by Неизвестный
I’m so outta here, asshole.
Robbie
Hands shaking, he flipped through the pictures. Sure enough, there was one of his father standing over a young boy.
“That’s not me,” Robbie said, voice shaking.
“Doesn’t matter. No one can see the face.”
“He did that to someone?”
“I have the negatives.”
“Why say it’s me? I can destroy him with this alone.” Robbie’s stomach churned at the realization that his father was a pedophile as well as a child abuser.
“We will destroy him, Robbie. But it has to be you, to give you a reason to leave. Embarrassment, fear, whatever. Doesn’t matter. You come back when everything dies down and no one will be looking at you for anything we did. I’ll take care of the truck. Just leave the ticket in the glove compartment, okay?”
A niggling doubt tickled Robbie. Something didn’t sound right. He wished he hadn’t smoked that pot earlier. “I don’t know about this.”
“It’s already done. The folder is on your father’s desk. I mailed a copy to the police. They’ll have it tomorrow, or Tuesday at the latest. Go, Robbie. This was my solution, instead of letting him kill you. Please, Robbie, for me.”
She leaned over and kissed him. She’d never kissed him before. He didn’t think she’d ever even touched him.
Tears stung his eyes. He took the envelope, heavy with cash. “I’m going to miss you, Cami. And everyone.”
“We’ll miss you, too.”
She took the folder from him and kissed him again. “I know where you are, Robbie. I might come down and see you if things get too hot here.”
He smiled, kissed her back. Grabbed her breast. “I wish we had more time. Maybe—”
“We don’t have time, Robbie. Please. For me, go.”
He sighed and got out of Cami’s car, walked over to his truck. He climbed into the driver’s seat.
Cami watched Robbie from the safety of her own car. She had no remorse, feeling nothing but irritation that he had proved so unworthy and stupid. She flashed her lights once.
Everything had been set up earlier that afternoon. The woman in the quarry’s control room pulled the switch. From above, three tons of rock fell on Robbie’s truck. Whether he was crushed to death or suffocated, Cami didn’t know.
He was now really stoned, she chuckled to herself.
She looked at the photos he’d taken for her, her anger raging. Someone would pay for this betrayal.
No one made a fool of her.
Skip had trusted Faye. And she’d killed him.
The light reflected off the blade. She watched herself stab him. He fought back.
“Faye, no!”
He held his arms up and she brought the knife down. Felt it cut flesh. Hit bone. Over and over. Up and down. He hit her once, then she got him in the eye.
She cut him even when he was dead. She couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. She almost turned the knife on herself. Almost. Almost. Almost…
But in the end she couldn’t take her own life, and she hated herself even more. She was weak. It would be so easy to slit her wrists and watch her life flow away to the nothingness she’d felt her entire life…
Faye stared at the bloody knife.
Skip had been her friend, and while she killed him she almost felt as if she’d been outside her own body. She watched herself stab him over and over.
It got easier when his eyes stopped accusing her.
But what about the knife? And her own blood? The kill hadn’t been easy. Skip hadn’t gone willingly.
Cami was off taking care of the other loose end. Faye wondered if she herself was a loose end. If she went to him, would he kill her?
Maybe that would be for the best.
And she’d already put her life in his hands. He could decide whether she lived or died. Faye didn’t much care either way.
Trembling, she approached his door, replaying the last forty minutes over and over. The knife. Skip’s eyes. The way the blade had sliced his skin and muscle. The blood. Hitting bone, a hiss of air from a pierced lung. The kill seemed to have taken forever, but Skip was dead ten minutes after the blade first pierced his skin.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was angry.
She started crying. He ushered her inside. “Faye!” He shook her brutally, then slapped her. Blood got on his hands. She stared at it. Skip’s blood or hers? “Dammit, you should never have come here like this. What’s gotten into you? Do you want all of us to go to prison?”
She shook her head, but she didn’t know what she was agreeing with. Or not agreeing with. She didn’t know anything anymore.
“You were supposed to shoot Skip!”
“I don’t like guns.” Faye hadn’t been able to shoot Paul Judson, so Skip had done it for her. He’d protected her, kept that secret from Cami and Robbie, told everyone she had used the gun as she had been ordered to do.
The knife was more real.
And Skip had been a friend. The knife made it personal.
He hustled Faye into his bathroom, putting her in the shower with her clothes on, mumbling. She only made out some of his words: “bleach” and “burn” and “bitch.” She really didn’t deserve him, she’d known it all along. She was an ugly and scarred freak, unworthy of love. She would be better off dead. She should have killed herself after stabbing Skip to death, something like Romeo and Juliet, except hate united them instead of love.
Skip’s blood was washed from her body, down the drain, a whirlpool. Around, around, and down, down, down. It was pink now, and getting lighter. She slid down to the shower floor, closing her eyes.
Someone stepped into the shower with her. She shook her head and tried to wake herself up. How much time had passed?
He was naked. He’d been so good to her. He had trusted her with his life. And with his knife.
“Faye!”
