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“Son of a . . .” He rolled off the bed, a twenty-year-old double he’d shared with Rachel before they’d bought the newer queen sized. That one he’d left at the house with his wife when she’d kicked him out. This saggy one he’d scrounged from the garage.
It was time to do something about that, too.
A new mattress, a new life.
Yeah, right.
Stretching and hearing his spine pop, he walked through his condo and noted the open laptop in the living room, where he’d left on a light. His TV was still tuned to a twenty-four-hour news station, the volume barely audible. Scattered around his recliner were three days’ worth of newspapers, and on the table, several case files he’d been reading. Then his gaze landed on t
he half-full bottle of scotch and the empty glass sitting next to it.
No wonder his head pounded.
“Stupid,” he told himself as he picked up the bottle and smelled the heady scent of the liquor before recapping the bottle and hauling it into his small kitchen, where he jammed it into the cupboard over the refrigerator. He should pour it out. Take away the temptation, but he didn’t. Just as he hadn’t for the past couple of years. At first, after the breakup, he’d drunk to forget, or to rebel or to dull the senses. Something he’d never wanted to analyze too closely. Lately, though, it had become more than that. Not just a drink he savored in the evening after a long day’s work, but more like three or four or more. At every physical he only copped to having one or two a week, but he figured the docs saw through that.
Who was he kidding?
His jaw tightened and he told himself that he had a handle on his alcohol consumption, that he didn’t have a problem, that he wasn’t like his father-in-law . . . whoa, make that his ex–father-in-law, Ned Gaston, whose reputation for his love of the bottle precluded his forced retirement from the department. Ned? Rachel’s father? That guy had a problem. Along with a temper that was legendary.
So don’t go down that path, Ryder. Be smart.
He downed two ibuprofen with a glass of water, then spent the next half hour doing push-ups and pull-ups on a bar he’d screwed into the closet doorway before moving to the rowing machine. He pushed himself hard and was covered in sweat by the time he’d stepped off. Then a quick shower and shave. He dressed by rote and his hangover, if that’s what it was, had dissipated by the time he’d gathered his case files and laptop and headed out the door to the beat-up pickup he’d bought from his older brother just after the divorce. A ten-year-old Chevy Silverado crew cab wasn’t exactly what he’d thought he’d needed, but, being as the truck was paid for, maybe he’d been wrong.
It wasn’t the first time.
He grabbed a cup of coffee and a scone at a drive-through kiosk, then drove to the station, a small brick building in the older part of town, the city jail attached. Inside, he sat at his desk, the same space Rachel’s father, Ned, had occupied, back in the day. As he’d already drained his first cup, he headed to the break room, which was little more than an alcove off the hallway leading to the jail. Comprising two tables, a scattering of chairs, a coffee station, and refrigerator, the area was often empty. This morning, though, two officers were seated at the round table, the local paper spread out between them. Mendoza was reading the sports page, while Nowak was working on the daily jumble.
“What the hell is that word?” Nowak muttered to himself, clicking his pen. “N-A-X-L—”
Cade glanced down at the letters. “Larynx.”
“What?”
“Like your throat.”
“I know that, but . . . oh, hell.” Nowak was a beefy, fiftyish deputy with red hair clipped in a buzz, a fleshy face, and small features set close together. He’d been with the department for as long as Cade could remember, a “lifer.” One of three or four locals who’d gone to high school and maybe some college but ended up here.
Mendoza didn’t bother swallowing a smile and glanced up, dark eyes glinting. “Maybe he’s just smarter than you, Ed,” he said as Donna Jean Porter, the secretary for the department, swept in.
“Be nice, boys,” she warned with a knowing smile. In her late forties and divorced, Donna was short, blond, and always fighting her weight with the latest fad diet. She’d been with the department longer than Cade and had gone through boyfriends as fast as she did diet plans. She set a container of what looked like cottage cheese into the refrigerator.
“We’re always nice,” Mendoza said.
“Yeah, right.” A phone rang in the front of the department, and she was out of the lunchroom, her heels clicking on the hallway as she made her way to the front desk.
“And just for the record,” Nowak called after her, “Ryder’s not smarter than me. Just better at these goddamned things.” Nowak took a sip of his coffee and wrote the letters in the appropriate squares as Cade’s gaze landed on the front page. He heard Donna in the reception area, trying to calm down someone on the phone. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, but yes, we’ll be on the lookout for him. You’ve talked to the local shelter and vet, yes, yes, I know . . . what breed again . . . ?” But the conversation faded as he stared down at the newspaper and the headline leapt out at him:
TWENTY-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY STILL HAUNTS TOWN
and in smaller letters:
WHO KILLED LUKE HOLLANDER?
Cade froze. Stared at the headline, his gut tightening as he read the first paragraph:
Twenty years ago on this date, Luke Hollander died from a gunshot wound at the abandoned Sea View cannery located a mile west of Edgewater. A group of teenagers had been playing what turned out to be a deadly game near midnight when tragedy occurred. One of the game’s organizers, Luke Hollander, was shot at the cannery and though taken to the local hospital, he was pronounced dead on arrival. His half sister, Rachel Gaston, was taken into custody and accused of the crime, though she was later acquitted. The victim’s stepfather, Detective Ned Gaston, was the first officer on the scene....
“Oh, Jesus,” Cade whispered as he read the rest of the column, the first in a four-part series, in which several people were quoted. Two photographs accompanied the piece. The first was a head shot: Luke’s senior picture. He smiled at the camera, blue eyes sparkling, blond hair falling over his forehead. Not even twenty and already he’d had the chiseled, strong features of a man. The second photograph was less distinct, but Cade recognized it as the grainy shot of Ned Gaston helping his own daughter into the back of a patrol car on the night of the tragedy, when everyone, Rachel included, believed she’d shot her half brother. At that point Luke was still alive, being rushed to the local hospital, only to be pronounced DOA, despite the desperate measures taken by the EMTs in the ambulance.
