The Hidden

While they’d continued examining the crime scene, Lieutenant Gray had received a call from the station; a distraught young woman had called in because her roommate hadn’t come home after work the night before.

And now Mary Peterson, best friend and roommate of the deceased, was at the police station, and Diego was questioning and consoling her at the same time. Normally, unless there were indications of foul play, an adult had to be missing for at least twenty-four hours before a report could be issued, but Lieutenant Gray had told his officers to take a report if a person had been gone for more than an hour or two.

Given the condition of the body, getting an ID might have proven difficult, but Cassandra had been bonded so she could handle money at the Moose Pot Pie, and the fingerprints matched.

“Did you notice anything or anyone special or suspicious in any way during the day?” Diego asked. “Was she dating someone?”

Mary shook her head dully. “No and no. Her education meant everything to her. She said she was getting old.” More tears welled in Mary’s eyes. “She was twenty-six.”

“I’m so sorry,” Diego said. “When did you last see her?”

“I was on the early shift. I left at five. Cassandra was scheduled to close, so she would have been there until eleven or twelve.”

“Who else was working that shift?” he asked.

“Braxton and Stan,” Mary said.

There was a pad on the table, and Diego gently pushed it toward her. “If you could give me their information, please?”

“Of course, anything,” Mary said. “This just isn’t fair. She was so excited to be living here. She felt like she’d come home. She said this was her place. She’d already been to the museum up at the Conway Ranch, and she’d met Ben and Trisha Kendall.”

“She knew the owners?” he asked, a little too sharply.

“Of course. She adored the Conway Ranch.” Mary suddenly lowered her voice, as if someone might overhear her. “I think they wanted to hire her. She said they’d talked about her coming on as manager.”

“Great. Thank you, Mary. I’m curious—did she mention knowing anyone else who was descended from Nathan Kendall?”

She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. I think maybe she’d been in contact with a few people online, but I don’t know who, and I don’t even know if they were from around here.” She stopped, her eyes watering again. “What will I do? Her grandmother’s dead, so she doesn’t have any family. I work for minimum wage and tips, but I have to bury her. I can’t let them just dump her in a hole without a headstone or anything.”

Diego was glad he could help her with one thing, at least. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We can arrange for a funeral.”

“Cops do that?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m not actually a cop.”

“You’re not a cop? And you’re questioning me?”

“I’m FBI,” he explained. “And I think Cassandra would be pleased to be buried in the old cemetery on the Kendall property. And...” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he had the right to speak for a man he’d only recently met, then went on. “I have a friend who can help with whatever other arrangements need to be made. But you should know that the funeral can’t take place right away. Not while we’re still investigating.”

He didn’t think he should mention the word autopsy—not unless he wanted to see her start crying again.

He handed her his card. “Please, if you think of anything that could help, anyone who seemed especially interested in her, for instance, call me.”

“Of course,” she promised, then began to sniffle again.

He didn’t try to tell her that it was going to be all right, because it wasn’t. Her friend was dead. Nothing could ever fix that.

“Thank you,” he said.

They both rose. She looked at him, wiping her eyes. “She would be glad to be buried in the family cemetery, I think. She was so excited to be a part of the Kendall legacy. She said that this was her permanent home. I guess now it is.”

*

“Aha!” Scarlet cried.

She was back at her desk, reading further in one of Nathan’s journals.