After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

“Isn’t there always?” This wasn’t news. Ever since the popular star’s disappearance, the police departments in LA, Portland, and even places in between received “tips” that the missing woman had been seen. “I swear, Allie Kramer’s more popular than Elvis these days. And more visible. Didn’t we get a call last week from somewhere in Alaska? And don’t forget that little town outside of Birmingham. Good Lord, someone even called from Molalla, here in Oregon.”

He nodded, drips spilling off the bill of his cap.

“Each time we do a follow-up, it’s a case of mistaken identity. Once, the woman spotted was eighty-two years old . . . and then later a man was sure he’d seen her.” Both sightings hadn?

?t panned out. “People see what they want to see. You know that. You’ve interviewed enough eyewitnesses to a crime, each contradicting the other.”

“But now you’re flying south because some woman who was loosely associated with Dead Heat was murdered. The last I heard LA isn’t in our jurisdiction.”

She almost smiled as she waited for the light to change. “Already cleared it.”

The light finally switched and she and Double T stepped off the curb into the swarm of pedestrians crossing to the other side. Once on the opposite sidewalk, she and Double T veered off toward the parking structure.

“You work fast,” he observed.

“No one higher up likes all the press the Allie Kramer case is getting, the pressure to solve what happened to her and arrest whoever it was who was behind the Rinaldi shooting. The public wants answers. The press is in a feeding frenzy and the brass are feeling the heat.”

“You’re convinced the dead woman in LA is linked to what happened up here,” he said as they climbed the stairs of the elevated lot.

“Uh-huh. If we didn’t now have a dead body, I’d almost think this was a publicity stunt gone bad.”

“But we do have a dead body. Or LA does.”

“There’s more going on than just homicide.” Slanting rain poured through the open windows of the stairwell, dampening each landing. Nash barely noticed. “You saw the pictures.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s not our jurisdiction,” she said, remembering the shots of the mask that had been left on the corpse, “but Holly Dennison’s murder has bearing on our case. I just need to figure out how.”

“And here I thought you just wanted to head south and sip margaritas under the palms.”

“I’m saving my frequent flyer miles for the islands. You know, preferably one with scorching sun, white sand, ocean breezes, and hot pool boys.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll hold down the fort while you’re away.”

“Do that. It won’t be long. Fingers crossed, I should be back by tomorrow night.” She found her Ford Focus wedged between a monster truck and an equally large SUV, both parked in Compact Only slots. “Doesn’t anyone read?” she muttered and clicked her keyless lock before inching between the truck and the driver’s side.

“Give ’em a ticket.”

“I wish.”

With a final grin cast in her direction Double T peeled off in search of his own vehicle.

Nash couldn’t open her damned door, so she made her way back to the rear of her Focus, opened the cargo door, and cursing every moronic driver on the planet, crawled over the backseat, then into the driver’s side. Worrying that her mirrors might scrape the sides of the encroaching vehicles, she hesitated before firing the engine. Then she thought, too damned bad. If she scraped the nearby rigs, too bad. She eased her way out of the space, took a deep breath, and started down the ramp leading to the street. She planned to pick up something to eat at a local Thai food cart, then head to the airport and hopefully make her flight. With the traffic and the rain, she didn’t have a lot of time. She couldn’t even run by her house on the east side, but thankfully she always kept an overnight bag filled with the essentials, including a toothbrush and change of clothes, in her Ford.

Just in case she ever got lucky.

So far, at least in recent memory, she had not.

CHAPTER 20

They pulled into a truck stop near Redding to fill up on gas and food. Inside the long, flat-roofed restaurant, they sat on opposite sides of a booth next to a plate glass window. The view was of the freeway, headlights and taillights streaking past, illuminating the night. A few other customers were scattered under the unforgiving overhead lights as a fiftysomething waitress with a forced smile and tired eyes took their orders, then disappeared through swinging doors.

“You okay?” Trent asked. His voice actually had a tender quality to it.

“Fine.” That, of course, was a lie. She wondered if she’d ever be “fine” again. She tried to find a smile and gave up, lifting a shoulder and whispering, “I guess I’m as fine as I can be, all things considered.”

His eyes, a shade of brown that was almost gold, seemed understanding, even kind, so she glanced away quickly and was thankful when their drinks arrived.