by Lis Wiehl
A woman screamed back, “No, I’m not, no, please, what are you—”
And then another shot. And more shrieks, more shouts.
But the woman whose pleading had just been abruptly silenced.
Allison would know that voice anywhere.
It was Lindsay.
Her little sister.
“I have to go, Nicole. Something bad’s happening.”
“No, Allison! Stay where you are. The cops are coming.”
Barely hearing Nicole’s words, Allison disconnected the call and set the phone on the counter. She wanted both hands free.
She took a deep breath, bent down to provide as small a target as possible, and yanked opened the restroom door.
CHAPTER 24
As soon as she had understood what was going on, Nic had burst from her cubicle and alerted Martin Buckley, relaying the little that Allison knew. A Portland cop, Martin was permanently assigned to work alongside the FBI’s own bank robbery squad.
He sprang into action, putting the scant information out over the radio on both the police and FBI frequencies. And he also requested that EMS—emergency medical services—respond.
By the time Allison broke the connection, the guys on the bank robbery squad were already hustling out the door. Nearly all bank robberies were note jobs, the work of a lone guy with a habit. A robbery with more than one robber and shots fired was already an anomaly. The authorities would be considering a dozen questions: Were there injured or dead? Would it become a hostage situation? If the robbers felt there was no way out, would they try to provoke law enforcement into killing them? Or did they already want to kill a few cops or agents themselves?
But all Nic could think was, Allison, Allison, Allison.
She jumped when Leif touched her shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said. The keys were already in his hand. “I’m driving.”
Just as they pushed open the door, Nic saw Bond coming out of his office. She thought he might be saying her name, but she kept on walking. She had no ears to hear him and no time to stop and explain. Not when Allison might be in trouble. It was better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. Besides, nothing in the FBI’s rules and regulations prohibited those who weren’t on the squad from responding to a bank robbery.
As they ran for Leif’s car, Nic replayed her conversation with Allison. “I have to go, Nicole. Something bad’s happening.” Would those be the last words she ever heard from her friend? In the background, Nic had heard garbled noises—shouts, screams, what could even have been another gunshot—and then the connection had been severed.
Had the robbers figured out that Allison was hiding in the bathroom? In her mind’s eye, Nic saw a masked man kicking open the door, the barrel of his gun the first thing across the threshold. And Allison with no place to go. She saw Allison with her hands up, her back against the white wall, her mouth pleading. But the only response might be a bullet to her chest, the sound reverberating in the small space as she slid to the floor, leaving a bloody smear on the wall behind her.
No! Nic threw herself into the passenger seat and yanked the door closed. Allison couldn’t be dead. Not Allison and Cassidy both. The world could not be such a cruel place. Wordlessly she bargained with and prayed to what she could not yet bring herself to call God. Allison was a good person. The best person Nic knew. She didn’t deserve to die.
Leif drove fast, with lights on but no sirens. No need to spook the bank robbers by letting them hear the cops approaching. You didn’t want to have them decide to take a hostage along in the getaway car or, worse yet, to hunker down with a whole bank full of them. The robbers would want to get out of the bank, and the police would want exactly the same thing, so that they could deal with them without putting civilians at risk.
To law enforcement, the money taken in a bank robbery had no value. It was insured by the FDIC, which would print more of it before an agent even finished writing his report. The only thing that mattered was protecting the lives of the innocent people inside the bank and the lives of the people responding.
The radio crackled with cops and agents giving their locations and quickly drawing up a plan in case the bank robbers were still on-site when they arrived. Routine note-job bank robberies occurred so frequently in Portland that uniformed officers and agents were used to responding and working together. Nic knew that the dispatch center would be contacting the bank by phone to determine if the robbery was real—which she already knew was true—and if the suspects had left. If so, the manager would come outside to meet the cops and agents so law enforcement could ensure that he or she wasn’t being forced to lie about what was happening.
Nic was sitting on the edge of her seat, as if the extra six inches put her closer to Allison. Traffic was so thick! She could get out of the car and run to the bank faster than they were moving.
Leif glanced over at her. “Put on your seat belt.”
It seemed silly. Inconsequential. Who cared what happened to her when Allison was in trouble? Still, she found herself scooting back and complying.
“Now what exactly did Allison say?” he asked, cutting through the narrow streets.
Nic repeated the conversation as best she could, then said, “Right before the line went dead, I thought I heard a gunshot. Oh, Leif, what if she’s—”
He touched her knee for a second and then put his hand back on the wheel and zipped between a Pathfinder and a Subaru. “Don’t say it. You don’t know what’s happening, and we won’t know until we get there.”
Leif was forced to weave around a panicked driver in an old green Malibu who had simply stopped in the middle of an intersection instead of pulling over. The closer they got to the bank, the worse the traffic became. Leif squeezed through spaces, darted around cars, and managed to keep making progress. But he couldn’t go fast enough, not as far as Nic was concerned.
Since a police uniform car was likely to be closer, she knew that the cops would probably be the first on the scene no matter how fast he drove. But even if a cop had happened to be driving right by the bank when the call came in, he or she would be trained to keep driving until it was possible to turn into the driveway of a business that was far enough away to appear routine. Again, the cops wanted the robbers out of the bank before they confronted them.
