He grinned widely and bobbed his head like an animated cartoon character. Nothing about him threatened her and now she wondered if Barbie had misinterpreted their conversation.
His office was little more than a pantry, his desk a folding table situated in front of shelves lined with baking supplies. He’d jumped out of the only chair in the storeroom. “Hello, hello. I understand you know my cousin Barbie. How’s she doin’? When’d you see her last?”
She recounted her visit and Barbie’s suggestion that she contact Mittens. “I spoke to Barbie about a problem I was having with, um, an ingredient in a cake recipe and she thought you might be able to help. She mentioned your killer icing. I can pay whatever the recipe costs.”
Mittens flashed nicotine-stained teeth. “You’ve come to the right place. Icing is a specialty of mine.”
Clay sauntered into the police station twenty minutes before his shift began. He marveled at the bounce in his step and the lightness in his heart. Christ, he was as giddy as a girl and Cassidy was the reason. Just thinking about her, he grinned like a dope.
He’d have to deal with the Lauren issue tomorrow, but that was nothing more than a mosquito that needed another swat. At least he hoped all it would take to back her off was a call from his lawyer. After all, she was still on probation and he doubted she wanted to lose her freedom again.
Mentally, he dismissed her. She wasn’t going to douse his smoldering thoughts about Cassidy tonight.
“You look happy to be here,” Pat Tatman quipped, while he pecked the computer keyboard with two fingers.
Clay’s grin widened. “Not happy to be here, just happy. You can take off if you want to get out of here a few minutes early. I’ll cover the last fifteen of your shift.”
Pat didn’t look up when he spoke. “Thanks but I’ve got to finish this report before I leave. Another shooting on Fortieth Street.”
Clay checked his mailbox, removing two pieces of junk mail. “Drugs?”
“Probably.”
He reached for a clipboard to sign out his patrol car for the night. Car twelve-thirteen wasn’t back on station yet.
“Is Wilks running late?”
The springs squealed when Pat leaned back in his chair. “We need an ID on the shooting vic. Had to rouse the apartment manager to get the rental records. He’s not back yet.”
“No big deal,” Clay responded. He wandered into the break room and poured a cup of coffee, then sat at a computer station and plugged in a search for
The Arizona Republic
. Probably too much to hope that Tony DelMorrie had been apprehended. That kind of arrest would make national news.
Absorbed by the newspaper search, he was vaguely aware of the arrival of two fellow officers. Their words trickled into his concentration, “ … facial identity impossible … ” “ … couple hours before they found her” “Hoake, H O A K E.”
He cocked his head toward the conversation in the next room, then rose and walked to the doorway, listening as the patrolman shared additional information with Pat. “ … dental records won’t work.”
An uneasy feeling suddenly soured the freshly consumed coffee in his stomach. “Who are you talking about?”
“My shooting vic,” Pat said. “There’s going to be a problem with confirmation.”
He moved toward the trio. “How so?”
Pat removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes. “Four shots. Two above the neck, one facial. She’s unrecognizable. The apartment manager wasn’t much help. Said it didn’t seem like it was the tenant of record. But the sight of her made him puke so who knows?”
Clay glanced down at the pages spread on the desk in front of Pat, his eyes searching for the Victim ID block. The print was too small to decipher.
“What’s the preliminary ID?”
Pat returned his glasses to his face, picked up one of the sheets, and read out loud, “Hoake. C. Hoake. Age unknown.”
The coffee threatened to come up. The warmth drained from his face and that buzzing in his ears resumed, the same noise he’d heard hours ago when he feared Cassidy was in love with another man.
“You okay, Clay?”
He reached for the report sheets. “May I see these?”
The details were minimal. A neighbor walking to her own unit passed the opened door of the apartment and saw the body. She screamed, ran to her apartment down the hall, and called police. A weapon lay at the woman’s feet, its identifying serial numbers removed. Ballistics would likely find nothing.
The apartment number jumped off the page — one twelve.
“Your ID isn’t correct,” he said, swallowing bile that threatened to gag him. “C. Hoake is Cassidy Hoake. She wasn’t in apartment one twelve last night.
“How do you know?”
