by Lisa Jackson
Fine. Rather than argue, Rachel slid her Ford into an empty spot near the gymnasium. Her kids piled out of the Explorer, Harper flipping up the hood of her jacket, Dylan bareheaded, earbuds still in place, as he dashed across the wet lawn to a side door.
When had her children grown up? How had the years passed so quickly since they were blond toddlers whose squabbles had been about toys and pretzels, toddlers who had looked at her with adoring, trusting eyes? Wasn’t that just a few years ago? Before they’d both become secretive?
They’d been happy then, she thought with more than a bit of nostalgia. A young family of four—
A horn blasted behind her and she realized she was actually taking up two spots on the street, the blinker of her SUV still flashing as she’d daydreamed. She held up an apologetic hand and eased onto the street while the driver nosed into the spot, nearly hitting her. In her rearview, Rachel saw five kids clamber out of the silver sedan. The driver, a pretty blond girl, quickly tossed a cigarette onto the wet pavement and stubbed it out before running to catch up with the rest of her friends just as the first bell sounded.
And so it was. Her kids ditching her as she’d ditched her own mother. How many times had she told Melinda to park two blocks away from the school?
What was the old saying?
What goes around, comes around?
Well, amen to that.
CHAPTER 5
Cade turned off the main highway and wound through a development of cookie-cutter houses that had been built in the mid-nineties, all two-story, all with double-car garages out front, all with landscaping that had matured.
At one end of a cul-de-sac was the Sperry home. Like the other houses, it had a small bit of yard pressed up to the front walkway with a few bushes and flowers that were starting to bloom. A honeysuckle vine ran up a trellis, but the grass was patchy and yellowed from animals using it as a toilet.
Two cruisers with lights flashing blocked the drive, and crime scene tape stretched across the sidewalk, while uniformed officers kept a group of neighbors at bay. The crime scene techs had arrived, their van visible, and a rescue unit had been deployed. Cade parked down the street, jogged through the rain, and flashed his badge at one of the officers.
On the porch he signed into the scene and slipped on shoe coverings, then walked inside.
The body of Violet Sperry was sprawled across the marble tiles of the foyer. Wearing pajamas, she was splayed at an awkward angle, one leg bending backward at the knee, a bone protruding near one elbow, blood congealing around her.
His stomach turned over.
He recognized her despite a broken and bloodied nose, bruised face, and eyes covered by a thick piece of blue tape.
Dear God.
He’d seen his share of dead bodies in his work and during a tour of duty in Afghanistan, but this . . . His back teeth clenched hard.
Photographers were taking digital pictures and a videographer was filming while other techs dusted for finger- or footprints and still others searched and vacuumed for trace evidence.
Across the room he spotted Kayleigh in black pants and a short black rain jacket, her red hair tucked back beneath a baseball cap. She eased down the stairs around a tech dusting for fingerprints and headed toward him. Slim and fit, a dusting of freckles across her nose, her eyes wide and intelligent, she offered him a fleeting smile.
“Homicide?” he asked. “You’re sure?”
“Oh, yeah.” She was leaning down, staring at the body, nodding. Emotionless. “Unless she was into some kind of kinky stuff that included taping your eyes shut.”
“You never know.” But his attempt at dark humor didn’t hit home. In fact, it backfired as she glanced at him, eyebrows inching upward, in silent question about his own proclivities.
He ignored the tightening in his gut. “So what have you got?”
“She was supposed to be alone last night,” Kayleigh said, straightening. “The husband was out of town, and they don’t have kids. From what we can tell, she was already in bed. Watching TV—it was still on. Her phone, TV remote, and iPad were in the bedclothes, like she’d just tossed them aside. There was a wineglass and bottle on the nightstand.”
From another room he heard the distinct bark of dogs.
“Hers,” Kayleigh said, glancing to the hallway off the foyer. “Three prized little . . . spaniels of some kind.” She fluttered her fingers in an I-don’t-know gesture. “Not cockers, I don’t think, but close. King something or other . . .”
“King Charles. But the Cavalier comes first,” the tech who had been dusting the railing supplied. Thin and balding, wearing gloves and safety glasses, he added, “Cavalier King Charles. Cute dogs. Locked in crates in the laundry room.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Big name for little dogs.”
Cade said, “They—the dogs—were . . . where? With her?”
“So it appears. It looks like she got out of bed and left them locked in the bedroom, where they scratched the hell out of the door, according to the husband, Leonard Sperry. His story is that he got back from a fishing trip to Bend. Came home earlier than expected, walked in from the garage”—Kayleigh pointed to a door off the main hallway—“and found her, here. Nearly tripped over her.”
“God.”
“Yeah, I know. We’re checking his alibi, but at first glance it looks solid . . . and he’s pretty messed up. He claims he called nine-one-one immediately but knew she was dead.” She met the questions in Cade’s eyes so intently he almost went back to a forbidden memory, but he didn’t. If she sensed it, she hid it well and added, “I believe him. So far. Once we check on his whereabouts and their finances and all, then we’ll see.”
“Forced entry?” Cade asked.