On the radio, the dispatcher called out one of the unit numbers. “Dispatch, six-seven. Update.”
Update? Nic waited for the latest news, not even daring to breathe.
“Six-seven,” the cop in Unit 67 responded.
“Manager reports shots fired, one down. Suspects fled.”
One down! Nic’s heart was a big bird in a too-small cage. What did that mean? Down could be anything from being grazed to dead.
“Ten-four. Direction of travel?”
“Manager states unknown.” A brief pause, then, “Second call received. Witness reports two white males running from the bank. Both seen getting into a late-model green or blue four-door compact car, unknown make, driven by a third person. Direction of travel south through the parking lot onto eastbound Market Street.”
“Copy. License number?”
“No plate seen.”
“Six-seven copy. Arriving on scene.”
“Ten-four, six-seven.” The dispatcher then began to call out the other unit numbers to make sure they had received the same information. “Four-five, copy?”
“Four-five, copy.”
Nic barely heard the other units chiming in. “Dispatch said one down, Leif. You heard her. One down.”
“Don’t go borrowing trouble, Nic. We won’t know until we get there.”
Still, when he found the street they needed to take clogged by traffic, Leif yanked the wheel until with a bump and a shudder the car was suddenly on the sidewalk. The parking meters whizzed by just an inch from his side-view mirror and then with a clunk they were back on the street again, having circumvented the knot.
Two minutes later they arrived at the bank and jumped out of the car. The parking lot
was filled with cop cars and unmarked cars, with more still arriving, but Nic had tunnel vision. All she could focus on was what lay past the bank’s windows and glass doors. She saw people milling around, but no Allison.
At the door, Leif held up his badge, and a uniformed officer unlocked it. Nic pushed past him, nearly running. She had to find Allison. Looking for that familiar dark head, her eyes scanned the ever-growing crowd of customers, employees, cops, and agents. Her ears strained to pick out Allison’s low voice among the babble of people crying, yelling, explaining, and barking orders. Then she stopped so fast that her feet nearly slid out from under her. A body, covered by a white sheet, lay on the carpeted area between two desks. A woman’s body, lying on its back. Through the sheet, Nic could make out the fine-boned contours of the face, the slender arms and legs. Over the heart a poppy-red flower of blood was growing as it wicked up blood from the corpse.
No. Please, no.
Behind Nic, a woman’s nasal voice said, “And the guy was yelling something like, ‘Don’t look at me, I told you not to look at me!’ And he hadn’t said one thing before that about not looking at him. He was wearing a mask, so what difference did it make if she looked at him?”
A young patrol officer standing near the body took in the FBI badge on Nic’s belt and misunderstood her stare. “One of the tellers wouldn’t stop screaming and pointing, so we covered the victim. Don’t worry, it’s one of those sterile sheets the medical examiner has us carry.”
The woman witness continued, “And then he shot her in the chest. He just shot her!”
Nic barely heard her or the patrol officer. All she could do was focus on the shoes protruding from under the white sheet.
The woman said, “And she fell back, but the poor thing was still holding herself up with her hands and staring at her chest. It was like she couldn’t believe it was happening. And then he walked right up to her and leaned down and said something and he shot her again. He shot her again!”
Leif grabbed Nic’s arm and tried to pull her back. She shook him off as the patrol officer stared.
Nic knew those shoes nearly as well as she knew her own. She had been with Allison one Saturday afternoon when she purchased them at Nordstrom. Allison had declared them perfect for court. Two-inch heels, slightly rounded toe, a basic pump that did not call any attention to itself. The last thing you wanted to be in court was flashy, Allison had said, especially if you were representing the United States government. More times than Nic could count, those shoes had rested next to her sensible flats under the prosecutor’s table.
And now those shoes were on a dead woman’s feet.
“Do you know who it is?” asked the young officer. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked from the body back to Nic.
“It’s Allison Pierce. She’s a federal prosecutor.” Nic heard her own voice as if it were coming from somewhere far, far away. “She called and told me there was a bank robbery in progress. She said things were getting bad and then the line was cut off.”
“I’m–I’m sorry,” he stammered.
Nic fell to her knees, not caring how weak it might make her look. She was weak. Too weak to stand. Too weak, almost, to draw another breath.
Nic had never told Allison how much she loved her. Not even after Cassidy died. And now Allison was gone too. And Nic was all alone.
With one finger she touched the slender ankle. Still warm. Her friend’s body hadn’t even had time to figure out that it was dead.
A sob ripped through her. She saw heads turn as coworkers and cops took in the sight of FBI Special Agent Nicole Hedges falling apart and then courteously looked away.
All her friends were dead. She was the only one of the three who would remember all those meals, all that laughter, all those conversations, all the chocolate and butter and sugar and whipped cream they had shared.
The Triple Threat was now no threat at all.
Nic was still in the same position, bowed over Allison’s shoes, her mouth open as her chest heaved, when a touch on her shoulder made her slowly raise her head.
And then Nic’s heart cracked.
Cracked wide open.
