Authors: Lis Wiehl
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers, #General, #Christian, #Suspense, #ebook, #book
Then Stone turned and walked back toward the building, ignoring the cacophony of dozens of reporters hollering out questions to which he had no good answer. The show was over . . . at least for now.
Four security guards blocked anyone from following.
MARK O. HATFIELD UNITED STATES COURTHOUSE
A
llison Pierce,” Allison said after picking up the ringing phone.
“Safe Harbor Shelter is on line one.”
“Thanks.” There was no way she had time for this. She pressed the blinking button. “This is Allison.”
“She’s here again. Sonika. I think it’s bad. Can you come? She says she’ll only talk to you.”
“I really ca—”
“Please? I think she needs to get to a hospital, but she refuses to let us take her. She’s so scared. I’m afraid she might bolt.”
Allison took one more look at her desk, which was so covered with papers that she couldn’t see the surface. She sighed. “I’ll come.”
Twenty minutes later she walked into the children’s playroom. Still wearing a dark brown coat, Sonika was crouched on her heels, her face pressed against her knees. She lifted her head, and Allison gasped.
“You see. He make me ugly.”
Her eyes were slits surrounded by puffy red skin. From swollen lips, a slow trickle of blood ran down her chin. Gingerly, she wiped it on her coat. Allison saw the cloth was already sodden.
Allison reached out her hand.
Sonika flinched, nearly toppling over.
“I’m sorry,” Allison said. She knelt beside her, careful to keep some distance. “What happened?”
Without a word, the young woman reached out her hand. Her finger-tips grazed Allison’s belly, then touched her own.
Allison didn’t bother asking how Sonika knew. “You’re pregnant?”
Getting pregnant and trying to leave were the two most dangerous times for an abused woman.
“Maybe.” Sonika hesitated. “Maybe not anymore.”
And then Allison saw what she hadn’t before—the blood on the floor between Sonika’s heels. She yanked her cell phone from her belt. Within minutes, the sirens sounded.
As the paramedics flung open the ambulance doors to buck the gurney inside, Sonika grabbed hold of Allison’s hand. The other women at the shelter peeped from their windows, some looking stoic, others frightened. How many of them had been in a similar situation? Hurt if they didn’t fight back, hurt if they did. One of Allison’s clients had been sentenced to ten years after she killed her husband, her self-defense argument laughed out of the courtroom. Too many people—including cops and judges—still thought domestic violence should never be discussed out-side the family.
“He told me I shame him if I leave,” Sonika said before the paramedic shoved the gurney inside the double doors.
As Allison drove back to her office, she passed the animal shelter where Jalapeño had originally been taken. Squeezing the wheel to keep her hands from shaking, she thought,
In this country, there are more animal shelters than women’s shelters.
L
eif Larson was standing next to the fireplace at Rod Emerick’s New Year’s Eve party when he caught sight of the most beautiful woman.
And then it was like adjusting the focus on a microscope. It was Nicole. Nine months earlier, Leif had been transferred to the Portland office from Oklahoma. In that whole time, he had always seen Nicole dressed in variations of the same outfit: dark, well-cut pantsuits worn with flats and small gold earrings.
Tonight she was almost unrecognizable in a long, sleeveless black dress. Its wide straps crisscrossed in the back, revealing the strong muscles of her shoulders. She laughed at something Rod had said, her large silver hoop earrings swinging back and forth.
Leif couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Nicole was the smartest woman he knew, and the most aloof. She was like a cat, he thought, and not just because of her tip-tilted eyes.
Some people were like cats and some people were like dogs. Dog people liked everyone. They came when they were called, could be taught lots of tricks, and begged for affection and treats.
You had to wait for cat people.
Leif decided he was willing to wait.
B
rad Buffet leaned down and kissed Cassidy’s cheek at the party he was hosting for everyone for Channel Four. She giggled as his five o’clock shadow grazed her skin. He might as well have kissed her ring. Brad had been the king of the station for the last three years, ever since he showed up from Sante Fe. Now it was clear her star was the one in ascendance.
A second later, Rick hissed in her ear, “Come outside. Now!” He yanked her arm. In the hallway, he said, “I saw you. I saw you flirting with that guy.”
