One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (20)

Chapter 20

Rory was wrong on that score. It took her nearly three hours with first a stop at the Laurelton Police Department (she’d wanted to get an update on Cal, if she could, find out if they’d learned anything new, but they were politely uninformative), then she’d had to wrangle with the manager of the Lamplighter in order to gather her belongings. She also stopped at an all-in-one store and bought some water toys, floaties, and a swimming suit for Charlotte she found on sale.

As she picked up essentials of peanut butter, jelly, bread, cereal, fruit, and the like, she wondered just how long they would be staying with Liam’s family. Not long, she told herself as she placed her items on the checkout counter, refusing to look too far into a future that was murky at best. One night in Liam’s bed and a couple of days of being with him did not a lifetime make, she reminded herself as she hauled her purchases to her car where it sat baking in the sun.

Liam seemed to get it that she wasn’t involved in the attack at the wedding and had forgiven her for fleeing and hiding out, at least temporarily, but there was still the matter of the mystery surrounding the shooting. On that issue she wasn’t completely in the clear with Seattle PD, but at least no one was trying to arrest her.

Yet.

She drove with the windows down, and worried her lower lip as she tried to piece together what had happened that awful day. Again. How many times had she wondered who had attacked the wedding party and why? Now that she knew about Cal, she considered if he’d been involved in the shooting, too. Or, maybe it was someone he knew? A partner in crime? She slowed for a red light, once again coming up with no answers. Cal was in custody, so maybe he’d break, come completely clean, give up whoever was working with him, if that was the way it had gone down.

A horn blasted behind her and Rory realized the light had changed while she was lost in thought. Shooting a quick glimpse into her mirror, she saw the driver of a silver SUV holding up his hands, fingers spread in a what the hell are you doing, lady? gesture of complete frustration . “Sorry,” she said aloud and hit the gas, but she wasn’t fast enough for him. He sped around her in the intersection, a flash of silver glinting in the sunlight . . .

Her heart lurched as a memory assailed her. The wedding day. Running. Escaping. Confused. A silver SUV barreling in and spiraling toward the upper levels of a parking garage, nearly hitting her. Maybe gray? Not clean and shining like the one that just zoomed past her, but dirty. Had it been DeGrere’s? Racing to the scene of his crime? Or had it been someone else’s vehicle?

Turning the fragment of recall over in her mind, she drove onward, and by the time she’d returned to the Bastian estate the July sun had reached its apex and was slowly starting its descent. She carried several bags up the stairs into the apartment, found it empty, and looked out to the pool. No one there. Fighting back a burst of panic that something had gone wrong, she remembered that she’d seen Darlene’s distinctive Toyota parked near the garage.

“Everything’s cool,” she said, taking a breath, annoyed at her rollicking pulse. She hastened down the stairs to the main house and stepped into the back hallway. She was about to call out when Stella suddenly appeared.

“Oh, hi,” Rory said awkwardly.

Her mother-in-law . . . hard to believe they still shared that connection . . . looked her up and down, not mentioning her scrapes and bruises, though her gaze lingered on the left side of Rory’s face. Before anything more could be said, Charlotte came sliding around the corner, looking flushed.

“You all right?” Rory asked, worried. She could feel the animosity radiating off Stella in waves. Well, Rory was pissed right back. No one ever said you had to like your in-laws. Though her relationship with Liam was tenuous, she was still married to him, and Stella could just chew on that.

Darlene was right on Charlotte’s heels. “Oh, she’s fine. Just running around like a monkey, even though I try to tell her to take it easy like the doctor ordered.”

Stella said coolly, “I’ll be in my rooms if anyone needs me.”

A clamor of noise, and then Vivian’s two children came bursting into view as well, nearly running into their grandmother. “Charlotte!” the little girl squealed.

“Mommy, they like to chase me!” Charlotte said, delighted.

Stella tip-tapped away on heels, her blond hair swept into a chignon, her black sundress showing off toned calves and arms. A young woman came into view and attempted to shoo the children back toward the kitchen—the babysitter, Rory realized.

Charlotte turned to follow after the children, but Rory grabbed her. “Hey, wait a minute.” Charlotte skidded to a stop and regarded her mother impatiently. “A hello kiss?” Rory asked.

Charlotte’s face cleared and she hurried back, slid a kiss across Rory’s lips, then skittered after her newfound friends.

