by Lisa Jackson
Once more he’d tried to reach Cassie, but she hadn’t returned his texts or calls. So he’d decided enough was enough, that he needed to talk to her in person, to actually set eyes on her and hopefully get some answers. He’d driven to her hotel in Portland to no avail. She’d left specific instructions with the management and staff of the hotel to allow no one, not even her husband, to know her room number. No information about her was to be mentioned to anyone.
Insisting on seeing her had proved impossible and a real pisser, his arguments with the receptionist escalating to the point that he’d been threatened with being forcefully escorted by security to the street and the police contacted. Grudgingly he’d given up. He’d stood in the cold rain and stared angrily upward at the tall edifice and thought that he’d caught a glimpse of her on the balcony of a room on an upper floor. His eyes had narrowed but he’d been jostled by a threesome of teenagers half running down the sidewalk. “Hey, look out, man,” one of the boys had grumbled as they’d passed, and for a second Trent’s concentration had been broken. When he looked up again, he realized he’d been mistaken. Cassie wasn’t standing on the balcony. He’d only seen the play of light and shadow and a curtain moving inside an open sliding door. He’d conjured up her image. Of course she hadn’t been outside in the rain.
He’d left then, but hadn’t been satisfied, especially when within two days of Allie’s disappearance, amid rumors that Cassie was the last person to see her alive and was considered a person of interest in the missing person’s case, rumors had swirled that Cassie had checked herself into Mercy Hospital. He’d called, of course, and once again had run up against the wall of her privacy. She’d refused to communicate with him in any way, shape, or form.
After six or seven phone calls to various people, including the hospital administrative staff and her mother, who also hadn’t been able to get him through to Cassie, he’d once again driven to Portland. As he’d wound up the tree-lined street that led to Mercy Hospital he’d told himself this time he wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer.
So thinking, he’d determinedly walked through the front doors and asked for a visitor’s pass. The receptionist had been a stout woman whose gray roots showed in her flat, black hair and whose chin and jaw had disappeared into her neck. Seated at a desk, she’d looked over the tops of her rimless glasses when he’d stated that he was there to visit Cassie Kramer. With a frigid smile, she’d pleasantly but firmly refused him entrance. Even pulling the “I’m her husband” card hadn’t worked.
She’d made it very clear that he’d been persona non grata.
He’d then asked that someone tell Cassie he was waiting and had camped out in the waiting area of the hospital, while he had leafed distractedly through an out-of-date magazine filled with last year’s summer salad recipes and beach getaway ideas while the wintry rain sheeted down the windows.
As he’d thumbed past what had to be the fifth article on weight loss, a teenage boy with wild blond hair and bad skin had approached him.
Trent had looked up.
The kid, in khakis and a long-sleeved Yankees T-shirt, had announced, “She says, ‘Go away.’ ”
“Pardon?” Trent had dropped his magazine. “Who said, ‘Go away’?”
“You’re looking for Cassie,” the boy had said and it wasn’t a question. “She doesn’t want to talk to you and you should go away.”
“And you are?”
“Steven. Steven L. Rinko,” the kid had said. “The L stands for Leon. He was my grandpop. He’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry.”
Unblinking eyes had stared at him. “Why? Did you know him?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Then you couldn’t be sorry.”
“I guess not. It’s just what people say.”
“So they’re liars because they can’t be sorry.” He’d shrugged with the innocence of a child telling the simple truth.
Deciding the conversation was going nowhere, Trent had clarified, “So ‘Cassie’? Cassie Kramer? She told you to give me the message?”
“That’s what I already told you. She said, ‘Go away,’” he’d repeated without expression and only the merest hint of irritation in his voice.
“Look . . . Steven—”
“Steven L. Rinko. The L is for Leon. He was my grandpop. He’s dead.”