His eyes dropped to the box on the report marked physical description and his heart thudded. Dammit. The height and weight were estimates, which would be confirmed or corrected by the coroner. The blocks for the facial description — eyes, identifying scars, or piercings — remained blank. But the hair, the description of the hair was there despite the massive amount of blood matting it. Long and dark, highlighted with purple and green streaks.
Why was Amber there? “Son of a bitch,” he whispered. “Son of a fucking bitch.”
“Clay?”
Clay’s emotions flooded his senses, drowning him in a genuine numbness of loss. Anyone who thought cops weren’t affected by the daily incidents they handled was a fool. Why her? He’d really liked her.
“This is Amber Malone,” he croaked, blinking back tears. “Age twenty-four. Place of employment, The Packing Place in Greenbrier. She’s got one prior, you can get her other stats from the files. Same address; she hasn’t moved since I arrested her.” Laying the pages on the desk, he shook his head. “This wasn’t a drug shooting. She’s been clean for more than a year.”
The three men studied his face, taken aback by the rare emotional display.
“Domestic?” Pat asked.
“I doubt it. She was single and she didn’t live there.”
“Know the next of kin?”
He shook his head against the tightening in his chest. He teased her almost daily, went out on a limb to keep her out of trouble, and had relied on her to help Cassidy. Yet, he didn’t know much about her, not even if she had a sibling or parents.
“Can you give me anything else?” Pat asked.
He didn’t dare say another word, couldn’t tell his co-workers that it was likely reputed mobster Tony DelMorrie who gunned down Amber thinking it was Cassidy. What was Amber doing at Cassidy’s old apartment? Certainly she couldn’t have known Tony DelMorrie, couldn’t have been in on his hunt for Cassidy. She’d had too many opportunities to hurt Cassidy if that were the case. No, this was a case of misidentification and the second costly mistake DelMorrie had made.
His jumbled thoughts nauseated him. Tony DelMorrie was in town, he knew where Cassidy lived, he’d been at her doorstep. Where was he now?
Did he realize it wasn’t Cassidy who he killed? He shot Jill Diamond in anger, deviating from the cautious, premeditated actions he was known for. When Amber opened that door, did he act impulsively and fire or did he see who it was first? Either way, he had to follow through with it. How do you explain knocking on someone’s door with a gun aimed at their head when they answer?
“Clay? Are you with me?”
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“Do you know where I can find Miss Hoake? She might be able to fill in some blanks, like why this woman was there and who might have wanted to hurt her.”
His heart drummed in his ears. His oath as a law officer battled with his desire to protect Cassidy. He’d promised he would.
“I’ll have her in here tomorrow morning for you to interview. I’m heading out on patrol,” he said, reaching for the car keys and turning away from the men. He needed to get out of there and taste some fresh air. He needed to call Cassidy and hear her voice to reassure himself she was all right. How was he going to break the news about Amber? How was he going to impress upon Cassidy that she needed to stay put, that the safest place for her was with him? And how, dear God, was he going to keep her safe?
• • •
She couldn’t sleep. Surrounded by Clay’s possessions, curled into his sofa, Cassidy felt wide awake and alive. Her mother’s clock occupied the center of Clay’s mantel as if it was designed for the space. She smiled when it chimed one o’clock and didn’t flinch when her cell rang seconds later. It had to be Clay, calling to check on her and say goodnight. Reaching for the phone, the idea of her mother and Clay ringing into her life at the same time turned her insides into jelly.
“Hi, hon, did I wake you?”
“Nope. I’m having trouble crawling into your bed without you so I’m watching TV on the couch. I just may sleep here tonight.”
Clay cleared his throat. “Cassidy, would you do me a favor if I asked?”
She laughed. “I am not getting into that bed without you. I’ll be fine here for one night.” When was the last time somebody cared about her like this? Not since her mom.
She knitted her eyebrows, realizing quiet prevailed on the other end of the line. “Okay, grumpy. What’s the favor?”
“Go stay with Maggie and Dan tonight.”
She sat upright. There was something about his tone.
“Is something wrong with Jack? What happened? Clay, tell me.”
Through the phone, she heard him inhale, hesitating before he answered. “Amber’s dead.”
