Sam knocked on the front door of a double-wide and gave Michael a reassuring smile. His insides tightened. He was jazzed about confronting whoever opened the door; it was in his reporter’s blood. But he was also getting jazzed by the woman next to him. She was a go-getter. And he liked it. Sam knocked again, frowning this time.
“There has to be someone home. There’s always someone home.”
He noticed she was studying him out of the corner of her eye.
No one answered and she started to tap a rapid boot toe. Michael heard some thumping inside and the door opened.
“Hey, Sam.” The greeting was from a gangly young teen who’d hit that difficult age where his height outpaced his body mass.
“Hi, Bruce. Your mom around?”
The kid pushed the door open. He studied Michael with unquestioning eyes as they stepped into the cramped entry. “No, she went to town.”
“Who’s watching the little kids today?”
“Lila. Over there.” He pointed across the commons to a smaller mobile home.
Sam spun on a heel and pushed Michael back out the door. He stumbled back a half step, nearly losing his balance. Her eyes looked past him and he blinked as he caught...a flash of fear? No way, not from her. She barreled down the stairs, not waiting for him.
Bruce hollered as she darted away. “Hey, Sam, Dad said he wanted you to stay for dinner the next time you came out.”
“Not today.” She tossed the answer back over her shoulder and nearly broke into a jog.
Michael pulled alongside her, grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop, bringing his face close to hers. “Hey! What was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
He studied her, his gaze flicking back and forth over her face. She stared back at him blankly, but her pupils dilated the slightest bit and she shook off his hand.
“I mean, why did you plow me over to get out of that house? And start to run when the kid invited you to dinner?”
“I didn’t run.” She looked away.
He gave a grim smile. “Maybe it wasn’t running to you, but to any person who walks at a normal speed, it was running.”
Sam met his gaze and her chin lifted a little. She looked like a little kid standing up to a bully. “I don’t like it here. I don’t like to be in their homes.”
He eased back a little, considering her words. He hadn’t cared for the cramped, stifling feel to the space either, but he knew there had to be another reason to her rapid escape and she wasn’t ready to tell him. He changed the subject. “Who’s Lila?”
She relaxed a little, tossing errant bangs out of her eyes. “I think that’s who you’re looking for. Older lady.”
“Linda, Lila. She probably changed her name. I would if my sons were serial killers.”
“Sons?” Black brows shot together.
Fuck. He’d told her he was looking for the second son and mother, but hadn’t mentioned the police suspected the second son to be a killer too. His breath steamed in the snow. How much should he tell her?
“The police are considering that her other son could be on a killing spree in Portland, killing the people who put away his brother. Revenge killings. That’s the real reason why I need to talk to the mother.” Would she change her mind about helping him?
Regal eyes considered him. “Sounds personal.”
He straightened. Had he sounded that involved? He gave a small nod. “Could be.”
“Well, let’s see, then.” She marched up the rickety stairs to the smaller mobile home and fiercely pounded on the door. On this side of the commons, the wind was whipping through the compound. She tucked her chin and nose into her jacket collar as Michael stood two steps down and kicked the snow off his boots, smiling to himself. Obviously, he’d picked a good partner for his mission.
An older woman in a faded, floral housedress opened the door a few inches and peered at Sam with tired eyes. Instead of a greeting, she just nodded and stood silently, waiting for Sam to state her business. Michael studied the woman and Sam glanced back at him. With the quirk of a dark brow, she silently asked if this was the woman.
She was older and more tired, but she resembled the woman he’d seen in the DeCosta archives. His gut told him he’d nailed a bull’s-eye.
He nodded.
“Lila, this is Michael. He’s giving me a hand today. Could we come in for a minute?”
Disinterested eyes took one glance at Michael and dismissed him. “There’s no one here.”
“I think you could probably help us. It’ll take only a minute,” Sam coaxed.
The woman paused, considered, and opened the door wider.
She looked as if life had made her run a daily marathon under hot sun. Her mouth had that munched-together look indicating she didn’t have teeth. A feature Detective Callahan mentioned several times. Had she changed her name?
He followed Sam into the home. The pungent odor of dirty diapers smacked him in the sinuses. The home was too hot. Between the odor, heat, and small space, Michael felt sick. He swallowed the sour lump in his throat and saw Sam do the same.
This better be quick.
