Targeted (Callahan & McLane Book 4) (2 page)

Mason fully turned, facing the young cop. “What’d you say?”

The cop lifted his chin, looking from the sheriff to Mason. “I asked what’s the deal with the Pinhead mask?”

“Pinhead?” Mason repeated. Brief clips of horror films flooded his memory. He’d never watched the movies, but his son Jake had been an addict. He moved over to where Denny’s body quietly lay, waiting for the county crime scene techs to start their processing.

Mason stared at the mask that still covered Denny’s face. The Lincoln City cop had wanted to remove it when he’d first arrived, but the Portland detectives wouldn’t let him touch it.

Mason recognized the character. He’d seen a parade of pop culture horror icons on the TV screen as he passed through the family room where Jake had watched movies for hours on end. He had no idea which movie franchise Pinhead belonged to, but knew it’d been one of Jake’s favorites. The mask on Denny’s face was ill-fitting, gathered and gapped in several places, which explained why he hadn’t recognized it as a mask. It’d looked like a lumpy piece of rubber with lines and pins.

He exchanged a glance with Ray, who slowly shook his head as shock crossed his face.

“From the horror movies?” asked Steve. “I didn’t realize that it actually was a mask. I thought it was just a jumbled mess.”

“What’s it mean?” asked the sheriff.

“Hell if I know,” said Mason.

2

A
va McLane pulled open the door of the tiny shop in downtown Lake Oswego. The bells on the door jangled softly, and she stepped into a space managed by someone with much better decorating taste than herself. She was instantly jealous. The owner had a passion for the beachy home decor that made Ava’s blood pressure lower and stress flow out of her limbs. Everywhere she looked she saw something she wanted . . . or possibly needed. Pale distressed wood furniture, striking ocean photos, and beach glass in icy blue and green shades that relaxed her brain. She picked up a mesh bag of the glass, running her thumb over the water-smoothed pieces, imagining it in a clear bowl on her fireplace mantel.

She had a purpose in visiting the store. Looking around, she spotted several paintings on a wall near the back of the shop. She made her way through the store, trying not to be distracted by a fabulous weathered chest of drawers that belonged in a home on Martha’s Vineyard. She stopped in front of the first watercolor and understood why the owner had featured the artwork.

The paintings of coastlines were striking. Bleak and desolate but deeply engaging in their shades and depth. The loneliness portrayed by the artist’s strokes took her breath away.
Am I the only one who sees it?
Or did everyone experience the emptiness?

She stared at the small placard featuring the artist’s name. Jayne McLane.

You finally did it.

It wasn’t much of an art show, but pride swept through Ava.

I hope this helps you continue to heal.

Ava exchanged one email a week with her twin, knowing her every word would be scrutinized by a counselor before Jayne ever read it. Jayne had been incredibly upbeat and proud of her showing in the home decor shop. Needing to confirm that Jayne wasn’t exaggerating, Ava had hunted down the small notice in the local newspaper.

Art show. Jayne McLane’s beach watercolors. 10 to 2 p.m. Free coffee and cookies.

She’d told Jayne she’d go, assuming her twin wouldn’t be allowed to leave her rehab center. Jayne’s doctors were taking her recovery slowly and carefully. Once the gashes on her wrists had healed, they’d encouraged her passion for art, and the result had been these seven paintings.

“These are great,” said a male voice beside her. Ava turned to see a man in his sixties smiling at her. “I love the beach.”

“Me, too.”

He seemed harmless, but Ava wasn’t in a chatty mood. She turned her attention back to the art, realizing the one with the rich teal shades would be perfect in her freshly remodeled dining room.

“Know the artist?” her fellow art admirer asked.

“Not really,” she hedged.

He laughed. “I just wondered if she was local.”

“You’d have to ask the manager,” Ava said, unwilling to talk about her twin. Would Jayne be considered local? In the past decade, had she ever called a city her home?

He held out his hand. “I’m David.”

“Ava.”
Please don’t hit on me.
He was too old for her taste.

“I think I’ll buy that one.” He pointed at the one she’d wanted for her dining room. She bit her lip, holding back her disappointment, and he narrowed his gray eyebrows. “Unless you were going to? You were here first.”

She swallowed. “I was considering that one,” she admitted. At another time she would have let him buy the painting since he’d spoken first, but she’d already pictured it in her home and knew it was perfect.

He studied the others. “In that case, I’ll take that one.”

