by Lisa Jackson
That was where Lila went? Dismissing Violet to discuss the reunion and the table for classmates who had died?
Another drag, then Lila dropped her cigarette and crushed it, kicked the butt swiftly under the rail and into the bushes flanking the porch. “I don’t suppose the police have any idea who would do something like this . . . ?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Rachel said quickly. As a cop’s daughter and wife, she’d learned to keep her mouth shut. Even if she was no longer married to Cade, her lips were sealed.
“Oh, right . . . Well, maybe Mercedes will know something. She’s probably got sources in the sheriff’s department. I know she’s already got a junior reporter on the story.”
Mercedes. Rachel flashed on the article in the Edgewater Edition and the fact that there were more stories slated. “She’s here already?”
“Yes. But antsy. Always on her damned phone. Always working.” Lila found a shaker of Tic Tacs in her pocket and popped a couple of orange tablets, crushed them between her teeth. “She wants to talk to you.”
“I know.”
“You may as well tell your side of the story,” Lila confided, stepping to the door. “She’s going to publish the series whether you contribute or not. For the record, I was against it, but—” She shrugged. “You can’t fight city hall or the press.”
Can’t you? Rachel thought and, in this case, silently vowed to try.
* * *
“Aren’t you about outta here?” Patricia Voss, the other detective in the department, poked her head around the edge of the partition separating Cade’s desk from hers. A large woman with clipped gray hair, zero makeup, and lines creasing her face from years in the sun, she made a big show of checking her watch.
“In a few.” Cade leaned back in his chair, a cup of this morning’s coffee still congealing on his desk in front of a picture of his kids. At the time of the photograph, Harper had been about eleven, a gawky tween in shorts and a jacket, trying to hide behind a curtain of hair and looking as if she’d rather be anywhere than the focus of her parents’ attention. She’d been standing on the rocky shores of the river with Dylan next to her. In a sweatshirt and jeans, his uncombed hair a wild riot, Dylan had grinned without any inhibitions. He’d been shorter than his sister and skinny, freckles cast over his nose, his teeth still seeming too big for his face.
A lot could happen in six years. Some good things. Some very bad.
Tricia’s voice brought him back to the present.
“It’s supposed to get down to the low forties tonight.” She was slipping her arms through the sleeves of her rain jacket. “Can you believe it? This is supposed to be May, for God’s sake.” She threw a disgusted look through a window to the gloom of the evening.
“Spoken like a true transplant from California.”
“In the forties, Ryder,” she repeated. “Like in ten degrees above freezing.”
“I know.”
“Brutal.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” She zipped her jacket, then squared a cap on her head before offering him a piece of advice. “Go home, Ryder. Enough with all the work. I’ve got ninety jobs around here, and even I can leave.”
“Ninety?” he questioned. She did do double duty. In the small department, Tricia not only was one of the two detectives, but also worked as a backup patrol officer if two or more of the regulars were sick. “I thought two.”
She gave a snort of disgust. “Yeah, well, I just happen to be the one who holds this department together, if you haven’t noticed.” Shaking her head, she added, “Who do you think does the real work around here? Who cleans out the coffeepot and starts a new one? Who cleans out the refrigerator? Geez, you people are pigs.”
“Careful,” he warned. “Not all cops like to be referred to as—”
“Oh, can it, Ryder. You know what I mean. And this crew?” She motioned around the large room divided by now-empty cubicles. “They’re the worst. Not just the men, mind you. The women are no better!”
He laughed. “Wow. You’re in a mood.”
“Always. As bad as all this is, it’s worse at home.”
He doubted it.
Sketching a quick salute, she added, “See you Monday.”
“If you’re lucky.”
“Funny guy,” she muttered, making her way toward the back door. “Real funny guy.”
“Some people think so,” he called after her, but she was out of earshot. He rotated the kinks from his neck and looked at the file on his desk. Dusty and yellowed, pulled from the archives of closed cases and marked HOLLANDER.
