by Lis Wiehl
“That’s what we all want,” Leif said. “Just before we came to the bank, Nic told me about the prints on the knife, about how someone framed Rick. Did you see the guy who shot your sister? Was it a bald white guy?”
Allison tried to remember what she had seen when she had only been looking for Lindsay. “He was tall and thin, that’s all I know. He was dressed all in black and wearing gloves and a ski mask, with no skin showing. He could have been a bald white guy or a black guy with dreads for all I know.”
“Dark clothes and a ski mask are going to stand out on a 102-degree day,” Leif said. “Let’s hope they got rid of some of that near the bank and we can get touch DNA.”
“Whoever shot Lindsay thinking it was me has to be the same guy who killed Cassidy. He tried to make it look like a coincidence, but when he bragged to her, he gave away the truth.” Allison was sickened, thinking of how he had boasted to one dying woman about killing another. “And the main thing Cassidy and I have in common are our jobs. Crime.”
“The Triple Threat,” Leif said.
“Right. Cassidy didn’t cover every story that we did, but Nicole and I work together on nearly everything. I think that’s why this guy went to the trouble to frame Rick, and why he staged a robbery this afternoon. Because he wants to get all of us. And that means he’s hoping to be able to get close to Nicole without her knowing she’s in danger.”
It hit Allison full force, the huge flaw in Leif and Nicole’s hastily cobbled-together plan.
“And now that he thinks both Cassidy and I are dead,” Allison said, “he’ll go after Nicole.”
CHAPTER 27
Is Marshall in the office today?” Nic asked the girl with two slender silver rings in her right nostril. With the help of her badge and some fast talking, Nic had persuaded a young patrol office who had just arrived at the scene of the bank robbery to take her to the ad agency where Marshall worked. During the short drive she had thought about what needed to happen next for the fiction she and Leif had created to hold together. The only way Allison could stay alive would be if everyone continued to think she was dead.
The receptionist was sitting behind a curved waist-high stainless steel counter inset with glowing translucent inserts shaped vaguely like fish. To Nic, who spent most of her time at bureaucracies with government-issued furniture made of laminate over particleboard, the advertising agency’s reception desk seemed like something out of a dream.
Suddenly she was so tired. All she wanted to do was curl up on the polished cement floor, pillow her head on her arm, and go to sleep. And wake up in a world where Cassidy and Lindsay were still alive, and no one had to worry about being a target.
“Yes, Mr. Pierce is working today.” Marshall was the agency’s art director. The girl was already reaching for the phone. “Shall I tell him he has a visitor?”
“Tell him Nicole Hedges is here.”
“Okay.” After a brief conversation the girl put down the phone and pointed to an office in the corner.
Marshall was already opening the door by the time Nic got to it. Behind him, a single pristine cobalt blue and acid green athletic shoe sat in the middle of his black polished desk.
“Nicole?” Marshall’s thick, dark eyebrows were raised. “What’s wrong? Why are you here? Is Allison all right?” His blue eyes pleaded with her as the color drained from his face.
She gestured at him to step back into his office, then followed him inside and closed the door. Leaning against it, Nic said quickly, “This isn’t about Allison. She’s okay. It’s about Lindsay.”
“What?” His forehead wrinkled. “Lindsay?”
“Listen to me carefully, Marshall. Lindsay and Allison were at a bank today when it was robbed. Allison was in the bathroom when the robbers came in. In the course of the robbery, Lindsay was shot.” She paused, met his confused eyes. “I’m afraid that the wound was fatal. Lindsay is dead, Marshall.”
He moved over to his desk and sat down heavily. “Oh no. No. Poor Lindsay. That’s terrible.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Then his eyes flashed up to hers. “But what about Allison?”
“Here’s the thing, Marshall. Before Lindsay died, she told Allison that the man who shot her thought she was Allison. Remember how I said Allison was in the bathroom when the robbery started? Well, this guy called Lindsay by Allison’s name after he shot her. And he told her to say hello to Cassidy. Then he shot her in the chest.”