“Been like that all morning,” Darlene said. “She’s really bounced back.”

“I’m really glad you’re here. I don’t know what I would have done . . .”

“Hey, she’s mine, too. She’s got a great aura. Reminds me of you, when you were little.”

Rory nodded but didn’t respond. She owed her mother for stepping up and helping her. And even though she understood Darlene’s last observation was a positive one, she never liked tempting fate; continuing that kind of dialogue might set off a groundswell of pseudo-psychic comments and catchphrases.

Darlene touched Rory’s arm in a conspiratorial way and jerked her head to indicate she should follow her back through the door and up the carpeted stairway.

“Now that we’re finally alone. Tell me, how was last night?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you stayed with Liam. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Rory answered cautiously.

“Everyone thinks it’s because of you that Liam broke up with Bethany.”

“For God’s sake. I wasn’t the reason.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Rory then launched into Liam’s distrust of the private detective, Jacoby, and his relationship to the Van Hornes, but Darlene had already ceased listening.

“It’s just wonderful that the two of you have found your way back to each other.”

“We’re a long way from that,” Rory protested.

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re still married, a family now. He sees that, I’m sure. You were never supposed to be apart.”

“Mom . . .”

“I’m not blaming you for cutting out. Cal was stalking you. He attacked you! You had to do something. I see that, but now that we know who’s at fault here . . .” She broke off on a sigh and looked around, as if expecting someone to be listening. “I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to get upset.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. What?”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s just that . . . well, Everett contacted me.”

“What?”

“Shhh. He wasn’t the one following you. That was Cal. And Everett’s changed, I’ve told you he’s changed.”

“Mom, I don’t know for sure if Cal was following me. I never thought I saw him.”

“Just hear me out. Everett’s coming down to Portland to clear the air. He’s hurt that you think he has any involvement in the shooting. We can talk to him together, if you like.”

“I don’t want to talk to him at all”—she flashed back to the nights as a teenager and her fear that her oldest stepbrother would sneak into her room—“ever.”

“I hear you. I just know that Liam wants to get to the bottom of what happened at the wedding, and I thought you did, too.”

“Of course I do!”

“We don’t know for sure who the shooter was. You remember, Harold, Everett, and I all took lie detector tests and we all passed, because we had nothing to do with the shooting.”

“Yes, Mom. I know.”

“Just talk to Everett. You’ll see. And you can eliminate him as a suspect.”

Rory shuddered inwardly at the thought of seeing her stepbrother again. She hated that her mother was actually making sense about this. Trying to be rational, she said, “I need to talk to Liam about this.”

“Great idea. Call him.” Darlene nodded her agreement. “He should meet with Everett, too.”

“He’s working. I . . .” She didn’t know how to say that she didn’t want to bother him, that their relationship was too new once again, too fragile. She didn’t even know if they had a relationship. Maybe last night was just a one-night stand, a goodbye, or a response to high emotion after the fight in the motel room where lives were at stake. She didn’t want to be a pest, and she definitely didn’t want to see Everett. “When is he coming?”

“He’s going to call me when he gets to Portland.”

“Today?”

“Well, I think so, I—”

“Aurora?” Geoff Bastian’s distinctive voice shut Darlene off as if someone had cut off her tongue.

Rory froze. “Yes?”

She heard the squeak of his wheelchair, and a few moments later he appeared at the end of the hallway. His hair was a little grayer, his countenance stern, and, of course, he was seated in the chair, his legs useless though his upper body appeared strong and his eyes, as they drilled into her, looked sharp as ever. His mouth was a thin line, bespeaking his foul mood.

Rory held her breath, wondering what this was all about. Nothing good.

“That guy roughed you up a little,” he observed.

“I’m okay.”

His eyebrows tweaked a bit and she wondered if she should start wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap.

“Would you mind following me to my den? There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Should I come?” Darlene asked, but the dark look Liam’s father sent her made his feelings known. She shrank away.

With a last look back at her mother, Rory trailed after Geoffrey Bastian, who’d done a police U-turn in his wheelchair and was moving into the main body of the house, turning down a hallway lined with pictures of the family, everyone included, Rory noted, except for her.

No surprise there.

