by Lisa Jackson
Maybe. Maybe not. The first hours of any investigation were the most critical.
“Come on, Kay!”
She hadn’t let Camille persuade her. Instead she’d worked until after eight and then had come to the indoor range to let off some steam and let the case sink in.
But now as she zipped her jacket and stepped outside, she noticed the fog rolling in from the ocean. She wondered if she should change her mind and see if she could connect with the group, friends from college. Most married. Some with children. But why the hell not?
She could use a break.
She’d spent hours going over interviews and evidence, feeling the clock ticking, the killer getting away.
All the while trying to push aside the impact of seeing Cade again.
Big mistake.
She’d called him because he’d lived in Edgewater most of his life. Also because he was one of the best detectives she’d ever worked with.
And because you wanted to see him again. Be honest, Kayleigh.
Angry with herself, she unlocked her Honda with her remote, slid inside, and started the car. Yeah, she admitted to herself as she drove off, then turned on the radio and cranked it loud. She had used the excuse of Violet Sperry’s murder to contact Cade, to see him, to check her own reaction to him as well as see what his was to her.
And she’d felt crappy about it.
Not that she couldn’t use his insight, but because her ulterior motives were a little underhanded and disingenuous. Not her favorite traits, she thought, cruising along 101, the shops brightly lining the main artery cutting through Astoria.
She’d fallen for him three years earlier when they’d worked a case together, here in Astoria. He’d been separated from his wife then and the murder investigation had gone on for months. It had happened during those long nights of a stakeout, when they’d spent hours alone together, the night surrounding them as they’d sipped coffee in a car, or in the apartment across the street, trying to catch a view through the windows of the suspect’s house. That was when she’d fallen in love with him.
It had been stupid.
He’d been married; she’d known it.
And though he’d admitted to being separated, he’d never once said he planned on divorce.... She had fantasized, of course, even though she told herself now that she’d fought her attraction to him.
Had she?
Or was that just a lie she told herself to feel better about the whole doomed situation?
Tonight, she would unwind. For an hour or two. Tonight she’d put Violet Sperry’s homicide on the back burner and she would definitely stop thinking about Cade Ryder even though he was now, indeed, divorced. Had been for nearly a couple of years.
“Still off limits,” she reminded herself as she drove under the ramp to the Astoria-Megler Bridge, the tall, four-mile span that linked Oregon to Washington at the mouth of the river.
O’Callahan’s was located on the riverfront, tucked between a restaurant and bookstore in what had once been a series of warehouses and was now one big mall, a hodgepodge of stores on three levels.
She parked, locked the car, then dashed across the parking lot to the wide glass doors that were the main entrance. Inside reclaimed wood floors gleamed beneath industrial lights suspended near the exposed air ducts. She made her way down a short flight of stairs to the Irish bar and stepped inside, where the lighting was dim and the conversation humming. Customers lined the bar, where two bartenders poured drinks, chatted, and laughed in front of tall mirrored shelving holding dozens of gleaming bottles. Two flat-screen TVs were positioned overhead, a baseball game in progress.
Kayleigh spied Camille seated in an oversized booth in a rear corner. Wild streaked curls framed her heart-shaped face. She was sipping from a small copper cup, her lips a glossy pink. With her were three men and two women, heads bent over their drinks. Kayleigh took a step toward them, then stopped. Maybe this was a mistake. She could spend the next hours piecing together the case, follow up on . . . Oh, crap! One of the guys was Travis McVey.
Her ex.
The man she’d dated before stupidly falling for Cade.
Her heart sank.
Damn you, Camille.
A roar went up at the bar as one of the players cracked a line drive. Travis looked up, then over, his eyes finding Kayleigh. The back of her throat went dry.
They’d lived together six months.
And she’d walked out on him, never really explaining. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him she was in love with another man. In love with a married man. And a man who hadn’t felt the same, not that she’d known it at the time.
Camille, too, caught a glimpse of her and began waving frantically, motioning her over, chatting up her friends, all of whom looked in her direction.
