The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  “You too.” Leif pointed at Brad.

  Brad looked peeved, but he didn’t argue, which made Nic wonder if he figured they already had enough for the nightly news. The chapel, she realized, was now nearly empty. Lindsay and Marshall were still in the same pew they had been in when the whole thing started. But Lindsay was doubled over, weeping, and Marshall had his arm around her.

  “Marshall,” Allison called out. “Could you take Lindsay home, and I’ll meet up with you later?”

  “Okay.” Marshall’s face looked a little green.

  Nic started when a hand rose from the floor and grabbed her right wrist.

  It was Roland. “Just let me die,” he whispered.

  “No.” Her right hand was cramping.

  Roland’s lips moved again. Nic leaned closer.

  “It’s my fault she’s dead. All my fault.”

  “Don’t talk,” she said, even though she wanted to shake him and ask exactly what he meant.

  The sound of sirens filled the chapel, and then two paramedics burst in through the rear doors on the run, carrying bags of equipment and pushing a portable gurney. In a few seconds Roland was being strapped down while one of them applied steady pressure onto the wide white gauze wrapped around his throat.

  “Are you taking him to OHSU or Portland General?” Nic asked as she got to her feet. Both were Level I trauma centers.

  “Portland General,” the second paramedic answered, not looking up from where he was threading a needle into Roland’s arm. A moment later the gurney was rattling down the now empty aisle and out the doors, its wheels leaving bloody tracks.

  Now it was just Nic and Leif and Allison. And Cassidy, her hair now matted with blood, her white dress covered with scarlet splashes and drips like a monochromatic Jackson Pollack painting. If her family had hoped to leave mourners with one last memory, it certainly wasn’t this.

  Nic swayed. She was, she realized distantly, about to pass out.

  Leif put his arm around her and turned her so she faced the doors. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Wait,” Nic said. “Did you hear what Roland said? He said it was all his fault that Cassidy was dead.”

  “That’s because he’s crazy.” Allison looked nearly as pale as Roland had. “He also thought he could spend eternity with Cassidy if he killed himself over her coffin.”

  “But why would he think her death is his fault?” Nic couldn’t shake the guilt she had seen in his eyes. “Maybe he knows something.” She thought of Rick’s claims that he couldn’t remember harming Cassidy. “Maybe he even did something. We need to make sure that knife gets processed as potential evidence.”

  Leif looked dubious. “He wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “But, Allison, remember what Jensen said? About that voice mail Roland left her?”

  Allison looked up, thinking. “Roland said that he loved Cassidy no matter what, but she needed to be true to him.”

  “Right. What made him think Cassidy was ‘cheating’ on him? Maybe he saw Rick with her that night. We have to talk to him.”

  “First things first, Nic.” Leif gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You can’t go anyplace like that or people will be calling 9-1-1 for you.”

  She looked down. Her hands and forearms were tacky with already drying blood. Her pants were sodden. “I’m going to have to go home to change. And I just hope you have something I can sit on.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s a tarp in my trunk with your name on it,” Leif said. “And there’s no point in hurrying. We won’t be able to talk to Roland until after they stitch him up.”

  Nic had taken her memories of Portland General and put them in a box, and put the box in a closet, and then locked the closet door and thrown away the key. But here she was, less than a year later, smelling that sickeningly familiar mix of urine and industrial antiseptic, and the memories were threatening to bust the closet and the box wide open, key or no key.

  The girl behind the information desk wore a blue polyester uniform blouse and a gold name tag that read Kenya. Her relaxed hair was pulled back into a stubby ponytail. She didn’t look much older than Makayla, and suddenly Nic missed her daughter, missed her fiercely. When she was fighting cancer, it had been the thought of leaving Makayla alone that had frightened her the most.

  “We’re here to see Roland Baxter.” Nic’s voice sounded normal, and she was proud of that.

  Kenya typed into her computer, then looked up at the three of them. “He’s on 3NW. But he’s not allowed any visitors.”

  “We’re not visitors,” Nic said, showing her badge. “We’re with the FBI.”