CHAPTER 25
Nic stared up at the woman who was touching her shoulder. It was Allison. Allison!
“You’re–you’re alive!”
Allison nodded. The fingers of her other hand were pressed against her lips. Her face was as white as the sheet that covered the body. The body of the woman wearing Allison’s shoes.
Nic jumped up and hugged her. Hugged her hard. It was like embracing a stiff plastic mannequin. Allison kept one hand across her mouth, the other limp at her side. She smelled sour and metallic, like sweat and vomit and blood. It was the sweetest scent Nic had ever smelled.
Finally Nic pulled back. Instead of looking at her, Allison continued to stare down at the covered body.
But if Allison was alive, then who was under the sheet from the medical examiner’s office, wearing Allison’s shoes? Nic leaned down and twitched back the cloth to reveal the face of the dead woman.
At first she thought she was seeing double. Could the Allison standing behind her be a ghost? A figment of her freaked-out imagination?
And then everything shifted and fell into place. Lindsay. It was Lindsay, with her hair all dyed one color. The last time Nic had seen her, Lindsay’s hair had been streaked with pink. But the startling resemblance to Allison was more than that. The earrings, the makeup, even the way Lindsay’s hair was pinned up made her look like Allison.
Nic let the sheet drop. “Oh, Allison,” she said.
Allison did not move or even change expression.
“She’s in shock,” Leif said in her ear. “Take her over in the corner and keep her back to the body.”
Nic took her friend’s cold hand and drew her, unresisting, over to the far corner of the bank.
“I thought it was you, Ally.” Nic had never called Allison Ally in her life. “I thought it was you.”
Allison said nothing. Her gaze was unfocused. But bright blood was smeared around the cross she wore around her neck.
When Nic noticed the blood, her heart jumped. Her thoughts flashed back to Cassidy and the blood that had soaked the front of her jacket. “Are you hurt?” With a trembling finger she touched the blood, trying to see where it was coming from.
“What?” Allison said vaguely. “No, that’s from Lindsay. I tried to help her, but she died in my arms.”
“I don’t understand. Why were you both here?”
“I was cosigning the loan for Lindsay’s coffee cart.”
Allison hadn’t said where Lindsay was going to get the money for the cart, and Nic hadn’t asked. Now she understood. Allison had remade her sister in her own image, helped her to look like a successful businesswoman instead of an addict who had spent years on the streets. But the transformation hadn’t reached as far as her credit score, so Lindsay had needed a cosigner.
“And now Lindsay’s dead,” Allison said, “and it’s all my fault.”
This made no sense, but her friend was in shock.
“Allison, it was a bank robbery. Whoever shot your sister must have panicked.”
A muscle under Allison’s eye spasmed. “That’s what they want you to think.”
They. She had clearly slipped off the edge of sanity. Two murders in one week were more than she could bear.
“That’s what who wants me to think?” Nic tried to keep her expression neutral, as if Allison were talking some kind of sense.
“I came out of the bathroom when I heard her scream. The robbers were running out the door. I tried to help her, but it was already too late. She was bleeding, and I tried to press on it, to keep the blood from coming out. I told her not to talk.” Allison’s voice was flat. “But she kept trying to tell me. She said the man who shot her called her Allison. And he told her to say hello to Cassidy. And then he shot her a second time.”
Nic thought of the witness she had heard describing how the
robber accused Lindsay of looking at him, of how bizarre the woman had found the charge. Had his words been just a cover? Had the bank robbery itself been a cover?
Allison must have been thinking the same thing. “Whoever did this—I think he must be the one who killed Cassidy too. Killed her and found a way to frame Rick for it.” Finally, a spark of life appeared in her eyes. She looked at Nic. “Why would someone hate me and Cassidy that much?”
Nic didn’t answer. She was too confused. Nothing was as it seemed. Allison wasn’t dead, and Lindsay really was. And there was a cop who couldn’t remember. A crazy guy who said he had seen a bald man with a murder victim. A knife with upside-down prints. A bank robber who really wanted to kill.
Something was going on. Something bigger than Cassidy. Bigger than Lindsay. Two women had died. And right now, as far as Lindsay’s killer knew, Nic was the last of the Triple Threat standing.
Allison grabbed her wrist. “They’ll come for you now, Nic. They’ll come for you.”
“You’re just guessing. We don’t know that,” Nic said, even though part of her did know. “But what we do know is that if they figure out they killed the wrong person, they’ll come back for you and finish what they started.” She looked past Allison at the people milling about the room. Who had seen Allison talking to Nic? More importantly, who had seen Allison who would recognize her?
Only a minute or two had passed since Nic came into the bank. She had to hurry. And pray. Nic finally called it what it was. Prayer. God, help me to keep Allison safe.
She caught Leif’s eye, and something in her expression must have tipped him off, because he was with her in a few long strides.
“Leif, we have to get her out of here. This wasn’t a bank robbery, it was a hit on Allison. Only they goofed and shot her sister. We have to make sure they still think she’s dead before they come back and fix their mistake.” Her thoughts were racing faster than she could spit them out. “Before I knew the truth I told one of the uniform officers that it was Allison under the sheet. Now we need everyone else to think that.”