Chapter Nine

Emmet watched her walk in. He’d known she’d shower, but she’d done something to her hair, too, and it fell in loose auburn waves around her shoulders. His pulse kicked up as she cut through the crowd. Nicole was beautiful, but she really didn’t know it, and it was one of the things that had always amazed him about her. She had no idea the effect all that cool self-confidence had on men. Him in particular.

She stepped outside and spotted him at a picnic table.

“Hey,” she said, taking the bench across from him.

He pointed his beer bottle at her. “You’re late.”

“Oh, whatever.” She grabbed the menu tucked behind the condiment bottles. “You showered, too.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

She glanced up at the server. “I’ll have a glass of red wine, please. Whatever you have.” She looked at Emmet. “Did you order yet?”

“No.”

She ordered a shrimp basket, and he did the same. When the server was gone, Nicole put the menu away and gazed out at the marina.

“I’m surprised you wanted to eat outside,” she said, glancing back at the propane heater behind her.

“They’re full tonight, so it was this or wait.”

She zipped up her blue fleece and tucked her hands in the pockets. “Brrr.”

“You want my leather jacket?”

“I’m fine.” She leaned forward. “So, what’s wrong? I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because. When was the last time you asked to meet me for dinner?”

He knew exactly when it was. It had been last July when his dad had heart surgery. Emmet had taken the day off work to sit with his mom at the hospital. The surgery had gone fine, but by the end of the day Emmet was completely wrung out—not to mention he’d reached his limit on small talk with relatives. So he’d called Nicole and invited her to dinner.

“Come on,” she said. “What is it?”

He sipped his beer, then set it on the table in front of him. “Nothing, really. Just had a shit day.”

It was the kind of day that made him question his life choices.

Nicole watched him, her deep brown eyes filled with concern. “You met with Aubrey’s family, right?”

He nodded.

“That must have sucked. How were they?”

“How you’d expect.” He shrugged. “Her mom was distraught.”

“And her dad?”

“Pretty combative, actually.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t think he has much faith in our department.”

Nicole sighed.

Because of the town’s size, outsiders often assumed LBPD was a Podunk police department and no one knew what they were doing. But they were located close enough to the border to be on the receiving end of extra funding and training, and their department definitely punched above its weight. Operation Red Highway was a case in point, and Emmet was proud of the way they had outworked other members of the task force—even a few FBI agents who had come down here thinking they were God’s gift to law enforcement.

“So, how did you guys handle it?” she asked now.

“Brady gave him the usual. We’re on top of the case, pursuing every possible lead.”

The server was back with the wine. Nicole thanked her and slid the glass aside, still focused on him.

“Anyway, how was your day?” he asked.

“We were talking about you.”

“I want to hear about the crime lab. What did they come up with?”

She took a sip of wine, and he knew he’d succeeded in changing the subject. “Well, I’m sure you got an update, right? You heard about the hair that Miranda collected?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t there. How did she seem about it?”

Nicole tipped her head to the side. “She seemed... optimistic.”

“Yeah?” Emmet felt a glimmer of hope for the first time all day. Miranda was the best CSI he’d ever worked with. If she felt optimistic about the potential for DNA, that was a good sign.

Nicole’s brow furrowed. “And you heard about the fibers, right?”

“Yeah, like she was zipped into a duffel bag.”

She shook her head. “That’s really sick.”

“I know.”

Just the thought of Aubrey’s parents learning that detail made his stomach turn. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to know something like that happened to your daughter.

“The livor mortis pattern makes it look like the bag was sitting on something in the trunk,” Emmet said. “You notice anything back there? I haven’t had a chance to look at the car photos yet.”

Nicole seemed to think about it. “There was a flashlight. One of those mini ones? It was in a case with batteries.”

After meeting Aubrey’s father, Emmet could picture him giving his daughter a flashlight to keep in her car for safety. He seemed like a protective dad.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“A tire iron. About, I don’t know”—she held her hands up almost eighteen inches apart—“this long, maybe? Could that have been it?”

