After She's Gone (34 page)

Except there was another piece of damning evidence that had just come in via e-mail from the traffic department. Nash looked up at her computer monitor to study an image captured by a traffic cam late last night. A woman driving a Honda making an illegal U-turn within half a mile of where the murder took place. The traffic cam had time-stamped the picture at 1:14
AM
and the woman behind the wheel of the car registered to her name? None other than Cassie Kramer.

Cassie was not only in the area, she’d been within blocks of the murder within the time frame that the crime had been committed.

Yeah, it was harder and harder to think Cassie effin’ Kramer, certified mental case, wasn’t involved with two homicides, one attempted homicide, and her sister’s disappearance.

Still, it didn’t sit right.

Disgusted, she threw her pencil onto the desk just as she heard someone outside the opening to her cubicle. As she looked up she found Double T entering her space.

Somewhere between the middle of the damned night and now, he’d managed to change into fresh jeans, an open-collared shirt, and jacket. In his right hand, he carried a bag with a sticker indicating that he’d stopped at her favorite local deli, located on the opposite side of the next block. In his left, he held a drink carrier with two oversize cups. “Figured you could use something besides bad coffee and ibuprofen.”

“You’re right.” And to confirm, her stomach growled.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Pointing at the bag she asked, “What’ve you got?”

“Vegetarian Delight or some such crap. And a Diet Coke. I know you’re a purist these days and try to avoid soda and sweets and whatever, but go ahead, indulge. Live a little. A little caffeine and pseudo sugar could do you some good.”

“Or more harm than good, but okay. I’m in.” She needed a kick start and some days all the body cleansing, organic foods, and meatless Mondays got to her, so she broke training. Today just happened to be one of those days.

Double T set the drinks and white sack on the corner of her desk, then pulled up the visitor’s chair and spread out the lunch. After a morning of bitter coffee, two power bars, and yes, the ibuprofen, the contents of the bag smelled like heaven.

From the first bite, the toasted sandwich of melted cheese, onions, tomatoes, and avocado topped with some kind of wasabi mayo hit the spot. Washing a bite down with the soda didn’t hurt either. She could almost feel her energy level rise while Double T dug into meatballs, sauce, and melted cheese oozing over a thick slab of bread.

“Getting anywhere?” he asked, hitching his chin at her notes.

“Nowhere fast . . . or nowhere slow. Take your pick.” She took another bite. “Forensics isn’t back on the bullets from the victims, but I bet they match. And the lab is still working on trying to find any DNA on the laminated masks, also checking the paper and elastic bands so we can start tracking down anyone who might have bought the products used.”

“A long shot.”

“But a shot. Right now I’ll take one from a BB gun fired two miles away.” Another bite. Yeah, she was definitely feeling better. “What about you?”

“Got a call from Larry Sparks.” At the raise of her eyebrows, he clarified, “Sparks is a lieutenant with the OSP. Get this, he’s been tracking down registrations for a 2007 Hyundai. Santa Fe. An SUV.”

“And you’re telling me this now . . . why?”

“He’s doing it as a favor to a friend.”

She still didn’t get it, but from the smug smile on Double T’s face, this information meant something. “And I, or we, care?”

“Hmm.” He took another bite followed by a long swallow from his cup. “His friend is Shane Carter.”

“Jenna Hughes’s husband.” Now he had her attention.

“Yep. And they’re looking for the vehicle because . . . well, here’s where it gets a little off the grid.” She waited impatiently while he chewed, then he said, “Some kid at the hospital where Cassie Kramer was a patient saw this car in the lot. An unusual car for the lot . . . well, the kid’s unusual, too, knows all sorts of trivia shit and cars are one of his interests. Supposedly he can name any make and model since they were invented, or something like that.” He waved his explanation away, as if it didn’t matter. “Anyway, because Cassie thought someone came into her room and told her that her sister was alive, but you know, left without giving any information, she’s trying to track the woman down.”

“Whoa, whoa. Wait. Back up. Why is this the first time we’ve heard about a woman with information about Allie Kramer?”

“Well, that’s the ‘off the grid’ part. Turns out the woman was wearing an old-time nurse’s uniform, you know, with the stiff cap, white dress, and shoes? And there’s no nurse at the hospital fitting that description.”

