After She's Gone (31 page)

 

S
he pocketed the gun and ran, afraid that someone had seen her. Adrenaline fueled her, spurred her on. She spied a woman looking out the window and turned quickly down an alley. Without the mask she could be recognized, identified. No way could she let that happen!

Not here. Not now.

The air was thick, rain pummeling down from the starless sky. Her legs ached and her lungs felt as if they were on fire, but she needed distance, more distance, so she pressed on.

Just one more block.

Then another.

Breathing was damn near impossible.

She rounded a corner and finally, gratefully slowed. Taking in huge gulps of air, she felt sweat slide down her back and prickle in her hair, but she was far enough away from the killing ground to avoid suspicion.

She hoped. Prayed.

Still, a little more distance wouldn’t hurt. As fast as her painful legs allowed, she walked, down two blocks, around another corner, getting ever closer to downtown Portland, where the city sprawled along the shores of the Willamette. There were more people out, the segment of the population who preferred night to day. She kept her head turned away and in the ghostly glow of streetlights in the rain, no one seemed to recognize her.

She was heading to her car when she spied the Vintner’s House, a cozy little bar Allie Kramer had been known to haunt. Discreet lighting. Private booths. Even a gas fireplace. No televisions, just soft, eclectic music.

A slow smile twisted over her lips.

Oh, yes, she remembered the place, had spent many hours within its walls and knew its idiosyncrasies. First though, she checked her reflection in a storefront window and though she was pale, she didn’t notice any dark spots staining her sweater, no blood spatter visible. Finger-combing her hair, she tossed it a bit, then slipped into her cool persona, the one most people who knew her would recognize. The other side of her personality, the hysterical, freaked-out portion, she managed to, once again, tuck deep inside. She only let it free when it suited her purpose.

Satisfied, she walked into the bar and reflected upon what she’d done, how, once again, she’d outwitted them all. She could almost taste the reaction and ummm, the taste was sweet.

She surveyed the small dining area. All good. Taking a seat at the bar, she inwardly smiled as she ordered a glass of Allie’s favorite wine. From the corner of her eye, she thought the bartender did a subtle double take. That was fine.

Did she get a few quizzical stares?

Oh, yes. Of course she did, but that was expected. Even necessary. Vintner’s House had a no cell phone policy, which was perfect, and, for the privacy of its customers, no security cameras, or so the management claimed. There was always a chance some yahoo who didn’t play by anyone else’s rules might sneak out his phone and risk taking a shot, if he thought he recognized her. But so what? It wasn’t a crime to have a glass of wine. That’s all it was. All anyone would know for now.

Besides, she thought, warming inside, she liked to flirt with danger.

Always had.

 

F
rom beneath her thick duvet, Rhonda Nash heard the ringing of her cell phone and groaned. She threw back the soft covers and felt the chill of the night. The window near her bed was cracked a bit, allowing a cold breeze that brought the steady plop of rain and the distant scream of sirens into the room. A glance at the clock on the night table told her the ugly truth—that it wasn’t quite four in the damned morning. Whoever was calling wasn’t the bearer of good news. Half asleep, she tried to pick up her cell and only managed to knock it from the night table.

“Damn.” Rolling to the side of the bed and hanging over its edge, she saw the bright display indicating that Double T was on the other end of the wireless connection. No surprise there. Scooping the phone from the floor, she clicked on and said, “Nash,” around a yawn.

“We got another one.”

“Another one what?” she asked, blinking herself awake.

“Another victim wearing a mask.”

She sat bolt upright. “A mask of Allie Kramer?” Suddenly completely awake, she flew out of bed and hit the switch for the bedside lamp in one fluid motion. As her feet hit the floor she started stripping out of her nightshirt on her way to the closet.

“Nope. This one’s of Jenna Hughes.”

She stutter-stepped. “The mother?”

“Right.”

Nash’s brain clicked into gear, dozens of questions forming. “Is it disfigured? Laminated? Same as the others?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Got an ID on the vic?”

“Yes, ma’am. The killer was kind enough to leave the victim’s license in her jacket pocket.”

“Great.” Shivering, she found the clothes she’d been wearing the day before, the pants and blouse she’d dropped on a bench when she’d been getting ready for her bath.

“Twenty-nine-year-old single woman. Brandi Potts. Lives in the Pearl. Got a couple of uniforms on their way over to the address now.”

“Good.” Already things were moving along. She poked the speaker button and set the phone on the counter in the built-in dresser within the closet. “Cause of death?”

“Won’t know until the ME arrives and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” she said, bothered as she stepped into her slacks. “But is there anything obvious . . . ?”

“Aside from the gunshot wound to her chest?”

“Funny guy.” She wasn’t laughing.

“Looks like she was hit from behind. Not a through and through. Bullet’s got to be lodged in the body somewhere.”

She snapped her pants over her waist. “Eyewitnesses?”