* * *

That morning Liam had had to make a quick detour on his way to the Flavel job site after a call from Jarrod Uller, the foreman under Steele who’d reported a water main had been clipped with a backhoe at the Hallifax building. The driver of the equipment had been beside himself, claiming it wasn’t his fault, so Uller had called in Liam. By the time he made it to Hallifax, the operator, a tobacco-chewing twentysomething, had calmed down some, saying it was lucky it was a water line he’d hit, not gas—and amen to that. The plumber blamed the backhoe operator, and there was a bit of a glaring standoff before the pipe was fixed and work resumed. Afterwards Uller had walked Liam to his SUV and said, “Children,” in his supercilious way, before heading to his own truck.

Uller was a proficient foreman, but the man was a little too slick for his own good. Liam preferred the older, no-nonsense Steele to the handsome fortysomething Uller.

Now Liam pulled out his cell as he climbed into his rig. True to his word, Les Steele had sent pictures of the vandalism in a series of text messages. Ugly stuff. Angry and personal. Directed at his family. Bastian Pigs and Rich Bastards were scrawled along the walls with the usual four-letter words used to describe, in graphic terms, what should be done to anyone named Bastian.

Not teenagers. Someone with a grudge, someone who had it in for the family and the company. Who? Why? Were they seriously dangerous? Or were they just cowards with extra cans of spray paint stacking up in their garages and basements? One culprit? Or more?

His Tahoe was parked on the street, in the shade of a nearby, mainly vacant, two-storied office building, which boasted a commercial Realtor’s FOR SALE sign in several of the windows. Before heading out, he called Derek, who picked up on the second ring. “Yo, little bro,” Derek greeted him.

“On my way to Flavel,” Liam told him. “More broken windows, vandalism.”

“Huh. Maybe we should thank them for doing the demolition for us.”

“Let’s meet over there.”

“You got it.”

“I’ll call Dad.”

He heard Derek suck in his breath. “You think that’s a good idea?”

Liam grimaced, watching a plastic bag caught in the wind float past his car. “He’ll be pissed if we don’t keep him in the loop.”

“It’s your funeral.”

“Yep.” He started the engine of his rig. “Okay, see ya there.”

“How’d it go with Rory last night?” Derek asked.

“Well enough.” He wasn’t going to elaborate, though of course his brother probably wanted to know if they’d spent the night together. Let him figure it out for himself.

“Just like old times?”

“She’s my wife, Derek.” Liam couldn’t keep the bite out of his words. He didn’t want to discuss Rory with anyone, least of all his brother.

“No details?”

“How old are you? Twelve? Just meet me at Flavel.”

“Ever figure out what Beth meant about knowing something about your family?”

“Haven’t really had time to think about it.”

“That good last night, huh?”

“I’ll be at Flavel in twenty.” Liam cut the connection, then pulled away from the curb. Why was it his brother could so easily get under his skin?

As his vehicle melded with traffic, he called his father via voice activation of his Bluetooth connection. But his call went unanswered. Pulling into the right lane, he tried again, this time calling the house, letting it ring until, surprisingly, Vivian answered.

“Thought this was your first day,” Liam said.

“Yeah, well, I’m trying to get back there. Got the babysitter here, and what do you know, she suddenly has to leave. Some problem with her ailing mother, which I think is bullshit, but okay. I had to whip back here, and now I’m trying to leave again.”

“The office can wait, Viv,” Liam said. They were basically making a job for her anyway, so there was no rush. But she was testy about it, so he added, “Aren’t Rory and Darlene there?”

“Yes, and Charlotte, but it’s not like . . . I don’t know . . . I can just dump my children on them. We really hardly know each other, and what are you doing with her, anyway?”

“With Rory?”

“Is everything cool now? With you and your better half? You just going to forgive and forget?”

“Where’s Mom?” Liam asked, fighting annoyance.

“In her rooms. She’s not sharing any space with Rory, or Darlene, or anyone else. You know how she gets.” She let out a huff. “As if Mom would be any real help anyway.”

A guy in a white BMW swung into his lane, nearly clipping the front panel of his Tahoe, and Liam slammed on his brakes, biting back a curse.

Vivian was rambling on. “It’s summer and my kids are running in and out of the house and jumping in the pool and screaming their bloody heads off. Charlotte’s there, too, as much as Darlene and your little wifey will let her be, since she just got out of the hospital. Big fight about going in the pool. Everyone’s afraid Charlotte’s going to die or something if she gets wet.”