“Of course,” she said dryly, her sandwich temporarily forgotten. “So . . . what’re you saying?”

“According to Carter—because I talked to him after I got the call from Sparks—Cassie Kramer didn’t want to come off sounding like some kind of a nut.”

“You mean more of a nut.”

“Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

“So now she’s got the OSP chasing ghosts?” she asked. She picked up her sandwich again.

“Maybe.”

“Good use of the taxpayers’ dollars,” she observed.

“There’s more.”

“Of course there is. Hopefully not more detective work courtesy of a patient in a mental ward.”

“Nope. According to Carter, they’re bringing in another mask.”

“What?” She was raising half the sandwich to her mouth, but stopped. “A mask? Like the ones found on the victims?”

“That’s right. Of Allie Kramer again, and yeah, all messed up. Disfigured.”

Nash leaned back in her chair, her gaze pinned on her partner, her interest spiked. She felt a little uptick in her pulse. The mask actually linked Cassie to the crimes, was concrete physical evidence. “Why does she have a mask? How did she get it?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Get this: She claims it was left in her apartment in California, she found it in a suitcase after she thought her place was broken into.”

“She file a report?”

“No. Nothing was taken, nothing disturbed. She’s not really sure when the mask was left in her bag. It was a piece of luggage she hadn’t used for a while, or so she claims. The only reason she thinks it was left when she was in California this last time was because not only did she find it when she started packing up, but somehow the neighbor’s cat had gotten in and was trapped in her place and scared the hell out of her.”

“Whoa, whoa. Wait a second. Start over. Tell me the chain of events, I want to get this straight.” Nash pushed the remains of her sandwich aside and grabbed her pencil again before turning over a new page on her tablet. As Double T explained everything he’d heard about Cassie Kramer supposedly finding a mask in her luggage that sounded just like the ones left at the crime scenes, Nash took notes. It didn’t make any sense. If Cassie were the killer, why would she come up with a mask herself? To throw the police off? As yet, information about the masks being left on the victims hadn’t been leaked to the press. The few people who had seen the bodies, witnesses and cops, had so far held their tongues. So how the hell had Cassie Kramer come up with one?

“This really connects her,” Nash thought aloud.

“Or makes her a victim?”

“You mean makes her
look
like a victim.” Nash was playing devil’s advocate, as Double T’s doubts echoed her own, but she didn’t want to ignore the obvious just on principle or gut feelings.

“You don’t think she’s a vic?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you’re second-guessing yourself, too.”

“Just looking at the big picture,” she said, but still had the niggling feeling that something was off. She set her pencil down and rotated the computer monitor so that it was more visible to her partner. “Look who was out cruising late last night and got caught pulling a U-ey.”

Double T let out a long, low whistle as he stared at the snapshot of Cassie Kramer behind the wheel of a Honda. “Nail-in-the-coffin time. All we need now is a murder weapon with her fingerprints on it.”

“Or a confession.” She started in on what was left of her sandwich again, but she barely tasted it as her mind was reeling ahead to the interview with Cassie Kramer, the questions she would ask. “This afternoon should be interesting.”

“Hopefully she doesn’t lawyer up.” He wadded up the waxy paper in which his sandwich had been wrapped and tossed it toward the wastebasket near her desk. Banking off the wall of her file cabinet, he hit the shot. “Two points.” He flashed her a smile. “See, the day’s getting better already.”

“Is it?”

“Just wait until we talk to Cassie Kramer,” Double T said as his cell phone jangled and he answered, walking out of her cubicle.

“I can’t,” Nash said, and it was the truth. She couldn’t wait. And she was a little worried that she’d made a major mistake in not driving out to Falls Crossing and interviewing Cassie immediately. Cassie did have a history of mental issues and probably didn’t want to speak to the cops. Nash didn’t blame her on that one; she was the prime suspect in their case. However, Shane Carter had promised she’d show, so Nash was staking her job on the fact that the ex-lawman would be as good as his word, even if his stepdaughter fought him.

She drained the rest of her drink and cleaned up the corner of her desk they’d used as a table, then turned back to work. For the moment, her headache was at bay and she was energized again.

Until Kowalski strolled by. “How’s it goin’?” he asked, poking his head around the corner, the scent of a recent cigarette following him.

