One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (12)

Chapter 12

Liam’s cell buzzed and rattled on his nightstand. He reached for it, opening one eye, seeing the lightening July sky outside the floor-to-ceiling window in his master bedroom, read the time: 5:37 a.m.

He saw the number: Jacoby.

He groaned inside. He was through chasing after Rory.

“Whad is it?” Bethany mumbled from her side of his bed as he picked up the phone and answered. Her hair was a tumbled mass on the extra pillow, and from beneath its curtain she opened an eye to stare at him.

He hadn’t asked her to come over. She just had. And he hadn’t said no. He’d half expected her to bring up the plans to move in with him in September, but she hadn’t. She’d always been good at strategy and seemed to realize this was not the time to push him about their future.

“It’s Jacoby,” the private investigator identified himself as soon as Liam unplugged the phone from its charger and clicked it on. “Called you three times last night and you didn’t answer.”

“Phone was dead. I didn’t start charging it till late.”

“I’ve got some news for you about your wife.”

Your wife. The words were a splash of cold water, bringing him fully awake. “Yeah?”

“She’s here. In Portland. At Laurelton General with a sick child.”

“Here?”

“Yessirree. Big as life.”

“You saw her?”

“That’s what you pay me for,” the PI said, self-satisfied. “You shoulda picked up last night. I damn near called you at two a.m.”

Bethany had lifted herself up on one elbow, staring at him. She brushed her hair from her face and Liam wished to high heaven he’d turned her down the night before.

“Was there an accident?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Is the kid okay?”

“Not sure.” That sent a bolt of panic through him. “Okay, I’m heading there now,” he growled, adding before he clicked off, “Thirty minutes, max.”

“Where are you going?” Beth asked, her eyes wide as Liam headed for the connecting bathroom and kicked off his boxers. “You’re getting up? Now? It’s not even six yet.” Then, worried, “What happened?”

He wanted to lie. To keep what he knew to himself, but Beth was already rising from the bed, stripping off her lacy nightgown, and as he opened the shower door and twisted on the taps, stepping beneath hot, sharp spray, she met him in the bathroom, naked. She reached for the shower door handle, but he grabbed it from his side, holding it in place so that it couldn’t swing either way.

“No, wait. I have to get going,” he said as steam began to rise.

“You don’t want me to shower with you?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re stopping me?” Her thin body, too thin, really, was stiff with outrage.

Sharp needles of hot water were bouncing off his skin, running down his face, plastering his hair to his head. He just wanted Bethany to disappear, didn’t want this inevitable argument, then felt a guilty pang when he remembered the pain of having a lover really disappear. Still, Beth, if he didn’t really want her to vanish, should at least go home.

She was staring through the rapidly fogging glass, “That was Jacoby, wasn’t it?” she charged, her eyes wide, her color high. “You asked if he’d seen her, meaning Rory, right? That’s what you asked him. You said, ‘You saw her’?”

“Yes . . .” Liam admitted, swiping at the water on his face as she glared at him, her face almost ghostlike through the film.

“Great, Liam. Just . . . great!” Her jaw was tighter than he’d ever seen it, her lipstick-free lips compressed.

He almost explained that he needed to see Rory to get her signature on the divorce papers he’d had drawn up months earlier, but it felt too much like an excuse. Rory was a topic he and Bethany both avoided. She hadn’t even asked him about his trip north, which led him to believe she must know something about it, possibly from Derek, or someone else in his family.

“What about a kid and an accident?” she demanded.

“Don’t know.”

“Does she have a child?”

He repeated: “Don’t know.”

“But you’re racing to be with her. A hero.”

Before he could even think about explaining, Beth turned on her heel and headed back into the bedroom. Liam, pissed and frustrated, just went through the motions of showering. His mind raced as he turned off the taps, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded back into the master bedroom of his top floor condominium on Portland’s west side. He had a view much like his parents’, straight up the Willamette toward the Fremont Bridge, its arched span glowing heavenly white, touched by morning sunlight.