She shook her head. “No evidence. But the garage door to the backyard is open and a gate, too. The husband says they never unlatched the gate because of the dogs, and he’s beating himself up for possibly not locking that door the last time he took the trash to the bins outside.” She frowned. “If he did it, he’s a damned good actor.”
“He could have worked with someone.”
“A paid assassin?”
“Yeah. Killer for hire.”
“Could be, I guess. We’re already checking all his accounts and the will and life insurance policies.”
“And his social life? He could have been involved with someone, having an affair.”
He noticed the back of her neck stiffen. “Always possible, isn’t it?” If she was referring to anything other than the case, she hid it. “We’ll find out, but from his reaction, I think not. We’ve got officers checking for footprints and we’ll start interviewing the neighbors to find out if anyone saw something out of the ordinary.”
Cade glanced around to the living room, running off the staircase in one direction, and the family room, tucked farther back. “Where is he?”
“The husband? With Drummond.” She pointed toward the front door. “Outside in a cruiser.”
“Mind if I talk to him?”
“Be my guest.”
“Let’s look around first.”
“You got it.”
They walked through a home that was neat, everything in its place, dog beds in the living room and family room as well as in the master bedroom. In the sleeping area, a king-sized bed was mussed, one side obviously having been recently occupied, the cream-colored duvet thrown back, an impression on the pillows. An empty wine bottle and glass sat on a bedside table while a large flat-screen flickered silently on the opposite wall.
“As I said, TV was on, muted when we got here. Just like it is now. The only thing changed was Sperry taking the dogs down to the laundry room, where he crated them. He said he didn’t disturb anything else.”
“After he called in the emergency?”
“Yeah.” They walked from the bedroom to the landing overlooking the foyer. “And though the victim wasn’t shot, there’s a bullet hole in the ceiling.” Kayleigh indicated a spot overhead and the h
ole in the drywall. “We’ve already got the bullet.”
“No bullet wound on the victim?” Cade stood next to the railing, eyeing the death scene below, where the ME was bending over the body.
“Not that we could see. The lab will confirm.”
“Then why use the gun? That hole in the plaster is new, right?”
“The husband said it wasn’t there when he left.”
“So either the killer threatened or tried to shoot her and failed in a struggle, then lost control of the weapon . . .”
“. . . or she shot,” Kayleigh said. “Protecting herself. She had a gun. A nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson. It’s missing. According to the husband, Violet always kept it in the nightstand near her bed. But we’ve searched. Gone.”
“So the attacker stole it or she got rid of it.”
“Sperry is pretty sure it was in the drawer the night before he left for his trip. He was searching for the remote to the TV the night before and saw it. And a clip. Missing as well.”
“Huh.”
“So,” Kayleigh went on as she eyed the scene, “I say she heard a noise, grabbed the gun, got up and locked the dogs in the room, then went into the hallway to see what was going on.” As she was laying out her theory to him, Kayleigh was moving toward the open door, then through.
“Somehow, our killer jumped her, or had a weapon of his own and they struggled, and a gun went off. Maybe he panicked, pitched her over the railing.” She was on the landing now, near one of the scuffed rails.
“After slapping tape over her eyes.”
Kayleigh nodded. “Right.”
“Maybe.” Cade wasn’t sure. “You said, ‘he.’ You think the assailant is male?”
“Don’t know for certain. But someone with enough strength to hoist her over the rail.”
“Wouldn’t take much . . . just a push and gravity would take over.” Cade studied the smooth wood of the railing, the two spindles that had broken, then peered over the top, to the floor below, where Violet’s body was still sprawled.
“So, she was a friend of Rachel’s?” Kayleigh asked.
“At one time.”
He started down the stairs. “They hung out in high school some, I think, graduated from high school in the same class. Violet gave testimony at the trial.”
“Where Rachel was charged with Luke Hollander’s death.”
“Yeah.”
“And you?”
“I met her once. Ran into her and her husband at an antique car show at Musial Park, oh, maybe seven or eight years ago. We’d taken the kids.”
“She and Rachel weren’t tight, not friends any longer?” Kayleigh asked, a bit of an edge to her voice as they reached the first floor.
“No. Not really friends anymore.” The truth was that Rachel wasn’t close to anyone since high school, but he saw no reason to bring it up as it had nothing to do with the case.
The ME was finished and EMTs were getting ready to bag the body. His guts twisted as he took a final look at Violet, her face almost unrecognizable, her body bloodied, her broken limbs at impossible angles, her eyes covered with that thick mask.
Who the hell had done this?
Who wanted her dead?
And why?
“Let’s go talk with the husband.” With Kayleigh following, he walked out to the front yard, where the ground smelled damp and earthy, but the rain had stopped. For the moment, the storm had abated.
* * *
It was weird not to have to go into work. Rachel had held some kind of a job since she’d been in high school, first working as a waitress, then later as a clerk at the bank, and then, even though pregnant with Harper, she’d discovered she had a proclivity for technology and had ridden the tech wave, learning through classes at the community college and online study. Her most recent employment had been as the bookkeeper/computer specialist for a local hardware store that had been bought out by a national chain with their own computer system and accounting department and she was let go.
