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“I’ll talk to her,” Harper said and Rachel realized her daughter had been listening in the stairwell, hearing her side of the conversation. “Don’t hang up.”
“No, Harper.” Rachel was shaking her head. “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
“But I want to.”
“No.”
“God, Mom, what are you afraid of?”
Everything.
And there it was.
“I’ll call you later,” Rachel said into the phone, then cut the connection. “What do you mean, what am I afraid of? Remember last night?”
“Yeah, I do,” Harper said as she entered the room and rested a hip against the edge of Rachel’s desk. “She’s going to print the story. She has to. Don’t you think it would be better if she gets the story straight?”
“Fine, yes. Exactly. But from the police. They have a public information officer who handles this kind of thing and releases only what the police want the public to know so that their investigation isn’t compromised. That way the case is protected, as are the witnesses, people like you.”
“She isn’t the only one who called,” Harper said, folding her arms over her chest. “A reporter from a news station in Portland called me.”
No. “How did he get your number?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but obviously, it’s out there.”
CHAPTER 33
Cade took Rachel’s call as he made his way through the front lobby of the station. He wasn’t the only one working late. Voss was waiting for enhancement of the film, Kayleigh had called and said she was running down a lead on the painter’s tape, and even Donna Jean was at the desk, talking with a short middle-aged woman about a lost dog.
“Hey,” he said, thinking about Moretti’s confession and what it meant to her, the guilt she’d carried and the implications of her own father’s involvement. Richard Moretti, a doctor sworn to care for the injured, and Ned Gaston, a cop sworn to protect lives of the populace, had conspired to let her brother die and allow her to think that she’d shot and killed Luke when he might have survived. Cade wanted to talk it all out with her, but needed to do it face-to-face. For now he paused in the station’s lobby and asked, “What’s up?”
“Bruce Hollander,” she said, sounding frantic. “Luke’s biological father! He’s out of prison now and . . . and I think, no, I know I’ve seen him. Hanging around. Here. At the house!”
“What?”
“Mercedes sent me a picture of him. It was old, but with a little photoshopping, to add years, you know, I saw what he probably looks like or what he could look like now and I’m sure he’s someone I’ve seen here and in town!” She was talking faster and faster, a breathless tone in her voice.
“I think he was here the other night. I mean, I’m sure it was him. He vandalized the door, Cade. Bruce Hollander. And . . . and . . . I’ve seen him at the newspaper office and . . . and I think other places. I’ve had the feeling I’ve been followed, and a few days ago, after I visited the cemetery, a white car was following me. I didn’t say anything earlier because I was imagining things, freaking out as it was the anniversary of Luke’s death, y’know, but then I was talking to Mercy and she said she’d interviewed him and his picture is going to be in the paper, his side of the story and . . . and . . . Oh, God, do you think . . . do you think he might be involved in what happened to Annessa and Violet? Maybe Nate being missing and—”
“Whoa,” he cut in, keeping his voice calm. Steady. “Slow down a second, Rachel,” he said as he processed what she was saying about Hollander and spotting him and the white car. “I’ll come over. On my way. E-mail me the picture Mercedes is going to run in the paper.”
“Okay . . . I will. But hurry!”
“I’m on my way.” He clicked off, his thoughts spinning out. Could it be? Was Luke’s biological father a possible suspect? Could all the interest in the old crime or the anniversary of the tragedy itself have triggered him? And a white car. In his mind’s eye he pictured the white sedan with Idaho plates and the guy who was looking for his dog. As he pushed on the door to leave, he heard part of the conversation going on at the front counter as Donna Jean tried to deal with the distraught woman on the other side, and his phone pinged, indicating a message had come through. From Rachel. With a picture. His jaw tightened as he recognized the photoshopped picture: Frank Quinn, aka Bruce Hollander. And he’d met the man, now a suspect, near Rachel’s house.
He was vaguely aware of the conversation going on around him. “. . . I told you, Mrs. Sanders, we’re doing everything in our power to locate your dog.”
“It’s just that he’s so friendly, he’d go with anyone,” the woman said. Short, middle-aged, wearing a skirt and matching jacket, looking like she’d just gotten off work at an office, she was emotional, fighting tears. “Sometimes he runs off—beagles are known to do that, you know, follow their noses—but Freddy’s always come home and it’s been a week. I’ve been to the local vets and the pound and the shelters from here to Seaside and there’s just been no one who’s seen him.” She swallowed hard. “I know it’s not usual for the police, but could you please, please do something?”
Cade felt his stomach drop. “Excuse me,” he said, and stepped closer to the woman to introduce himself. “I couldn’t help but overhear that your dog is missing. A beagle, right?”
She glanced up hopefully. “Yes.”
He pulled up the picture on his phone and flipped it around so that the woman could view the screen. “Can you tell me if you’ve ever seen this man?”
She frowned thoughtfully and began to shake her head, then stopped suddenly. “You know, I may have. Does he drive a white Buick, like a LeSabre? I’m not a car nut, but my husband had one of those back in the day. A ninety-seven. Brand-new, that’s why I remember. It was a big deal for us to buy it at the time. But his was . . . stone beige metallic, yes, that’s right, that was the color. But what does this have to do with Freddy?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, hedging a little as he didn’t want to get the woman’s hopes up. “But leave your name and number with Donna here.”