It’d been her second favorite.

He eyed her. “Unless you’re uncertain about the first one?”

“I want it.” She did. The more she looked at it, the more she saw her sister’s sense of isolation in the bleak seascape. But in a good way. A healing way.

“We have good taste,” he pronounced. He glanced around the quiet shop. “I’ll find a salesperson.” He walked off.

Ava exhaled. The man’s comments confirmed that Jayne did have some talent—and not just in the eyes of her sister. She wondered what Mason would think of the constant reminder of Jayne in their home. Not that it’d be the first one. She was reminded of Jayne every time she looked in the mirror.

A saleswoman bustled over with David in her wake, clearly excited that two of the paintings had immediately sold. Ava added the chest of drawers to her purchase, along with the bag of beach glass. She avoided looking directly at other charming pieces in the shop, knowing she’d stumbled into a store that spoke to her heart. Her wallet couldn’t take the expenses right now. Retail therapy had been an unexpected part of her healing process.

Last Wednesday had been her first time back at the FBI office in two months. It’d been a time of physical, mental, and emotional recovery from being shot at close range as she wrestled with a serial killer. For a long time, she’d wondered if she’d return at all. The trifecta of her injury, a deadly infection, and Jayne’s suicide attempt had thrown her into a deep dark pit.

She’d struggled to find her way out.

The quiet therapist who had annoyed Ava last spring had turned out to be a godsend. Ava had thought Dr. Pearl Griffen meek, but there’d been a backbone of steel and a sharp mind under her docile exterior. She’d pushed and prodded Ava until her brain had seen life as it truly existed. Not the contorted version she’d started to believe in.

Mason had stood beside her the entire time, taking his own leave from work and spending hours simply being in her presence. They’d talk or they’d sit quietly. It didn’t matter; he was her rock. The message was loud and clear that he was there for her.

In sickness and in health.

She looked at the diamond sparkling on her left hand. It’d felt odd the first week, but now it was part of her. A symbol that she and Mason could handle any garbage their lives threw at them.

Surely they’d been through the worst.

Returning to work had been a burst of invigorating fresh air. Before that she’d spent weeks feeling torn into pieces and slogging through some of the deepest depression and pain she’d ever experienced, but she’d emerged strong and hopeful. She’d been placed back in criminal investigations and assigned a caseload that focused her brain and made her feel useful. Returning had been the right thing to do.

What doesn’t kill me . . .

She’d fought her way out of that black pit and was on the right track thanks to Mason and Dr. Griffen. Each day would be a new step in her journey, her doctor had told her; nothing completely goes away.
If you think you’re over it, you’re deceiving yourself.

Ava understood. She had a form of PTSD from a cocktail of Jayne’s emotional abuse and her own physical trauma. Now it was embedded and woven into the person she was. Forever.

Her phone rang in her purse. Mason.

“Denny’s been murdered,” he blurted.

“
What?
Are you okay? What happened?” She made a beeline for the shop’s door and stepped outside for privacy.

The line was silent for a few seconds. “Yes, we’re all fine. We don’t know who did it. I found him this morning outside the cabin. His throat was cut.” His words were clipped, his tone short, and she knew he was struggling. Her heart broke for him.

“I’m so sorry, Mason. You’ve worked together for a long time.”

A text beeped at her ear, and she glanced at her screen. Her boss wanted her to call him immediately.

Ava suspected it wasn’t a coincidence. “Do you need me to come out there?” she asked.

“No. I’m good.” He paused. “I just needed to call you. I had to tell you.”

She understood; she would have done the same.

The pain echoed in his voice. He was trying to hide it, but he couldn’t fool her. She
knew
him.

He’d had some rough moments with his boss, but Ava knew he had a lot of respect and fondness for the man.

“What’s next?” she asked.

“The county sheriff passed on the case to OSP.”

“Will there be a conflict?” Ava asked, knowing most law enforcement agencies shouldn’t handle investigations of their own people.

“I don’t think so. This is different and no one’s more qualified to handle it than OSP.”

Ava didn’t fully agree but held her tongue.

“Except you guys,” Mason admitted.

“Do you want to me to request we offer support?”

The phone was silent. “I don’t know yet.”

She heard him cover his phone and reply to someone in the background. “I need to go,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know more. I love you,” he said fervently.