“I know, but you tell her—Cassie—I’m not going anywhere that—”
“You drive the truck?” Rinko had walked to the window and stared outside to the parking area where Trent’s pickup was one of the few in the lot. “Eighty-six Ford-150 half-ton?”
“That’s right.”
He’d looked over his shoulder to pin Trent in his gaze. “ ’Course it is,” he said flatly. “Bad mileage. Sometimes not enough power. Paint job can be a problem. Most owners say they are satisfied.”
“Most owners?”
“Yes.”
Who was this kid?
Before he’d been able to ask, the boy had nodded curtly, as if agreeing with himself, then slipped through a side door marked NO ADMITTANCE. When Trent had tried following Rinko, he found the door was locked and all he got for his trouble of pushing repeatedly on the lever was a rattling noise and the evil eye from the receptionist. Pursing her lips she slowly shook her head in disapproval and actually made little tsking sounds.
He’d left the building then.
But he’d been foolish enough to sit in his parked truck and stare up at the windows of the hospital as he’d wondered in which room she’d taken up residence.
She really hadn’t wanted to see him.
Pissed, he’d finally gotten the message and started the damned truck. If she’d been peeking out a window, or standing on a veranda, or peering from behind a corner, tough. He’d done what he could. Telling himself it was over, he drove down the winding hillside through the trees, determined to contact his lawyer and end the marriage once and for all. He didn’t need the grief nor the aggravation. Obviously his “wife” wanted nothing to do with him.
By the time he’d crossed the Marquam Bridge and melded into the traffic heading east, he’d cooled off considerably and decided that instead of filing for divorce he’d drive home, find his good old friend Jack Daniel’s, and have himself a sit-down.
That’s where he’d left it. Drinking too much, suffering from a hangover the next day, and resolving to never contact Cassie again. He’d half convinced himself she was not the woman for him. Maybe not for anyone. Her emotions had always been a little edgier than those of most people. She just never held back. That’s what had attracted him to her from the get-go, her quick tongue, flashing eyes, ability to hold her own in a verbal debate, all tempered with a quick sense of humor. Life with Cassie had never been dull, which had been fine with him as Trent wasn’t the kind of guy who liked things planned or even-keeled. He believed that every road should have a few bumps. It kept things interesting. He’d always lived a little on the edge himself and he’d thought he’d found a kindred spirit in Cassie Kramer.
He should have known better.
The first time he’d seen her she was on the side of the road, her car pulled onto the gravel shoulder as she’d tried to change a tire by herself.
He’d been intrigued then and damned if he still wasn’t.
Now, frowning as he turned into the lane leading to his ranch, he remembered the first day he set eyes on Cassie Kramer, on the road not far from here, at twilight on a wet spring evening.
He’d been home less than a year after his stint in the military when he’d seen her little car pulled into the gravel of the road’s shoulder, her left rear tire flattened. He’d parked his truck behind her, turned on his emergency flashers, and offered to help. Until she looked over her shoulder, he hadn’t realized who she was. Then he knew. She looked too much like her famous mother to miss the resemblance. It was a little eerie and, truth to tell, that part of her had intrigued him, too. He’d had a major crush on Jenna Hughes as a
teenager. Hell, who hadn’t? Every teenage boy he knew thought she was beyond hot.
However, that day in the driving rain, he’d seen something more in Cassie, something real, something tangible. She wasn’t just some horny schoolboy’s fantasy, but a real girl on the brink of womanhood, a girl who had grown up famous, whose childhood had been part of a Hollywood circus, and later suffered unimaginable horror at the hands of a madman.
Her hair had been plastered to her head, her jacket and jeans soaked, no makeup on her face. Determination had been evident in the set of her jaw and when he’d offered to help, she’d declined at first, was a little bristly. But he’d smiled and reasoned with her.
“Got the tools and the know-how,” he remembered telling her. She’d hesitated, her gaze narrowing on him, then finally stepped aside and allowed him to do the dirty work of changing the tire and making sure the spare was good to go before tossing the flat into her trunk.
