After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

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.

Like someone who might have been a patient in a mental ward? Like Cassie Kramer, who so recently waltzed out the door of Mercy Hospital?

“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.”