Beth was sitting on the bed, dressed in the white blouse, black skirt, and black wedge sandals she’d appeared in the night before. She’d even added the string of pearls, a gift from him, and they lay like a white promise at her throat. She’d pulled a brush from her purse and was slowly dragging it through her hair, not meeting his eyes. She was, in fact, staring at the green plastic Yoda ring lying forgotten on his dresser.

“I’ll call you as soon as I know if it’s Rory,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Her tone was serious, her words clipped. He sensed she’d regained control of herself and was once again holding her emotions in, as she always did. Beth was careful, a characteristic he’d thought he valued, but right now he wished she would just lose it. Yell and scream and make an ugly scene. Show some gumption. Anger. He’d witnessed just a glimpse of it in the shower, thought she might break down the damned glass, but here she was, pretending to be unperturbed. Fake.

He spent less than five minutes back in the bathroom, stepping into clean clothes and running a brush through his hair, not bothering to shave. He felt as if time was slipping through his fingers.

If you don’t get there soon, she’ll vanish. And the sick child. What was that all about?

Back in the bedroom, he buttoned his shirt and scanned the carpet for his shoes. Beth was still sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, her gaze now on him. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, her lips newly glossed. For the first time in months, he felt no urge to kiss her, not even goodbye, and he felt a jab of guilt pierce his brain. The truth was, he was focused on finally facing off with Rory. And what about the sick child? Her baby, most likely. So where was the father? With her? In absentia?

“Okay?” he asked Beth, still feeling as if sand were slipping through an unseen hourglass. If he didn’t get to Laurelton, and soon, Rory would vanish again.

Beth slowly rose, collected her clutch bag, shoved the brush inside. She’d managed some light makeup, but was paler than her usual self.

“Okay,” she answered, which could mean anything, he thought. Nothing good, it seemed. She hesitated by his dresser and then deliberately picked up the Yoda ring, slipping it into her purse before preceding him out of the apartment. A strange gesture of repressed anger. It was all he could do not to run to his Tahoe.

But when he reached his rig, he caught a glimpse of Beth in a nearby parking spot. Steadfastly not looking at him, she was checking out her face in her mirror, touching the edge of her lips as if her lipstick had smeared, then messing with her cell phone.

Fine. Let her dawdle.

He couldn’t wait. He backed out of his spot in the underground garage, drove to the exit, scanned the street for vehicles and pedestrians, then hit the gas.

Jaw set, he drove like a madman, speeding down the highway, disbelieving that he was actually going to see his wife face-to-face after all these years. Traffic was light as it was still early, the sun rising over Mount Hood on the eastern horizon. It was all he could do to stay within ten miles of the speed limit and his heart was beating like the proverbial drum. Dozens of questions, the same old queries, sped through his mind as the Tahoe’s engine raced and its tires hummed over the pavement.

He rolled down the window to clear his mind, taking a page from Beth’s book and forcing his raging emotions under control again. He didn’t completely believe that after all these years he’d finally see her again.

There were too many almosts, too many dead ends.

But if the fates were with him and she was here, in Portland, in the flesh, he wanted to be ready, so he forced himself to be sharp, clear and calm. He wanted a clean divorce from her. Needed to cut all ties from her. But first, of course, he had to have some answers to his questions, the foremost being: Why did she run?

And he wanted to hear those answers from her, face-to-face, before she started talking to the police or the press or a lawyer . . . God, what a mess!

He squinted, the sun catching in his side mirrors, and out of the blue a memory found him and caught hold. In his mind’s eye he saw Rory, laughing, her red hair tossed by the wind that had rippled across the water as they walked, arm in arm, along the shoreline of a lake in Washington. The sky had been cloud covered, dove gray, reflecting its somber color on the water. She’d snatched at her tresses, trying to corral them with one hand, which she finally succeeded in doing. He’d leaned in to kiss her and she’d pushed him away, only to grab him by his shirt and pull him into a real smacker, her lips hot and slick on the cool day.

“Love you,” she said, then skipped away, teasing him, and hurrying along the lakefront.

His heart had clutched as she’d glanced back with an impish look, silently daring him to chase her. Which he had. Eagerly. Along the shoreline as the water had lapped the shore and a few fishermen had cast their lines.