“Possibly. I’ll have to take a look at the pictures and study the scale.”

Nicole took a sip of wine. “So... the lab was okay, in terms of getting new info. The rest of my day was crap, though.” Frustration sparked in her eyes. “Did I tell you I ran into Green Truck Guy?”

“No.”

“Well, I thought it was him,” she said. “It was this afternoon. I had to respond to a call in Sunset Shores.”

“The golf cart theft.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I had just taken the report and was leaving the neighborhood when I spotted this teal green pickup truck. It was a landscaping contractor, and his crew was planting palm trees at one of the houses there. This guy even had a black dog with him, too. I was sure it was him.”

“And?”

“And I pulled over to interview him.” She shook her head. “He had no idea what I was talking about. Said he wasn’t on the beach that day.”

Emmet watched her expression. “You don’t believe him?”

She shrugged.

“Why would he lie?” Emmet asked.

“I don’t know. That’s the thing. But I could swear he was lying. I mean, he had a black dog in his truck with him. What are the odds?”

The server was back again, this time with two baskets heaped with fried shrimp and French fries.

“Anyway, it’s just so frustrating.” Nicole handed Emmet the Tabasco sauce, and he shook it over his food. “How is it possible I can’t turn up a single decent witness on our most popular beach? Even in the dead of winter, people are back and forth there.”

He picked up a fry. “We’ve got three potential witnesses, not none.”

“Yeah, but why do I feel like I’m not getting a straight answer out of anyone?” She dunked a shrimp in tartar sauce. “Green Truck Guy says he wasn’t there, but I can sense he’s not telling the truth. And this runner says he was there but didn’t see a damn thing—not a single car or person, nothing.”

“What about the yoga teacher?” Emmet asked. “Anything new with her?”

“Nothing, really, just more strange vibes from her whenever I question her. She’s being evasive for some reason.” Nicole leaned forward. “You know, even her place was off.”

“You mean her apartment?”

“Yeah. I did some snooping around—”

He laughed. “How did you manage that?”

“I said I needed to use the restroom and then poked around a bit. You know her linen cabinet was completely empty?”

“So?”

“And she barely had any furniture. She had, like, one futon in the entire living room.”

“Sounds like my place.”

She shook her head. “Your place is a bachelor pad. At least you’ve got a TV and, I don’t know, towels in the bathroom, even if they’re crumpled on the floor or whatever.”

“I know how to hang a towel, thank you very much.”

“I’m saying this place looked like a crash pad, not a typical woman’s apartment. It didn’t add up.”

Emmet lifted an eyebrow.

“You think I’m off base, don’t you?”

“That’s not it at all,” he said.

“Yeah, you do. I can tell.”

“I think you’re reading too much into it. This woman’s a yoga instructor. So what if she doesn’t have all the usual crap in her apartment? Maybe she’s a minimalist.”

Nicole sighed. “Maybe.” She popped a fry into her mouth, and Emmet could tell she wasn’t convinced.

Which told him she might be onto something. Nicole was observant. And she had good instincts about people. Sometimes too good. Good enough, for example, to have picked up on the resentment that flared inside him every time the subject of her boyfriend came up. It was the one thing he couldn’t talk to her about. He and Nicole worked together. Full stop. Anything else would fuck everything up.

Nicole watched Emmet polish off every morsel of his food and her leftover fries, too. Despite his appetite, she could tell something was still bothering him, although he didn’t want to talk about it.

But deep down he did, or he wouldn’t have invited her here.

The server returned with their check, and they split it down the middle. Nicole’s phone chimed as they were getting up from the table. She checked the screen and slipped the phone into her pocket.

“You need to get that?” Emmet asked.

“No.”

The restaurant was crowded, so they exited the side gate that led directly to the parking lot. Nicole had created a parking space at the end of a row, and Emmet walked her to her pickup even though his was two rows closer.

She gave him a sideways glance. “I’m sorry you had a rough time with the family.”

“It’s fine.”

“People have different reactions to grief.”

