking.
Yes, she had erred in going to see Rick. But something about Cassidy’s death nagged at her. Nic had joined the Bureau to make sure that the bad guys got caught and got what they deserved. Wasn’t that more important than the tiny print of rules and regulations, more important than dividing crimes up into city, state, and federal?
She had been in her cubicle for only a few moments when Leif Larson stepped in. Leif was six two, with red-gold hair and square shoulders. He looked like a Viking warrior. While the FBI had no rules about agents dating other agents, he and Nic normally kept their in-office exchanges polite and professional.
Until now.
She stood up and put her mouth close to his ear. In a low voice she said, “Allison and I went to see Rick last night.”
Looking startled, Leif pulled back. “Why?”
It was the question Nic could no longer answer, even for herself. “I just wanted to understand why it happened. Then this morning Allison figured out Cassidy had been covering a story about a throw-down piece Rick might have used to cover up the killing of an unarmed, mentally ill guy.”
“That would certainly give him a reason to go after her. And you’re the one who thought it might be him in the first place. Everything fits.”
“But it’s like it’s almost too perfect. Why would he leave his prints on the knife—and then leave the knife there?”
“People do stupid things all the time. You know that, Nic. Especially if they’re drunk.”
Leif was referring to Rick, but his words made her inwardly flinch.
“Well, Michael Stone showed up at the jail last night too, and I guess he complained about us this morning. Bond just gave me a talking-to. And a letter of censure.”
“Nic, listen to me.” Leif’s voice was low and urgent. “You’ve got to stop trying to figure out this on your own. The Bureau will not back you up on this. And Bond could be looking to send a message to the higher-ups that he is willing to make the hard choices. You could be looking at a disciplinary transfer or even outright termination.”
Nic didn’t tell him about Bond’s Montana threat. “I just want to know the truth.”
“The truth might be that some part of Rick wanted to be caught.”
“So why is he saying he doesn’t remember anything now? If he wanted to be caught, why didn’t he just call the police himself? Why did he stuff Cassidy under the sink like a piece of garbage and then leave?”
As Nic spoke, Heath sauntered past her cubicle. Was he trying to eavesdrop? Did everyone already know about the censure? She made her voice even softer.
“Even Allison believes Rick really doesn’t remember what happened.”
“Just because he doesn’t remember,” Leif said patiently, “doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”
“But what if he didn’t? Or what if he didn’t act alone?” Keeping her voice low, Nic quickly summarized for Leif the story Cassidy had been working on. “How many cops were on the scene when Vernell Williams was shot? If they knew about the cover-up and didn’t say anything, their careers would be on the line. And then Cassidy started asking questions.”
“Nic, listen to yourself. You know that murders don’t have to make sense. Especially not if the killer is under the influence, which Rick probably was if he was at a strip club beforehand. But if you keep insisting that the pieces don’t fit, then Bond won’t look the other way. You have to let this go before he lets you go. Let PPB figure this out. No matter what happens, Cassidy won’t be any less dead. And your career could be on the line.”
Anger stiffened Nic’s spine. She stepped back. “What about the truth? And justice? Aren’t they more important than my career?”
As the afternoon wore on, Nic tried to work, but she kept having brief flashes of Wednesday night. The broken phone. The small dark pool of blood under the cupboards. The cool slack skin of Cassidy’s neck.
A half hour later she slapped her hand on her desk when she suddenly realized what had been bothering her about that night.
But was it a clue or just a coincidence?
Her cubicle was too open. She thought of Heath. It was too hard to have a hushed conversation on a cell phone. Anyone walking by could hear her, even if she kept her voice low. Nic took her phone and went out into the stairwell.
When Allison answered the phone, Nic said, “Can you talk?”
“Yeah.”
“I got the same talking-to you did, but that’s not what’s important.”
“It’s not?” Allison sounded surprised.
“No,” Nic said. “What’s important is I just realized what was bugging me about the murder scene.”
“What?”
“That knife block of Cassidy’s had just two empty slots, right? And remember how you pointed out that there were a paring knife and a bread knife on the counter?”
Allison caught on. “So where did the knife come from that was next to her body?”
Nic gave voice to the argument she knew she would hear if she shared this observation with anyone else. “Cassidy could have extra knives that didn’t fit in the block.”
She didn’t believe it, though, not for a second. Cassidy was no cook. She might slice a baguette or a brick of Tillamook cheese, but that was as far as it went. Cassidy was the kind of woman who
hid old newspapers in her oven when company came over.
Allison said, “Rick must have brought the knife with him. But if he did, that means it’s premeditated.”
“We need to find out if the knife matched the knives he had at home. And if it does, the question is: if he was thinking clearly enough to bring the knife there to kill her, why didn’t he think to take it away? Or at least wear gloves. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, but what murder ever does? And remember, Nicole—we’ve both been told to stop asking questions.”
“Don’t we owe it to Cassidy to find out the truth?” Nic asked.
Allison’s reply was a long time in coming. “Of course we do. We’ve just got to think of some way that doesn’t end up with both of us fired.”
CHAPTER 17
As she walked into the funeral home’s already crowded chapel, clutching a program with Cassidy’s picture on it, Allison suddenly stopped short. Marshall bumped into her. Behind her, she could hear Nicole’s gasp as they all saw what had made Allison halt in her tracks.
A mahogany casket, trimmed in gold, stood at the front of the chapel. Silhouetted by the open top of the lid, Cassidy lay on a white satin pillow. More white pleated satin edged the casket and lined the lid.
A wave of dizziness passed over Allison. She steadied herself on Marshall.
“I haven’t been to an open casket funeral since I was a kid,” he whispered.
Allison forced her legs to start moving again. “I think they do them more in the South. And her mother’s from . . .” Her voice trailed off when she couldn’t remember. Mississippi? Georgia?
Lindsay’s mouth was still open in shock. “Why did they do that?” Her voice was loud enough that a few heads turned.
Letting go of Marshall’s arm, Allison turned back and drew Lindsay to her. “I think some people believe it helps bring closure. It lets them say their good-byes.”
Her sister’s nose wrinkled as she peeped again at Cassidy and then pointedly turned her head away. “Do you think she would like to be lying on display?”