Decision made.
* * *
Mercedes was glaring at Rachel again. “I’m just saying, it’s a pretty major coincidence that these murders are on the same date.”
“You’re right, a coincidence,” Nate said. “An ugly one, but nothing more. Geez, Mercy, you’re suspicious of the whole damned world.”
“That’s my job.”
“Then your job sucks.” He drained his glass as Reva reached the group.
Brit was on the verge of tears again. She flung a glance at Reva. “You got this?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Sniffling, Brit hurried into the dining area and scooped up her notes and tablet. “Look. Anything you all decide is fine with me.” Her gaze found Reva’s. “Just let me know. Text me.”
“What? No!” Lila had followed her to the table. “Brit, you can’t leave,” she said in a soothing voice. “We need you.”
“You don’t. Reva and Billy Dee can handle it.” Undeterred, Brit slid her phone into the pocket of her maternity jeans.
“She’s right. We’re okay,” Billy Dee said.
Brit tried to swallow back her tears. “I really . . . I really need to get back to Pete and the kids.”
“But”—Lila held up her hands—“if you stay a few more minutes, we—”
“I just can’t,” Brit said, pushing past Lila and hurrying into the foyer and out the front door. It closed with a definitive thud.
“I should go, too,” Rachel heard herself saying.
“No way. You just got here.” Jaw set, her cheeks coloring, Lila tried to take charge. She stood in the archway to the foyer as if blocking everyone inside. “Listen. We’re all upset. I get that. Me too. God, yes. But we have to get through some of this work. Come on, let’s just get to it and make it a short meeting so everyone can get back to their families. Okay? Really. We don’t have time to reschedule.” As a Realtor, she was used to dealing with arbitration and bringing two opposing sides together. “We just need to get this done. Right.”
“Shit, I guess,” Billy Dee said. “I dunno.”
“You do. Just a few more minutes and then we’ll wrap it up for the night.” Lila was insistent.
“Yeah, I don’t want to postpone,” Reva said as she and Billy Dee headed back to the far end of the dining room table.
“Fine.” Mercedes threw a dark glance at Rachel. “You’re working on the last of the classmates we can’t locate. You got some?”
Under her breath, Reva said, “She’s such a bitch,” as she walked past to join Billy Dee at the dining room table again, but Rachel didn’t know if she was talking about Lila or Mercedes, or possibly both.
“I heard that!” Lila said.
“Rachel?” Mercedes prodded as she took her seat on the couch again.
“Yes. I’ve got a few.” Rachel pulled up a tufted ottoman, sat on it, and opened her laptop while Nate refilled his glass. “I’ve got names, addresses, e-mail, and phone numbers. Everything but social security numbers . . . a hacker’s dream.”
Mercy arched an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. She was still pissed.
Rachel looked down at her laptop and clicked onto the file. “There’re, let me se
e . . . still nine MIA, but I think I’ll be able to track most of them down. I’ve actually got information on them, but haven’t received responses to the e-mails.”
“You texted?” Nate took his seat again and sipped from his glass.
“When I could.”
Lila asked, “Is anyone definitely not coming? Did anyone respond and say that they just weren’t going to make it?”
Rachel checked the files on her laptop. “I’ve got about six who are definite no’s at this point.”
“Who?” Lila demanded. It was her contention that everyone should attend.
“To start with, we’ve got two who are serving time. Larry Gorse is in the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla and then there’s Lavonne Tinker. She’s in Billings, Montana.”
“For what?” Lila asked.
“Larry was in for aggravated assault. Almost killed a guy,” Nathan said. “I saw Larry’s brother a few years back and he gave me the word.”
Almost killed a guy . . . Rachel felt herself go cold inside. She had killed someone. Her own brother. Everyone in this room had been there.
“It was on the news even though it happened in Washington,” Mercy said. “I ran a few lines about it in the Past and Present column. And Lavonne tried to run over her cheating husband with their minivan, complete with car seats. Thankfully, the kids weren’t with her, but it put him in the hospital and she ended up in prison.”