When he caught up with her she giggled and half screamed. He’d wrapped his arms around her, kissed her soundly, and finally ended the embrace and tugged at her arm, pulling her into a small lakeside café known for its Dutch-baby pancakes, raspberry syrup, and strong coffee. They’d landed at a small table with a checked tablecloth and, while the heavyset waitress had hovered and offered suggestions, they’d been so caught up in each other and the promise of a long weekend alone that they’d barely had time to order. To this day Liam didn’t remember what he’d eaten, only that he’d been completely and foolishly besotted with his bride.

He swore softly under his breath as the memory floated away and he found himself tearing along the highway, driving by rote, passing a semi at a good fifteen miles-an-hour over the speed limit. He slipped into the slower lane, tucking the Tahoe in front of the huge truck, and eased up on the gas pedal. God, what was he thinking?

“You trying to get a ticket?” he muttered, running a hand through his still-damp hair. His heart rate had slowed to a little above normal, but it was accelerating again. He could feel himself start to shift, sensed excitement begin to course through his veins, and he mentally cursed himself for being a fool for a woman who had so publicly spurned him, a woman who had run not only from him, but from tragedy, who had . . . well, he’d gone over the same curse a thousand times over. Yet still, he felt a kind of anticipation mixed with hard anger at the thought of finally confronting her.

He’d thought, no, he’d hoped he might skip that particular feeling, but here it was. Kinda pissed him off. How many times was he supposed to feel this way, only to be slammed down again?

He almost wished for a distraction. Something to throw him off course. Something to stop him from going after Rory one more time.

His cell phone rang at that moment. He’d placed it in the cup holder in the console. “Ask and ye shall receive,” he muttered, glancing down at the phone impatiently. He saw it was his foreman. Les Steele.

He clicked on and pushed the speakerphone button so he didn’t have to put the cell to his ear while driving. “Pretty early at the job site, Les, if that’s where you are.”

“Liam . . . yes . . . Here at Hallifax. I’ve called the police,” Steele said, his voice a tight squeak. “Oh, shit, there’s no easy way to tell you this, but there’s a dead woman on the job site.”

“What?” He swerved slightly. “A dead—?”

Steele was nearly babbling, which wasn’t like him at all. “Ah, Jesus, it . . . it looks like she fell. Maybe from the roof. I don’t know. Redhead. She’s all messed up . . . Holy Christ . . . I mean she must’ve fallen.”

Liam’s heart jolted. His normally taciturn foreman was clearly shaken to his boots. “You’re sure—?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure she’s dead. Holy—”

“I’ll be right there.” Liam was already looking for a spot to pull a one-eighty. “You said you’ve already called the police?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do anything. Just stay there.” He wheeled into the parking lot of a strip mall and rounded a few parked cars, heading back to the highway, where he waited for the same damned semi he’d passed earlier to whip past.

“Damn,” he muttered as soon as he’d clicked off. A dead woman?

“No. Shit . . . no . . . it’s not . . . it’s not.” He shook his head, angry for even thinking that. He was consumed by Rory. “Goddammit . . .”

He sped through a yellow light, found the Sunset Highway and headed east, managing to find his sunglasses in the visor and slip them on. Threading his way through the thickening traffic, he headed through the canyon and tunnel, skimmed by the downtown area and over the river. The view of Mount Hood was spectacular, the sun rising over its jagged silhouette, but his mind was on the job site and the dead woman. Who the hell was she? Why was she there? His foot was heavy on the accelerator, and he had to remind himself over and over that there was no reason to go at breakneck speed. He just needed to arrive in one piece, without being slapped with a speeding ticket by some cop hiding in the alleyways between the buildings.

A dead woman.

On Bastian property.

Maybe it was one of the homeless people who’d wandered onto the site and discovered a way inside?

He turned off the main road, found the gravel entrance to the job site, a temporary gate in the wire fencing that ran the perimeter of the property. The gate was wide-open and his Tahoe bounced over several potholes.

He arrived just ahead of the police and found Les, white-faced and drawing hard on a cigarette, standing at the southeastern corner of the building. Liam slammed out of the Tahoe as the police cruiser skidded to a stop, effectively blocking the entrance to the Hallifax site. Two uniformed officers stepped from the vehicle, only steps behind Liam.