She echoed the three words, ending the call as she worried about his pain. It took a lot to push Mason to reveal his feelings. No doubt all the men with him were experiencing the same thing. A quad of tough cops, accustomed to being the backbone of whatever situation they walked into, had been stripped bare and left dangling.

She called her boss back while making a mental checklist of resources to support the investigation on the coast. Anger focused her. No one murders a cop without igniting the wrath of every police force in the state.

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ben Duncan answered his phone. “We’re keeping an eye on the murder investigation of an Oregon State Police captain on the coast.”

“I heard,” said Ava. “Do you want me to go out there?”

“They haven’t asked for our help, and I don’t think OSP should handle the investigation of one of their own, but it’s their call. I’m just giving you a heads-up. Fill up your gas tank. You’ll be looking at a two-hour drive. Probably more.”

Ava knew she had to speak up. “You know the victim was Mason’s boss, right? And that Mason was at the coast with him?”

Duncan swore. “I didn’t. He was one of the cops staying with the captain?”

“Yes.”

Duncan was silent for a few moments. “Your thoughts? Everyone’s plate is completely full—too full—except yours. Zander has some time, but I want two people on this.”

“If we get the case.”

“Correct.”

“I don’t think my relationship would be an issue. OSP is sending a major crimes team. The first thing they’ll do is clear their own guys. Once Mason’s name is clear, there’s no conflict of interest.”

“We might be jumping the gun. They could find their suspect behind a tree within the hour.”

“True. But I need to fill up my gas tank anyway.”

3

T
oo many people crowded Denny’s property, and Mason struggled to keep track of them all. He positioned himself next to the sheriff’s deputy holding the crime scene log, watching as people signed in and making mental notes of each one’s department and task. A young Hispanic male joked with the deputy as he signed. Mason stepped closer to read the log.

“You’re the ME?” He couldn’t read the name. Something Ruiz.

The man smiled broadly, surprising Mason with very crooked teeth for his young age and medical profession. “Jason Ruiz. You must be Detective Callahan. I just got off the phone with my boss. Dr. Rutledge says to tell you hello and to convey his condolences.” He shook Mason’s hand.

Dr. Ruiz’s smile was infectious, and Mason felt his spirits lift for the first time in two hours. Mason chalked it up to the gossip chain that the state’s medical examiner back in Portland knew he was there. News of a fallen officer travels fast. Or possibly Ava was making calls, greasing the investigative wheels to the best of her ability.

“Thank you. I’ll thank Seth next time I see him—”

“Which you hope isn’t too soon,” Dr. Ruiz finished the lame joke for him. Probably all medical examiners had heard it too many times. “You discovered the body?” Dr. Ruiz asked as they both moved behind the woodshed.

“Yes.”

Dr. Ruiz studied Denny Schefte as he pulled on his gloves, his booties already in place. Two crime scene techs backed out of the scene, giving the ME a full view of the body. “Does everything look the same as when you first saw him?” he asked Mason.

Mason took a deep breath and looked closely at the gash in Denny’s neck and the position of his limbs. “Yes. He hasn’t been moved. The blood is drier now. More flies.”

The ME glanced at the crime scene techs hovering behind Mason. “Got your pictures?”

“Yes. I photographed the entire scene from the perimeter to the body and took images of the body in its current position,” said one of the young women. “We were waiting for you before collecting any immediate evidence from the body.” Dr. Ruiz gestured for her to take more photos as he gently used long tweezers to lift the spiked mask.

Mason forced himself to watch.

“Pinhead, I see,” said Dr. Ruiz conversationally. “Not one of my favorites, but not the worst villain out there.”

“Watch horror movies?” Mason asked. Under the mask Denny’s mouth was slack, his eyes open and slightly fogged. The medical examiner palpated Denny’s skull and frowned.

“He’s got a blow to the back of the head.”

Mason wasn’t surprised. He’d assumed the attacker would have had to sneak up on Denny to take advantage of him.

Dr. Ruiz moved to the arms and quickly felt all the limbs. His practiced hands rapidly worked the length of the body. He gestured for Mason to help him roll Denny onto his side so he could visually examine his back.

“I’ve watched my share of horror movies,” said the medical examiner, answering the question Mason had forgotten he’d asked. “I think every man goes through a phase where he can’t get enough. Usually in the late teens, early twenties, I’d say.”

“I skipped that phase. My son didn’t. He’s still a fan.”

