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“Yeah.”
“Ever heard of a teacher named Kaitlin Roe?”
“No.” Logan dug his phone from his pocket and pulled up a site dedicated to rating professors. He typed in Kaitlin’s name and pulled up her profile.
Adler studied the image. Her blond hair was swept in front of her face, effectively hiding half her features. White teeth flashed as if the camera had caught her laughing. A collection of bracelets hung from a slim wrist as she appeared to brush a wisp of hair from her face.
“She’s hot,” Logan said.
Adler rubbed his neck. He’d noticed. “What’s it say about her?”
Logan scrolled through the comments. “Hates it when people are late to her class. Grades hard. Fair. Will organize extra Saturday study sessions if the class needs it. You have a hard-on for her?” A slight grin teased the edges of his mouth.
He’d thought about her a lot. She wasn’t anything like his ex-wife or the women he’d dated since. Intense with a fierce drive, she wasn’t afraid to shake up the status quo to get what she wanted. She also had a tight ass he thought about too damn much. “Her name came up in this murder investigation.”
“I remember her now. And Gina Mason. How do the Mason case and the Ralston case relate?”
“I’m not sure yet. My priority has been Thursday night’s stabbing. I spent the better part of the night going through the victim’s financials and background. Bottom line is, Quinn and I don’t have time to read the full Gina Mason case file.”
“Keep talking.”
“I need someone to go through it. How about you?”
“Me?” He laughed, but his eyes sharpened with interest.
“You were a good cop, Detective, and you still are.”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that a no? Are you saying you’re too busy chasing university skirt and doing homework to help?”
“Screw you.”
“Detective Logan, I could use the help.”
“What’s the rush?”
“That stabbing I mentioned. She was one of Kaitlin’s interview subjects. And a former witness in the Gina Mason case. There is also a prisoner, Randy Hayward, in the city jail who says he’ll trade what he knows about Gina for a reduced sentence on a murder charge he’s facing.”
Logan’s shoulders relaxed. “I can do this.”
Adler reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys. He removed a second house key and handed it to Logan. “Pack your stuff and move in. The case file is at our house.”
Logan reached for the key and fisted his fingers around it. “You sure about this?”
“The room on the first floor is yours. And if you ever thank me, I’ll punch you.”
“Take your best shot.”
Adler clamped his hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Get your ass in gear.”
Logan grinned like a schoolboy. “I’m not going to cramp your style when you make a move on Kaitlin Roe, am I?”
“Doubt that’ll happen.” Adler laughed. “And no one gets in my way when I make a move.”
As Kaitlin walked around the classroom and listened in on the student interviews, her phone vibrated.
She pulled it from her pocket and spotted Erika Crowley’s name.
I’m ready to be interviewed, but it has to be today. Come to my house. Now before I lose my nerve.
Kaitlin was surprised to see the text from Erika. The way they’d left it, she hadn’t thought she had a chance at another interview. If Erika knew something, Kaitlin needed to hear it. Given that Randy might tell his own version of what happened, it felt more important than ever to talk to Erika. The more facts she had, the easier it would be to sort Randy’s facts from fiction.
Kaitlin glanced toward the clock on the wall and then to the students. She read Erika’s text again.
With a sense of urgency, she moved to her desk and grabbed her knapsack, already calculating the time and distance between here and Erika’s house. This time of day, she’d miss any traffic and make the trip in twenty minutes.
“Guys, I’ve had an emergency come up,” she said. “We’re going to have to end the session now.”
“But we aren’t finished,” one student said.
“He was starting to crack,” another joked.
“Sometimes a reporter or public relations professional has no control over the time.” Which was true. Sometimes a reporter had time to warm up to the interviewee, and other times it all changed on a dime.
Groans rumbled over the class. “But I was getting to the good stuff,” one young woman said.
“Send me your midterms by tomorrow at noon.”
More grunts followed, but the students gathered their belongings and left the room. She locked up, hurried down the side stairs, and hustled across Main Street to her car.
As she wove in and out of traffic, the sense of urgency built inside her. The GPS on her phone noted her exit approaching, forcing her thoughts back to the moment. She decelerated off the exit ramp and headed toward the exclusive neighborhood. Her GPS guided her past manicured lawns until she arrived at the familiar white colonial. There were no cars in the driveway, but a light was on in the house.