Though he loved Viv, sometimes she could be a pain in the neck. “I’ll bring them back to my place.”

“Oh, don’t be pissy, for God’s sake. I’m just joking. Everyone’s so fucking touchy.”

Sensing she was about to hang up on him, he said, “Wait, I want to talk to Dad.”

“He’s in a meeting with your little wifey.”

“What? Why?”

“Ask them. They just went in his den together,” she snapped, then mused, “Maybe he’s rewriting his will as we speak.”

“Unlikely.” The truth was, Liam didn’t know what to think, but he sensed that Geoff wouldn’t be welcoming her back to the family. “Tell him to call me.”

“If I see him, I will. Gotta go.” And she disconnected.

Liam almost turned around, worry stirring in his gut. But Steele was waiting for him, Derek was meeting them at the job site, and he couldn’t rationally see how a conversation between Rory and his father would be truly harmful. Maybe it would even clear the air. Geoff had a tendency to fall into black moods, before and after the shooting, but he’d always managed to rally for company.

Arriving at the Flavel building and seeing the neon green and orange paint sprayed so ineloquently across the new stone façade, he set his jaw. He eyed the vandalism as he climbed from his rig to meet Steele, who, in a safety vest and hard hat, was striding across a gravel access road. He was pointing to his head and Liam nodded before reaching into the back seat and pulling out his white hard hat with the BASTIAN-FLAVEL CONSTRUCTION logo.

Somebody’s got it in for us, he thought.

Derek’s Ford truck wheeled into the lot in a spray of gravel and cloud of dust. He climbed out and stalked toward them, then stopped short and glowered at the graffiti. “This shit never ends. First a chick kills herself on our property and now this?”

Les said, “We’ll get it cleaned up pronto.”

“Yeah. No shit. Do that. Don’t we have security cams?” Derek asked, searching the surrounding area, shading his eyes as he stared first at the dilapidated building, then farther afield, toward distant buildings screened by overgrown brush that was working its way to the Flavel building’s front door.

Steele said, “Not yet. Gettin’ them soon.” His fingers searched beneath his safety vest to a pocket beneath, liberating a pack of cigarettes. “There’s no homeless to root out, at least. Some were here, but we had a sweep about three weeks ago. Either Uller or I make it a point to check on the place every morning.”

“You trust him?” Derek questioned.

“Uller? Yes.” Lester lit up, drew hard, blew smoke in a geyser from the side of his mouth and gazed hard at Derek. “That’s not where I’d look.”

“Where would you look?” Derek asked with a trace of belligerence.

“Derek . . .” Liam had already had enough drama for one day and it wasn’t even noon.

“Barlow Construction. Ned Barlow,” the foreman said.

“Ned Barlow?” Derek blinked. “You gotta be kidding.”

“Nope.”

Liam said, “Barlow might still be upset that Lester and Jarrod came to work for us.”

“You believe that?” Derek asked Liam curiously.

“It’s possible,” Liam answered.

Steele put in, “There’s not a lot of love lost between him and your old man. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Derek frowned at the building again. “Let’s not mention this to Dad. Not until we know something more. It could set him off.” He looked at each of the other men. “Nobody wants that.”

For once Liam agreed with his brother. They talked for a few more minutes, and Les left to check out other jobs. Liam did a quick tour of the building’s five floors, a walk-up with no elevator. Nothing but broken glass, dust, and bits of trash from earlier homeless encampments greeted him.

He returned to his SUV where Derek was lounging against the back bumper. Good ol’ Derek. He never wanted to do more than he felt he was getting paid for.

Derek asked, “You believe that shit about Barlow?”

Liam shrugged. “Not really. He and Dad had their moments, but that . . .”

He hitched a thumb toward the crude, scrawled message. “Not really his style.”

“Maybe it’s Uller, or even Steele himself.”

Liam’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I’m not paranoid, bro. Both worked for Barlow, and Les just said it, there’s still bad blood between Barlow and Dad.”

“Steele’s one of the best foremen we’ve had in a long while,” Liam snapped back, forgetting in the moment that Derek had been one of those less than worthy ones.

But Derek didn’t take offense. “I didn’t tell you this because you were all caught up in the Rory thing, but Uller’s come to me a couple of times, wanting to borrow money. He lives a little fast and rich, y’know? When I didn’t loan him the money, he went to the accountant and tried to get an advance on his paycheck.” He looked at Liam. “Again, no go. And he’s tried more than once.”