  “Oh.” Kenya’s eyes got wide. “Okay.”

  In her head Nic heard Bond’s voice. Don’t be a distraction, Hedges. Don’t be a liability.

  But she couldn’t let this go. She just hoped this visit wouldn’t get back to Bond, that she wouldn’t end up in Butte with her career in the toilet.

  As they walked toward the elevators, Leif touched her arm, and she jumped. “What?”

  “Nic. Don’t forget to breathe.”

  Obediently, she sucked in a breath.

  “From the abdomen,” he reminded her.

  She let her belly expand and felt how it loosened even her shoulders.

  They found Roland’s room. There was only one woman at the nurses’ station, and she had her back to them. In a second, the three of them had slipped inside his door.

  Nic couldn’t tell if Roland was asleep or unconscious. He was on his back with his arms by his sides, nearly as pale as the white sheet on which they lay. They looked posed. Other than the thick bandage around his throat, he was an eerie echo of Cassidy.

  She and Allison went over to the bed, while Leif stayed by the door, ready to alert them if someone came. Roland’s lips were still that odd shade of pale violet, and his skin looked almost translucent.

  His eyes opened. He focused on Nic, blinked a few times, and then looked at Allison. In a raspy whisper, he said, “You two. You’re Cassidy’s friends.”

  Nic jerked her head back. “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve seen you with her. Usually eating.”

  A tiny laugh escaped her, even though it was creepy. How many times had he been lurking in the background as they’d gone about their lives unaware?

  “Why did you say her death was your fault?” she asked. “Did you hurt Cassidy? Is that what you meant?”

  “I would never hurt her.” He grimaced. “Cassidy and I had a secret understanding. Just between us.”

  “What kind of an understanding?” Nic asked, keeping her expression neutral.

  “She sent me messages through the color of the blouse she wore on air. She had communicated to me mentally that she wanted me to be the father of her children.”

  “Really?” Allison said in a noncommittal voice. “So why do you feel guilty?”

  “Because I didn’t protect her, even though I was there.” He swallowed, grimacing again. “The night she was killed, I followed her home. I just liked to look up at her and imagine what it was going to be like when she could reveal our love to the world.”

  “Look up at her from where?” Nic asked.

  “There’s a Dumpster across the street. If you stand behind it at just the right spot, you can see straight into her windows. Wednesday night, after she came home, I watched for a while, but I didn’t see her. I was just about to leave when she appeared. She was facing the window. There was a man behind her. His hands”—Roland’s voice broke—“his hands were on her shoulders.”

  Roland lifted his own hands and gingerly rested them on either side of the bandages, where his neck met his shoulders. “It looked like he was whispering in her ear. I couldn’t believe she would cheat on me like that. When he pulled her away from the window, I left.” He hesitated, his voice shaking. “But now I know that he wasn’t her lover. He was her killer. I saw it happening, and I just walked away.”

  “Wha
t did he look like?” Allison asked. All three of them were staring at Roland, waiting to hear him describe Rick.

  “Tall. Cassidy is five foot five”—he was right, which made Nic wonder exactly how obsessive he was—“so he had to have been about six one or two. He was thin. And bald. And there was something . . . off about his face. Like it was lopsided.”

  Nic and Allison looked at each other, wide-eyed. Rick was five foot eleven, stocky, and had brown hair so thick it looked like a pelt.

  “That’s not Rick,” Nic said. In fact, she couldn’t think of a single guy Cassidy had dated who met the description. “Why didn’t you come forward when you heard she’d been murdered?”

  “Do you think the police are going to listen to me? And going to them couldn’t bring her back.”

  “But when they arrested Rick McEwan, you could have said you saw her with someone else,” Allison said.

  Roland shook his head. “I figured that Rick guy hurt her before and didn’t get in trouble then, so this was only fair. And meanwhile, I decided to join Cassidy. Or I was going to, until you stopped me.”

  Nic heard his words, but she had stopped paying attention.

  They had an eyewitness who might have seen the beginning of Cassidy’s murder.

  Only the killer hadn’t been Rick McEwan.