So she should be able to find another job quickly, she hoped, or find a way to make her side business more lucrative. She’d also flirted with the idea of moving away, maybe to Portland or Seattle, but wouldn’t consider it until the kids were out of high school. Three more years. Harper would be a senior next year, Dylan a sophomore. And she did consult as a technical advisor, a fledgling operation with half a dozen clients that she might have to bolster. She had some savings, but that would go quickly once Harper started college.
Don’t even go there; she’s got to get through high school first.
She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, opening up her iPad and sweeping through her e-mail. No job offers. Then, she saw the tab for news and opened to the local paper.
She was raising her cup to her lips when she read the headline:
TWENTY-YEAR-OLD-MYSTERY STILL HAUNTS TOWN
WHO KILLED LUKE HOLLANDER?
By Mercedes Pope
“What?” Rachel’s heart nearly stopped; she set the cup down with trembling hands and coffee sloshed onto the mail scattered over the tabletop. She didn’t care, barely noticed. She focused on the two photographs accompanying the text. The head shot was one of Luke’s senior pictures, many of which still graced her mother’s mantel. The second was a damning image snapped by a photographer that night that showed Ned helping Rachel into the back of a cruiser. Her face was turned, in profile, horror evident on her features, while her father was solemn beside her, holding the door open, both of them oddly illuminated by the lights from the police vehicles.
“Oh, God. No.” She shook her head as she scanned the article and her thoughts raced. Why would Mercedes do this? Why hadn’t she called, given Rachel a heads-up?
But she did call. And text. Remember? You assumed it was about the reunion and elected not to reply.
Her stomach did a nosedive. She read the story three times even though she knew all the salient facts; she’d lived them: Stupid kids playing a dangerous game at the old warehouse. Someone noticing and calling the police to report trespassers. The cops arriving and finding one of the boys near death, struck by the bullet of a real gun supposedly fired by his half sister. That girl being arrested. That girl being her.
Rachel couldn’t stop tears from filling her eyes, couldn’t stop the guilt that burrowed deep in her heart. Nor could she tamp down the anger that she felt creeping in, a dark fury that someone she’d thought of as a friend would do this. To her. To her parents. To her children. But then Mercedes, who’d gone by Mercy then, had never been one to pull punches, had she? And she’d never liked Luke. She’d been one of the few of Rachel’s friends who had seen through Luke’s smile and bravado.
She looked away and cleared her throat.
Even if Mercedes had called to warn her, the article felt like a betrayal. For God’s sake, Mercedes had been at the cannery that night, a willing participant, like so many classmates and recent graduates.
Twenty years had passed and it seemed like yesterday.
She clicked off the newspaper app. Told herself she just had to get through the rest of the day and the damned meeting tonight, and things could go back to normal. Or as normal as they had been.
Wait a second.
She clicked onto the article again and noticed a note at the bottom.
Part 1 of a 4-part series.
“What? No. No . . . no.” Then, as if her friend were in the room with her, she whispered, “God, Mercedes, why?”
Because she’s not your friend. Face it, Rachel, she never has been.
Mercy had to have known how dredging up Luke’s death would impact Rachel and her family. How everything had changed that night. Everything. Rachel’s fractured family had completely shattered, and her friends, the kids she’d hung out with at school, had all avoided her during the last few weeks before graduation. And who could blame them? She’d been shell-shocked, convinced she’d murdered her brother. Charged with the crime.
; She wondered how her mother was dealing with this article, and her dad, what did he think? Neither had been quoted in the paper. Only Nate Moretti and Lila Ryder. Nate had said, “It’s still hard, you know. Luke was my best friend, and yeah, I was there but I don’t know how it happened.” Lila’s quote was a little more dramatic: “I miss him every day. Luke’s the father of my son, Lucas, who is Luke’s namesake, but it’s been hard on me, and hard on my boy, of course, never knowing his real dad.”
Tears burned the back of Rachel’s eyes but she fought them back. What was it her mother had always said? “No use crying over spilled milk.” But in this case buckets of tears had been spilled. In the days after Luke’s death, they’d all cried.
Mom.
Had she read this? Oh. God.
It will never be over, she thought as she slid her phone from her pocket and poked her mother’s number from her list of favorites.
Melinda picked up on the second ring. “Hi,” she said, obviously knowing Rachel was calling. But her voice had no life.
Damn it.
“Hey, Mom.”
“I saw it. That’s what you’re calling about. Right? The article in the paper or the fact that it’s the . . .” She let her voice fade, but they both knew she was mentioning the date.
“Yeah. I wanted to know that you’re okay.”
A beat. Then, “Well . . .”
What to say? “It’s tough.”
“Yes. That it is. That it is . . . for all of us. For you, too,” she said. “And, I suppose, your father.”
“Yes,” Rachel agreed and noted, once again, her mother never spoke of Ned Gaston by his name. That would probably never change. They tolerated each other . . . barely—standing together at Rachel’s wedding not speaking, avoiding each other at the reception, and, over the years, when they were forced to be in the same room, avoiding conversation, pretending the other didn’t exist.