She looked up at her beautiful, naked lover. Had he slapped her? She touched her cheek. She couldn’t feel anything.
“You cut yourself, Faye.”
He was very angry, but he also sounded a bit worried. Maybe he did care about her. Could anyone care for her? No one had in her short life. They’d shared blood, they’d shared life and living and exquisite sin. They were soul mates.
She looked at her own body as he stripped her. She saw her blood this time. He turned off the shower.
She didn’t remember cutting herself down her arms. Had she done that? Skip hadn’t had a knife.
Lifting her bloody, wet form from the shower, he laid her on the tiled floor. She shivered.
He was looking through his medicine cabinet, then opening and shutting drawers. He knelt next to her, with bandages, scissors, and tape. He sprayed something on her arm, but she didn’t feel it. He brought out a needle and thread. She was a quilt he was sewing. She laughed. Was that her laugh?
“Faye, stay with me.”
“I’m here.” She thought she said it aloud. Maybe she hadn’t. He could probably read her thoughts, though.
He taped over the gash he’d sewn up. Her arm felt numb. Maybe it always had. Her whole body was numb.
“Swallow.”
He put a pill in her mouth. She trusted him and swallowed. He put a water glass to her lips.
She was in his bed, warm blankets all around her. But wasn’t she just on the bathroom floor?
She tried to raise her arm.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You passed out.”
He was wearing a robe now. She smelled bleach.
He sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. “No matter what you hear or see, you must always trust me.”
“I will.”
“Say nothing. Do nothing. Stay right here. No one can know you’re here. Not even Cami.”
Faye nodded.
He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll always take care of you.”
“What’s wrong with my arm?”
“You cut tendons. I fixed it.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. He fixed me. That’s what he does, fixes people. “How long was I sleeping?”
“Sleeping?” His hand cupped her cheek and she felt oddly safe and loved. She’d never felt loved before, not like this. “You passed out from blood loss,” he said. “You’re still very weak. I have orange juice here. Vitamins. Some medicine that will help. You’ll be fine.”
“How long?”
“Twelve hours.”
TWENTY-FIVE
AFTER SHE FINALLY CONVINCED Connor that she needed transportation and he couldn’t chauffeur her around all day, he reluctantly dropped Julia at a car rental agency Monday morning. “Be careful,” he commanded, as she was about to get out of his truck.
“I will.” She was surprised by the concern in his voice. “I will,” she stressed when Connor grabbed her arm.
But he didn’t release her. He stared hard into her eyes, his own face animated, with conflicting emotions. He kissed her, long and passionate, his hands holding her head to his. Heat rumbled through her body, and when he let her go, Julia felt light-headed.
“Wow,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “Is that a promise of what I can expect tonight?”
A half smile tilted Connor’s lips up. “I’ll meet you at the courthouse at noon,” he said. “Don’t be late, because I’ll worry. We don’t know what this killing group is planning, and they went after you once.” He frowned. “I really don’t want to let you go alone.”
“Emily needs your protection right now. Please, I’ll be fine. And I’ll be seeing you in just a couple hours. Don’t worry.”
“Easier said,” he mumbled.
She kissed him quickly, jumped from his truck, then leaned in through the window. “Think of it this way. They have no idea what car I’m driving.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
She blew him a kiss and watched him drive off.
Her first stop was the Ridge house. She’d made some calls earlier that morning and learned James Ridge was a CEO of a major corporation. He left for work before eight every morning. It was now nearly nine.
The understated house was in an expensive area of old San Diego. Its tree-lined streets were wide, and deep front lawns gave the community almost a New England feeling. Julia walked up the brick steps and rang the bell.
Stephanie Ridge answered the door. “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Ridge? I’m Julia Chandler. We met at Dr. Bowen’s house Saturday.”
Recognition and suspicion crossed the woman’s face. “What do you want?”
“A couple minutes of your time.” Julia tried not to sound desperate.
Stephanie opened the door without a word. Though she didn’t work, she was dressed in tailored slacks, a silk blouse, and simple gold jewelry. Her dark bob was sleek and styled, her makeup simple and elegant.
She led Julia to a formal living room. Above the elaborate fireplace mantel was a framed painting of Jason Ridge in his football jersey—number 10—holding his football in both hands. He’d been a handsome boy with dark windswept hair and vibrant blue eyes. Julia suppressed a stab of guilt that she was dredging up the past with his grieving mother.
Stephanie Ridge didn’t offer coffee. Nor did she offer Julia a seat.
“I know about Shannon Chase,” Julia said.
Stephanie’s face darkened. “You don’t know anything. That girl hurt Jason deeply. She lied.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I knew her and I knew my son.” Her chin quivered.
“I read the police report she filed,” said Julia. “I saw the medical report. There was a rape. There was DNA evidence.”
Stephanie shook her head. “I don’t care what any report said. Jason was a good son. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. The poor boy was devastated when Shannon killed herself. Doesn’t that tell you something? Doesn’t that tell you that he had forgiven her for her lies?”
“She’s not here for me to ask,” Julia said.
“Nor is my son.”