“Goin’.”

“Heard you caught another one. Dead person linked to the movie, found wearing a fuckin’ mask. Weird shit.”

“Weird,” she agreed.

“Forensics find anything?”

“No report yet.”

“Prints on the mask?”

“None that mean anything.”

“Weird shit,” he said again, and made his way to his desk. He settled behind it and turned to his computer, but his wife’s glamour shot was still staring at her from the corner of his desk. Oh, what she would have done for a door to shut off the sultry pout captured on Marcia Kowalski’s face nearly thirty years earlier. Marcia’s near-blond hair floated all around her face in permed curls, jewelry sparkled under the camera’s lights, and her shoulders were bare as she cast a sultry look over her shoulder. The photograph was fading with the passage of time, Marcia Kowalski was twice the age she’d been in the shot, but still Kowalski kept it framed on his desk. Probably would until he retired. So Marcia would stare at Nash for at least five more years.

Her cell phone chirped. Whitney Stone’s number appeared. For the fourth time today. Did the woman never rest?

Without a second thought Nash let the call go to voice mail.

 

A
nother mask? Cassie stared in horror at the mask of her mother that lay faceup on the table in the interview room at the police department. She physically recoiled from the hideous image. “Oh, God,” she whispered, hand to her mouth, eyes wide. Her stomach felt as if she might heave and yet she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the mask. Jenna’s beautiful face appeared to be melting, her mouth open as if in a silent, terror-riddled scream.

For a second Cassie couldn’t focus, couldn’t process. The room spun and she held onto the table for support. How could there be more than one of the gut-wrenching, horrid masks?

Despite the fact it was covered in plastic, the laminated visage of Jenna Hughes seemed to glare at her, those dark, empty eye sockets drilling into Cassie’s soul as it lay on the table between Cassie and Detective Nash. It was all Cassie could do to stay in her seat in the small room furnished only with the scarred but functional table and two uncomfortable chairs. A camera was mounted high on the same colorless wall where a mirror was displayed. On the other side, she realized from all the cop shows she’d watched over the years, was a darkened viewing room where other detectives and maybe a DA were watching her and gauging her reaction.

“Where—where did you get this?” she managed to whisper.

“You’ve never seen it before?”

“No!”

“And yet you have another mask. The one you brought in.”

“Yes.” What was she getting at?

“Similar to this one,” Nash said, pushing yet another piece of paper forward, across the table, closer to Cassie, who actually scooted her chair back an inch. The sheet of paper was a copy of another horrendous, twisted picture of Allie, her eyes missing, her mouth a red curling slash. “This is just a copy, of course. The original is in LA, with the detective who’s investigating Holly Dennison’s murder.”

“Hayes,” Cassie said, her voice a croak, her stomach threatening to heave. “Detective Hayes. He called. I talked to him.”

“Briefly.”

“Yes.” She nodded, her gaze glued to the hideous masks. “Where . . . where did you get these?”

“You can’t tell me?”

“No!” Cassie said.

“You’re sure?” Nash was so damned calm. Cassie was suddenly claustrophobic, the walls seeming to shrink.

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve never seen those two before in my life. I thought . . . I mean I believed I had the only one. Where did you . . . where did you get these?” she asked, her voice strangled, her mind whirling. What the hell was going on here? What was with all the masks? Why would the police have them?

“These were found on the victims.”

“What?” Cassie’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t understand.” She didn’t want to.

“On the bodies. Placed over their heads. Both here and in LA, when they were killed on nights you were in both cities.”

“Oh, Jesus.” She felt the blood drain from her face. “I don’t understand.” This was making no sense at all. Why in God’s name would anyone go to the trouble to leave the masks on the dead women? And why was the detective staring at her so intently, as if she expected Cassie to tell her something new, offer up more information? Or . . . Jesus God, was she waiting for some kind of confession? No . . . that couldn’t be it. Sweat broke out between her shoulder blades.

“How well did you know Brandi Potts?”

“I didn’t.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” Nash’s gaze was hard. Scrutinizing.

“Well, maybe on the set? That last day? But I don’t remember her.”

Nash slid another piece of paper forward, the picture of a pretty woman with red hair and sharp features. “This is Brandi Potts.”