Marshall touched his own chest. “Wait. What? I’m not sure I’m following you. Someone killed Lindsay but thought it was Allison? Are you sure? Are you sure it’s Lindsay that’s dead?” His eyes were the color of gas flames. “How do you know it isn’t Allison?”
“Because I saw them both myself. I saw Lindsay dead and I saw Allison alive. But when I first saw Lindsay’s body, before I saw Allison, I made the same mistake the killer must have.” Even remembering the horror of that moment nearly overwhelmed her. “Because for some reason, today Allison and Lindsay looked like twins.”
Marshall leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. “They had an appointment with a loan officer about Lindsay’s coffee cart. Lindsay wanted to make a good impression, so Allison gave her one of her old court outfits to wear to the meeting. She even fixed Lindsay’s hair.” Marshall raised his head, his hands balling into fists. “But I still don’t understand. Why would anyone want to kill Allison?”
“I don’t understand it either, Marshall. All I know is that it means that the murders of Lindsay and Cassidy must be connected. And that neither of them is what it seems to be. Earlier today we found evidence that someone framed Rick for Cassidy’s murder. And whoever was in that bank just now wanted to make it look like a robbery gone bad, so he could cover up killing Allison. I think the same man is responsible for both murders.”
“But what happens when he finds out he killed the wrong person?” Marshall asked.
“Then he’ll come after her again. Which is why we’re going to make sure he doesn’t find out. We’re going to let whoever shot poor Lindsay think that he accomplished exactly what he set out to do. I identified Lindsay’s body as Allison’s and then sneaked her out of the bank. Right now, Leif is taking her . . .” Nic hesitated. It wasn’t inconceivable that if the killer found out Allison wasn’t dead, he would hunt down Marshall and force him to say where his wife was. “He’s taking her someplace safe.”
Marshall scraped a hand through his hair, leaving furrows. “I don’t understand why you did any of this. Why did Allison leave the bank? Why did you say Lindsay was Allison? Why didn’t you just tell the authorities what really happened?”
“Because someone let these killers know that Allison would be at the bank today.” Nic had puzzled it out on the way over. “I think it must have been someone in the federal prosecutor’s office. Until we have time to figure out what’s going on, the fewer people who know she’s alive, the better. Even if we just told a few of the higher-ups, I don’t think they could keep a lid on it. And I don’t think they would agree to telling the world that Allison is dead.” Nic took a deep, shuddering breath. “Look, Marshall. When I realized it wasn’t Allison but Lindsay lying on the floor, I knew I had a choice. To tell the truth or to let the lie stand. Maybe I made the wrong choice, but I think it’s safer for Allison, at least for right now, if she stays dead.”
“Do you really think you can pull this off?”
“I have no idea,” she said honestly. “But I’ll do anything to keep Allison safe, and I know you will too. Pretty soon, homicide is going to show up here and give you the news. They’re going to say that Allison is dead. And you’ll need to convince them that you believe that your wife was murdered and that you’re falling apart.”
There was something like a challenge in Marshall’s eyes. “So I’m supposed to act as if I really believe it’s true?”
“With the homicide detective, yes. And then you need to get out of town as soon as possible. Tell your office that you need some time alone. They�
�ll understand. Go home, pack a bag, and then go hole up someplace quiet at the beach or the mountains and don’t answer your cell phone.”
“Are you kidding me?” Marshall made a puh sound. “Allison’s life is in danger, and you want me to go on vacation?”
“What do you think you’ll be able to accomplish if you stay here? We can’t risk Allison coming to you or you going to Allison. If the killer has any doubts about what really happened in the bank, he could be watching you. That’s why you need to get out of sight and go someplace where you don’t know anyone. Because if you stay here, people are going to be coming to you, crying because their hearts are breaking, and I guarantee you that they’ll realize that something’s off about your reaction.”