In the end, her suspicions softened, and she thanked him, and then they’d both stood awkwardly in the Oregon downpour. She’d been young and innocent, with a hint of sexuality in eyes that were identical to those of Jenna Hughes. Noticing a smudge of dirt on her cheek, he’d slowly wiped the mark away. She hadn’t stopped him and probably he’d let his thumb linger a little too long on the arch of her cheek.
Instead of drawing away, she’d met his gaze, then impulsively stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips across his beard-stubbled jaw. “Thanks,” she said again, a breathless quality to her voice. “Really.”
Before he could respond, she’d turned and walked to the front of her car, slid behind the wheel, and driven off, never once looking back. He’d watched her leave in a spray of gravel as she’d hit the gas.
Yeah, he’d been hooked.
Now, all these years later, he was having a helluva time letting go.
The ring on his left hand was proof of it.
Cassie’s fingers were tense on the wheel. If she never saw Whitney Stone again, it would be too soon. All her talk about helping her find Allie was little more than a ploy to weasel out more information from Cassie, get some kind of inside scoop or something.
Her heart was still pounding from the confrontation. There was a chance she’d handled her face-to-face with the reporter all wrong. What if Whitney, with all her contacts, was able to help in locating Allie? What if Cassie had let her temper do the talking and the reasoning?
“No way,” she said. Stone was an opportunist.
The light changed and Cassie waited impatiently for pedestrians to cross the street two cars ahead of her. Tapping her fingers nervously on the wheel, she glanced in the rearview and for a heartbeat, she didn’t see her own reflection but that of Allie as she had been in the nightmare, her lips blue, her haunted eyes pleading.
I’m alive. Help me.
She blinked and the image was gone, replaced by her own worried gaze.
Could she? Help her sister? But how?
Beep!
An angry blast of a horn behind her brought her back to the present and she hit the gas, her Honda’s wheels actually chirping as the driver behind her, a woman with a blond ponytail driving a Corvette, moved into another lane and shot her a look and an obscene gesture as she zipped past.
“Nice,” Cassie muttered under her breath as she ran the next yellow light and headed to the 110, merging into the freeway traffic. She smiled when she noticed a big black SUV, like a Chevy Suburban or something, too, charge through behind her. At least he’d catch the ticket if there was a cop around.
She’d left Stone and her goon and headed straight to Galactic West Productions in Burbank. GW, as it was familiarly called, was the place where Little Bea worked and was owned by Dean Arnette. Since no one had bothered returning her calls and texts, she’d decided that showing up in person might be more effective.
To what end? she asked herself. If anyone had known anything about Cassie’s sister, surely that person would have contacted the police.
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
“Shut up!” she said to that stupid, nagging voice in her head. She’d spent weeks in a hospital, hiding, doing nothing, while her little sister was . . . God, who knew? That was the problem. Someone had to find out. It might as well be she. But what did she have to go on? A ghost nurse? An earring in the shape of a cross? Connections in the movie business? Did she really think she could find her sister over the police? Had her hastily planned trip to California been of any use in locating Allie? How had she ever thought she could find her sister when the police hadn’t? If she’d thought she could get information from people who knew Allie, that they might confide in her when they hadn’t to a detective, she’d been dead wrong. So far. There was a good chance that her trip south was a great big bust.
Pushing her doubts aside, she drove on toward the studio. The flow of traffic was smooth, cars flying past her though she was five miles above the speed limit. A glance at the rearview convinced her that no silver Toyota was following her. A larger black SUV was a few cars behind, but so what? Even if it was the guy who’d flagrantly run a red light or two, it wasn’t that unusual and the boxy SUV hadn’t been lurking near the park; she would have noticed. The important thing now was that it seemed Whitney Stone had given up trying to interview her.
But she’d be back.
No doubt about it.
The woman was relentless.
Cassie relaxed a little, her hands loosening their death grip on the steering wheel.