Kaitlin texted Erika’s number. I’m here.
A new text popped. Come inside.
The hairs on Kaitlin’s neck rose as they had the night Gina was taken. She opened her glove box and fished out a personal alarm, which when pressed was loud enough to wake the dead. In a fight, a weapon could be turned against you, whereas an alarm disoriented an attacker with much less risk.
She slid the cylinder into her coat pocket and climbed out of the car. A woman a half block away walking a small dog was staring. Kaitlin waved, and the woman nodded.
Kaitlin hesitated at the base of the stairs and glanced at her phone before she climbed the stairs to the front door. She eyed the security camera mounted on the porch and then she pressed on the front door latch. She moved into the marbled hallway and looked up at the dark chandelier and then toward the light in the side room.
“Erika,” she said.
She listened for a response but heard only the faint tick of a clock and her heart beating against her chest. None of this felt right.
“Erika. Where are you?”
A frustrating silence followed.
Her skin puckered with goose bumps, as it had fourteen years ago on the road by the river. She had just turned to leave when she heard the quick rush of steps inside the house with her. Her nerves jumped. Instinctively she fumbled for the button on her alarm and ran.
She caught the flash of a black hoodie and a clown mask microseconds before something hard cracked against her skull. Pain rocketed through her body, and her breath caught as she dropped to her knees in the hall. She dropped the alarm. Her vision blurred as her fingers scrambled for the device. A hand clamped on her shoulder as she pressed the button. “Get off me!”
She swung back blindly, and her fist connected with her attacker. He cursed, and seconds later a sharp pain sliced across her midsection and ricocheted through her body.
A shrill sound shattered her eardrums. The cutting pain in her gut made her nauseated as she struggled to sit up. A figure loomed over her and raised a knife but then paused. Cursing, he lowered the knife and ran toward the back of the house.
Blood soaked her blouse, and she pressed a trembling hand to the wound, thinking maybe she could stop the bleeding. The piercing siren wailing, she rolled onto her belly and crawled toward the front door. She was inches from the threshold when another wave of pain rammed through her body. She dropped to the floor. Footsteps sounded near her, but she wasn’t sure if it was her attacker or savior.
She passed out.
INTERVIEW FILE #11
LOYALTY LOST—ERIKA TRAVIS CROWLEY
Saturday, January 6, 2018; 8:15
a.m.
It’s a few minutes after eight in the morning. The coffee shop is buzzing with patrons anxious for their morning jolt of java. The aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon make the room feel warm and cozy and a haven against the cold January temperature. The barista wears a black, short-sleeved T-shirt that exposes his forearm, tattooed with a sea-horse in aqua waves.
I sit in the rear corner of the shop, my latte nearly finished. I have a ten a.m. class, and I’m not sure how much longer I can wait for Erika Travis Crowley, who promised to be here at eight sharp. In high school, I remember she’d always been late.
The bells jingle above the door, announcing a customer, and I look up again, hopeful to see Erika. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick beard lumbers toward the cashier as he types on his phone. He glances at me and moves on to get his coffee.
I’m about to check my phone for a possible message from Erika when the door pushes open with purpose. I look over to see a polished blonde wearing a brown coat, jeans, heels, and dark sunglasses that don’t quite fit the time of day. It’s been fourteen years, but I recognize Erika instantly.
I rise and wave my hand. The movement catches Erika’s attention, and she studies me a beat, trying to reconcile her memories of me with the woman she sees now.
She glances from side to side, then hurries across to the small round table in the corner. She pulls off her glasses. “Kaitlin?”
“It’s me.” I sound cheerier than I feel.
We exchange a brief, if not awkward, handshake, and she sits. “I’m sorry I’m late. My husband was delayed leaving for work, and I wasn’t interested in explaining where I was going, so I waited until he left.” Her husband is Brad Crowley. He’d been a few years ahead of us at Saint Mathew’s, and I still picture a serious, stern man with plans to be a surgeon.
“Thank you for seeing me. I ordered you a coffee, but I’m afraid it’s cold.”
“That’s fine. I’m so wired. Just thinking about this interview has set my nerves on edge. I haven’t been able to sleep for days. I worry now it was a mistake.”
No one so far has been comfortable talking about Gina Mason. She still is sorely missed, and it still hurts.
“This doesn’t have to be a formal interview or anything. Why don’t we just talk?”