He shot her a look. “I know.”

Obviously, he knew. He’d been a cop for eleven years, and he’d dealt with plenty of people in terrible situations.

He stopped beside her truck. Dusk had faded, and the stars were starting to come out. He gazed out at the dark bay, his expression solemn.

“What, Emmet?”

He turned to her.

“Something’s bugging you.”

He shook his head and looked down.

“Is it the case?”

“No.” He frowned. “Well, maybe.” He ran his hand through this hair. “Have you ever thought you might have made a wrong choice? About something important, and it’s too late for do-overs?”

She stared up at him, trying to read his eyes. “You mean the job or—”

“Yeah, I mean, sometimes I think I’m really not cut out for this,” he said.

“No one’s cut out for talking to grieving families.”

“You are.”

She drew back. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. I’ve seen you. You’ve got a knack for dealing with people. I get around people going through something, and I get uncomfortable. I clam up. People think I don’t give a shit.”

“No, they don’t.”

He shook his head.

“Emmet. Anyone who knows you knows you give a shit. This job defines you.”

He looked at her.

“You’re the most tenacious detective I know,” she went on. “So, maybe you’re not the best at hand-holding. So what? You never let up until you get answers, and that’s what matters. You’re amazing at what you do.”

He gazed down at her, his eyes intense, and she started to feel uneasy.

She looked away, but she could still feel him staring at her. Maybe she’d said too much.

From a work standpoint, she’d never really told him how much she admired him—probably because they had always been so competitive with each other. But she figured he knew. She glanced at him, and the simmering look in his eyes sent a jolt of heat through her.

He’d walked her to her car again. Was he just being protective or was there something more? She stared up at him, searching his eyes, and the moment seemed to stretch out.

His phone buzzed, and he stepped back to pull it from his pocket. The name Lainey was on the screen. Not Lainey Wheaton, or O’Toole’s—just Lainey.

It buzzed again.

“You need to take that?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He glanced up.

“Thank you for dinner.”

He looked confused. “Why? We split it.”

“Well. Thanks for inviting me.”

His phone was still buzzing as she opened her door. She got behind the wheel and watched in the side mirror as he walked away with the phone pressed to his ear.

Shaking her head, she pulled her phone from her pocket. She’d missed David’s call, and he’d left a voicemail. She pressed play as she backed out of the space.

Hey. Me again. You’re not picking up, so I’m guessing you’re at work still. Or possibly avoiding me.

Nicole crossed the parking lot as the silence went on.

Listen, I really meant what I said. I’m sorry about Saturday. I want to make it up to you, so I was thinking, how about Wednesday night at Angelo’s Bistro? I’d really like to see you, Nicole. Let me know.

She pulled onto the highway and glanced at the phone on the seat beside her. Then she trained her gaze on the road, and her nerves fluttered as she thought of Emmet’s hazel eyes staring down at her just now. Once again, she was twisting herself in knots trying to read into his looks, his gestures, his unspoken words. And once again, she felt like she was grasping at straws. As long as she’d known him, his feelings had been a black box.

And then here was David—upfront, no games, just putting it all out there. That took guts, and maybe she wasn’t giving this thing between them enough of a chance. She of all people understood how consuming his job was, and it wasn’t fair to hold that against him.

She grabbed the phone and dialed him back. He answered on the first ring.

“David, it’s me.”

“Hi,” he said, sounding surprised.

“So, I got your message, and I’m free Wednesday night.”

Emmet caught Lainey’s eye as soon as he stepped into O’Toole’s. She held up a finger for him to wait.

He moved out of the traffic flow and glanced around. They were even busier than yesterday, and he remembered their Monday-night half-off pitchers, which always drew a crowd. He glanced at Lainey, who stood behind the taps talking to one of her two bartenders.

Finally Lainey looked at him again. She jerked her head toward the hallway in back, and he met her near the door to her office. She wore all black again today, down to the lace bra peeking out from her scoop-neck T-shirt.

