Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

  Annessa: Clint is coming home. Tomorrow. Early. Possibly tonight.

  Caller: Which makes it all the more exciting. Dangerous. And you like danger, don’t you?

  Annessa: You know I do.

  Caller: I might come just thinking about it.

  Annessa: Don’t. Wait for me.

  Caller: Oh, I’ll be waiting.

  Cade stared at the screen. “So who is the anonymous number? Anyone we know?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Voss said, nearly bursting. “That number belongs to Mr. Nathan Moretti. Single. Self-employed. Sells medical equipment in Astoria.”

  And one of Rachel’s classmates. Best friend of Luke Hollander and son of Dr. Richard Moretti, the doctor who had pronounced Luke DOA.

  “I figure Annessa didn’t tag him with a name or have his picture in her phone just in case good old Clint picked up her phone.” Voss crossed her arms, pleased with her discoveries. “So I assume you want to interview him.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He was already pushing his chair away from the desk, grabbing his sidearm. “Want to come along?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She slid her phone in her slacks pocket and slipped on her shoulder holster. “And by the way, Ryder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m the lead on this one. You just may be a little too close to the investigation. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re so small, I’m pretty sure the chief would kick your ass off this one.” She was reaching for her jacket. “So mind your p’s and q’s.”

  “What the hell does that mean anyway?”

  “Hell if I know. My translation: Don’t get in my way.” She slid her arms through the sleeves as they began walking.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, in step with her as they walked through the back door near the lunchroom.

  “Yeah, right.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Harper waited until she was certain her mother was gone, then strode down the hall to Dylan’s room. Now was the time to confront her idiot of a brother. God, what was he doing? She’d lied for him to Mom, covered his ass, but she was worried sick about what he was getting into.

  Yesterday at school her worst fears had been confirmed. She’d been coming down the stairs from the theater department with her friend when she’d spied Dylan. And he hadn’t been alone. Julie had peeled off for her next class, but Harper had waited and watched from the landing, still a handful of steps above the area in front of the gym, as the two guys had cornered her brother.

  Their body language was menacing. A big, hulking guy in gym shorts and a dark hoody scowled at Dylan, while a second skinnier guy in jeans and a fleece pullover screened him from the rest of the hallway. She didn’t know the kids—probably sophomores. Definitely not Schmidt or Parker.

  But it didn’t look good.

  God, please don’t make me have to run down there and save the little punk’s sorry butt.

  Dylan dug a hand into his backpack. He pulled something out and another guy stood up, watching as Dylan handed something over, a small black sack. The kid looked into the bag, poking around a little, as if inspecting whatever was inside, then quickly slipped something to Dylan.

  Cash.

  Dylan looked at the bills, made a quick assessment, and nodded.

  Drugs. Her brother was dealing drugs.

  Shit! She’d seen more than one freshman or sophomore slide twenty-dollar bills into Dylan’s hand while they passed each other while changing classes. She had thought that he’d been loaning his friends money, but now she knew.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid boy! There might be cameras taking all this in, recording him in the heat of the transaction. He was obviously in way over his head.

  Dealing drugs on school property. What a moron! Everyone knew that would get you in big trouble. If he thought he could get away with something so dumb and blatant, he deserved to go to jail!

  Except she couldn’t let him. The idiot didn’t have an iota of common sense. Brilliant and stupid, that was Dylan.

  Someone had to save him from himself.

  Turned out, she got the honors.

  She pushed open Dylan’s door, with its stupid crime scene tape that discouraged no one, to find him propped on his bed, gaming controller in one hand, phone in front of him, a sack of Doritos open and spilling onto the bedding, a nearly finished plate of last night’s lasagna on the night table.

  “Hey!” he said, his head snapping up. “Knock next time.”

  “I know what you’re doing,” she said. “And it has to stop.”

  “What I’m doing? I’m playing a game.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” she said, motioning toward the controller.

  He didn’t seem to get it.

  “I’m sick of covering your sorry ass so that Mom doesn’t find out, but I’m not going to do it anymore. You have to get out of it right now.”

  “Out of what?” But he blanched a little, confirming her worst suspicions.

  “Oh, come off it. The drugs. I know you’ve been dealing.”

  “What?” he said, shocked.

  “Mom is going to kill you if she finds out,” Harper warned. “And Dad is going to kill you, and God, you know what? Maybe I’m going to kill you, too!”

  “I’m not—”

  “Stop it! Don’t lie. It’s over. I saw you yesterday,” she charged, stepping into the room, which reeked of cheese and tomato sauce and teenaged boy.

  His mouth dropped open. “You saw what?”

  “The deal go down. The two kids by the gym? The black sack.”

  Dylan was shaking his head slowly, back and forth. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Do I? Then explain.”

  He hesitated. Swallowed hard.

  “I thought so,” she said as she felt Reno step past her and begin sniffing at the floor.

  He leaned back on the bed, closed his eyes, and banged his head twice on the headboard. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

  She didn’t argue.

  Sighing, he said, “It’s not drugs.”

  “Good.”

  “No, not good.” He swallowed hard. “It’s worse.”