“How come I didn’t know this?” Liam demanded.

“Not for publication, apparently. I only know because I was there at the time, at the office, and I overheard the conversation. After Uller left I asked the bookkeeper about it, and he said it had happened a couple of times before, but Uller was always given a turndown. He never mentioned it to me, but he could have talked to Dad.”

Liam was pretty sure if anything had gone on in the company like that and Geoff found out, he’d be calling Liam on the carpet as fast as possible.

“And he’s got paint. Saw a couple of cans in his truck. Uses it to mark stuff on the buildings, lets the other subs know where he’s plannin’ to run wires or notch out boxes and switches. Whatever.”

“Everyone on the job has access to paint.”

“Okay, maybe I’m wrong.” He lifted his hands. “Just don’t want us to look bad, in case it comes down that way.” His cell phone beeped and he pulled it from his pocket, started walking backwards to his Ford truck. “We done here?” he asked Liam.

Liam glanced again at the ugly words splayed across the building. “For now.”

* * *

Rory sat in the chair opposite Geoff’s desk in a room that was all dark wood, leather-bound editions, and crystal decanters of what looked to be whiskey. A cupboard held scrolled blueprints, their neatly wound ends visible. French doors led to the covered patio outside, and the pool beyond. The hint of a recently smoked cigar lingered in the air.

The whole effect was designed to portend wealth, power, and probably intimidation.

Geoff had deftly maneuvered his wheelchair into position on the opposite side of what seemed to be acres of walnut, and now he was staring at her, wheels turning silently in his mind. If this was intimidation, it was working, and Rory stiffened her spine and forced herself to stare back at him. This was, after all, a meeting he’d asked for. Was he just playing with her, or did he really have something to say?

After a long minute of scrutiny, he finally said, “Do you think I was the target of the attack at your wedding?”

Rory was a bit surprised. “It’s one theory,” she said slowly, wondering where this was going. “No one’s said for sure that you were the intended victim, just that . . . somehow you were hit.”

“I know all the theories. What I asked is what you think.”

“As I said, I’m not sure. The police are working on it.”

“Are they?” His eyes flashed, his temper and patience snapping in an instant. “They’ve been ‘working on it’ for five years and still don’t have answers.” His face, suffused with blood, turned a dull red. “When I find out who put me in this cage, let me tell you, they’re going to pay.” He slammed his hands down on the arms of the wheelchair. “I don’t care who it is, you understand?”

She nearly jumped. “Yes.”

“Even if it’s your brother.”

So there it was. He thought Everett was behind the attack. Everett, who was on his way to Portland. Funny how his name kept coming up.

“You understand?”

“My stepbrother,” she corrected carefully, aware he was working himself up to a full-blown fury. “And yes.”

“Or anyone in your family. Anyone,” he said pointedly, his gaze drilling into her.

Did he think she was behind the assault? A part of it? The mastermind? When she’d been running for her life?

She slowly rose from her chair and leaned across the desk. “If you’re insinuating that I was behind . . . this,” she said, pointing at his chair, “you’re sadly mistaken. I was attacked as well.”

“And disappeared. Conveniently. You think we’re all going to believe that you had nothing to do with that bloodbath?”

She could feel her own temper hitting the stratosphere, but was saved from answering when there was a tap on the door.

“What?” Geoff demanded.

Vivian poked her head in. “I’m leaving. Just wanted Rory to know because of the kids. I don’t know where Darlene is, at the moment. The sitter’s gone on another emergency, but Mom’s in her rooms. She’ll watch Landon and Estella.” Then, as if sensing the tension in the room, the barely repressed anger, she just lifted a hand and stepped back out.

“Where are you going?” her father barked.

“Back to work, Dad.” She looked from him to Rory with a what the hell’s going on here? expression.

He snorted derisively and waved a dismissing hand at her. “Go.”

Viv sent one last glance at Rory, a silent question. Rory said, “I’m right behind you,” and followed her out. She wasn’t about to take Geoff’s accusations any longer. Yes, she and Charlotte were guests in his house, but if he threw her out, so be it.

As she started out after Vivian, Geoff’s hard voice followed her: “I may be stuck in this chair, but I know men who can get things done. Anything for a price. When the truth comes out, you’d better hope you’re on the right side of this!”