Rick’s eyes were crazy, as if he had caught her having sex instead of getting what was practically an air kiss from a colleague. Cassidy felt shocked and yet oddly guilty. She had been laughing and flirting, sure. But that was just who she was. Wasn’t it?
“I was just having fun,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Rick’s hand snaked under her silver-sequined top and pinched her waist hard enough that she sobered up instantly. She knew it would leave a tiny nip of a bruise.
“Listen to me,” he said urgently. “Listen.”
She could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“You’re acting like a slut.”
The word was a punch to the gut. It was the word her father had used when he caught Cassidy with Tommy Malto in the backyard one summer night when they thought everyone was asleep. She was fourteen. Her parents had made it clear that she was used goods, of value to no one.
“No, I’m not,” she said, her voice not angry but pleading.
“You talk to guys like you’re ready to go to bed with them.” Rick was so close she could feel his spit flecking her face. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Something inside Cassidy broke. It felt like her head was filling up with liquid. Tears and the beginnings of nausea.
She and Rick left a minute later.
The next morning, Rick somehow bought two dozen red roses. He didn’t know what had gotten into him, he told Cassidy, tears sparkling in his eyes. He was jealous, that was all. Just jealous. And, he added, it was only because he loved her.
T
he first day of the new year was a lazy one for Allison. She slept for nearly eleven hours. When she finally got up, she and Marshall went out for a long, leisurely brunch.
They spent the day catching up on chores and looking online at cribs, changing tables, rocking chairs, and the million other things you supposedly needed when you had a baby.
In a few weeks, Allison would be in her second trimester and they would make it official. Tell coworkers and relatives. She would buy maternity clothes and stop trying to button her pants by looping a rubber band through the buttonhole and over the button.
And whenever she started to think about Katie, Allison pushed the thought away. Just for today, her life was her own.
B
ut if Katie’s body never turns up, how could you prosecute someone for murder?”
Cassidy leaned over her plate and took a big bite of pepperoni and cheese pizza. It always amazed Allison that her friend could eat the messiest foods while somehow managing not to drip on her clothes or smear her lipstick.
Pizzicato Pizza was Portland’s local version of a chain, and a great place to grab a quick slice. Allison, Cassidy, and Nicole were sitting in the back of the hole-in-the-wall downtown branch, which catered to every-one from businessmen to tourists to street kids who had managed to panhandle enough change to buy a cheese slice.
“Obviously, it’s a lot easier with a body, but it’s not impossible with-out one.”
Trying not to enviously watch the other two women devour their pizza, Allison dipped her fork in a little cup of balsamic dressing and then speared another bite of her arugula pear salad.
“I prosecuted a case six years ago where a woman had gone missing. Her car turned up at the airport. Wiped clean of prints, so it was pretty hard to believe she had just hopped a plane. Her credit cards and bank account hadn’t been touched. All we found were a few spots of blood in her driveway.”
“I wasn’t living in Portland then, but I remember that case,” Nicole said. “That’s the one where her husband was seen hosing down the drive-way the night after she disappeared.”
“Right,” Allison said. “So we took him to court. At the trial, his defense lawyer said that Darcy had probably run off with some mysterious guy she might have met. In his closing arguments he says, ‘Because her body has not been found, it’s possible that Darcy is still alive. In fact, ladies and gentleman, Darcy might walk through that door right now.’ And he turns and points dramatically to the door.
Everyone
in that room—the judge, the jury, the gallery—they all turned and looked. But I didn’t. I was watching the defendant. And
he
was the only other person who didn’t look.”
Cassidy said, “Because he knew Darcy wasn’t coming back.”
“Exactly. But even without a body, I still got him sentenced to twenty-five years.”
“Did her body ever turn up?” Cassidy asked.
“No.”
At night, Allison used to lie awake next to Marshall, thinking of places they might search—a patch of woods near the guy’s house, a friend’s farm, under a nearby overpass. Even after Darcy’s husband was convicted, he refused to say where her body was, or even to admit that she was dead. But Allison had sensed it from the moment Darcy’s mother had handed her a photograph of her daughter.
Just as part of Allison had known when she first saw Katie’s picture on TV.
