Authors: Lis Wiehl
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers, #General, #Christian, #Suspense, #ebook, #book
But the smell of barbecue had made Allison’s mouth start watering when she was still out on the sidewalk. She had decided that tonight, of all nights, she could afford to deviate from her diet.
“So what’s Channel Four’s take on that woman who was attacked in Forest Park? Do you think it’s related to Katie’s murder?”
The Oregonian
’s top headline that morning had read
DOES SERIAL KILLER STALK FOREST PARK?
in forty-eight-point type, accompanied by a boxed sidebar titled
RUSH TO JUDGMENT?
“Senator Fairview has been my bread and butter,” Cassidy said, “but there’s no way he could have attacked this girl. He’s still in rehab, and he’s watched ’round the clock.”
“Maybe he found a way to bribe one of the staff,” Nicole said.
“And what—just sneaked out to go grab a girl?” Cassidy shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Maybe everything did happen the way Fairview said it did. He went up to Forest Park to talk to Katie, but when he arrived, she was already dead. And he panicked and ran.”
Putting down the rib she had been nibbling, Allison said, “I still think Fairview killed Katie. He got scared that she was going to tell people about their relationship. People were willing to look the other way about his womanizing, but if they found out his latest was underage, that could have blown his career out of the water.”
“Yeah—but murder?” Cassidy asked skeptically. “That’s a bigger career-breaker than a little indiscretion. Even if people did find out about the abortion. And there are other suspects. Take Nancy Fairview—if she found out this girl was sleeping with her husband, she could have snapped. And what about Chambers? He was living out in the woods with his kid, afraid people were going to take her away. Maybe it’s not a coincidence that her body wasn’t far from where they lived.”
Nicole dropped one more bone onto the pile on her plate. “Hey, aren’t you the one who did the whole story about how noble Chambers was, looking after his kid, keeping her away from the influences of the street? Didn’t you help him get a whole brand-new shiny life?”
Cassidy shrugged. “I was just covering all the angles. Just because he was looking after his kid doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. In some ways, it makes it more likely.” She looked down at her plate. “People aren’t always what they seem.”
Allison said, “The problem is that Fairview’s lawyer will say that who-ever was growing the pot—whether it was Chambers or not—could have been the one who killed Katie. Or he’ll say it could even be someone we haven’t looked at yet—some kid who knows Katie here in Portland. Stone will say it’s possible they ran into each other while she was walking down Twenty-third, they went for a walk up the trail, and something went wrong, there was a fight, and he accidentally killed her.” She sighed. “The trouble with all the evidence is that it’s circumstantial. We have no eye-witnesses. No physical evidence. ‘Beyond a reasonable doubt’ is a high standard of proof. We don’t have a smoking gun.”
Tommy came over to take Nicole’s plate, empty of everything but bones.
“You’re all talking about that dead girl, right? That Katie Converse?”
They nodded.
“Well, have you looked at what happened to Janie Peterson?”
“Janie Peterson?” The name teased the edge of Allison’s memory.
“She grew up in my neighborhood,” Tommy said, “but I never knew her. After college, she came back to Portland and lived over by Good Sam. She went out to a movie with some friends about eight or nine years ago. One of them gave her a ride home. She asked if they could drop her off at Quality Pie, you know, that place that used to be on Lovejoy across from the hospital? She said she could walk to her apartment from there.”
“I remember that case, “ Allison said slowly.
Neither Cassidy nor Nicole had been living in Portland then.
“She was around my age,” Allison said. “They found her body months later, like in a creek or something, right?”
“Yup. A couple of folks who were canoeing found part of a leg. Eventually, they found the rest of her body scattered for miles along the creek. They had to use that DNA testing on it to see who she was. They never figured out how she died. Murder, suicide, some kind of accident—nobody knows.”
Cassidy said. “Three girls. All in Forest Park.” Her eyes widened. “Do you think it’s a serial killer?”
Tommy shrugged one shoulder and turned to go back to the kitchen.