“Where?” Liam asked Les as he reached the shorter man.

“Right there.” Les hitched his chin to a spot behind him, then tossed the butt of his cigarette into the dry dirt and gravel, squashing what was left of it with the heel of a work boot.

Liam held up, peering into the shadows where a body lay. He could just see a woman’s leg, bent at an odd angle, her foot encased in a black, heeled sandal, and a tangled matt of red hair. Red . . .

Stumbling past Les, his vision blurred as he thought of Rory, that she could be the victim, her visage pale, her eyes staring blankly in death, he blinked hard. He stopped a few feet from the dead woman and forced himself to stare at the pooling blood beneath her head.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please . . . God, no . . .” So caught up in the horrifying imagery in his head, he was unaware that the officers had joined him until one spoke.

“Officer Donnelly, Portland Police.” The words brought him back. “Sir? Do you know the victim?”

He couldn’t answer for a moment.

It wasn’t Rory. It couldn’t be. He let out his breath slowly and studied the body from a distance. Come on, you know this woman can’t be Rory. You know it, man. You’re just caught up in her because of Jacoby. Pull yourself together.

The police officer—Donnelly, did he say his name was?—asked him, “Sir. Are you okay?”

Donnelly’s partner, the shorter of the two cops, inched forward to bend down and ascertain what was patently obvious: The woman, whoever she was, had died. Horrifically. From a fall. He then looked up to the half-renovated building and its six floors.

Swallowing hard, Liam was pretty sure it wasn’t Rory. It didn’t make sense. There was just no reason for this poor, broken, dead woman to be Rory.

But he didn’t know for certain . . .

“Sir?” Again the serious baritone voice of the taller officer.

“I’m fine,” he lied, and knew everyone there was aware that he was far from being anywhere near “fine.”

Rory was at the hospital, he told himself. Jacoby had said she was there with a sick kid.

Barely registering what the sound was, he heard the roar of an engine, a screech of tires, and the slam of a vehicle’s door. He glanced over his shoulder, still lost in thought. His brother, unshaven, dark sunglasses in place, serious set to his jaw, in jeans and a T-shirt, was striding toward them.

“I called Derek, too,” Les explained, scrabbling in the pocket of his shirt beneath a neon vest, obviously in search of another cigarette.

“What the hell,” Derek said, brushing past Les to where Liam was standing with the police. He gazed down at the body and his intake of breath was a gasp. “Rory?” he said in a strangled voice.

“No,” Liam snapped.

“Jesus, same color hair.”

“You know this woman?” Donnelly asked Derek.

“No . . . I don’t think so.” Derek stared at the corpse in shock.

“Are you the owners of this property?” the shorter officer asked. Liam read his name tag. DVORAK.

Liam managed to pull himself back to the present. “Yes, I’m Liam Bastian. This is my brother, Derek Bastian. The Hallifax apartment building is a Bastian-Flavel Construction renovation project.” He turned to Steele and added, “Les Steele is project manager. He called us as well as the police.”

“Could I get a closer look?” Derek asked.

Donnelly said, “Just don’t touch her.”

“Don’t worry. Not happening.”

“Call it in,” Donnelly said to Dvorak, and the shorter officer double-timed it back to the cruiser. By now a small crowd had started to collect on the other side of the street at a coffee shop. Three people were huddled together, all with white coffee cups, eyeing them with concern. The woman was holding the leash of a bouncing Jack Russell terrier in her free hand; the kid of nineteen or so in a long-sleeved tee, baggy jeans, and stocking cap, was drinking from his cup while balanced on a skateboard; and the third person, an older black guy in glasses and a Blazers’ cap, was slowly shaking his head, as if making some kind of judgment call. “We’ll need the coroner and crime scene,” Donnelly called after Dvorak.

“Got it,” the shorter cop yelled back.

When Derek moved toward the body, Liam did as well. He wanted to know. Dreaded to know. Had to know.