  CHAPTER 19

  What are you doing in here?” a voice behind them demanded. Allison turned. It was a middle-aged nurse dressed in pink scrubs, her hands on her ample hips. “This man is not allowed any visitors. He needs to rest.”

  “Sorry,” Leif said, and jerked his head for the other two to follow him. “We made a mistake.” He pressed past her, with Allison and Nicole right on his heels.

  “A mistake is right,” Allison said when they were safely around the corner. She was still in shock. “Whoever Roland saw, it wasn’t Rick.”

  Nicole made a huffing noise. She was walking so fast that Allison had to hurry to keep up with her. “That’s just what Roland says. But think about it. What are the chances what he said is true? We don’t even know if he was really there. Maybe he only wishes he had been so he could still be central to the story. After all, this is the same guy who thinks he and Cassidy are soul mates and that she sends him messages by what she wears on the air. Just because Roland Baxter thinks he saw some guy with his hands around Cassidy’s throat doesn’t mean that he did.”

  “He may be crazy,” Allison said as she pushed the elevator button with a shaking hand, “but even crazy people sometimes tell the truth.”

  “But who will believe him?” Nicole said. The elevator doors opened, and the three of them got on. “Not when it’s obvious to anyone how mentally ill he is.”

  Allison pushed the button for the ground floor. The truth was getting complicated. “Rick says he doesn’t remember being there that night. And now we have someone who saw a different man with her. Who maybe even saw Cassidy being attacked. We have to find out the truth.”

  “There’s one thing you two are overlooking,” Leif said. “You both have been warned to stay out of this. If you keep asking questions, you’re putting your careers on the line.”

  Nicole stepped out on the ground floor, then whipped around to face him with eyes blazing. “Are you saying we just let this go? Don’t we owe it to Cassidy to figure out what really happened?”

  Allison was glad she wasn’t on the other side of that look, but Leif’s words were as mild as Nicole’s were fraught.

  “I’m not saying you should let it go. I’m saying you need to get someone else to put the pieces together.”

  Nicole put her hands on her hips. “And just who would that be?”

  Allison held the elevator door for a couple in their midsixties. The woman had wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. After they stepped inside, Allison followed Nicole and Leif down the hall.

  “I’ve been thinking about that PI I was telling you about, Nic,” Leif said. He turned to Allison. “Her name’s Ophelia Moyer. I met her when we were tracking a girl we thought might be a kidnapping victim. It turned out she was really on the run from her father, and for good reason. Ophelia helped her stay gone and safe. Ophelia’s a little odd, a little intense, but she’s also very competent and very discreet. And she can do things that the three of us couldn’t do.”

  “So . . . what?” Allison asked. “We just ask this Ophelia to take this on? Even assuming she says yes, how much would it cost?” She imagined trying to explain the sudden expense to Marshall. She was already risking their finances by cosigning Lindsay’s loan.

  “That’s the thing,” Leif said. “Ophelia doesn’t charge.” He held up a hand as both Allison and Nicole began to speak. “I know it sounds crazy, but she doesn’t need the money. She came into a trust fund from her grandmother when she turned twenty-one, and in three years she’s made a killing in the stock market. But she only takes on cases she wants.”

  “Wait a minute. She’s twenty-four?” Nicole’s voice and expression left no doubt as to what she thought of Leif’s suggestion. “She’s just a baby.”

  “Well, even babies can bite.” Leif grinned. “And they have sharp little teeth.”

  Leif made arrangements for the three women to meet for brunch the next day. When Allison got to Mother’s Bistro, she found Nicole pacing on the sidewalk out front.

  Nicole said fiercely, “I don’t know about this. I just don’t know.”

  “We have to wait and see,” Allison said, although she had her own doubts. “If she doesn’t seem like she can get to the bottom of things, then we’ll walk away and keep looking into it ourselves.”

  A young woman walked up to them. “Allison Pierce? Nicole Hedges?”

  When they nodded, she said, “I’m Ophelia Moyer.” She winced when they shook her hand.