Dr. Ruiz picked up one of Denny’s hands, looking closely at the nails and wrists. “No defensive wounds apparent, but there’s a lot of dried blood on them since he grabbed at his neck wound. The blow to the head must have stunned him, not knocked him out cold. With all the blood, I can’t tell if the nails have any fresh flesh under them. We’ll bag the hands and see what we find. Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be some DNA under the nails. Right now it’s too hard to confirm if he fought back or tried to defend himself. Later I might find some bruising under his sleeves if he blocked any blows.”

Could he have known his attacker?
Nausea crept up Mason’s throat.

Dr. Ruiz scanned the small clusters of law enforcement. “Where’s the OSP lead detective?”

Mason pointed at a tall blonde woman in a dark green jacket and jeans who was speaking with Sheriff Jensen. “Right there. Nora Hawes.” She glanced their way as if hearing her name.

“I haven’t met her. Know her?”

“A bit. We work out of the same office, but she’s only been there two weeks. My partner Ray knows her from when he worked in Salem. Can’t say enough good things about her.” Mason was reserving judgment until he’d seen the woman work more cases. Ray wouldn’t have said she was okay unless he meant it, but with Mason everyone started at level zero and had to prove themselves. An endorsement from Ray meant that Mason actually smiled during the introduction. Mason was surprised OSP had assigned a Major Crimes detective out of Portland; the Salem office would have been closer, but maybe it was stretched too thin.

Dr. Ruiz pulled a long thermometer out of his bag and lifted Denny’s shirt. Mason watched as he made a small cut below Denny’s rib cage and slid in the silver sensor to take the temperature of his liver. “I’ll go online and check what the air temperature was here overnight,” the doctor said.

“It was forty-two when I found him two hours ago,” said Mason. “When we got home last night just before one
A.M.
, it was forty-six.”

The doctor slid out the sensor as he looked sideways at Mason.

“I look at the temperature almost as much as I check the time. I keep it on the front of my phone.”

Dr. Ruiz twisted his lips. “I’ll get the official weather records, but based on what you just said and his current temperature, he died shortly after you guys got back to the cabin last night.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said a female voice behind them. Mason glanced back to see Detective Hawes listening carefully. She held out her hand to shake the medical examiner’s. He slipped off his gloves and stood to take it. “We knew the window of time was short since the men returned just before one this morning,” she continued. “And Detective Callahan found him at six, but it’s good to know at what end of the window it occurred.”

“I suspect the gash in the neck will be the cause of death, but don’t quote me yet,” said Ruiz. “The blow to the head was hard, but I imagine that came before the neck, and clearly he touched his neck while it was bleeding. I didn’t find any bullet holes or other major injuries during my quick assessment, but I’ll know more once I get him back to the center and get a solid look.” He glanced at the ground near Denny’s head. “I think he bled out right here. Did you find blood anywhere else?”

“No,” said Detective Hawes. “No traces anywhere yet.” She turned her direct green gaze on Mason and said nothing.

He felt as if he had a target on his forehead. Defensiveness swelled in his gut and he bit his tongue. He didn’t need to prove to her he wasn’t involved.

Yet.

“I’d like to debrief you now, Detective,” Hawes stated. “How about we chat in my vehicle?”

In the front seat of her Ford Explorer, Mason blew on the cup of coffee that Detective Hawes had handed him. Someone had made a coffee run into Depoe Bay and managed to return with a big cardboard carafe of surprisingly good coffee and a stack of paper cups. Mason wanted to ask where they’d found it.

Not that he ever planned to return to Depoe Bay. The quaint little fishing town had lost its already thin appeal.

He’d met Detective Hawes the first day she transferred to Portland from Salem’s Major Crimes. She’d been partnered with Henry Becker, but their desks were on a different floor since the primary detectives’ room couldn’t fit another desk. The separate floors had made for a slow get-to-know-you period. He’d been out of the office most of her second week on the job, but so far the feedback from the other guys was good. Everyone had commented that she looked like a young Helen Mirren.

Nora Hawes set her coffee in the cup holder and picked up a notepad. He watched her write his name on the first line and felt a drop of sweat run down his lower back.

Christ.

Self-directed anger swamped him. He wasn’t an eighth grader who’d been caught breaking school windows; he was a cop whose close friend had been murdered. Detective Hawes hadn’t said a word otherwise. She’d been polite and professional. His mind was circling the drain of guilt simply because he was now on the vulnerable side of the interview. He didn’t like his position one bit.