The dead woman’s head was twisted, facing away from them. The left side of her face looked normal and her eyes were open. Brown eyes. Dark roots. Dyed hair. Not Rory.

Liam felt something give inside him. The invisible steel rod that had been holding up his backbone. It wasn’t Rory. The dead woman wasn’t Rory.

Derek verbalized his thoughts. “I don’t know her. I thought it might be . . . well, but it’s not. It’s not anyone we know. Or . . . you don’t know her, do you?” he asked Liam.

“No.”

“Shit. She’s a mess.”

Les, smoking and keeping his distance, grunted his agreement.

Dvorak returned to stay with the body, his cell phone in his hand while Donnelly trooped to the front of the building. Derek and Liam followed after him and Les brought up the rear. “Front door’s open,” Donnelly observed. “Lock broken. Jamb splintered.”

“It was a crappy lock,” Derek muttered, shooting Les a look of accusation.

Les said, “Temporary door. We’re putting the steel one on today. Just a couple more hours and she wouldn’t have gotten in.” He looked shattered, as if he might break down completely. “This homeless problem . . .”

“She doesn’t look like a homeless woman,” Liam pointed out, still slightly dazed.

“Uh-uh,” Derek agreed. “Nice clothes and shoes.”

Donnelly headed inside the building, ducking a little even though there was plenty of headroom. Liam, Derek, and Les were requested to stay outside until the coroner’s wagon arrived. The three of them collected near the guarding officer who’d returned from the cruiser to stand by the body.

“Did she jump?” Derek asked.

Les squinted up at the top floor of the building and shrugged.

Liam was lost in thought. He was undone. The image of the dead girl seemingly imprinted on his retina. Still, he was relieved she wasn’t Rory. But she was someone. Someone’s daughter, or sister, or wife, or even possibly mother. Though he’d escaped the particular agony of losing a loved one, someone—several people, no doubt—hadn’t been so lucky.

To change the course of his thoughts, he eyed his brother. “Why did you call her Rory?”

“Don’t know. Just reacted. Probably because we’ve been talking about her and, come on, you saw it too. That woman back there”—he turned his thumb toward the mangled body—“she looked like Rory.”

“But Rory knows nothing about this project,” Liam said. “She’s been gone for years.”

“Come on, man. That dead girl looks like her! Why couldn’t it have been her? You were just chasing after her. I thought maybe she came back and . . . I don’t know . . . followed you.”

Donnelly cut in. “So none of you have any idea who the victim is?”

Derek and Liam and Les all shook their heads. Les let out a long stream of smoke. “You know, that lock was stiff. Hard to work. Even Charlie has trouble with it.” Charlie Zenk was a framer, big, burly guy. “So I don’t know how she broke it open by herself. You’d need a crowbar.”

“Maybe she had one,” Derek said. “Or found one on the job site. The subs are always leaving their tools around.”

“Not if I catch ’em. Most are pretty careful. Their tools are their livelihood, but even if she had a tool, why? Just doesn’t seem like she’d go to all the trouble, dressed like she was.”

“You think someone was with her?” Liam asked Les, then checked the time on his phone. He’d gotten the call from Jacoby at five thirty and now it was just after seven.

“I don’t know.” Another contemplative drag on his Marlboro.

“If there was another person here, forensics might be able to find some trace of them,” Dvorak said. His eyes seemed to assess the three of them with more suspicion than his taller partner.

Derek frowned and turned to Liam. “What do you think?”

“Huh?”

“Where’s your head, man? We got a dead body here.”

Liam looked away. He was having trouble focusing on the suicide victim, which was how he was viewing her, because of Rory. Her death would have to be investigated by the authorities, and if they determined it wasn’t an accident or suicide, a homicide investigation would ensue.

Homicide?

Was it possible that she was murdered?

Liam glanced to the top of the building. Had there been a struggle? Was she pushed? Did she stumble and fall? Was she alone? Or . . . ?

Who knew?

The crowd by the coffee shop entrance was growing. More lookie-loos staring, the skateboarder gliding across the street for a closer vantage point.