  For Allison, the name Ophelia had conjured up an image of a girl dressed in white, flowers twined in her hair. Not this skinny girl wearing black-framed glasses, a tank top, and cargo shorts. Her dark-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Ophelia, huh?” Nicole said. “Didn’t Ophelia fall in love with Hamlet and drown herself?”

  This Ophelia’s response was flat, her face expressionless. “Ophelia is Greek for ‘aid’ or ‘help.’ And that’s what I am. As for the Ophelia in Hamlet, a witness said that she was in a tree when a branch broke and she fell into the water. Does that sound like the action of a woman who wanted to kill herself?”

  “Good point,” Nicole said, her face deadpan. When Ophelia turned to go in the restaurant, she shot Allison a look.

  In the high-ceilinged restaurant, the hostess showed them to their table. Ophelia chose the chair that would keep her back to the room. She licked her fingers and then pinched the flame of the tea candle that had been flickering in the middle of the table. “Sorry. That smell is nauseating.”

  “No problem,” Allison said, thinking that Leif’s description of Ophelia as “a little odd, a little intense” hadn’t exactly covered it.

  Before she opened her menu, Ophelia took a moment to straighten her silverware, nudging the spoon until it lined up exactly with the knife. When the waitress came, she ordered biscuits and gravy, while Nicole got the pork sausage and cheddar cheese scramble, and Allison went with the Greek frittata.

  As Allison looked at the brick walls, the white gauzy curtains, the clear glass chandeliers hanging from long cords, she tried to remember when they had last eaten here with Cassidy. It had been at least a couple of years, and she was pretty sure it had been dinner, not brunch. Still, she could picture Cassidy laughing, her head tilted back to expose the long column of her throat. Allison didn’t know if it was a real memory or one she had assembled from the thousands of hours of memories she had stored up over the last six years. Sadness washed over her. Would it have been better to pick a place with no history, or was it okay to be reminded afresh of what they had lost?

  She took a deep breath, trying to focus on the here and now. “So Leif Larson told us you might be able to help
us figure out what really happened to Cassidy Shaw.”

  “Leif said the three of you were friends in high school?” Ophelia’s question was direct, but her eyes slid away from Allison’s gaze as though their eyes were magnets of the same polarity, repelling instead of attracting.

  Something about Ophelia inspired a reciprocal blunt honesty. “Not then, actually, no,” Allison said. “We were too different. But at our ten-year high school reunion we realized we were all involved in bringing criminals to justice.”

  “And that’s when we started to be friends,” Nicole added. “I was still working at the Denver field office then.”

  Allison picked up the story. “Then Nicole got transferred back to Portland, and the three of us got together for dinner at Jake’s.” She remembered the way Cassidy had squealed when she spied a particular dish on the dessert menu. “We ended up splitting this dessert called Triple Threat Chocolate Cake. The first time we did it, it was to save on calories. But we started joking about it, and we ended up calling ourselves the Triple Threat. And after a while we realized it was true. Each one of us has—had—resources the others didn’t. And from that first night on, we always split the richest dessert on the menu.”

  Ophelia hunched her shoulders. “Did you all use the same fork?”

  “What?” Allison said, thrown off her stride and out of her memory. “No. Different forks.”

  Ophelia still looked troubled. “That kind of communal eating would challenge the immune system. What if one of you had a cold? What did you do then?”

  Nicole made an exasperated noise. “Look, don’t get fixated on the details. That story isn’t about the forks, it’s about the friendship. Cassidy Shaw was our friend, and she was murdered, and we want to be sure that her killer is brought to justice.”

  Ophelia nodded, then said, “I’ve been reading about what happened. Which is why I don’t understand why you are concerned.” She held up one finger. “Number one. The accused, Rick McEwan, used to date Cassidy Shaw.” She added a second finger. “Number two. Their relationship became abusive. Number three. She broke up with him and charged him with assault, and even though questions were raised, he was never punished. Number four. Now, a year later, she has been murdered, and McEwan’s prints are on the murder weapon. And most recently, number five. He’s been arrested.” She closed her fingers and made a fist. “So what is there to investigate?”