“How long did you work with Denny?” Hawes asked.

“Almost ten years.”

“You worked with him before he was promoted?”

“Yes. We even partnered for a short while.”

“How was that?”

Mason kept his tone light, when he really ached to glare and snap at her. “Good. I’d want him backing me on a call.” Hawes nodded at his statement. There were no stronger words to validate another officer.

“What was your first thought when you found him?”

The memory was fresh. “I wondered if the killer was still there. My next concern was for the guys in the cabin.”

“They said you scared them to death when you woke them up by pounding on their doors.”

“I didn’t know what I’d find inside.”

“Was the front door unlocked when you went outside this morning?”

Mason nodded. “It was. Surprised me. A cop will lock his doors even in the middle of nowhere.”

“The evidence team hasn’t found Denny’s cell phone yet,” Hawes said.

“We noticed it wasn’t on him this morning.”

“I have a request in to his cellular carrier for the last activity on his phone. They say this is the last location they have for the whereabouts of the phone.”

“Someone took it,” Mason stated the obvious. “And removed the battery or turned it off. It’s probably at the bottom of the ocean by now.”

“I agree. So far someone has covered their tracks. We haven’t found anything that indicates how they arrived at the cabin or how they left. There’s no soft dirt with tire tracks.” Frustration furrowed her forehead for a brief second. “What can you tell me about the argument in the bar last night?”

“The five of us were at a table in Pete’s Bar. We’d ordered a couple pitchers of beer but they hadn’t come yet. No one had drunk anything at that point,” he added, meeting her gaze. “Three guys came in and one of them spotted Denny. He came over to the table and started mouthing off about a dent he claimed Denny had put in his truck on a previous visit. Denny denied that’d he’d done it, but the guy was getting pissed and his friend looked ready to start throwing some punches.”

“Could you recognize them?”

Mason closed his eyes, clearly visualizing the three men in their twenties. All wore caps, heavy boots, and thick jackets. Facial scruff. One was a dirty blond and the other two had dark hair. “Absolutely.”

“What happened next?”

“Everyone at the table had stood as the argument heated. I stepped between Denny and the main guy and told him I’d buy him and his friends a pitcher of beer if they’d leave us alone for the evening and take it up the next day. They backed off, and I gave the bartender twenty bucks to keep them supplied for a while.”

“Pretty lame that a twenty quieted them down.”

“I thought so,” said Mason. “Made me think he didn’t believe it’d been Denny who’d done it but felt the need to spout off about it when he spotted him.”

“How often did Denny visit his cabin? Did the locals know him?”

Mason shrugged. “Dunno. In the office it seemed like he went to the coast pretty frequently. The bartender greeted him by name last night. I’d say people who live here know him.”

“Did Denny dent his accuser’s truck?” Her straightforward manner had relaxed him a bit.

She’s looking for answers. Doing her job.
It was an attitude he understood.

“He told us he hadn’t. He’d parked next to the guy’s truck when he was in town last month. That day the guy had blown up when he spotted the dent and immediately turned on Denny. Denny told him then that he hadn’t done it but could tell the guy didn’t believe him.”

“Were the three men drunk last night?”

“I could smell beer on the one I spoke to, but I wouldn’t call them drunk. They’d had enough to be cocky assholes.”

“Sometimes reaching that level doesn’t take much,” Hawes agreed. She wrote on her notepad and the vehicle grew silent.

“When did you last see Denny?”

“It was about one thirty in the morning when I got to my room. Denny and I had sat in the kitchen alone and talked while the other guys went straight to bed.”

Hawes nodded. Mason knew she’d already interviewed some of the men and would be looking for consistency across all the detectives’ stories. “I told the other guys we’d just talked about fishing and the cabin. That wasn’t true.”

She lifted an eyebrow as she waited for him to continue, her pen hovering over her notepad.

“He wanted to ask me about my ex-wife.”

Her lips twitched and the eyebrow rose higher.

“His ex-wife had approached him about giving their relationship another try. Both Denny and I are divorced, and he wanted to know what I would have done if my ex had said the same to me.” A flush warmed his face. “I’m with someone else now, but I would have considered it if Robin had asked to get back together years ago. She was the one who struggled with being married to a cop and had to break loose—not me. Denny’s been divorced as long as I’d known him, and I’ve never known his ex, Cindy. I wasn’t in a place to tell him what to do.”