* * *

Shanice stared through the windshield of her Ford Escape, her gaze focused on the straight stretch of I-5 in front of her. She and Mick were heading steadily south from Seattle. Since DeGrere’s death there had been renewed interest in the shooting and assassination at the Bastian wedding, and Mick had been fielding calls from Seattle PD and several reporters. He’d been offered a job to learn the truth, and he and Shanice had been on the road for nearly three hours, heading to Oregon, determined to talk to Rory Abernathy Bastian aka Heather Johnson and get some answers.

Mick was just pocketing his phone after a long, mostly one-sided conversation with a friend in the police department. He cracked the window, then thought better of it with the rush of wind and traffic noise and closed it again.

“So,” she said, nudging Mick to share. “What are they saying now? Does Seattle PD think Abernathy’s involved in Pete’s death?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “Pretty tight-lipped about all that. They want to take and not give. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Still won’t say if they’ve pegged Pete as the shooter at the wedding.”

She snorted. “You mean they don’t want to admit you were right.”

“They’re already getting shit about not finding Abernathy for five years and then all hell breaks loose at once: Pete DeGrere gets out, hardly has time to drink a beer and get a hard-on at a strip club before he’s murdered. And it happened at the time Abernathy shows up in Portland with a sick kid. But that’s not the end of it. Last night Seattle PD gets a call, and guess what? Abernathy was attacked by Cal Redmond, an ex who’s holding a grudge. A big one. According to Abernathy he’s the one who attacked her at the wedding.”

“But DeGrere’s the shooter.”

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

She pulled into the slower lane. Her cell phone rang, she saw it was Deon and didn’t pick up. Their relationship had been on its last gasp for too long. The man just didn’t understand the phrase, “It’s over.” Letting the phone go to voice mail, she turned her attention back to Mick. “You think Redmond was in cahoots with DeGrere? They were partners?”

Mick glanced at the phone. “You wanna get that?”

“Uh-uh. Redmond and DeGrere?”

“Unknown. Redmond is claiming he wasn’t involved in the shooting. Didn’t have any idea it was going down, is completely innocent of that crime. He was just there to break up the wedding, I guess, maybe slice up his ex—scare her or kill her, still unclear—but mess up everything. Don’t know if he knew she was already legally married to Liam Bastian. If he did, it was all for show.”

“And vengeance.”

“Yeah.” Mick rubbed his neck in frustration. “Redmond’s in custody now. Clammed up. Demanded a lawyer, but so far, his story checks out. Once they compare his blood to the sample on the wedding dress that Abernathy ditched, we’ll know.”

Shanice took a quick check over her shoulder, then switched lanes to pass a semi even though it was barreling down the freeway at a few miles over the speed limit. She eased off on the accelerator but hated slowing down, even a few miles an hour. The trip was long, three to four hours depending on traffic, and she had the feeling that time was of the essence, that she was in some kind of race with an invisible enemy. She couldn’t hide her anticipation that she was going to finally meet the disappearing Abernathy and be able to ask her the questions that had kept her awake for the past five years. And finally, maybe Aaron would get some justice. “Hard to believe that the two attacks that day were completely separate and unrelated.”

“Stranger things have happened, I suppose,” Mick said, not sounding convinced. They talked it out a bit, going around in circles just as the tires of her little car kept spinning down the freeway.

Finally, Shanice posed, “What are the chances that Redmond’s lying and he was the one who killed DeGrere?”

“Police are checking his alibi now. He claims he was at work when Pete was offed. He works with his girlfriend in a catering business. She says he was around, but maybe she’s covering for him. He could’ve driven up to the Nile, killed Pete, and driven back without raising notice if she wasn’t paying attention or is covering for him now.”

“And somewhere in there an Abernathy look-alike falls off a building at one of the Bastian-Flavel real estate deals,” she reminded him.

“Look-alike?” he repeated. “The leaper?”

“Red hair. Same kind of body type. That was your description of her. What’s her name?”

“McVaney . . . no, Mulvaney. Teri. No one knows if she fell, jumped, or was pushed.”

“Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind that there might be some connection. She dies soon after DeGrere is killed, when Rory Abernathy reappears, before the latest attack on her.”

