After She's Gone (29 page)

 

S
he was late. So late! Consumed by her whirling thoughts and a darkness she didn’t want to consider, Cassie arrived at the bar over an hour later than she’d planned. Once she’d snapped to and seen the time on her car’s clock, she’d texted Brandon.

He hadn’t responded.

No surprise there.

The good news was that at this time of night Orson’s was quiet.

Good.

The lighting was dim, soft jazz playing from hidden speakers, only a few customers sprinkled at the bar and even fewer at the surrounding tables. Cassie figured McNary had picked this spot specifically because the patrons were sparse so there was less of a chance of someone recognizing him. Maybe. With all of the publicity surrounding the release of
Dead Heat,
and the scandal surrounding the movie, anyone associated with the film was under the constant watch of the paparazzi. Didn’t she have the phone calls, texts, and e-mails to prove it? Fortunately, there were fewer members of the press in Portland than LA, but that would change quickly with news of the premiere party that Dean Arnette had scheduled, here, in the City of Roses for this coming weekend. And these days, everyone had a cell phone, pocket camera, or iPad on them at all times. Any Tom, Dick, or Harriet could snap a shot and sell it to the tabloids, or post it on the Internet. No big deal.

The odd thing was that usually McNary didn’t avoid publicity. He ate up all of the media attention and with
Dead Heat
about to be released, it seemed out of character for him to want privacy.

So something had to be up.

She glanced over her shoulder, but no one seemed to pay her any notice as she walked into the restaurant. Her hair was pulled away from her face and hidden beneath her hood. She’d wiped off all of her makeup to be less recognizable. A scarf, ostensibly to fight off the cold and damp of April in Oregon, hid her chin, but she didn’t wear dark glasses. At night they would attract more attention than they would deflect.

As she picked a path through scattered tables, she sensed a couple of passing glances sent her way, but no one stopped to stare or interrupt their conversation as she made her way to a corner booth. She ordered a glass of wine, and still fighting a headache texted Trent while her cell flashed its irritating “low battery” warning. For now she ignored it, but she’d have to be careful. She needed the phone in case of an emergency.

Then she waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Sipping her merlot she checked her watch. God, it was late. Her fault. Still, she was annoyed that McNary wasn’t showing. Avoiding eye contact with the patrons and waiter, she did a slow burn as she told herself she’d been stood up. She was an idiot, a fool for trusting the likes of Brandon McNary. She should never have left Trent’s house.

Suddenly McNary swung through the door and headed straight to her table.

Smelling of rainwater and cigarette smoke, wearing a hooded jacket not unlike her own, and with four or five days’ beard stubble and tinted glasses, he was barely recognizable. He looked more like a strung-out junkie down on his luck than a Hollywood star who could command millions to be a part of a movie. “About time you showed,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just pay for that,” he said, motioning toward her drink, and when she was about to argue, he pulled out his wallet as if agitated, left a couple of bills on the table, then grabbed her hand. Before she could protest, he bent down and whispered, “Don’t argue,” then quietly led her down a short hallway and through a side entrance to the street, where beneath the awnings several men and women smoked cigarettes, the rain coming down in a steady drizzle.

“Where are we going?” Cassie demanded. She’d never trusted McNary and she wasn’t going to follow him blindly down the dark Portland streets in the middle of the damned night, not when her sister was already missing.

“To my car.”

With a shake of her head, she stopped short. “No.”

“We need to be where no one can see us.”

“No one recognized me in the restaurant.”

He shot her a look that she read instantly.
Of
course
no one recognized you, Cassie. You’re just Jenna Hughes’s daughter and Allie’s sister, but I’m famous, a household name, a big star.

Her temper flared and she fought not to tell him off. “I told you I’m not into all this cloak and dagger. I just want to find my sister.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, right. Like there’s nothing to worry about.”

“For the love of—Come on!” He tugged on her hand again and reluctantly she started walking again, moving quickly down the rain-washed streets. They weren’t alone. Traffic passed, a few late-night pedestrians walking along the streets.

“So where’s Allie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wait. You said—”

“I saw her. Okay?” he snapped, his breath fogging in the cold air.

“
Saw
her? Where?” Cassie demanded as they rounded a corner. He reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a ring holding a single key and fob. With a touch of his finger an older SUV parked on the far side of the street beeped and flashed its lights. Still tugging on her hand, he started jaywalking to the vehicle.

“I thought you drove a Porsche.”

“Lamborghini.”

She shrugged. “Same difference.”

“Hardly.” He shot her a look of disbelief. “My car’s in LA. Here I wanted to blend in.”

She eyed the older Chevy Tahoe with more than a little suspicion.

“Come on now. Get in.” He opened the passenger door for her, but she hesitated.

“What?”

“My sister’s missing. You were involved with her. It’s the middle of the night and someone killed Holly—”

“Oh, fuck! I know all that! Here!” He slapped the small ring with the key and fob into her palm. “You keep the damned key! Then maybe you won’t be so paranoid!”

Not a chance.
Her fingers curled over the cold bit of metal as he rounded the front of the SUV, then climbed inside. At least he couldn’t drive off with her. Tentatively, she sat in her designated seat and pulled the door closed.

Now they were alone in the vehicle, rain pounding down, the windows starting to fog with their body heat.

“Tell me about Allie,” Cassie said.

“Okay. But first, give the key back to me.”

“No.”

Sighing, he said, “The windows are electric. I just want to crack one. I need a smoke.”

“Forget it.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ve never heard of anyone dying from nicotine withdrawal, so quit stalling, okay? Where did you see Allie and when?”

“Two days ago. In Oregon City.” His fingers drummed against his leg and he looked antsy.