Whitney Stone had jangled her, ramped up her already escalated case of nerves. But at least for the time being, she’d given the reporter the slip.
Angling her Honda onto Interstate 5, she flicked her gaze to her rearview and saw no signs that anyone had her in their sights. Again, no silver Toyota and the black SUV she’d seen several times behind her hung back.
It’s nothing. Just your imagination. Whitney Stone sent your case of nerves into overdrive.
A slew of traffic turned off at Burbank, but as she wound her way through the streets, she still didn’t notice anyone lagging behind and tailing her. Still, she made a few extra turns and doubled back on her route, just to be sure that the reporter or the Suburban weren’t following.
Telling herself she was more paranoid than even Dr. Sherling suspected, she finally drove up to the offices of Galactic West Productions, which was located in an inauspicious office building shaded by a line of tall palms.
A white Mercedes was pulling out of a parking spot on the street and she slid her Honda in behind it, parked, and was inside the familiar building within two minutes. She took the stairs to the third floor and walked through seamless glass doors to a reception area. Then she was stopped cold, blocked entry to the private offices by a receptionist who was barely five feet tall and not a day over twenty. The girl’s smooth complexion, youthful innocence, and bright smile belied the fact that she was an immovable object. Obviously she regarded her job of obstructing passage to the inner sanctum of Galactic West as gospel, as if God Himself had assigned her the task of stopping anyone from entering. Maybe she, too, believed Dean Arnette was omnipotent, a god to all of Hollywood and beyond.
Cassie even tried the “But-I’m-Allie-Kramer’s-sister” card, to no avail.
“If you don’t have an appointment, then I’m sorry,” the girl said without a hint of remorse in her huge blue eyes. “You’ll have to make one, an appointment, I mean, if I can even get you in to see him. Mr. Arnette is a very busy man.”
When Cassie said she’d be satisfied talking with Beatrice Little or Sybil Jones, the producers who worked with Arnette on the film, she was met with the same implacable resistance and a wide, orthodonti-cally improved smile. “They’re not in and even if they were, you’d need an appointment. If you leave your number, I’ll have someone call you.” For the moment, Cassie felt as if she had no options. She glanced at the door she knew led to the private offices and even considered bolting around the receptionist’s massive desk
, but decided she’d rather not deal with someone from the building’s security staff, or the police hauling her outside. At least not yet. No reason to give Whitney Stone more grist for her gossip mill. The simple fact was Cassie already had a history of mental issues and the cops in Oregon were already looking at her closely in conjunction with her sister’s disappearance. It just didn’t make sense to draw attention to herself by causing trouble or in any way encouraging Detective Nash to move Cassie from “a person of interest” to her “A #1 suspect.”
Still, she was irritated. She left her name and number, which seemed redundant. Dean Arnette, Little Bea, Sybil Jones, and just about everyone else in the production company already had her personal information. Not that it mattered, though. She knew as well as the big-eyed receptionist that no one was going to call her as no one had bothered returning her personal voice messages or texts to date.
God, it was irritating.
She was just trying to find Allie, for God’s sake. You’d think the production company about to release its star’s latest film would be doing everything in its power to find her, and that included talking with Allie Kramer’s sister. Unless the people involved at GW were running under the same impression as the damned police, that Cassie Kramer was a certifiable nutcase and a person to avoid.
She made her way out of the building and found a parking ticket on her windshield. She hadn’t even seen the meter.
Grabbing the ticket, she climbed into the car and pulled away from the curb, then made an illegal U-turn.
Why not?
Things couldn’t get much worse.
Right?
CHAPTER 15
The muscles in Trent’s shoulders tightened as he drove over the final rise to the heart of his ranch and spied Shane Carter’s Jeep parked near the garage. The ex-lawman was out of his truck and leaning over the top rail of the fence, staring at a field where broodmares were grazing. He was obviously waiting. For Trent. To deliver bad news?