“You’ve got to stay away from Harper. He’s knee-deep in crap with this case and the police are investigating him,” Michael steamed.
“He didn’t kill anyone! All he did was date a victim,” Lacey countered.
“And get questioned for it and then have another victim’s body show up on his property? And there’s the badge. How convenient is it that his murdered partner’s badge was under his building?”
“Not convenient at all! You think he’d place it there to turn the police’s spotlight on him? He’s not an idiot.”
Lacey sat on her kitchen counter, nose to nose with Michael as he pressed his point. She knew there was no point in arguing with him. He never gave in. Even when he was dead wrong and he knew it. But she wasn’t ready to back down. Her ire was further fueled by his use of the wussy word “crap.” He always toned down his coarse language around her.
Like she would wilt at the F-word.
So she used it as much as possible around him.
“You need a fucking haircut,” she said, glaring at his hair. “Do I have to make the appointment for you?”
The lanky man pulled away and stormed around her kitchen. Tall with dark blond hair that was always too long, Michael looked like an artist. Or poet. The fact that he’d spent two years in a nasty motorcycle gang in Los Angeles didn’t show under his casual veneer. A veneer that hid the body of a man of surprising stealth and strength.
He was probably the smartest person she knew. He was also sharp, shrewd, and reckless. Sometimes not a good combination. He’d been writing a series of articles about the gang experience, so he joined. He’d wondered how it felt to climb Mount McKinley, so he did it. (And claimed it wasn’t worth the freezing, sweaty effort.) He’d tried triathlons, skydiving, and paddling down the Amazon. He was never concerned with his own safety or skin; he was concerned only with the pursuit of answers for the questions in his mind or the compulsion for a new experience. He’d wanted to run with the bulls, but Lacey had convinced him he had the wrong dates and he arrived too late. For two weeks he hadn’t spoken to her.
She didn’t care. At least he’d returned in one piece.
They’d been lovers, but it hadn’t worked. She was mostly a conventional woman, and he was definitely not a conventional man. He had too much fire, and she needed stability. He hovered and bossed while she strained to exercise her independence. He’d wanted to shield her from life’s abscesses. He didn’t understand she needed to face the ugliness, prove she could stand alone. Before they broke up, he swore he’d change. But then he wouldn’t be the passionate Michael she loved. He’d brooded for months after she’d broken it off. He’d disappeared to Alaska to work on a crabbing boat, where the women were few and far between. He’d nearly died, barely surviving an accidental twenty-second plunge off a boat deck into the icy Bering Sea.
Very slowly, he’d given in to the friendship concept and had evolved into a type of protective older brother. She loved him fiercely and considered him family. And they argued like brother and sister.
Lacey knew Jack Harper was raising red flags in Michael’s gut. Jack was refusing his calls and his name was popping up in every aspect of the case. It stroked Michael’s unending curiosity as an investigative reporter. If something seemed fishy, Michael would poke, push, and prod until he got his answers. He’d exposed pedophile priests, Internet child stalkers, and a kickback program in the Oregon prison food system.
He opened the cabinet door next to her sink and rooted through the little pill bottles. “Do you have any ibuprofen? My head’s killing me.”
“All the way in the back.”
She watched as he subtly checked the labels of the other bottles. Did he think she wouldn’t notice?
“Anything stronger for pain?”
“No,” she snapped, “you know there’s not.” She blew out a breath. He cares. He asks only because he cares.
In a sudden move that made her brain bounce, Michael changed the subject.
“I got the medical examiner’s prelim on Suzanne today.”
How did he do it? She wasn’t going to get a look at it till tomorrow. The man had sources everywhere. Annoyed, she looked at him expectantly.
“Her identity hasn’t been completely verified, you know,” Michael stated.
Lacey shook her head. “It’s just not been officially announced. I have absolutely no doubt it is her. I did the odontology report. I had her previous dental films, and everything matched up perfectly. I know it’s her. They might run some DNA testing, but even her mother will know it is her by her distinctive dental work.”
“Something’s bugging me.” He was pacing again. Back and forth over her wood floors, running his fingers over every kitty knickknack in her kitchen. “You didn’t tell me both her femurs were broken,” he said.
“It was the same MO with all the victims, right? They were all found with broken femurs. Why should Suzanne be any different?” She swallowed hard.
He pinned her with an unblinking stare, making her feel like she’d done something naughty.
“Think, Lacey. What other gymnast do you know who had her legs broken?”
She did know one.
“But that was an accident... They said the roughness of the river and the rocks probably did it. Amy died in a car accident, Michael...she wasn’t murdered. And that was in Mount Junction, years before Suzanne died.” She stumbled over the words and slipped slowly from her perch on the counter to a barstool, her mind awhirl. Suzanne and Amy weren’t linked. There was no way. Amy Smith, a gymnastics teammate, had accidentally driven her car into a river. Her body hadn’t been recovered for several weeks. “All DeCosta’s victims had broken femurs. Are you trying to tie Amy’s death to all the others?”