An involuntary scream escaped her throat. “She was shot, honey, in your old apartment. We don’t know … ”
The room began to spin. “ … will be safer … ” Her stomach heaved and she jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen sink “ … just until I … ”
She disconnected the call. She couldn’t listen to another word, didn’t want to hear that Amber, her friend, was dead on account of her. She knew her old apartment wasn’t safe, knew in her heart that it had been Tony DelMorrie who trashed the place searching for clues to find her. A warning voice had cautioned her, even as she handed her apartment key to Amber. It might not be safe, she’d told her friend.
But Amber waved aside her warning with typical nonchalance. And now, she was dead. Oh God. He found her, Tony DelMorrie had found her. For all she knew, he could be outside right now, waiting.
It had been her biggest fear. Not for her own safety, but for Clay’s and Maggie’s and the baby. She’d put them in harm’s way.
“Will you keep danger from my door?” Maggie had asked.
Dear God, she hadn’t. Instead, she’d brought it directly to the doorstep.
Turning on the cold water she rinsed her mouth from the faucet. No time to think about it, she had to go. How fortunate that she hadn’t unloaded her duffel except for her toothbrush and paste. She grabbed those from the bathroom, tossed them in the bag, and zipped it closed.
Surveying Clay’s room, she spied a gallon jug in the corner three-quarters full of coins. Clay must empty his pockets every night and toss his loose change in the jar. She rushed to the kitchen and frantically searched the drawers until she found plastic storage bags. Back in the bedroom, she emptied the coins into two bags. Looking around, she reasoned that he had to have more money stashed at home. Groaning at the invasion of his privacy, she riffled through his drawers and closet. Nothing. She ran to the office. Opening and slamming desk drawers she found a box marked petty cash in a lower drawer. She didn’t count the bills, just crumbled them into her fist and shoved them in her jeans pocket. Not only was she a fugitive, now she was a thief.
Snatching up the pen she scribbled on a piece of mail, “I.O.U. $ — C.H.”
She hurried into the living room for her shoes as her mother’s clock chimed fifteen minutes after the hour. Dear God. She was going to puke again.
She rushed into Clay’s office and pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer tray. Her hand trembled as she scrawled across the page, “I’m sorry.” She propped it beside the clock.
Yanking one of Clay’s jackets from the coat closet beside the door, she slipped her arms into the sleeves. The khaki cargo coat was huge on her, but it had lots of pockets and with a ball cap, she’d be pretty well covered.
There was no time to dwell on what she was leaving behind, no time to cry about what could have been. No time to think about how Tony DelMorrie had ruined her life.
Any life she might have made here was dead. Just like Amber.
Clay burst through his apartment door shouting Cassidy’s name, knowing there would be no response. From the minute she’d hung up on him, he knew in his heart she would run. That was her trained response, like Pavlov’s pups.
That’s why he rushed back to the police station and issued two be-on-the-lookout advisories, one for Cassidy and one for Tony DelMorrie. The alert for DelMorrie included the information that the suspect, wanted in connection with the Fortieth Street shooting and an out-of-state murder, was armed and dangerous.
He sped with sirens blaring to The Chalets, but the delay in leaving the station had given Cassidy the window she needed to disappear. He instantly spotted her note next to the clock on the mantle. His heart dropped. She’d lugged that clock across country, protecting it from damage. Dammit. It hinted at how quickly she fled.
He didn’t have much hope that the BOLOs would locate either Cassidy or DelMorrie. He had no idea what DelMorrie looked like now. He could describe his appearance months ago, based on the newspaper photographs, but had he changed his looks?
A description for Cassidy was equally generic. What was she wearing when she left and which way did she run? Two hiding places came to mind and he requested police units check out both: Amber’s apartment and The Packing Place. She had keys for the packing store and Amber’s roommate would likely harbor her. Had Cassidy made any other friends besides her co-workers? He couldn’t obtain a list of the other store employees at this hour. Would she try to leave town? How much money did she have? And where the hell would she go?
• • •
The bus station smelled like urine. Cassidy nestled her duffel deeper into her lap, warily eyeing the raggedy man snoring on a bench in the far corner. Only one other man occupied the deserted terminal, a tall, black man who paced the walkway outside while talking on his cell phone. Despite the dim exterior lighting, a glint of light reflected off his neck jewelry each time he pivoted.