He’d never gone over it before, though he’d glanced through the digital files years before, then chastised himself. What was done was done; everyone thought Rachel killed her brother in a horrible accident. She’d said as much that night, though later she’d been confused and the case had been muddled with conflicting testimony from eyewitnesses, especially Violet Osbourne and Annessa Bell, both of whom were friends. Coupled with that, the inconclusive evidence had been a little compromised as the first officer on the scene had been Rachel’s father.
“A shitshow from the get-go,” Ned Gaston’s partner at the time had said and been quoted.
So why look at it again? It was over. Closed. Had gathered dust for two decades.
Maybe it was because it was the anniversary of the tragedy.
Maybe it was because he’d felt there had been loose ends never tied up.
Maybe it was because it was a helluva coincidence that Violet Osbourne Sperry, a key witness in the investigation, was killed twenty years to the damned day that Luke Hollander had been shot.
Maybe he was just a damned fool.
Whatever the reason, he knew by just going over the case he was stepping on an emotional land mine.
Well, so be it. He glanced at his watch and considered calling Kayleigh about any updates to the Violet Sperry homicide.
It’s not your case.
Yeah, he knew that, and yet . . . he leaned over his desk and returned to the stack of old notes and reports on the Hollander homicide. Up first, the autopsy report, which included notes, a body sketch showing all of the wounds, and then pictures of the body.
His jaw clenched as he remembered Luke in life—vibrant, cocky, athletic—and then there were the pictures of his body. He skimmed the report, noting that Luke was pronounced DOA at the hospital and the death certificate was signed by Richard Moretti, M.D.
Cade eyed the signature; he hadn’t known that Nate Moretti’s father was the attending physician, but there it was in black and white.
No big deal, he thought, sitting alone at his desk, as most of the personnel in the station had left for the day. The hospital Luke Hollander had been rushed to was no longer in existence, like so many of the businesses that had once thrived in this community.
As far as he knew, Dr. Richard Moretti was still around, working at a clinic in Astoria.
Cade thought about Violet Sperry and Luke Hollander. Both died on this date, twenty years apart. Two people who went to high school together. Two people who’d been at the Sea View cannery the night Luke was shot—Luke the victim, Violet one of the witnesses who had seen what had happened in that dark warehouse.
So what?
This was a small town; people were bound to cross paths.
Just a bizarre, tragic coincidence.
Nothing more.
Or so he tried to convince himself.
He closed the file, locked it in a drawer.
The Luke Hollander case was closed. Long ago.
Violet Sperry’s homicide was fresh.
But unrelated.
And, again, remember: Not yours.
“So what?” he said aloud.
Jurisdiction issues hadn’t stopped him in the past.
He was pretty sure they wouldn’t now.
CHAPTER 10
Rachel followed Lila into the house, walking across the marble floor of the expansive foyer, where the stai
rs swept upward and an antique chandelier Cade’s mother had restored glittered grandly. Suspended from the ceiling three stories overhead, the crystal fixture had been Sandy-Lou’s last renovation to the old house before cancer had claimed her, a sparkling reminder of the frailty of life.
At least that’s how Rachel saw it as she stepped into the living area, where the committee members were gathered, preparing for “the best reunion this town has ever seen,” according to Lila.
Yeah, right.
She took a deep breath, looking past the eclectic blend of period pieces, antiques, and modern furniture that she’d seen during other visits to the baby grand piano, positioned near the bay window, and the hardwood floors that gleamed, shiny and cold. The walls had recently been painted a dusty rose that Lila had discovered and referred to as “period authentic.” Lila’s new sound system was cranked and Rachel heard the familiar refrain from a song from her school days. The retro music seemed forced, almost haunting.
Of course, Mercedes was the first person she saw.