“We’re packed tonight,” she said, steering him into an alcove stacked with kegs. “How’s the case coming?”

“It’s coming.”

“This whole thing’s really rocked the staff. I’ve got one girl who called in sick and another one who showed up a basket case. Apparently, she was good friends with Aubrey.”

“Who is she?” he asked.

“Britta Phelps. She’s on break in my office. I thought you might want to talk to her.”

“I do. She’s a server here?”

“Yeah. She’s twenty-three, and she’s been here almost a year.”

Lainey crossed her arms over her chest.

“What?” he asked.

“Evidently, there’s a rumor circulating that it was a murder, not a suicide. Is that true?”

The manner of death had been reported on the news tonight, so there was no use dodging the question now.

“That’s true, yes,” he said.

“Well, do you have a suspect?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Sighing, she stepped across the hall and reached for the door. “Listen, I’m happy for you to talk to her, but try not to drag things out, all right? I’m shorthanded tonight.”

He nodded. “I hear you.”

She turned and opened the door, then stepped back so he could go in. The young woman sitting at Lainey’s desk looked up from her phone. She had long blond hair, and her eyes were swollen from crying.

“Hey, Britta,” Lainey said in a softer voice. “This is the police detective I told you about.”

Britta gave him a nervous look and set her phone down. She seemed upset, yes, but not nearly as undone as Aubrey’s mother had been earlier.

“You need anything?” Lainey asked her. “Maybe some water?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“We won’t be long,” Emmet said, mostly for Britta’s benefit. “I just have a couple questions.”

“Sure thing.”

Lainey stepped out, leaving the door ajar behind her.

Emmet took the side chair he’d occupied yesterday, putting the witness in the power position, which he hoped would make her more comfortable.

“I’m Detective Davis.” He pulled a business card from the pocket of his jacket and slid it across the desk.

She eyed it warily but didn’t touch it. Like all the servers here, she wore a black T-shirt with the O’Toole’s logo on the front. Aubrey had two identical T-shirts hanging in the closet at her apartment.

“Lainey tells me you and Aubrey worked together?” he said.

She nodded.

“I’m talking to some of her friends and relatives, trying to learn more about her.” He paused. “How did you hear the news?”

She cleared her throat. “We have a text thread.”

“We?”

“Some of us who work here. Me, Jill, and Chantal.” She paused. “And Aubrey.”

“Do you guys talk every day?”

“Not really. Usually just when someone needs a sub or someone to swap shifts with them.”

Emmet pulled a spiral notebook from his pocket. “Mind if I take notes?”

She shook her head.

He took a moment to jot down the names of the other two co-workers in case he needed to follow up with them later. Then he looked at her. “So, do you know if Aubrey was having any problems with anyone lately? Did she mention anything?”

“No.”

“All right. Do you know if she was dating anyone recently?”

“Not right now. Well, there was this one guy.”

“Yeah?”

“But they stopped seeing each other. At least, that’s what she told me.”

“You know his name?”

“Sam.”

He nodded. “You happen to know his last name?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think she ever mentioned it.”

“All right. And Sam—do you know where Aubrey met him?”

“Online, I think.”

“And how long were they together?”

“It was only a few weeks or so. Maybe a month? But then it went sideways.”

Emmet watched her eyes, waiting for more.

“Why did it go sideways?” he asked.

She bit her lip.

“She didn’t really say,” Britta told him. “But I think maybe he had a drug problem?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Aubrey mentioned something once about him blowing his parents’ money on drugs. But I don’t know if that’s why she stopped seeing him. And I heard them arguing about drugs once.”

Emmet’s pulse picked up. “When was this?”

“It was on the phone.” Britta rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “We were on a break together outside. He called, and she stepped around the side of the building to take the call, and I heard her say something about how he needed to be in rehab.”

“And you’re sure it was Sam on the phone?”

“Yeah. Right before she answered it, she was like, ‘Ugh. Sam. He keeps calling me.’?”

“You remember when this was?”