“Already got a couple. We’re checking. Door to door.”

“Who called it in?”

“Bouncer from a club a couple of blocks away, on his way to his car.”

She zipped up, threw on a bra. “Give me an address.”

“Get this. The shooting took place on the very same street where Lucinda Rinaldi was hit.”

“What?” She went cold inside, her movements slow as she pulled on her sweater. “Where the movie was shot?”

“Not the exact location, but about a block and a half down the street.”

Nash’s mind was whirling. “Was the victim connected to
Dead Heat?”

“Unknown. Yet. Workin’ on it.”

“Holy shit.” She yanked her head through the sweater’s neck and finger-tousled her hair.

“My sentiments exactly.”

He gave her the exact address and she said, “I’ll be there in fifteen, maybe sooner.” Leaning over, she found her boots where she’d left them, pulled them on, and zipped them up.

“For once traffic shouldn’t hold you up.”

She located her service weapon, slid it into her shoulder harness, then slipped on her jacket. “I’m on my way.” Another murder? The victim left with a mask of Jenna Hughes? This time in Portland? What the hell was this all about? She slipped her phone into a pocket and sped down the stairs, her boots clattering loudly on each of Edwina’s marble steps. At the front closet, she snagged her raincoat, then took another half flight of stairs to the garage. Her mind was as clear as if she’d had a shot of caffeine administered by a syringe right into her veins. On the fly she slapped first the button to open the garage, then the second one, to do the same for the gates.

She was in her little Ford and starting down the hill before the garage door had locked back into place again.

Ignoring the speed limit, she sped down the winding streets of Portland’s West Hills. Traffic was nearly nonexistent, the beams of her headlights cutting through the darkness to catch on the beady eyes of a raccoon that stopped to stare a second before waddling into the thick laurels that surrounded the neighboring estates. Soon the shrubbery and manicured grounds of the houses upon the hills gave way to the edges of the city where apartments rose, traffic lights glowed, and the energy of Portland pulsed around her. The rain was ever-present, her wipers working overtime. As she neared the waterfront, more cars and a few pedestrians were out, braving the rain in the very early morning hours.

Her thoughts were on the victim, crime scene, and killer. Who had done this? Why? What possible motive was behind this newest homicide? It didn’t take a great leap of intuition to know the crimes were linked. Lucinda Rinaldi had been shot on this very street, and there was the mask again. What point was the killer trying to make? She couldn’t help but feel that the murderer was taunting them by leaving a clue, toying with the cops and playing that psychological I’m Smarter Than All of You game. Or maybe, he or she was just whacked out, acting out some kind of inner fantasy.

“Keep an objective point of view. Look over the facts,” she said, not realizing she’d actually voiced her inner thoughts out loud.
Now who’s mental?
God, she needed to get a dog or cat or some other living thing to talk to. Her jaw slid to the side and she cranked the wipers up a notch.

Frustrated, she drove around a final corner and spied three cruisers, lights flashing, blocking a section of the street. Another two were parked at the far end where already a news van was pulling up to the curb. Good. Maybe the press would be able to help this time. She squeezed her car into a spot marked as a loading zone, ignored the sign, climbed out of her car, and flipped up her hood. At the barricade blocking off the street she met a cop who looked about twenty-two and who went by the book, page by page, letter for letter. She showed him her badge, then crossed a string of yellow tape.

In a rainproof jacket and baseball cap, Double T was crouched near the body of a woman sprawled upon the street. She lay half on the sidewalk near a parking meter, her shoulders raised slightly on the curb, her legs stretched onto the pavement.

“So this is our girl?” she asked, and Double T turned his head to look up at her.

“Brandi Potts. Hit from behind.”

Leaning closer, Nash studied the victim. She appeared to be about five foot six or seven. Her face was serene in death, her long hair, clamped back in a ponytail, appeared a deep red, darker because of the rain. Her body was lean and fit, dressed in tight gray running gear with reflective piping. Rings decorated her hands, some of them diamonds, but the third finger on her left hand was bare. “Single?”

“Still checking.”

“Out for a late-night run? Or is she one of those super-early risers?” Jesus, who would jog at this hour in a rainstorm?
An idiot. Or a very dedicated runner.

“Looks like.”

“Alone?”

“We’re still sorting that out. Appears that way, but you’d think she wouldn’t go alone at this time of night.”

“You’d think.”

“As I said, we’ve got a couple of uniforms checking out her apartment to see if anyone’s home. Thought you and I might roll over there.”

Nash stared down at the victim’s face, a beautiful face, a young face, wet with the rain. As always, Nash felt an overwhelming sense of despair when she viewed a young life taken by another. The senselessness of it all. She wondered at the psyche of human beings. Who would shoot this woman? Her gaze traveled from Brandi Potts’s face to her torso and the thick, dark stain beneath her, staining her tight running jacket.

As if reading her thoughts, Double T said, “Found this searching for shell casings.” He held up a small canister that winked in the weak lamplight.