Cassie stared down at the photo and shook her head. “I might have seen her. But really, I don’t remember.”

Another picture was pushed over the top of the first, the same woman, staring upward, her face ashen, her open eyes with a fixed gaze. She was obviously dead.

“Jesus,” Cassie whispered and her stomach roiled. Spit collected in her mouth and she had to look away. “I don’t remember her.”

Nash hesitated a minute, then said gently, as if they were good friends,“Why don’t you tell me how you found the mask that you brought in?”

“I thought I already did.” Cassie wasn’t going to be fooled by the sudden shift in attitude. Rhonda Nash was anything but her friend. She set her jaw and stared right back at the detective. She explained again about discovering the mask in her suitcase after being scared to death by the cat and feeling that someone had been in her apartment. After a few clarifying questions, Nash steered the conversation to the previous night.

Cassie wasn’t quite as clear as she explained about her text and meeting with Brandon McNary, then the feeling that she was being followed on the way to her car. She held back, though, and didn’t admit to the missing hours in her life. Confessing to losing track of time or even blacking out would only open a door she’d prefer to keep firmly shut.

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah.” Cassie nodded tightly and the muscles in the back of her neck stiffened.

“You’re sure?”

Why did the simple question seem like a trap?

Without another word, Nash pushed the masks to one side then reached into her file and came up with a glossy picture. “Is this you?” she asked as Cassie, her heart turning stone cold, stared at a photograph of herself behind the wheel of her Honda. She saw the timestamp, remembered the flash as she pulled a one-eighty in the middle of the street in order to follow the bus.

“Yes.” Cold dread congealed in her blood.

“So how did this happen?”

“After I left Brandon, or rather, after he drove off, I got into my car—”

“After feeling that you were being followed?”

“Yes. Anyway, I was starting to leave Portland and . . . and I thought I saw Allie. She . . . she was waiting for a bus, which came.” Cassie’s heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to remain calm. “I think she got onto it, but the bus blocked my view of the stop, so I made a U turn to follow it and hopefully catch up with her.”

“At one fourteen in the morning?”

“I don’t know what time it was, but yeah, that’s probably about the right time,” she said and tried not to panic even though it was evident the detective thought she was lying, that she was somehow involved in Brandi Potts’s murder. She should leave. Tell Nash she needed her lawyer with her, or just get up and walk out. But she didn’t. Because, damn it, she wasn’t guilty.

Upon questioning, Cassie managed to describe the bus, the advertising panel of a local real estate firm on the back end as it belched exhaust on the route.

Nash made a note. “So. Did you follow it? The bus?”

Didn’t she just say so?
Be calm. Stay cool.
“Yes.”
For as long as I can remember.

“And was your sister on it?”

Cassie licked her lips. Had Allie been inside? “No. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. She wasn’t in the alcove of the coffee shop when I drove past, but the bus was lit. I could see inside.” She willed herself to remember driving and craning her neck, looking upward through the bus’s windows. “There were only a few riders.” Two twentysomethings in watch caps, wires from headphones running from their ears. An old man in a bulky coat . . . and . . . She didn’t realize it, but she was slowly shaking her head.

“You didn’t see Allie Kramer?”

Cassie knew how fantastic this all sounded, how unreal. “On the bus? No. Not unless she was lying down.” But then where had she gone? If she hadn’t boarded the bus, what had happened to her? Dear God, had she even existed? Cassie’s head began a slow, low throb, from the base of her skull.
Not now!
She couldn’t black out now!

“Do you remember where you saw her? Before she boarded?”

Cassie blinked. Stared down at the picture. “Right there!” She pointed to the photo of her, flashed by the traffic camera. “The coffee shop at that intersection and I already told you, she was there, standing in the doorway waiting for the damned bus!” Her voice had risen and she wanted to shake Nash to make her believe.

Making another note, Nash said, “And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“After you followed the bus. What happened?”

There it was. The time gap. The black hole of her life where she had no idea what had happened. Had she chased Allie down? Driven aimlessly? She didn’t know. “Nothing,” she said quickly, her voice sounding strangled.
Don’t let her get to you. Stay focused. Serene. You can do this.
She said, “I drove home. I mean to my husband’s ranch.” It was all she could do not to squirm in her seat. But she did her best and wished to high heaven that Trent was with her. That, of course, hadn’t been allowed. He’d driven her to the station and was waiting nearby, probably going to be asked to confirm what he could of her story, but for now, she was on her own.