“Look-alike,” he said again. He could admit the resemblance between Aurora Abernathy and Teri Mulvaney was uncanny. Shanice had hit on it the second she saw the photo on the driver’s license of the dead woman. “They’re not dead ringers, but . . .”

“Red hair, fine features, about the same build . . . they could be sisters, if not twins.” She slid him another glance.

“She could have just fallen. Someone gets drunk, decides to climb to the upper story and slips and falls. Not often, but it does happen.”

“Why not go up to one of the restaurants with elevators and a view, then? Nah, she was up there for a reason,” Shanice said. “Maybe with someone.”

“She had sex with someone shortly before her death.”

“The guy who gave her a little push?” Shanice suggested, then, “Damn! Watch out!” She slammed on her brakes, holding tight to the wheel. The little car slewed sideways but stayed in the lane as she hit the brakes.

A motorcycle cut through the space between her Escape and the pickup she was following, then hit the gas in the slow lane, accelerating and whining to whip around a slower vehicle. The bike wove in and out of traffic doing eighty-five or ninety. “Where the hell is a cop when you need one?” she asked rhetorically before picking up the conversation again. “So, what—Seattle PD thinks Rory Abernathy’s reappearance is all a coincidence?”

“They’re not saying. Ex-cops aren’t on the need to know list.”

“Hey, we’re the ones who finally got through to DeGrere’s sister. Being an ex-cop helped you. Ex being the word.”

Pete DeGrere’s sister, Sally, had no use for the authorities, and only by promises and pleas that no, he was no longer with the police department or any other law enforcement agency had she agreed to see them. Just yesterday they’d driven to Sally DeGrere Brown’s house, a mobile home set on a brick foundation in a park. She’d been upset and red-eyed, weeping and smoking, carrying on about her brother. She’d clearly wanted to talk to someone, but had adamantly refused to speak to the police, saying she knew nothing about her brother, and that was that.

However, with Shanice, an understanding woman, paving the way, Sally had reluctantly opened her door to them. “He wasn’t all bad,” she’d said, dabbing at her eyes as her three cats eyed Mick and Shanice with unblinking suspicion. A calico was hidden under the couch, peering fearfully from beneath the frayed and sparse fringe; a tuxedo sat on a window ledge eyeing a bird feeder with lust, his long, black tail twitching, his white whiskers shivering as he studied the sparrows flitting around the strewn seeds; and a big gray tabby watched the intruders with disdain from its spot on the dining room table, right on top of a lacy cloth.

Sally, her frosted, thinning hair pulled into a ponytail, had beseeched them. “He didn’t do it. I’ve said it over and over. He wouldn’t shoot anybody . . . kill anybody. I just don’t understand.”

Mick wanted to remind her that her brother had been a marksman in the service, but that would have gotten him nowhere. Instead, he and Shanice nodded sympathetically and she’d finally allowed them into the room she’d set up for him, a paneled eight-by-ten bedroom with a twin bed, sleeping bag, and narrow plastic dresser. On the dresser stood a bowling trophy, a framed high school graduation diploma, and a sharpshooter award from a local range.

Shanice had casually asked about it, and Sally had nodded so fast her ponytail had quivered. “Oh, yes, he was a good shot. Learned hunting from Dad. He got his first rifle, a twenty-two if I remember correctly, probably by the time he was eight, maybe nine. Loved to hunt. Anything—birds, squirrels, deer, you name it. He’d draw a bead on it and . . .” She seemed to finally hear herself and broke off . . . switching to, “Petey had his faults, you know. Couldn’t pass a bar without going in, but he was a good man, good brother.”

Mick thought about where Pete DeGrere had been found, behind a pussy parlor called the Nile, but he kept listening earnestly. Sally’s thoughts apparently were traveling down the same path, because she said, “That Nile place . . . that was his downfall. Girls. Well, and booze.” She’d walked them back to the main living area where a fourth cat, this one orange and skittish, had dived under the table occupied by the fat gray one, then hopped up on a chair, eyeing Shanice through the draped lace. When it hissed loudly, Sally giggled and said, “Oh, Dizzy, you stop that,” temporarily drawn from her grief. “Don’t worry about her, she’s all talk, that one. Wouldn’t hurt a flea and I should know. I’ve been fighting that battle for a long time now. Once those things get into the rug you can never get them out.”