“Mace?”

“Pepper spray.”

“It was hers?” She nodded toward the dead woman.

“Won’t know until we fingerprint it. Maybe not then. Waiting for the crime scene guys.” He glanced down the street. “Where the hell are they? Shoulda been here by now.”

“What about the ME?”

“On his way, too.” Double T looked down at the body again. “Looks like the shooting occurred less than half an hour ago. That’s according to the witnesses, and the body’s still warm.”

So less than an hour ago, this woman was alive. Until someone decided to change all that. Nash’s gut tightened. “I’ll want to talk to any witnesses. Keep them here.” She looked again at the corpse, lips blue, skin ashen. “Where’s the mask?”

“In my car. The first responders had the presence of mind to take pictures before removing it. They had to take it off to try to save the vic, but she was gone already.”

“Forensics isn’t going to like it.”

“Too bad.” He walked her to his Jeep and she noticed a small crowd was gathering around the barricades, people milling as near to the scene as they could get, vultures wearing rain hats and hoods, sweatshirts and slickers, even a couple with umbrellas, all twisting their necks to catch a peek.

“We need a shot of the people who’ve come out in the rain to get a look.”

“Already got an officer on it.”

“It’s amazing that many people are up.”

“Big city. Night dwellers.”

“Well, I want to know who they are, what they saw.” The story was definitely breaking as a reporter and cameraman were already talking to the by-the-book cop, trying to get information. Looking up, Nash saw lights from the surrounding apartments coming to life, the occupants inside standing at the windows or on the decks. A second news van arrived and was trying to wedge into a parking spot. “Looks like we’re having a damned party here.”

“You know this is always how it is.” Unruffled by the looky-loos who bugged the crap out of Nash, Double T unlocked his vehicle, then reached onto the front seat and withdrew a plastic envelope. He handed it to Nash.

Through the clear plastic, she viewed the image, which was, as Double T had said, a warped, laminated picture of Jenna Hughes cut into a mask, complete with an elastic band. Jenna’s eyes were missing, the two jagged black holes that remained only making the bizarre image appear more evil. “Jesus,” Nash whispered as she flipped the envelope over and saw that on the back of the mask, just as Double T had said, was a single word scrawled wildly in red letters:
Mother.

The meaning was obvious.

“So Jenna Hughes is Cassie and Allie Kramer’s mother. Allie’s missing, but Cassie’s back in the area.”

Double T nodded. “Yep.”

Her eyes narrowed on the back of the mask and the stark clue. “Makes you wonder.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hopefully, the killer left prints.”

“Yep. We’ll look into it.”

“Does Jenna Hughes have any other kids?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What about any other family members who are on the outs with her or jealous of her and her daughters? Someone with a grudge. A major grudge.”

“Again, unknown.”

“We should double-check.”

He nodded, rain dripping from the brim of his cap just as the ME’s van arrived. A second later the forensic team’s vehicle appeared. “Showtime,” she said, handing the plastic case back to her partner.

“Let’s talk to the witnesses.”

He locked the mask in his Jeep again, then hitched his chin to a heavy-set woman of about fifty. Pale as death, she was bundled in a ski jacket, jeans, and boots. She held an oversize umbrella aloft even though she stood under the awning of a store whose window display was filled with baby clothes and toys.

“Not a native,” Nash observed, and ignored a sharp little pang when she noticed a pink raincoat and matching boots in the window. Quickly, she moved her gaze, turning her attention to the witness.

“Peggy Gates. Just moved here from Phoenix.”

“Big change.”

“Yep. She’s recently divorced and living temporarily with her sister. Unit 806-B at the Jamison,” he said, indicating a building that rose at least fifteen stories. “Anyway, she says she couldn’t sleep, walked out on the balcony to look upriver. They’ve got a view of the Marquam and Hawthorne bridges, I guess. But ‘something’ on the street below caught her eye. Probably movement. She didn’t actually see the attack, but noticed a woman running toward the river, that direction.”

“She’s certain it was a woman?”

“No. She admitted it might be a small, thin man with long, dark hair, but the way the person moved, she’s leaning toward a female.”

Nash let her gaze follow along the path Gates had described.

“From her balcony, Gates could only see the victim’s head, but she realized the person needed help, so she hurried downstairs to check it out and flipped out when she saw the mask.”

“She didn’t call nine-one-one immediately?”

“She had to run back upstairs for her phone. Then she called. But by then she heard sirens heading this way.”

“The bouncer called it in.”

“Right.”

“The guy next to her, I’m guessing.”

“Bingo.”

Standing a few feet from Gates was a burly African-American man who stood over six feet tall. His head was shaved and earrings glittered in the lamplight. In the driving rain he was bareheaded and wearing only a thin jacket over jeans and a black T-shirt. With his muscular arms folded over his chest, he looked like a black version of Mr. Clean.