“Okay, cross Larry and Lavonne out,” Nate said, then needled Lila. “Hope you didn’t want them to head any of the subcommittees.”
Lila rolled her eyes, and they got down to business. Finally.
As promised the meeting wrapped up quickly. Within forty-five minutes, Rachel was climbing the stairs to get the kids. She gave a quick rap with her knuckles on Lucas’s bedroom door before pushing it open to find the dim space illuminated only by dueling computer screens. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, she spied Lucas and Dylan each wearing headgear complete with microphones and speakers. Lucas was seated in a rolling chair facing a large screen while Dylan sat on the floor, his laptop balanced on his thigh, where he was obviously playing some interactive video game that included abandoned buildings, a military force, big guns, and lots of blood.
Dylan’s back was propped against the foot of the bed, on which, in the dim, eerie light, she saw Harper and some boy she didn’t recognize. They hadn’t heard her. They were locked in a tight embrace, lips parted and kissing wildly, one of his hands in her hair, their jean-clad legs entwined.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Rachel stepped into the room, knocking over a cup of half-drunk soda as she slapped on the light switch.
Immediately the room was illuminated.
“Mom!” As if she’d received an electric shock, Harper jettisoned away from the boy, nearly a man by the looks of him. Her feet hit the floor and she stood, thankfully, still in her clothes, blinking against the light. Her flushed face instantly turned ashen. “What’re you doing here?”
Rachel ignored her daughter, her focus laser sharp on the unknown kid—was he a kid? His beard shadow was pretty thick. “Who are you?”
“Xander.” He rolled off the bed on the near side and Rachel tried not to notice the bulge in his jeans, evidence of his hard-on. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed and tried to hide his arousal with the hem of an oversized sweatshirt.
Dear God.
Rachel turned her glare to her daughter. “What is this, Harper?”
Dylan turned his head, as if suddenly realizing there was more going on in the room than the war game he was playing. He pulled off his headgear and scrambled to his feet, all the while shooting worried glances at Rachel.
“Mom,” Harper said, her voice thin, her chin lifted defiantly. “This is Xander Vale. He’s . . . he’s a friend of Lucas’s and . . . and mine.”
“Good friends, obviously,” Rachel said dryly. When Xander took a step forward and extended his hand, she took it for the briefest of seconds. What to do next? No parent manual for this one.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, this near-man in a gray U of O hoodie, torn jeans, and bare feet. Apparently he was attempting, and having some luck at, growing a beard. A beard! His eyes were dark and there was a hint of arrogance beneath the veneer of embarrassment.
I don’t trust you, she thought. Not one inch. What are you doing with my seventeen-year-old daughter?
“Get your things,” she said to Harper, her voice tight.
“Back off,” Lucas grumbled as Dylan nudged him with the toe of his running shoe. “I hit you! You are done, man!”
“Hey!” Dylan said into his microphone.
“What—?” Lucas snapped, yanking off his helmet. “What’s your problem?” Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Rachel and realized the lights were on and the jig was definitely up. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh,’” Rachel said, and for the first time caught a whiff of marijuana smoke. Great. She motioned to both her kids. “Now,” she said. “Downstairs. Move it. Your dad’s on his way.”
“Dad?” Harper nearly squeaked out the word and she glanced around the messy room frantically. “My stuff is in the car.”
“Get it.” Rachel was in no mood for any kind of excuse.
Eyes wide, Harper said softly, “You’re not going to tell him about . . .”
“About Xander?” Rachel asked. “Oh, yeah. You bet I am. Not only that, but you”—she pointed at the man/boy and looked him straight in the eyes despite the fact that he stood six or seven inches above her—“you, Xander Vale, are going to meet him.”
Harper let out a little sound of protest. Her makeup was smeared and she appeared so damned young.