“In Oregon City?” The historic town was situated on the east side of the Willamette River, just under the falls and south of Portland by nearly twenty miles. Cassie had never heard Allie mention the town. “Why would she be there?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why were you?”

“It’s a place where I thought I was less likely to be recognized, I guess. Certainly I would be less likely to run into paparazzi. And I heard they have a great little microbrewery overlooking the falls. So I drove down there and went in for a brewski.”

“And there she was?” Cassie didn’t bother hiding her incredulity.

“Not in the brewhouse, no. But I was in a booth by the window and I looked out, it was just about dusk, and I saw her walking along the promenade that runs above the river, right over the falls.”

“You’re sure?”

“Fuckin’ A!” He threw up a hand in disgust that she didn’t blindly trust him. “You know where I’m talking about, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been there,” she said, still processing his words. “As a teenager.” She remembered sneaking out with friends in the summer and taking the elevator that connected the lower part of the town to the upper, and then running down the stairs. The falls were a little farther upstream, past an old paper mill. They’d gone up there, too, balancing on the stone railing overlooking the falls. She could almost smell the spray, hear the thunder of water rushing over huge boulders and cliffs that made up the falls.

“So you talked to her?” She found that hard to believe.

“She was too far away and, as I said, I was inside. But I ran out of the place and took off after her.”

“And?”

“She was gone. Disappeared.”

“You didn’t catch up to her? You didn’t speak to her? You didn’t even see her up close?”

He glowered into the night. “It was Allie.”

Cassie felt cheated. “Everyone thinks they catch sight of her. Here, there, in Portland, or in LA, or wherever. People call in, I know. Mom told me. I even thought I saw her a couple of times, but she was never close enough to talk to or to catch up with.” Disgusted and deflated, she added, “It’s probably just what people want to see, or a trick of light. You really think Allie, who’s been missing all this time, is going to just take a stroll along the riverfront in Oregon City? Does that make any sense?”

He leaned back against the seat. “I don’t know. Does anything?”

She stared through the window and through the foggy glass, watched as a man and a woman linked arm in arm, both wearing jeans and bundled in thick jackets, crossed against the light. He suddenly grabbed her hand with the swiftness of a striking snake, opening her fingers and plucking the key from her before she could even cry out.

“Hey!” Heart thudding, she scrabbled for the door handle as he jammed the key into the ignition. He switched on the electrical system without engaging the engine and rolled his window down a crack just as she got her door open. Then he clicked open the glove box and reached inside. As he did a large plastic bag fell out of the crammed compartment. The clear sack tumbled onto the floor at Cassie’s feet.

Cassie scooped it up and tried to make out the contents. “What’s this?” she asked, shaking the bag and seeing small makeup bottles, false eyelashes, and small prosthetics often used by makeup people to change an actor’s appearance.

He hesitated, then grinned sheepishly as he plucked the plastic bag from her fingers. “Sometimes I need a disguise.”

“False eyelashes?”

“Whatever.” Again the smile, one used to distract her. “I like to go incognito.”

“As a woman?”

“Or a very pretty man.” He shrugged, chuckling a bit, then stuffed the bag into the box, where he scrounged around and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. Then he slammed the box closed and locked it. “I told you. I just need a cigarette.”

“Fine,” she said, not really caring what his secrets were. It was late and she was getting more irritated by the second. “But I drove all the way down here to talk to you. In the middle of the damned night. And all you tell me is that you think you saw Allie from a distance. Be sure to tell Whitney Stone so she can blow it up, make a story out of nothing.”

“I know. I know. Stone’s been on my ass, too,” he muttered. “Along with about a million other reporters.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “But there’s more.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice tight. She was starting to think he was completely full of shit.

A car rounded the corner and she yanked the door firmly shut. The sports car roared past, music blaring, bass throbbing.

“Check out this text,” McNary said, pulling out his cell phone and tossing it to her.

“From Allie?” She didn’t believe it, but glanced down at the phone.

“Yeah.” He drew deeply on his filter tip. “Think so.”

The screen message said:
I’m okay.

Disbelieving, she said, “This isn’t Allie’s number.”

“It’s no one’s number, I tried to call it back. It’s a phone with a different SIM card or a prepaid burner phone or something. Untraceable.”

“To you, maybe. But the police might have ways. But still . . . just a text that says ‘I’m okay’? Anyone could have sent it.”

“She wanted to let me know she’s all right.” He didn’t believe it, though. His expression was of uncertainty and bewilderment, but then, he was an actor.

“Why text. Why not call? Or leave a decent message explaining where she is? Why not use her real phone, or better yet, if she can text, why doesn’t she just show up so everyone who cares about her isn’t worried sick!” Cassie was getting angry now, the smoldering rage that had been with her since before she’d admitted herself to Mercy Hospital beginning to catch fire again.

“I don’t know!”

“Have you gone to the police?”

He shot her a look and blew a stream of smoke out the cracked window. “They’d laugh at me.” His lips tightened. “Kind of like you’re doing.”

“I’m not laughing at you, McNary. I’m trying to figure out why you called me up so late at night.”

“Check the time on that message. It’s been a while. I’d just finished watching that miserable program with Whitney Stone and before the damned credits start rolling, I get this message.
Bam!
It freaked me the fuck out, okay? I knew you were looking for Allie and I called you.” He gave her a pointed look. “What would you have done?”

“I’m not sure I would leap to the conclusion that Allie was on the other end of that damned text. Anyone could have sent it. It could be a mistake, sent to you in error, or a prank or—”

“Or it could be Allie. She might do this for fun.”

“No way.”

“You know how she was . . . is . . . she likes to play mind games and you’re a liar. You
would
think it came from her, if you got it instead of me.”