  “How could it possibly be worse?” she asked, and he bit his lip, looked away. Obviously he didn’t want to say. For a second she thought of the two women who had been killed recently. Surely her brother wasn’t into anything like that. Her pulse started pounding in dread.

  He found her gaze. Held it. His face was white as a sheet. “You can’t tell Mom.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure. I promise.” She crossed her fingers.

  “I hacked into the school computer system,” he admitted. “I’ve been selling tests and teacher’s notes and even . . . even fixing grades.”

  “You’ve done what?”

  “You heard me. I could be suspended or expelled or worse.... And you’re right, Mom and Dad would kill me.”

  “Only if they found out.” The wheels were turning in her mind and her eyes narrowed as she considered all the options. “So then, what was in the bag yesterday?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Just a hard drive I fixed. I work on stuff and sell it. Refurbish it.”

  “Like to who?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I just don’t want to get anyone in trouble!”

  “I said I won’t tell. So who?” she demanded.

  “Just some guys.”

  She waited.

  “Friends. Like the guys you saw me with. Ryan. And Brent, you know, he lives a couple of blocks over, and Xander.”

  “You sold computer stuff to Xander?”

  “Well, him and Lucas, but come on. You can’t let Mom and Dad know, Harper. It’s got to be on the down low. You promised.”

  She took another step into his gross room. “Why is that a secret?” she asked. “Who would care?”

  His gaze slid to the s
ide and he let out a sigh. “Some kids don’t want their parents to know. It’s like spy equipment, or extra cameras with microphones. That sort of stuff. Not really a big deal.”

  “So what about Schmidt?” she asked. “What are you doing for him?”

  “Oh, geez.” He was about to clam up again but then rolled his eyes. “He needs his grades lifted in a couple of classes, before the end of the year. And he wants me to make them significant, like from a D or an F to an A. . . . I can’t do that. Someone might notice; teachers will know if they double-check. But he needs his GPA upped by too much. I told him I couldn’t do that much and he got mad. I paid him his money back, but he’s super pissed. Said it’s gonna affect him going to college or something, like he has a scholarship or his folks insisted he keep his grades up before they would pay for a four-year school or something.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Not yet. If I do, I have to wait until the last day that the grades go in, and even then . . .” He leaned back against the bed. “I’m so screwed.”

  She didn’t believe that. Dylan always figured a way to weasel out of any kind of trouble. She thought about what he’d told her. This could be to her advantage.

  “You said you wouldn’t tell,” he reminded her nervously.

  “I won’t. But I want in.” She held his gaze. “I need an A in chemistry.”

  * * *

  Aware of the clock ticking, Rachel drove straight to her father’s house despite the fog that clouded her vision.

  She couldn’t be gone long, but she needed to talk to him, and so she sped along the highway, nearly missing the turn onto the county road, and slowed just as she reached his lane. All the while she thought about the murders of people she knew, of the stupid articles in the paper, and of course of Luke and how she’d pulled the trigger and watched him go down.

  Don’t do this, she silently told herself, hands tight over the steering wheel. She’d held it together for the kids, but felt herself unraveling.

  “Get it together,” she told herself. Her Explorer shuddered a little on the bumpy, unpaved driveway to his house, where she spied his truck was parked near a shed. She switched off the engine and raced up the back steps, her usual entrance to his home.

  As she stepped onto the porch she startled a cat, which scurried out from beneath a stepladder surrounded by a pile of paint cans and drop cloths. “Great,” she said, the black cat crossing her path to streak across the uneven yard just as she nearly stepped under the ladder.

  With a quick rap on the door, she tried the knob and, without waiting for her father to answer, stepped into the kitchen. “Hey, Dad, it’s me!”

  “Well, look who’s here!”

  He walked in from the living room, a newspaper in his hand. “I was just reading about you in this rag.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Mercedes won’t give it up.”

  He tossed the paper into a trash can standing near the back door. “Try not to let it bother you. She’s just trying to sell papers.”

  Reading glasses were perched upon his nose and he looked at her over the half lenses. “You okay?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Yeah.” He opened his arms wide and she fell into them, grateful for a second of his strength. She’d always relied upon him; probably always would. She squeezed her eyes shut, fought tears, and when she opened them again, looked through the window to spy the cat sitting atop a fence post, black tail curled around his feet, a mist rising around him, the whole scene eerie. “I think I scared your cat.”

  “Not mine. Stray. I made the mistake of feeding him and now he thinks he lives here.... Well, come to think of it maybe he does. So, kid, how’re you holding up?”

  “Not so good, and I can’t stay long. The kids are at home alone and that’s dangerous during the best of times. Now . . .”

  “I hear ya. Do you have time for a cup?”

  She noted the Keurig on his aging counter. “Sure. A quick one. Got decaf?”

  He snorted. “That’s not coffee. Just black water. But yeah.”

  “Okay.” He reached into a cupboard for the box of coffee pods, and as he did, he winced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just getting old. Strained my shoulder . . . been painting and tiling the bathroom.” He found the pod, snapped it into the coffee machine, and pressed a button, only to rub his shoulder. “Gettin’ soft, I guess.” He rotated his shoulder, then plucked a bottle of ibuprofen from the windowsill and shook two into his palm before tossing the dry tablets into his mouth. “Probably a pinched nerve or arthritis or something. No big deal.”