“I’ve been trying to find Michelle O’Dell. She had been Jason’s ex-girlfriend as well as a friend of Shannon’s. By chance have you kept in touch with her? All I have is her number at Stanford.”
“Michelle?” Stephanie blinked. “I’m surprised you missed her at Garrett Bowen’s party Saturday. She was the one wearing a slutty little red dress.”
“Michelle was in San Diego Saturday night?”
Stephanie frowned. “What is this really about? Why are you asking about a rape—something that didn’t even happen—two years later?”
Julia changed the subject. “How well did you know Dr. Bowen?”
“Garrett? For years, but what—did? Has something happened to him?”
“He was murdered Saturday after the party,” she said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It was on the news last night.”
“I don’t watch the news. I need to call my husband.”
“Dr. Bowen was Jason’s therapist, correct?”
“I’m not going to answer any more questions.”
“Why?”
“This is private family business! How dare you come in here, asking painful questions about our past, throwing out names right and left like you’re on some fishing expedition. Leave now or I’ll call the police.”
At the door, Julia turned and asked one last question. “Was Jason a member of an online community called Wishlist?”
Stephanie slammed the door in her face. But not before Julia saw the surprised recognition in her eyes.
It surprised Julia how close the O’Dells lived to the Ridges, though the two neighborhoods had completely different flavors as well as income levels.
Gina O’Dell answered the door when Julia knocked. “Ms. Chandler, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you have a recent photograph of your daughter.”
The mother blinked rapidly. “Why?”
Julia didn’t want to deceive her, but she needed the photograph. “The District Attorney’s Office is looking into steroid use in high schools and we believe Michelle has information relevant to what happened to Jason Ridge last year.”
“She’s not in trouble, though,” Mrs. O’Dell prompted.
“No, we just need to ask her some questions. She probably doesn’t even know that she has information we need.”
“I gave you her phone number. Why do you need her picture?”
“I haven’t been able to reach her by phone, so a colleague in Palo Alto is going to stop by her apartment. He needs a picture to make a positive ID before he’s allowed to discuss the investigation with her.” The lies were rolling off her tongue easily now. It didn’t make Julia feel good, but she needed to find out if Stephanie Ridge was right and Michelle O’Dell was in San Diego. And why.
“Just a minute.” Mrs. O’Dell didn’t invite Julia in this time. Three minutes later she opened the door and handed her a photograph. “This was taken four months ago, at Christmas, when Michelle came home for break.”
Michelle had grown from a beautiful teenager into a stunning woman. Blond, blue-eyed, with the body of a Playboy model concealed in jeans and midriff top.
“When Michelle visits, does she stay here?”
“Of course,” Mrs. O’Dell snapped. “We’re very close. She tells me everything.”
The kind, sweet mother from the other day was now replaced by the mother bear. Like Stephanie Ridge, Gina O’Dell would never believe ill of her child.
Julia couldn’t blame them. She herself didn’t believe Emily had any part in Victor’s murder. And when she did have a tickle of doubt, she’d made excuse after excuse. The rape. The abuse. Anything to show that Emily wasn’t responsible for her actions.
She hoped Stephanie Ridge was wrong about Michelle being in San Diego. It would break Mrs. O’Dell’s heart if her daughter was in town, and had neither called nor visited.
; “Thank you so much for your help,” Julia said, and left.
Part of being a private eye was grunt work. Hell, most of it was, but it occasionally paid well.
Connor knew how to do the job, and missing persons—if there wasn’t foul play involved—was often the easiest. He had friends, contacts, ins to track real estate transactions, bank transfers, credit cards, phone bills.
It appeared that Laura Chase had disappeared off the face of the earth.
While waiting for Emily to be discharged from the hospital, Connor managed to piece together the Chase family history.
Tom and Laura had been married for five years before giving birth to a daughter, Camilla Chase, who died six months later of sudden infant death syndrome. Less than a year later, Shannon was born. Months after Shannon committed suicide, Laura Chase filed for divorce. They sold the house and Tom moved to Maine but was living off his savings and the proceeds of the house sale and his construction business. He had no known job. Will Hooper had the local authorities drive by his Bangor address and everything checked out. As far as they knew, Tom Ridge hadn’t left Maine—at least by airplane—since moving there eighteen months ago.
Laura Chase, on the other hand, seemed to have disappeared after the divorce. She owned no property in California and didn’t appear to have a job in the state. Connor wondered if, like her husband, she had moved out of the area in grief over her second dead daughter. How devastating for the Chases to lose two children.
Connor understood grief. His nephew’s murder eleven years ago had changed every member of the Kincaid family, himself included, but none of their pain came close to what his sister Nell suffered. When the killer wasn’t caught, when the case grew cold and Nell knew it would be given less and less priority by the police, she left. She moved to Idaho to be alone.
Their mother insisted Nell would return home when her grief ran its course. But in the eleven years since, she had not set foot in San Diego. Connor hadn’t even seen Nell since, though his parents visited her on occasion. If Nell didn’t want to be found, Connor had no doubt she, too, could disappear as Laura Chase had done.