Marshall looked as though he wanted to argue, then he closed his eyes and nodded. “Okay, fine. I’ll get out of town—but on one condition.” He stood up and grabbed his suit jacket from a coatrack in the corner. “I’m taking Allison with me.”
Nic was painfully aware of the seconds ticking by. “We can’t risk that either, Marshall. It will get around that the victim’s husband is off with another woman. Or if the killer has someone take a closer look at you, they’ll report that you’re not alone. Either way, this guy could put two and two together.”
Marshall said stubbornly, “I am not going to turn tail and run and leave Allison here all by herself to face a murderer.”
Nic’s adrenaline was running so high that patience was difficult. “I’m not asking you to leave her on her own. Leif and I will be with her. But our best shot at keeping her alive is if everyone thinks she’s dead. And that means you need to stay away from her.”
“So you really expect me to take part in this charade?”
“I’m putting my career on the line for what you’re calling a charade. So is Leif. We’re doing it because we believe it’s the only way to keep Allison safe.” Nic’s voice softened. “Look, I’m only saying get out of town for a day or two, until we can figure out who leaked Allison’s schedule. Until we can figure out who would want both Cassidy and Allison dead.”
“So why aren’t you going out of town?” Marshall challenged her. “Why do you think you can lie to people about your best friend and I can’t?”
“Because I don’t have any choice. Even if I left, it wouldn’t make any difference. Because if this guy killed Cassidy and Lindsay, then I’m next. Everything that Allison and Cassidy had in common, I did too. We all three worked or covered the same cases.”
Marshall’s eyes widened. “The Triple Threat.”
“Right. In fact, I think he already tried once to kill me. On the same day Cassidy was murdered, a car almost ran me over. At the time I thought it was an accident. I’m not going to sit and wait for him to come after me again. Allison and Leif and I are going to figure out who he is and then hunt him down.”
“I don’t know,” Marshall said.
Nic could tell he was wavering, but not enough.
“I have to talk to her. I have to talk to Allison.”
She wanted to shake him, but instead she just said, “Does Lindsay have a phone?” When he nodded she said, “If it was in Lindsay’s purse, then Allison has it, because we traded their purses before she left the bank. Call her on it now, and maybe she’ll pick up when she sees who it is. But if she does answer, make it quick. We don’t need someone from homicide showing up and finding you on the phone with your supposedly dead wife.”
Nic was walking out of the agency when she heard the voice of the man she most didn’t want to see right now. Detective Jensen.
“What are you doing here, Hedges?”
She wiped all expression from her face. “I didn’t want Marshall to hear the news from a stranger.”
He looked at her with a jaundiced eye. “You keep turning up in the wrong place, do you know that?”
CHAPTER 28
Gina Hodson used her car key to slit open the clear packing tape on the brown cardboard box the mailman had left on her porch. The box was plain on the outside, but when she turned back the flaps they read Fruit by the Foot. The sender had separated the box at the seams and taped it back together, inside out, before packing her messenger bag inside.
People who sold a lot of stuff on eBay figured out how to do it for the cheapest way possible. They recycled boxes, stuck new address labels on old envelopes, and used wadded-up newspapers instead of packing peanuts.
Gina’s entire wardrobe came from eBay. Even her underwear, just as long as it was listed as “new without tags.” When you were putting yourself through Arizona State, you had to save money any way you could. So she ate Ramen, hunted out used textbooks, and shopped eBay.
When Gina was a kid, she was dressed from head to toe with finds from garage sales and thrift stores. Her mom had had money once, before her family cut her off for marrying Gina’s dad. They’d said he was bad news, and they were right. He left before Gina learned to walk.
But her mom taught her that if you knew what you were looking for, the signs of quality, you could still dress nicely, if you didn’t mind that what you were wearing had once belonged to someone else. Rich people got tired of perfectly good things all the time. Sometimes things they hadn’t even gotten around to wearing.