Perched on the edge of a curved couch, Mercedes was in a deep, whispered conversation on her cell. Short. Curvy. Exotic looking. And smart as a whip. Her black curls were tossed over her shoulder as she talked, her eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Rimless glasses were propped over the bridge of her nose. Her skin was still flawless, a smooth mocha color; her eyes big and expressive; her lips compressed. With her free hand she typed on the keyboard of a laptop propped open on the glass table. Rachel remembered her—the girl who was always whispering, listening for gossip, the editor of the school paper.
She glanced up, caught Rachel’s eye, and the corners of her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly as she quit typing long enough to pick up a can of Diet Coke and take a long swallow.
“I want to talk to you,” she mouthed, still listening to whoever was on the other end of the call.
Great.
Rachel’s stomach clenched as she scanned the faces around her. All of these adults had been there that night, every last one of them. Her gaze shifted to Nathan Moretti, seated a cushion away from Mercedes and engrossed in his iPad. He glanced up. “Hey, Rach!” He slanted her that friendly smile that he’d flashed her on the day Luke had died.
Oh, God.
Her heart nearly stopped at the memory.
Twenty years ago today Nate had been behind the wheel of his black BMW, parked in the driveway near the huge pine tree, obviously waiting for Luke. The window of Nate’s Beemer had been rolled down and he’d caught sight of Rachel hurrying across the patchy lawn.
“You comin’ tonight?” he’d asked.
“Shhh!”
“Oh, I get it, Mom doesn’t know, right?” He’d laughed.
“No—I, I can’t.” She’d shaken her head vigorously as she’d reached his sports car.
“Afraid?”
She hadn’t been able to admit it. “No.” Would he just shut up? She’d cast a worried look at the house.
But that hadn’t been Nate’s style. “Oh, come on. It’s gonna be awesome.” He’d glanced at the house where she and Luke resided, a fifties ranch home like all of the others on the street. “You’ll have a blast, I promise.”
Before she could argue, Luke had hurried out of the front door, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his blond hair tossed by the breeze as he’d loped down the cement walk.
Nate had leaned out the driver’s window as a squirrel began to scold from the gnarled branches of the pine. “Tell your mom you’re staying with a friend,” Nate had suggested. “Call Lila. She’ll cover for you!”
But she’d just come from Lila’s.
“I’m trying to talk Rach into coming tonight,” Nate had said to his friend as Luke opened the passenger door.
“Is that right?” Luke had paused outside the Beemer and leaned on its roof to study his half-sister’s face. “You really gonna do it?”
“I don’t know.” Rachel had squirmed.
“It’ll be fun.”
“If you say so.”
“Hey, I’ve even got an extra gun.” With a glance at the house to make sure their mother wasn’t peering through a window or walking out the front door, he’d unzipped his backpack and withdrawn a small black case. “Inside. Extra ammo included, no charge.” He’d tossed the case over the roof of the car and, panicked, she’d caught it.
“I don’t know. I’ve never—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Nate had started the engine, but he’d still been staring at her, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on, Rach. You’ll like it. Have a blast. Get it?” he’d teased, his trademark smile slowly widening. “Promise. You’ll never forget it.”
Well, amen to that.
Truer words had never been spoken.
She remembered Nate reversing out of the driveway, the tires of his car squealing against the street just as the sound of the garage door grinding upward had reached her ears.
Mom!
Rachel’s heart had nearly stopped.
Frantically she’d hidden the gun case under the rhododendron flanking the pine just as Melinda came into view. In jeans and a sweater, Melinda had shaded her eyes with one hand. “About time you showed up, Rachel. I’ve been waiting.”
“Sorry. I . . . I lost track of time.”
“With Lila. Doesn’t surprise me,” her mother had said, and then catching sight of the blush climbing up Rachel’s neck, she’d added, “Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing.” Rachel had hurried into the garage and slid inside the passenger seat of her mother’s Camry. Craning her neck to look through the back window, she’d spied her mother staring thoughtfully down the street to the intersection where Nate’s car was disappearing around a corner.