Lila led them to the kitchen, but there was nowhere to sit. Every chair at the table held a toddler’s booster seat, and the eating surface was overrun with dirty cereal bowls. Three ancient high chairs lined one side of the table. The woman leaned against the stove and looked expectantly at Sam. She ignored Michael.
Soap opera music came from a TV in another room. If there were children in the house, they were silent. Maybe it was naptime.
Sam’s blue gaze was on him, waiting.
He decided to be blunt and handed the woman his business card. He saw her eyes widen as she read it, and he swore she turned a shade paler than her already prison-shade pallor.
“As you can see, I’m from Portland and write for The Oregonian.” He paused. “Do you know why I’m here?”
Her head shook back and forth and she shoved the card back at him. He didn’t take it.
“You are Linda DeCosta, right?”
She shrugged.
“I have some questions about your son.”
“Dave’s dead.” Her words were a little difficult to understand without teeth.
“Your other son.”
She tightened her lips into a narrow line and it shortened her face another inch. “What about him?”
“Where is he?”
She looked down at the business card again. She had yet to meet his gaze.
“When’s the last time you heard from him?”
This time he didn’t even get a shrug. Anger boiled under his skin and he checked his temper.
“Look. Innocent people are dying and your son is a suspect, but the police can’t find him for questioning. What name is he using?” His voice was too loud.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Michael could only describe her look as churlish. Damn it! His shoulders and chest widened as he took a deep breath and cast about for the right words to throw at her.
Lila immediately cowered and darted away two shaky steps, raising an arm to protect her face.
Michael’s jaw dropped. Anger evaporated. “Jesus. I’m not going to touch you!” What kind of life had this woman led?
Sam touched his hand. “Let me talk to her.” Her calm eyes were confident. “Why don’t you wait outside for a minute?”
Michael studied her composed face. She believed she could get the woman to talk. He glanced at Lila, who was eyeing both of them with trepidation, and saw her hands quiver. Without a word he strode toward the door.
Outside, he sucked in deep breaths of clean air, but couldn’t get the stink out of his nose.
The man studied the computer screen in front of him and tightened his fists. Shit! Where was she?
Maybe he could rationalize where Lacey Campbell went. He squeezed shut his eyes and pressed them against the heels of his hands. Concentrate. Last time he’d seen her she’d been with Harper. That old coot of a neighbor had said Harper spent the night. Could she possibly still be with him? Something had occurred between those two. His jaw tightened. It wasn’t right, but at the moment that didn’t matter. He had to get back on track and find her.
Where would that jerk take her?
He cursed his lack of foresight. He’d placed a GPS unit on Lacey’s truck, but not Harper’s. They could be in any hotel in the state. Or on a plane.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
A sour scent swirled around him. The scent of carefully orchestrated plans falling apart. More things were going wrong. Like the recent newspaper article about the missing woman. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting the metal tang of blood. He hadn’t laid a hand on Kelly Cates. That had to be someone else. But who?
Maybe the police were planting stories to confuse him. He pushed away from his desk, turning his chair to stare at the blank wall. Maybe the police were trying to draw him in with some convoluted trap involving Cates. But he’d carefully checked out the Cates’s residence. A distraught husband and teary-eyed daughter were the only inhabitants he’d seen and their pain seemed real. Would the police use a young, innocent girl like that to trap him?
A brief, possessive anger swept through him.
He calmed, breathing steadily and deep. He couldn’t worry about Cates and her daughter now. It was time to track down Lacey Campbell. He settled back at his computer, cracked a knuckle, and ran a search for property owned by Jack Harper or Harper Developing.
The listing of real estate was insanely long. He scanned the screen. What exactly was he looking for? Did he expect a red flag to jump out? Here she is! She’s staying here! He made a grunt of disgust and forced himself to read slowly.
Jack Harper owned three private residences in three different counties in Oregon. Even one in Mount Junction. The man raised his brows. What a coincidence.
He didn’t have the time to visit them all. Chances were slim Lacey was at one anyway. He was grasping at straws. Frustration boiled in his gut. He shot out of his chair and stomped into his kitchen. He grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and slammed the door shut. Where in the hell should he look for Harper?
Maybe Harper would look for him.
The plastic bottle hovered an inch from his lips as his brain grabbed the thought and held tight.
Make Harper look for him.
He didn’t move, afraid the idea would slip away if he shifted a single muscle. What would make Harper hunt for him? His mind kicked into overdrive. He could think of several possibilities.
Fuck, yes! He took a deep drink and enjoyed the sensation of the carbonation on his throat. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
He was back in control.