Her mom was a dedicated Goodwill shopper, but Gina didn’t like the sour smell of mothballs and mildew that hung in the air. Browsing and buying on eBay involved no smells at all; it was like Goodwill to the nth power. And a lot of items were brand-new, bought by compulsive shoppers or by people who lived near outlet malls and marked their finds back up a little, making their money on volume. Over the last two years, Gina had learned the best way to bid on eBay. She made an offer in the last two minutes, for an odd amount, and as high as she was willing to pay. And she nearly always won.
Now from the balled-up newspapers stuffed in the old fruit leather box, she pulled out a black canvas messenger bag. It looked brand-new. And she had paid only $5.13 with free shipping. The eBay seller, who went by the name LiveFree, had ended up practically giving it away. That’s what he got for listing it at nearly midnight, West Coast time, when many potential buyers were already in bed.
Before bidding, Gina had checked online. Messenger bags from the same company normally sold for forty bucks.
This one had lots of handy little pockets. She slipped pens in one, lip gloss in another, and paper clips in the third. One zippered pocket was located deep inside the main compartment. Gina’s mom had drilled into her the importance of always carrying an emergency twenty-dollar bill, and this seemed a good place for it, hidden but accessible.
Gina unzipped the compartment and started to slip the folded bill inside. Her fingers touched something loose and rubbery. Before she could think better of it, she hooked the item with her index finger and pulled it out.
Dangling in front of her horrified eyes was a white vinyl glove, so thin it was nearly translucent. It was inside out, the fingers still half pushed back into themselves. Whatever the glove had been used to handle had left behind a sticky, dark red residue.
Something that looked very much like blood.
Gina let out a little scream. Dropping the glove, the twenty-dollar bill, and the messenger bag, she jumped back as if the glove were a living thing and could bite her.
Then she tried to reason with herself. Maybe LiveFree was a doctor. Or a hobbyist who had cut himself.
Steeling herself, she picked up the bag and probed the compartment again. Inside was a second glove. There was blood inside this one too. Several longish blond hairs had been trapped in the blood and now dangled from the cuff of the inside-out glove. Gina set the bag and the glove on the floor next to the other glove.
LiveFree must have done something bad.
Very bad.
With shaking hands, Gina smoothed out one of the sheets of crumpled newspaper that had cushioned the messenger bag. It was from the Oregonian. She checked the return address on the box. It was a PO box in Portland.
Then she
called 9-1-1.
CHAPTER 29
Okay,” Leif told Allison as he pulled up in the driveway of a 1950s ranch-style house in Southeast Portland. “This must be Ophelia’s place.”
It was the newest and plainest of houses in a neighborhood full of century-old homes with ornamental woodwork, cedar siding, and gardens with crayon-bright flowers. Many of the homes probably had views of the Willamette from their second floors, but it must not have occurred to whoever built Ophelia’s one-story house that such a thing was possible.
Long and low, the structure had about as much personality as the shoe box Allison and Lindsay used to pretend that Barbie and Ken lived in. It was painted a dull white, down to the trim. The lawn was neatly mowed, but there wasn’t a single flowering plant, not even Portland’s ubiquitous rhododendron.
As Leif put the car in park, Ophelia half opened the door and beckoned to Allison. She turned to Leif. “If the FBI figures out the truth, you guys should tell them whatever you need to, to keep out of trouble. Tell them it was all my idea, or that you made a mistake. I don’t want you to flush your careers.”
Leif nodded, but didn’t say anything. Allison knew he would do what he thought was right, not what he thought was easy. Finally he said, “We’ll be back in touch tonight once we know more.”
“And you’ll keep Nicole safe?” Allison asked. “Just in case that guy does have his eye on her?”
“Of course,” he said gruffly. “Now, you’d better get inside before Ophelia has a meltdown.”
Ophelia had stepped closer to the doorway and was gesturing more urgently. Allison took a deep breath and stepped out of the still-running car and into the heat of the day. It was like stepping into an oven. She hurried up the walkway.