She shook her head as she picked up her phone. “I think it was a few Fridays ago? We had the lunch shift.” She swiped at her screen. “No, sorry. Thursday three weeks ago. That’s the last time we worked lunch together.”

Emmet wrote down the date, then looked at Britta. “Do you know if Aubrey had a drug problem at all?”

“Aubrey? No.” She shook her head. “She didn’t even drink. She was totally into yoga and exercise and clean eating, stuff like that.”

Emmet watched her expression, waiting to see what else she might say. Just because this girl didn’t think Aubrey was into drugs didn’t mean she wasn’t. But so far everyone he’d talked to had said pretty much the same.

Britta glanced at the door behind him. “Sorry, but... I think I should get back soon. Is there anything else you need to ask about?”

“Not right now.” He put his notepad away. “Well, one more thing. You know if Aubrey was having any financial problems?”

“Financial?”

“Like, do you know if she was having any trouble with money?” He didn’t mention that Aubrey had just asked for and gotten a raise. Lainey probably wouldn’t appreciate him sharing that.

“I don’t think so. If she did, she never told me.”

Emmet nodded. “Britta, you’ve been really helpful.”

Relief washed over her face as she stood up. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget that.” He nodded at his business card as he stood up. “Call me if you think of anything else that might help us.”

She took the card and tucked it into her pocket. “I will.” She stepped toward the door and then turned. “I just had one question.”

“Yes?”

“I heard—” She took a deep breath. “I heard she might have been murdered?”

“As of now, we’re investigating Aubrey’s case as a homicide.”

Her face crumpled and she looked away. “Do you think... it was someone she knew?”

“At this point, Britta, we don’t know,” Emmet said, hating that it was true. “But we intend to find out.”

Cassandra’s porch light was out.

She cast a wary look at all the shadows along the sidewalk as she dug her key from her purse and unlocked her front door. As she pushed it open, something fluttered to her feet.

She switched on the hall light, and her pulse sped up as she saw the sealed white envelope on the doorstep. No address, no stamp. Just her name written across it in neat block letters.

cassandra

She stared down at it a moment, heart pounding. Then she quickly locked the door and peered through the peephole.

The sidewalk outside was dark and empty.

She picked up the envelope and carried it into the kitchen with her take-out bag from Thai Ginger. She set the food on the counter and studied the envelope. She didn’t recognize the handwriting.

Tearing it open, she found a gray card with a single white rose on the front and the words in sympathy printed across the top. She opened the card.

It was blank.

No message, no signature. She flipped it over. Who had left this at her door? Baffled, she stared down at the snowy white rose.

Her phone chimed, and she pulled it from her pocket. Reese. Probably wanting her to cover another evening yoga class so she could see her boyfriend. Cassandra set the phone on the counter without answering and looked at the card again.

It was just a card, nothing sinister. Anyone who knew she was friends with Aubrey could have dropped it off—maybe Danielle, or Reese, or one of her students.

Stop being so paranoid.

She set the card on the counter beside the ever-growing pile of junk mail. Maybe Reese had left the card for her. Reese was nice, actually, and Cassandra felt guilty about dodging her.

Her phone chimed again, and this time she picked up.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.”

She’d expected Reese, but it was a man’s voice. A glance at the Colorado area code sent a dart of panic through her.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“I’m calling on behalf of Malcom.”

Her pulse skittered. “Who is this? Where did you get this number?”

“He’d like you to reconsider.”

She gripped the phone as a bitter stew of fear and anger churned inside her. She glanced at the front door, then moved to check the slider. It was locked. Of course it was. She never went anywhere without locking her doors. She nudged the curtain aside and saw the patio was empty.

But some eyes were invisible. She knew that better than anyone.

“Do you understand?”

Her temper flared. “Tell him he can forget it.”

Low laughter on the other end.

“Don’t call me again,” she snapped.

“Malcom wants—”

“He can talk to my lawyer.”

She hung up.

What the hell what the hell what the hell?

Heart thundering, she stared down at the phone. Then she flung it away like a hot potato.