Shanice had eyed the brown shag rug, matted in some places, with newfound concern. The cats hadn’t bothered her in the least, not even with the acrid aroma of a hidden litter box filtering through the room, but she didn’t like the idea of fleas.

They’d stayed another fifteen minutes and listened to Sally’s reminiscences. The only glimmer of information had been her contention that DeGrere had a thing against rich people. “He was always looking for a get-rich-quick scheme,” she said. “Had all kinds of ideas that would’ve panned out if he’d gotten a break, but things didn’t work out for Petey. He always got caught doing something, and it wasn’t always his fault. He just couldn’t catch a break,” she repeated, a phrase that sounded like a theme song for the hapless Pete DeGrere. “Those people on TV with all the money? Lots of cars and houses . . . he just felt like that should’ve been him. Maybe we all feel that way.”

They’d left soon after, promising to let Sally know if they found anything. Hours later, upon hearing that Aurora Abernathy Bastian had appeared within days of Pete DeGrere’s release from prison and subsequent murder, they’d decided to meet with the runaway bride face-to-face.

If they could.

That was still in question.

They hadn’t talked to Abernathy herself, and so far, the once-jilted husband was putting up roadblocks.

Now, Mick said, “There’s one guy I know. Worked with him before he transferred south to the Portland PD. Owes me a favor for taking over a couple of his shifts when his kid was having drug/detox problems. Zach Pitman.”

“Think he’ll give you some information on Abernathy?”

“I’ll try to locate him, call in my marks.” He was already checking his phone for the number. He grunted when he found it and placed the call, only to run into the man’s voice mail. He left his name and a request that Zach call him, then clicked off, hoping Pitman would follow up.

Shanice said, “I’m thinking Everett Stemple killed Pete DeGrere for taking the life of his brother.”

Mick grunted. This was old territory.

“It just makes sense. Everett’s old man, Harold, knew when Pete was getting out and he probably knew where he was going. Pete didn’t keep his fondness for strip clubs a secret. So Harold tipped Everett off and he did the job. Both Harold and Everett wanted revenge.”

“We think,” he reminded her. They’d theorized the same thing a number of times before. “But where’s the proof?” he grumbled. “Did Everett know DeGrere?”

“DeGrere knew his old man.”

“Again, that’s conjecture. Emphasis on con.”

“I wish they’d given you more information than they did,” Shanice said on a sigh.

“Cons will tell you anything you want to hear. You just gotta sort through all the bullshit.”

As soon as he learned of DeGrere’s murder, Mick had set up interviews with a couple of the felons who’d known Pete before and after he was incarcerated. Both men had said what he already knew: Pete was a blowhard. You couldn’t trust anything he said. He was a braggart and kind of a pain in the ass. Mick had even been granted a visit to Harold Stemple, who’d acted like he barely knew Pete DeGrere existed, which Mick knew was a full-out lie by the smile on the man’s ruggedly handsome face as he made his denial. But there was no making him talk. He was already in prison, and though Mick had brought up his son Everett’s name, hoping for a reaction, Harold had just shrugged and said, “My son didn’t kill his own brother.”

“Maybe Aaron got in the way.”

“Of what? Eh? Who would my son want dead?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Mick had told the con, who’d snorted and said, “Ask him yourself, but you’ll have to stand in line. The police are trying to frame him, too, but he didn’t do it. Has an iron-clad alibi.”

“He could have paid DeGrere.”

“So could a lot of guys.”

He’d been right about that, Mick thought now. But Shanice hadn’t given up on the idea.

“Everett was probably Harold Stemple’s outside man during that botched home invasion. He owed his dad for keeping quiet about him, and he wanted to get payback for Aaron’s death, so he took Pete out.”

Shanice was verbalizing Mick’s own version of the crime, but it felt like there were big missing pieces. Maybe Liam Bastian or his wife could fill them in.

They rode in silence for the next twenty miles and slowed as traffic became congested as they passed through Vancouver, Washington, and inched their way across the I-5 bridge spanning the Columbia River. As they drove under a sign that read ENTERING OREGON, Shanice felt more than a little tingle of anticipation tinged with a taste of revenge. The truth was she’d never been much of a fan of the cowardly runaway bride. She’d told herself it was because she wanted justice for Aaron, but it sure tasted good. She couldn’t wait to finally meet the woman who had somehow escaped the carnage of her own damned wedding.