“I’ll look up more about it tomorrow,” Nicole said. “But this doesn’t feel like a serial killer to me. These aren’t prostitutes or runaways. No signs of rape. And there’s way too long a gap in between. Serial killers kill and keep killing. They don’t take years off.”
“Maybe the guy was in prison for a while,” Cassidy said. “That would explain the gap.”
“It’s possible,” Allison said, but like Nicole, she didn’t feel it in her gut. She wouldn’t be surprised if Cassidy didn’t feel it either—she was probably just happy to be handed a way to refresh the story.
Allison’s phone began to vibrate across the table. The name on the display was familiar, but she still couldn’t place it.
“Allison Pierce.”
“It’s Mrs. Rangel.”
She had to think. Lily Rangel. Katie’s oldest friend.
“Hello, Mrs. Rangel, what can I do for you?”
“It’s Lily. She’s gone.”
Allison straightened up. “What do you mean, Lily’s gone?” She watched the other two women exchange glances.
“She never came home last night.”
“When did you last see her?”
“I dropped her off at a movie at Cinema Twenty-one. She was supposed to call me when it was over. But she never did. And whenever I call her, her cell phone goes straight to voice mail. Like it’s been turned off.”
Cinema Twenty-one was less than two dozen blocks from Forest Park.
But who said a killer had to stop at its borders?
A
s soon as she let herself in her front door, Cassidy kicked off her high heels. It had been a long day, especially with the excitement of watching Nicole catch Allison’s stalker. Her feet were killing her. You couldn’t spend sixteen hours in four-inch heels and not pay the price. But they did make her legs looks good—long and muscular.
Without turning on the lights, Cassidy dropped her purse and keys on the front table, next to the white vase filled with fresh-cut flowers that were supposed to bring abundance. The flowers had been fresh a week ago, so now they smelled more rotten than sweet.
But it seemed like they were working. Other stations were calling her nearly every day now, feeling her out about whether she might want to work in Las Vegas or San Francisco or Boston. Cassidy was spunky, they said. They liked that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. They flattered her, complimenting her voice, her writing, and her feel for a story. They told her she was sure to win an Emmy for her coverage of the Katie Converse case.
It had taken eleven years, but now Cassidy was finally at the place she had been daydreaming about since she graduated from college. She had started her career in Medford, a small town just above the California border, beginning as little more than a glorified gofer. But the good thing about being at an undersized station was that you got a chance to do a lot—even if it was for a salary that worked out to far less than minimum wage when you factored in all the hours. Then she had moved on to Eugene, a slightly larger town midway between Medford and Portland. She was again lowest on the totem pole, getting the worst segments, the middle-of-the-night stories, the drudge assignments, the silly lifestyle pieces. Once she had done a stand-up at the state fair holding a fourteen-foot python. They had had to stop taping four times because the snake kept wrapping itself around her neck. The whole time, she had been expected to keep smiling.
Eventually Cassidy had been able to take the next step and move on to Portland. If you wanted to get ahead in broadcast, you had to move again and again. With every move, you landed in a bigger media market and worked your way up once more. And if you were very, very lucky, as well as exceptionally good, you might make it to the networks.
Cassidy had paid her dues at Channel Four. To take the next step, she had needed a big story. And the universe had handed it to her in the form of Katie Converse. If she were going to make her move, she had to make it soon, while people still remembered who Katie Converse was. Because right now there was surely a reporter in Chicago who was riding the tiger of the stories of the kids in the collapsed skating rink.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of wine without bothering to turn on the lights. She picked up the glass and carried it into the bath-room, then stripped and climbed into the shower.
Cassidy was rinsing the shampoo from her hair when she heard a sound. She didn’t know what the sound was, just that there was a noise that didn’t belong. It seemed to be coming from the living room. Maybe she was imagining things. Sound carried weirdly in these condos. Half the units were unoccupied, bought by real estate speculators who had been unable to sell when the bottom fell out of Portland’s condo market.