Cognizant of time ticking away, he glanced at his watch. He didn’t know why this poor girl had come to the Bastian-Flavel Construction building, but she had. Maybe she’d been partying nearby and the party had transferred to the empty building. “If you don’t need anything further from me, I’ve got to go,” he said to Dvorak, then reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and retrieved a business card. “If you need me for anything else, you can reach me either at the office or on my cell.”

Dvorak took his card. “We may have more questions. The detectives, you know.”

“Have them call me.”

“Where are you going?” Derek demanded.

“To work. At the office.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No.” Liam was firm. “Stay and wait with them for the coroner.”

Derek gazed in shock at his brother, who was usually the more responsible of the two. He appeared about to protest, but held himself back. Instead he explained to both Liam and the cops, “Look. We’ve been having some sabotage around here. Those broken windows? Those weren’t accidental. And I know who did it, or I got a best guess anyway.”

Donnelly looked from Derek to the building. “You want to make a report?”

“You bet I do. The perp, the guy who’s been breaking in? His name is Everett Stemple.”

“Derek,” Liam snapped. “You can’t just make accu—”

“That’s right.” Derek rolled right over him. “Everett Stemple. He’s related to Liam’s ex and his dad’s in prison for a crime the two of them did together.”

Liam’s ex . . . Not yet, but soon. Annoyed, Liam yelled back at them as he walked away, “Derek, don’t make conjecture sound like fact.”

He heard the officer ask, “But this Everett wasn’t arrested?”

“Skated somehow. But he’s got a record. Probably a rap sheet a mile long.” Derek was serious. The last thing Liam heard was his brother saying, “I don’t know who this girl is, but check on Everett Stemple. I’d bet a trip to Las Vegas that he’s involved in this somehow . . .”

* * *

Laurelton General was twenty minutes from the Hallifax building, but with morning traffic it took about double that time now. By the time Liam wheeled into the parking lot, he felt hot and anxious and angry. He hadn’t gone to the office. He’d said that for Derek’s benefit. Instead he’d driven straight here, pushing the speed limit when he could, his head wrapped in thoughts of Rory, her sick kid, and a mysterious redheaded woman who’d wound up dead at the Hallifax apartment project.

Inside the concrete-and-steel building on the west side of town, he strode to the information desk, asking for Rory Abernathy, a name which got him nowhere, so he tried Heather Johnson and mentioned that she was here with her child, who was ill and had been admitted.

“What’s the patient’s first name?” the helpful woman at the desk asked, smiling at him. He returned the smile, realizing he needed more information from Jacoby.

“I don’t know. I know . . . Heather, she’s the mother. I think they were admitted yesterday.”

The welcoming glow was starting to drift from her face. “I’ll check on them,” she said, and Liam could tell he was being dismissed. Privacy laws. He realized the prim woman with the sharp, bespectacled eyes was on guard, ready to call security at the least little suspicious act. Damn it all to hell.

“Okay, I’ll be back,” he said congenially. “I’m going to hit the cafeteria.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

But Liam had turned away and pretended not to hear. Hell, no, he wasn’t going to announce his presence. He headed in the direction of the cafeteria, then finding an elevator, rang for it, having no idea where to go next.

His heart was pounding rapidly. Maybe he should wait out in the parking lot. Eventually she would come out, if she was here. But what if it was another wild-goose chase? Who could he call to get past the gatekeepers and find out if Rory was truly on site?

He fished his cell phone from his pocket and contacted Jacoby. The PI didn’t pick up and Liam clicked off in frustration. He could text the man, and was in the process of thinking what to compose, when one of the elevators reached the main floor and its doors whispered open. He was turned slightly away, involved in his would-be call, but he looked over his shoulder and saw Darlene Stemple, dressed in some long, flowing dress, step out of the car and into the wide hallway.

He froze.

She saw him at the same moment and her mouth opened in an O of surprise. “Liam!” she shrieked as a red-haired woman stepped out of the elevator behind her, nearly colliding with her as Darlene had stopped short.

The woman’s head snapped up. She stared at him and shock registered on her oh, so beautiful and familiar face.

His heart slammed into his rib cage but he didn’t so much as crack a smile.

“Hi, Rory,” Liam said calmly, his tone cold enough to start a new Ice Age.