After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

Cassie’s heart had skipped a beat. “Did she work at Mercy? In the psych ward?” Was it possible? Had Carter and Sparks located someone who purported to know that Allie was alive?

“Unknown. They’re working on it. This isn’t really a job for the state police. It’s Portland’s case, but Sparks is intrigued and is doing this on his own time.”

“Belva Nelson,” she’d repeated, but the name still meant nothing to her. “How . . . I mean how did she get into the hospital?”

“If she did. Nothing’s certain. Carter’s gonna call back once they’ve visited the place.”

“Hopefully he’ll come up with some answers,” she’d said, trying to figure out how a retired nurse from a town thirty-odd miles from Portland had anything to do with Allie seeming to vanish. Could this woman be the key to unlocking the entire mystery? Cassie had felt her pulse jump a little, then had refused to allow herself to feel the tiniest ray of hope. Belva Nelson could be just another dead end.

Now, in the interrogation room Cassie watched as Detective Nash gave a nod to the mirror and within seconds a phone was delivered by a uniformed officer who hooked it to a jack in the wall. The cord stretched to the table. Nash dialed. Less than a minute later she was connected to Detective Hayes in LA and the interview continued for another forty-five minutes, directed by Nash, with Hayes asking a few questions for clarification.

The whole experience was surreal. And unnerving.

The questions became pointed and went over the same information Nash had asked earlier: Did she see the victim, Brandi Potts, last night? Did she know Brandi? Was there a connection between Brandi and Holly Dennison or Lucinda Rinaldi? Did Allie ever talk about either woman? Did Cassie own a gun? Could she provide an alibi for the hours surrounding Brandi Potts’s death? Did Cassie have any idea why the mask was left at her apartment in LA? Did she know about the other masks? Did she know of any reason either woman would have been killed? Any known enemies? Did she know if the two women were close? And just how close was she to either?

No, no, no!

How many times did she have to explain that she knew nothing? She answered each question as best as she could, but her knowledge of either victim was limited. Yes, she’d had drinks with Holly, but that was it. She’d driven her friend home the night before her death and hadn’t seen her again. She wasn’t even sure if she’d ever had a conversation with Brandi Potts.

The detectives’ questions were getting them nowhere.

And still Nash kept firing them.

Why would someone place the masks on the victims or leave one at her apartment? Why scribble the words Mother or Sister on the back of each?

Cassie was losing her patience. “I don’t know,” she said for the dozenth time. “Look, if I knew anything, I’d tell you.”

Nash’s smile was icy. “Well, that’s certainly reassuring.”

“I mean it, I don’t know.” She’d almost pounded her fist on the table she was so frustrated, tired, and angry. But that wouldn’t solve anything. She forced a calmness she didn’t feel. “So I’m going to go now. I’ve told you everything I know, which is nothing, so there’s no reason for us to waste any more of your time or mine, or his,” she said, rolling a palm toward the phone from which the disembodied voice of Jonas Hayes had boomed. Standing, she headed to the door.

“I wouldn’t advise you leaving just yet,” Nash said, and Cassie whirled on her.

“Tough. I’m going.” She only hesitated long enough to see if the detective would try to stop her. She didn’t.

“I’m sure I’m going to have more questions for you,” Nash stated, and was unable to hide her annoyance.

“I’m sure,” Cassie said. “You have my number. Oh, wait. You also have my damned phone.” Then she opened the door and nearly bolted from the room.

Sonja Watkins wasn’t happy to find an officer of the law on her sagging front porch. Pushing forty and skinny as a rail, she stood behind a broken screen door and smoked a cigarette while a television blared from somewhere in the depths of the house. Two dogs of indeterminate breed lay on mats on the porch and chickens picked at bugs and grain or whatever in the sparse grass of the yard. The house, vintage 1940, sat on a plot that had to be five acres of fenced scrub brush. A boat and four older-model vehicles, two of which didn’t appear to run, were parked in a wide gravel area in front of a weathered barn. No Hyundai SUV.

The surrounding small farms, visible from the front porch, were neatly kept, the yards trimmed, the houses and outbuildings painted and clean. Not so the Watkins property.

“What do the cops want with my aunt?” Sonja Watkins asked, eyeing Sparks’s badge suspiciously through the screen.

Carter guessed this wasn’t the first time the police had shown up at her door.

Sparks offered a thin smile. A tall man with curly black hair showing its first signs of gray, he was about six feet, his skin always appearing tanned, his eyes sharp and focused. Today, as usual, he appeared unruffled, as if he’d been through the drill a million times.

“Is Belva Nelson here? On the premises?” he asked, flipping his badge holder closed and stuffing it into his pocket.

“Why? She in some kind of trouble?” Sonja was little more than five feet, thin to the point of being skinny, her hair a dark auburn color, red streaks visible. A pair of readers were propped onto her head, and the cigarette burned between the manicured fingers of her right hand. She turned her head to yell over her shoulder, “Christ, Mick, could you turn the damned TV down?”

One of the dogs lifted his head and gave a soft woof. The volume from within didn’t change. Pursing her lips in aggravation, she swung her head around again. “Wedded bliss.”

Sparks was firm. “We just need to talk to Ms. Nelson.”

“Well, Ms. Nelson ain’t here.”