There. She heard it again. Even though she hadn’t finished rinsing her hair, she turned off the shower and held her breath. Now the sound was clear.
Footsteps. In her living room.
If she screamed, what would happen? How long would it take one of her few neighbors to respond? Would they even hear her? Many of them were probably asleep. A scream might not even register.
In her head she replayed the latest threat from her voice mail.
Stop asking so many questions about that Katie Converse. It’s none of your business anyway. Back off that story or you’ll be sorry.
She had become blasé about angry viewers. Could it be that someone had really gone so far as to break into her apartment?
Another thought occurred to her. Living alone, she never locked the bathroom door. In fact—Cassidy peeked out of the shower curtain to double-check—tonight she hadn’t even closed the door all the way. Long before anyone could help her, whoever was in the living room would get to her first.
How had they even gotten in? Hadn’t she locked the front door behind her? She thought she had, but she couldn’t be sure. After weeks of long days and this evening’s excitement, she was so tired that she was moving on autopilot.
The footsteps sounded closer. Could she get to the bathroom door before the intruder did? And if she did manage to lock it, how long would it hold?
Cassidy took stock. She had no phone, no gun, no weapon of any kind. She had a half dozen bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a loofah, and a bar of soap. She had a razor that she kept meaning to replace because it was barely up to the job of scraping the stubble off her legs.
She was a naked, wet woman trapped with an intruder and no one to hear her.
Cassidy took a deep breath and stepped out of the shower.
December 13
I
’m home now. It’s so weird to be back. When I left, I was a little girl. Now I’m a woman.
I feel like a stranger. I don’t belong here. Maybe I can talk Daddy into sending me to boarding school. I wish I were already in college.
I need to go shopping. I think I’ll go to Nordstrom today. I have lots of presents for my sister & my dad doesn’t honestly care, but I still need something for V. Although part of me doesn’t feel like doing it. She’s such a fraud. She always acts all high & mighty, but now I know the truth.
S
tanding outside the tub, Cassidy reached in and turned the shower back on. Let whoever had broken into her apartment think she was pre-occupied and vulnerable. Two could play this game. The sounds of falling water would also provide her with some camouflage.
Gently easing open the cupboard door under the sink, she grabbed the bottle of tile cleaner. Experimentally, she pressed the trigger. With a hiss, the spray shot out three feet. It was something. But was it enough?
Cassidy looked around the room again. What could she turn into a weapon? Her hair straightener would take too long to heat up. If she broke her wine glass, she would probably just cut herself and still not end up with a piece big enough to hurt anyone else. Then her gaze settled on the top of the toilet tank. Heavy porcelain. She hefted it experimentally, then tucked it under her arm, grabbed the spray bottle again, and stationed herself on the far side of the door.
A man’s hand appeared, slowly pushing open the door. Should she try to slam it closed, break his fingers? But before she could decide, the hand was followed by an arm and shoulder.
Screaming like a banshee, Cassidy jumped out from behind the door, pressing the trigger on the tile cleaner over and over. The man reeled back-ward, cursing. She dropped the bottle and lifted the toilet tank over her left shoulder, ready to swing it like a bat.
But instead she let it slip from her fingers to the floor, where it thumped on the bath mat.
Because the man scrabbling at his eyes, pulling off his glasses and running to the sink, was Rick.
A relieved laugh spurted from her.
Rick. It was Rick.
Cassidy didn’t know how he had gotten in, but it didn’t matter. Because she was safe.
Then Rick, his face red and wet, whirled and grabbed her wrists. He slammed her back against the wall.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared.
And the next thing Cassidy knew, she was staring down the barrel of his gun.
W
hat are you guys doing here?” Cassidy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was dressed in a well-worn gray sweatshirt and sweatpants.
Behind her, Allison could see a nearly empty glass of wine on the table in the entryway. She would bet anything that the glass wasn’t left over from the night before, but had only just left Cassidy’s hand.
“Are you alone?” Allison asked.
Cassidy nodded. Her eyes looked wary.