Could she do it? Could she lie to her mother? Her dad—a cop? He was a detective, good at ferreting out fact from fiction. Her palms had begun to sweat as she’d turned around in her seat and peered through the bug-spattered windshield to her father’s workbench, stretched against the far bare wood wall.
She’d swallowed against her dry throat as she heard her mother’s footsteps on the gravel drive before the door groaned open and Melinda slid behind the steering wheel. A bemused smile on her face, she’d glanced at her daughter and started the Camry’s engine. “Do you have a crush on Nate?”
“What? A crush?” Rachel had blurted. “God, Mom, this isn’t nineteen sixty.”
“It’s okay,” Melinda had said with a knowing expression. “We’ve all had them.”
“I don’t have a ‘crush’or anything else on Nate Moretti,” she had said and turned away, hiding the fact that she was scared spitless, her short breaths actually fogging a small corner of the window as Melinda backed out of the drive.
“All right. Fine. No crush. Or whatever. Oh, shit!” She had hit the brakes. The Toyota had ground to a quick stop as a kid on a bike flew past behind them, inches from the bumper. “Damn it. That Farello boy’s going to get himself killed! Did you see that? He didn’t stop, didn’t see me. Holy God. And no helmet! What’s his mother thinking?” Letting out a frustrated breath, she’d slowly hit the gas again, backing out into the street.
Do it. Right now! Rachel had blurted, “Is it okay if I sleep over at Lila’s tonight?”
Her mom’s expression had tightened. She didn’t like Lila, though she’d never admitted it, only remarked on more than one occasion, “That girl had better watch herself or she’ll end up in big trouble.” Lila had always dated older boys, some lots older, and now she’d settled on Luke. That fact had really gotten under her mother’s skin. But at the moment, Melinda had seemed to think she was connecting some romantic dots. “Oh, I get it,” she’d said. “You’re planning to meet up with Luke and Nate.”
Rachel hadn’t said anything to change her mind, and at the cross street, her mother had warned, “Be careful, Rachel. Stay out of trouble. Okay?” Melinda had shot her daughter a worried glance.
“I will,” Rachel had promised.
&
nbsp; But it had been a lie. A horrid lie.
“Hey, you okay?” Lila said now, snapping Rachel back to the present, to the meeting and the strains of a familiar song. Wilson Phillips was singing “Hold On,” a popular song from grade school, the harmonized strains drifting from hidden speakers. Of course Lila would be playing the songs that brought back all those wretched school day memories.
“Rachel. I asked if you were okay?” Lila repeated.
Her heart pounded in her ears. No. I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay. I have horrible nightmares, I lost my job, my kids worry me to death, our classmate was murdered, and it’s the damned anniversary of the day I shot and killed my brother “Fine,” she forced out with a weak smile. “I’m fine.”
“Really?” Lila rolled her expressive eyes. “Give me a break. Because none of us are ‘fine’ tonight. I don’t know if we ever will be again.” Frowning she added, “Annessa couldn’t even pull herself together to make it. She claimed she was too upset. And that she’s having a problem with her kid.”
On that issue, Rachel could relate.
“I don’t know why Annessa couldn’t get it together for a couple of hours,” Lila said. “Geez! Talk about a prima donna. And come on, it’s hard on all of us. We’ve all got teenagers with issues.”
Annessa Bell had belonged to the popular group in high school, one of the rich kids. She’d moved away for years but with the passing of her father had come back to Edgewater to claim her inheritance, or so the rumor mill had it, even though, according to Lila, her husband was “rich enough that she could afford to loan money to God.”
Lila let out a disgusted breath. “I just don’t get it. Annessa doesn’t have a corner on being upset. We’re all shocked and a little freaked out. You’d think she might want to come and talk it out with people who knew Vi.”
“Everyone handles grief differently,” Rachel said.