“She was a gymnast. She was blonde. Her legs were broken in almost the same place. She’s dead. That’s four too many coincidences for me. I’m gonna check it out.” He was on a mission. It was in his eyes. The man wouldn’t stop until he had his answers.
“Did you tell the police about this?” She was still stunned. Not Amy.
“Not yet. It’s just speculation on my part. I’m going to Mount Junction to look at it personally. Now, what did you tell Harper?” With a calmer voice, he pulled up a stool and sat in front of her, knees to knees. Those green eyes pinned her again.
She blinked, her mind still focused on Amy. How did he change directions so fast? “Why?”
“Christ, Lace. It’s a simple question.”
She shrugged. “He wanted to know about the night Suzanne and I were attacked. We talked for only a few minutes.” She looked anywhere but at Michael.
“So you made plans to talk later.”
“What of it?” she snapped at him.
“He dated one of the victims.”
“I know that.” She looked away. “I’m tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?” He glanced at the clock and immediately hopped off his stool. It was after midnight. “I’m sorry, Lace, but you need to know the type of guy you’re dealing with.”
Michael laid a gentle hand on her shoulders and tilted her chin up to him, kissing her softly on the mouth. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He studied her face, frowning at the dark shadows under her eyes.
She knew Michael had a need to look out for her because he believed she wasn’t doing a good job by herself. And maybe she wasn’t. She’d started talking with a man who had strong links to Suzanne’s case.
But talking with Jack Harper was the first time she’d felt a stirring of interest in a man in forever. After years of shutting people out and being numb, it’d felt good to experience that spark. Jack couldn’t be involved with Suzanne’s reappearance. Jack Harper was one of the good guys. She could sense it.
She walked Michael to the front door and he frowned at the single locking bolt, twisting it back and forth. “Why haven’t you got a security system yet? Do I need to makes some calls to find one for you?”
“Not tonight, Michael. I can’t argue with you anymore. And get your hair cut. Please.” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. His gaze rested on her face for a brief second, and then he jogged down her porch steps, determined energy radiating from him.
Lacey walked back to the kitchen, her brain spinning with thoughts of Suzanne, Amy, and Jack Harper.
Mason Callahan recognized big money when he saw it. And this guy had it. The décor of the Harper Developing offices was understated, but the kind of understated that cost a fortune. The colors were Northwest colors, strong gray-blues and earthy browns with fir-green accents. The office didn’t shout how successful the company was; it murmured it. Even Ray had been silent for thirty seconds, gaping as they waited for Jack Harper to spare a moment of his time.
The view was stunning. Mason held his cowboy hat in his hand as he looked out the east windows in the conference room and wondered if Harper had ordered Mt. Hood to pose for his guests. The white peak looked icy proud and crystalline behind the city. With a sky that blue and clear, it was hard to believe the temperature was twenty-five degrees outside.
Harper swung open the door, “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you? Is the apartment manager in Lakefield giving you what you need for your investigation?” He managed to shake both men’s hands, circle the table, and pour three cups of coffee before he finished speaking. The man controlled a room by simply entering it.
Efficient was the adjective that popped into Mason’s head. And smooth. He took a close look at Jack Harper, taking the offered coffee cup, reluctantly liking what he saw. The man’s eyes were honest and direct, his manner welcoming but businesslike.
Mason and Ray had been hard at work turning the man’s past inside out. Every person they spoke with sang the man’s praises. Except for a few ex-girlfriends, but that was to be expected. It was disconcerting that every rock of Harper’s they dug under, they found another connection to Dave DeCosta or some other aspect of their ever-widening case.
It wasn’t logical that Jack Harper was involved, but they had to take a look at him.
Ray started. “The apartment manager is fine. You must have put the fear of God in him, because he’s bending over backward to make us happy.” He snorted. “He even offered to get me a deal on the dent I’ve got in my rear fender.”
That brought a flash of a grin from Harper. “His brother owns a body shop. He’s actually quite good. I’ve used him myself.”
Mason saw Ray sip his hot coffee and unsuccessfully hide that he’d just burned his tongue, but the man managed to throw out another question. “We wanted to know what you were doing in Lakefield the morning the skeleton was found. You live here in Portland, right?”
Harper’s face closed. “I was visiting my dad. He doesn’t live too far from that complex. I’m often down there on the weekends.”
“We couldn’t find an address for your father in the public records. Jacob Harper, right? Is he renting?”
“No. Well, sort of.” Harper took a short walk to the window and stared at the mountain. “He’s in adult foster care.”
“In what?”
Reflected in the window, Mason watched impatience flash across Harper’s face. “A care home. A small, privately owned home specifically for the elderly with special needs. He lives there with four other men and a caretaker or two.” Harper’s voice was stiff, the words clipped.
His face reddening, Ray opened and closed his mouth, completely blindsided by what was obviously a personal and painful answer. Mason stepped in.
“I thought your father was still active in the company.”
Jack shook his head. “His name’s on the letterhead. That’s it. He doesn’t remember that he started this company, let alone have any input.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
Harper turned from the window and stared directly at Mason. “Yes. Most of the time he doesn’t remember that he has a son either.”