  The Keurig hissed and sputtered before he handed her the cup and made another. “Real coffee,” he pronounced, replacing the old pod with a new one, snapping it into place and tossing the old one into the trash.

  “If you say so.”

  “Decaf’s for wimps.”

  “Sometimes I am.”

  He snorted. “I don’t believe it.”

  She heard the ding of a text coming in, then another, but seeing that they weren’t from the kids, she ignored them. She glanced at the clock over the stove, time ticking away, and took a swallow of the coffee as she took a seat at the kitchen table that Ned had refinished himself.

  “How’s Harper?”

  “Dealing better than I thought she would.”

  He slid a glance over his shoulder as his cup filled. “Watch her. Sometimes it hits later, after the shock wears off.”

  She was aware of that all too well, she thought, as she ran a fingertip over the old knots and scars of the tabletop.

  “How well did you know the victims?”

  “Just in school. You remember. Violet more than Annessa. She’d come over once in a while.” But as he turned to face her, fresh mug of coffee in hand, she realized he didn’t recall her high school relationships. How could he? He was a full-time cop at the time, often worked nights, and the family was breaking up at that point, splintering as he and Melinda were well on their way to divorce. “But I didn’t keep in touch. Even though they lived around here, I didn’t know them.”

  “They both stood up for you, if I remember right.”

  “Yeah,” Rachel said, staring into her mug.

  “They were there.” He took a slow sip. “And now they’re dead.”

  “Killed.” It was surreal and horrible and painful. She remembered Violet in the darkened cannery, how she’d refused to wear her glasses and how she’d flipped out in the chaos that seemed to be a war zone, how Rachel had tried to drag her out of the building, where kids were shooting, blasting away, and then Luke . . . falling. Her heart began to pound at the memory, her pulse was racing, and little beads of sweat were forming at her hairline.

  “Last night—Annessa’s murder—it was too close to deadline to make the latest edition of the newspaper,” Rachel said. “But just wait. The murder’s already been all over the news. Even though Harper’s under eighteen, they’ll find her. Mercedes will.”

  “You can bet on that.”

  Groaning, she let her head drop to the table in frustration. “Will it ever end?”

  “Never,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “How is Lila handling all this?”

  “Lila?” she repeated. “I guess in her usual Lila, over-the-top, near hysterical wanting-to-take-control way. She’s already freaked out about the reunion, if you can believe that.”

  “I can. You know, I never felt she got over what happened.”

  “None of us really have,” she admitted. “But she’s got Luke’s son. Kind of a living memory, a blessing, yeah, of course, but a reminder.”

  He nodded, staring out the window over the sink, eyes narrowing.

  She followed his gaze, saw he was watching a hawk as it circled, dipping low, visible for an instant, then disappearing in the mist again. But she doubted he was concentrating on the bird. No, she understood, his thoughts were far from this day, to another place and time.

  �
�Your brother and I, we had our share of problems. Butted heads a lot,” he admitted, then took a long swallow from his cup, and she noticed how his once-sandy hair had silvered. “Too often.”

  She couldn’t help recalling the fights. The yelling. Often created by Luke’s insolent attitude and Ned’s mercurial temper, which, in those days, had sometimes been fueled by whiskey. Luke had been quick to raise his fists and Ned had never been known to back down from a fight.

  “I was hard on him,” Ned said. Regret tinged his words. “Too hard, probably. The kid had it tough. Think about it. Me, his stepfather, the guy who raised him, was responsible for him not knowing his dad.” The back of his neck tightened. “Not that Bruce Hollander was any prize.” He nodded, agreeing with himself, and then his shoulders slumped a bit. “Still . . . I could’ve gone easier on the kid. I was the one who arrested his old man for beating on his wife and then ended up marrying her. At the time, Luke was a baby, didn’t know any different, but as the years went by and he grew up, figured it out, was teased about his old man being locked up, it was a different story.” Another absent swallow from his cup, then, “Ah, hell! Nothin’ to do about it now.”

  “Water under the bridge.”

  “Is it? I wonder.” He turned to face her, blue eyes holding hers steady. “Well, we just have to deal, right? Like we have been all along.” He scraped back a chair and sat across from her. “Did you hear he’s out of prison? Hollander?”

  “Mom told me.”

  She saw his jaw tighten at the mention of Melinda and wished to God they could just get along.

  “You called her?”

  “No, she mentioned it the last time I saw her.”

  “All this”—he motioned to the newspaper in the bin—“it’s gotta be tough on her, too.” He caught Rachel’s gaze and held it. She got the unspoken message.

  “I said I’d call her. I will. Promise.”

  “Has he—Hollander—contacted your mother?”

  “Not that I know of. And I think she would have said.”

  “Good.” He took a sip of coffee. “Either way you cut it, Luke wasn’t born lucky when it came to the whole male role model thing.”

  “What’re you talking about? You were a great dad.”