“Men!” Nicole said with a snort. “If a woman kills her husband, an hour later you’re going to find her still standing over his body holding the gun and crying. If a guy does it, the next minute he’ll be figuring out how to hide it. Women don’t kill their spouses unless the guy gives them a darn good reason. Women don’t go online and try to talk some eleven-year- old coming over to their house to play doctor. It’s men who rape and rob and steal.”
“And start wars,” Cassidy added helpfully.
Allison straightened up. “Hey,” she objected. “Don’t let a few bad examples let you write off half the human race. Not all men are serial-killing robbers slash rapists slash warmongers. Look at Marshall. Look at your dad, Nic, or your brothers. They’re all good guys.”
“Maybe.” Nicole shrugged. “But sometimes I think they are the exception to the rule.”
“Until recently you were spending all your days chatting with pervs,” Cassidy said. “That tends to make you jaded.”
Nicole nodded, but Allison could tell she wasn’t fully convinced.
Allison was the only one in a steady, solid relationship. Cassidy changed men about as often as she changed shoes. And Nicole never dated.
Privately, Allison felt that whoever Makayla’s dad was, he must have been very bad news. By the time the three women had gotten re-acquainted, there hadn’t been a daddy in the picture, just bright-eyed, pigtailed Makayla. Nicole never talked about who Makayla’s father was, and even Cassidy’s skilled probing had run into a brick wall. A brick wall fortified with steel.
“Darcy should have gotten out earlier,” Nicole said now. Her voice was matter-of-fact, not judgmental. “I remember reading about her husband. He was charming but manipulative when he first started dating her, then he moved on to yelling at her—the neighbors heard him—and then by the end he was beating her. With guys like that, it always escalates.”
“But,” Cassidy said, “it’s not like they all go from being charming and manipulative to hosing their wife’s blood off the driveway.”
Nicole shrugged. “Yeah, but too many women make excuses when the guy gets violent. Too many think he means it when he says he’s sorry and gives them flowers and kisses.” She wiped her face with her napkin, balled it up, and dropped it on top of her plate. “And by the time they figure out he isn’t all that sorry, it’s too late.”
Her words were distorted as she reapplied her lipstick. At work, Nicole always dressed conservatively, but Allison thought her secret side was revealed by the ever-present lipstick that played up her full lips. Today it was a dark wine red, a good contrast to her navy blue pantsuit.
“Maybe after this Katie Converse thing is over, I should do a feature on domestic abuse,” Cassidy said, looking uncharacteristically subdued. She broke off a chunk of the huge chocolate-chocolate chip cookie they were all sharing. “You know, what to watch out for, how to help your friends, what to do if you’re being abused. What are some of the things they tell women who call Safe Harbor?”
Allison ticked them off on her fingers. “We say they should always know where the nearest phone is. And we tell them to have a cell phone, if possible. We tell them that the kitchen and the bedroom are the two most dangerous places. And that they should keep all their essentials—their ID and prescriptions—in one place, ready to go. Oh, and that they should use a code sentence when they are on the phone and he can hear them.”
“What is it?” Nicole broke off a piece of cookie and popped it into her mouth.
“We tell women to use the phrase ‘I heard it might rain this weekend.’ Then they tell a friend or relative who already knows that she’s in danger,” Allison explained. “So if she says the phrase, the friend knows she’s in trouble and should call 911.”
Too bad, Allison thought, that Katie had never had the chance to call 911.
S
omething about Cassidy was bugging Nic, but as she walked back to work, she couldn’t figure out what it was. Something about her had seemed out of place—but what was it? Nic was still trying to put her finger on it when her phone rang.
It was Wayne Converse. “Someone who was at the vigil has her!”
“What?” Nic said. “Wayne, what are you talking about?”
“The school secretary called us and asked if we wanted all the things people left in front of Katie’s photo at the vigil.” He was speaking so fast that his words ran together. “It didn’t feel right to tell her just to toss them. They sent over a big box, but I didn’t look through it until today. But there were some flowers in there that were starting to rot, so I opened up the box to throw them out. And her necklace is in there! Katie’s! I gave it to her for her birthday, and she told me she wore it every day.”