Just like always,
her mind teased as she’d always felt a little out of step within her small family. Allie, the baby, had always been Jenna’s favorite, probably because she, during their growing up years, had complied while Cassie had rebelled. Their father, too, had been more interested in the younger of his two daughters with Jenna, but that, recently, was probably because of Allie’s star power and how it had reflected upon him as her producer. With Cassie shifting her interests to screenwriting, Robert had lost a little interest in her.

Cassie gripped the edges of her chair and forced her mind to the interview.

“There is something else,” Cassie said, and reached into her jacket pocket to withdraw her phone. “I left this in the car last night and this morning there was a text on it.” She scrolled to the cryptic message and handed it to the detective.

“ ‘Help me’?” Nash read.

“I don’t know who it’s from. The number means nothing to me but Brandon McNary got a text from a number he didn’t recognize. It said, ‘I’m okay.’ Nothing more. He thought his text was from Allie and I thought mine was, too.”

“You wrote back?” Nash said, staring at the screen. “But no response?”

“Right.”

“Why do you think it’s from Allie?”

“Who else?” Cassie asked.

“Someone pranking you?”

“It could be, but . . . I don’t know. I thought you might want to see it.”

Nash nodded. “Can I keep this?”

“Yes.” Cassie hated handing over her phone, but knew the information on it could be accessed by the police through the phone company; all they needed was a search warrant, and though the detective would be searching through her phone’s contacts, texts, call log, and apps, she didn’t care. She didn’t have anything to hide and she wanted to prove it.

Nevertheless, it made her nervous.

Nash asked more questions about the night before. Over and over again, as if she hoped to trip Cassie up, but Cassie held firm, never once straying from her actions, both in Portland and in LA, keeping her missing hours to herself.

Finally, exhausting all her inquiries, Nash said, “I think Detective Hayes will want to talk to you.”

“Again,” Cassie corrected, her heart sinking. She was already going out of her mind, wanted to leave this place ASAP. “Is he here?”

“No. The interview will be by phone. We’re kind of changing it up a bit, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine,” Cassie lied, but wondered if she were making a big mistake, if the police would twist her words, if she really should have refused to talk to them without an attorney as Trent had advised.

“It wouldn’t hurt to have counsel present,” Trent had suggested. He’d been driving, Cassie in the passenger seat of his pickup as they’d left his place. She’d glanced in the side view and had caught sight of Hud waiting on the porch. Her heart had squeezed and she’d felt a premonition of doom, had almost insisted Trent turn the truck around. But it would have only put off the inevitable.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” she’d finally said, determined to get the damned interview over with.

“I know, but—”

“I can handle it,” she’d snapped, just as his cell phone had beeped. He’d glanced at the display. “It’s Carter,” he’d said, and answered, driving one-handed on the county road leading to I-84 heading west. The conversation had been quick and one-sided. “. . . Well, at least that’s something. Hopefully something will come of it . . . Yeah, we’re on our way there now. Thanks . . . How long? You would know better than me, I think. A couple of hours? . . . Yeah, both of us . . . call when you know more.... Okay. Thanks.”

He’d hung up and said, “Carter says ‘Good luck.’ ”

“I’ll probably need it.”

“He’s also said Sparks ran down a lead on the Santa Fe. He and Carter are on their way to Molalla. They matched one of the 2007 Hyundais to a dealership out there.”

“And?”

“And this particular dealer sells all his cars with a license plate holder that not only has his name on it, but a little art.”

“Let me guess,” she said, astonished that Rinko’s obtuse lead would go anywhere. “It’s got a horse on it.”

“Actually a cowboy riding a bucking bronco in honor of the Molalla Buckeroo, a rodeo event the town holds every year. Apparently Belva Nelson lives in some little farm outside the city limits with her niece and husband. The niece’s name is Sonja Watkins. Ring any bells?”

“No.” She’d been certain. She’d never heard of either woman. “Who are they? How are they connected?”

“Carter isn’t sure, but here’s the kicker: Belva Nelson is in her seventies and an RN. She worked in Portland, but she’s retired now.”