“That must be a bitch for you. It’s a shitty disease.”
One brow tilted slightly on Harper’s forehead. “What else do you need to know?”
“What else can you tell us about Hillary Roske?”
“We dated. We broke up. Long before she vanished. Didn’t you read the paper this morning?”
Ray pretended to write something on his little notepad, as if Harper had provided a vital detail. Harper’s history had been splashed across the front page today, and the article accurately matched the facts Mason had uncovered so far.
“Do you remember what you were doing or who you were with the night of Suzanne Mills’s abduction?”
Disbelief struck Harper’s features. “You’re kidding, right? It’s been over a decade! You remember who you were with that night?”
“Give me one name. A roommate or girlfriend you would have been hanging out with.” Mason pushed the issue.
“Dave Harris was my roommate. He lives in Bend now.”
Ray made a real notation this time.
“I understand you’ve contacted Dr. Campbell about this case. And apparently you already knew of her narrow escape eleven years ago.”
“What about it? What’d she say to you?” Harper’s back straightened, and he looked at the detectives with defensive eyes.
“I haven’t talked with her since then. This came from a third party.”
Ray looked up from his notebook and both detectives studied Harper curiously. Something about the little doctor bothered the man. He’d almost broken a sweat when Mason mentioned her. Exchanging a look, both detectives intensified their focus.
“How’d you know she was the one that got away from DeCosta? Her name’s never been in print.”
Harper rested a hip against the conference table. No one had bothered to sit down. “You were there that day. You saw her reaction to finding her friend’s dead body. I’d heard some of the rumors flying around the Lakefield PD that she’d been the one. I’m surprised that it hasn’t been in the paper. The reporter covering the story has exposed every other fact.”
“Brody?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“He’s been pestering us. Nosy bastard. Only interested in making the front page.”
“Tell me about it. My entire life has been front-page news for the past few days. I’m starting to take it personally. The guy seems to have a personal grudge against me just because I refuse to answer his questions.”
“You don’t think he’s curious because you dated a Co-Ed Slayer vic, owned the building where a Co-Ed Slayer body was found, and partnered with a murdered cop whose badge was found at the Mills scene.” Catching his breath, Mason waited for the man’s reaction.
Harper’s jaw locked. “I think I’d like my lawyer present next time you want to talk to me.” He pushed off from the table and strode to the door. “We’re done here.”
He left the two men in the room and marched into the hall.
“Show the detectives out,” Harper angrily tossed the words over his shoulder to the wide-eyed receptionist as he stormed by her desk. The thin woman slowly stood and hesitantly stepped toward the conference room like she expected to find two corpses.
Jack barely caught himself before he slammed the door to his office. He shut it gently and leaned his forehead against the wood. Shit, shit, shit. When would it end? Who in the hell was doing this to him? And why? First he was dissected in the papers. Now with the police. He hadn’t handled the interview well. But he had to get out of that room before he grabbed Callahan’s cowboy hat and shoved it down the cop’s throat.
He straightened his spine, determined to find something to distract him. Get back to work. He had a company to run. Get back in control. Jack picked up the stack of phone messages from his desk and shuffled through them.
Christ. Maybe he didn’t have a company to run.
Three clients had cancelled crucial meetings.
Steaming, he thrust the messages into his shredder. His office door swung open without a knock and his sister, Melody, blew in. “Bryce said you were talking with police detectives. What did they want? They don’t believe that crap in the paper, do they?”
Her gray eyes were hard. She stood in front of Jack’s desk and ground her heel into his floor. His older sister was tall, perfectly made-up with expensive power suits, and was as tense as a threatened mother tiger. But Jack knew she was just unnerved by the police visit.
“What’s been printed in the paper is true, Mel. They haven’t made anything up.” Now he was defending Brody? “It’s just the presentation that’s bullshit.”
“Then why were they here?”
“’Cause they found a dead body on our property. And I used to work with Cal Trenton. They’re just doing their job.”
“But you’re the president of this company! How can they come in here and...”
“That doesn’t give me some special immunity. They’re trying to find a murderer, for God’s sake. Of course they’re gonna talk to me.”
Now he was defending Callahan?
Jack ran a hand through his hair. “I know the publicity sucks. Believe me, I hate it as much as you do, but until it blows over you should be working on spinning it our way. Not bitching at me.”
“If you hadn’t...”
“If I hadn’t what? Had a girlfriend in college? Partnered with Cal? You’re out of line, Mel.” He turned his back on her and stared, unseeing, out the window.
“So what do we do?” Her voice dropped ten decibels.
Jack knew it pained her to utter those five words. They might argue a lot of the time, but deep down their cores were solidly built of love for each other and their father’s company.
“You do your job, I do mine. We show everyone nothing has changed at Harper Developing, and this police investigation has nothing to do with how we run our business.”
He thought of the phone messages he’d just shredded. No way was he going to mention them. She’d hit the ceiling.
Melody was silent a minute. In the reflection of the glass, he could see she was scared, but didn’t want to admit it. She spun on a heel and left his office. Jack blew out a breath. Together, the two of them would get through this.