In the ensuing silence, Rachel kept her eyes on Xander and was vaguely aware of sounds drifting up from downstairs, music punctuated by voices floating up through the vents. With a tenuous grip on her emotions, she said, “Harper’s dad is a great guy.” Glancing at her daughter, who was frantically shaking her head, Rachel added, “I hope she didn’t fail to mention him.” She tried to maintain what little of her cool she still held on to.
The boy, staring at the floor, plunged his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and had the good sense not to try to argue or butt in.
“Cade,” she said. “That’s Harper’s dad’s name. Detective Cade Ryder.” She waited just a second, hoping to let that final bit of information sink in. The kid, to his credit, stood his ground. “As I said, he’s a cop. And trust me, he’s going to want to meet you.”
CHAPTER 12
Cade had barely closed the door of his truck when he saw his ex-wife and kids fly out of the front door of his father’s house and gather on the porch. Another kid was with them as well. Not Lucas. Maybe older. In an Oregon sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops, the boy looked to be pushing twenty or twenty-one. So not a boy. Beside him a white-faced Harper appeared positively apoplectic. Dylan was sullen and distant in his earbuds, and Rachel’s expression told him she was pissed. Make that really pissed.
Great.
Another family trauma.
How many had this old house witnessed? How many while he was growing up? Cade hated to think.
“What’s going on?” he asked as he mounted the familiar steps and felt a cool breeze ripple off the Columbia and blow inland. The door to the house was open, the foyer chandelier aglow, a patch of light silhouetting the group gathered just beyond the threshold.
“This,” she said, indicating the boy he didn’t recognize, “is Xander Vale.” She yanked the door shut, throwing the porch into semidarkness, the only illumination cast by the interior lights through the transom, sidelights, and windows. “He and Harper were getting pretty friendly upstairs in Lucas’s room.” She shot the kid a hard glare.
Vale stood his ground.
Harper seemed to wither.
Cade felt his muscles tense.
Rachel was just gathering strength. “And, though I can’t prove it, I think there might
have been some marijuana involved.”
It was the big kid’s turn to blanche. “No—” he said, and met Cade’s gaze. “No weed.”
Marijuana would change things. In Oregon it was still illegal for minors.
“Seriously,” Harper said, finding her voice. “We were not smoking.”
“But you and Xander were . . . together?” Cade glanced at his daughter.
Harper crossed her arms over her chest and, with her chin set, met his gaze defiantly.
Xander Vale said simply, “I like Harper.”
Cade nodded, glanced at his daughter. God, how did she get to be so grown up? “I like her, too,” he said, trying to remain calm.
“It was going far beyond ‘liking’ her,” Rachel said sharply.
“Mom!” Harper said, mortified.
“Harper, you were making out with this guy”—she jabbed an accusing finger toward Vale—“with your brother and Lucas in the room and me just downstairs! So don’t act like you’re embarrassed now. For the love of God, what were you thinking?”
“Mom! Stop!” Harper yelled. “God, please just stop!”
The Vale kid winced in the half light, and Harper looked like she wanted to sink through the floorboards right then and there. Cade didn’t blame her even though he wanted to throttle Vale right then and there. Instead, jaw tight, he stuck out his hand. “Cade Ryder.”
Vale hesitated, then shook his hand warily.
Harper fought tears.
Dylan moved his head to the beat of some song only he could hear through his earbuds, though Cade caught him sneaking glances at both of his parents and Xander Vale. Maybe his son wasn’t as out of it as he let on. Cade hoped so.
Vale said, “Look, Mr. Ryder—”
Rachel cut in, “Detective Ryder,” and shot Cade a hard glare, silently reminding him to be the father here. And maybe a hard-nosed cop to boot. As if he’d forgotten his role.
Not likely.
Vale swallowed hard. “She, your wife, she did say you were a . . . with the police.”
Cade nodded. “I am.”
“Ex-wife,” Rachel clarified, then to Harper, “Geez, didn’t you tell him anything about you? How long have you been . . . dating . . . or seeing each other or whatever it is you call it?”