Текст книги "Never Die Alone"

Автор книги: Lisa Jackson

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 25

The dog was barking his head off, baying and causing a ruckus. “Hush!” he yelled at old Red, but his voice failed him. Though he was grateful that the dog had found that little bitch’s scent, he didn’t want to warn her or anyone else who might be in this part of the forest.

But the hound wasn’t listening to him, and once again, he wanted to kick himself, wishing he’d taken the dog to obedience training. But hell, Red had been a stray. He was lucky the beast could track at all.

And Red had definitely picked up Zoe’s scent. The dog was running up ahead, bounding through the sweltering forest, startling birds, rabbits, and God only knew what else. It was all he could do to keep up with the mutt. Huffing and snorting as he lugged his gun through the undergrowth, he was sweating like a pig.

“Red!” he tried to yell, his voice a whistle. “You shut up!”

That wasn’t happening. The dog darted ahead, crazy from the scent.

From the sound of the dog’s baying, he guessed they were closing in on her.

About damned time! Once he collected Zoe, he’d be able to end this, in the right birth order, kill each of the twins and be on to the next quest, whatever the hell that would be. Myra, she would tell him. She was the one who decided. He just followed directions. And that would have to change. Who the hell was Myra to be forever bossing him around, making him take all the chances, suffer all the consequences? Even now, his face and neck ached, and his legs, too, had suffered from all of the attacks those two little bitches had inflicted.

And yet, he kept on obeying her.

Myra was the one who had planned all this, the one who had bought the property with the cabin, who provided him with just enough money to keep going. The work he had was spotty, which was good, as it allowed him some free time to do this, to hunt for the twins who were about to turn of age, to spare them the pain that he knew existed.

Ungrateful sluts!

Why did they fight him?

Didn’t they understand that he was doing them a favor? Saving them?

A tree limb slapped him in the face and he cursed, stumbled, and felt the sting under his eye, a reminder of the pain that Chloe had inflicted.

Despite his discomfort, despite the heat and the pain running through his body, he grinned inwardly. Chloe Denning would never again have the opportunity to do him harm. No more. She’d been dealt with. After he’d captured her that last time, chasing her down to that barbed-wire fence, he’d made sure she would never thwart him again. Oh, she was alive, but just barely, and that was good enough.

Until he captured Zoe.

Then there would be no reason to hesitate.

The ritual would be quick. Orderly. Complete.

Thinking ahead, pressing through the deep woods, he licked his lips in anticipation of running Zoe to the ground and hauling her back to the cabin.

What satisfaction that would bring.

He couldn’t wait.

The trees thinned a bit, and he spied his dog leaping through the tall grass. Squinting, he thought he made out a movement ahead of Red, a person stumbling through the weeds.

“Gotcha,” he said, knowing that the dog had flushed Zoe out of the forest.

Perfect.

It was just a matter of time before he reached her, and he was going to savor every sweet second of his revenge. She looked frantic, hobbling feverishly. The dog barked again and she glanced over her shoulder, only to turn and try to run in the opposite direction.

As if she had an escape route.

As if she actually thought she could get away.

And then he heard it.

The distinctive hum of traffic.

What?

Heart pounding, he focused on the space between Zoe and the horizon, and spied a pickup truck traveling beyond the fence line. And after the truck came two cars. And a semi heading the opposite direction.

“Fuck!” he swore, the sound a rattling rasp. He sprang into action, running forward, calculating the angle between Zoe and the road. He couldn’t let her reach the highway. Wouldn’t.

He was gonna cut her off, tackle her before she got to the road. Then he’d haul her back to the cabin, prepare her, and finally take her life. It would be all over soon.

But if he didn’t reach her before she flagged down the driver of a passing vehicle?

Oh, shit!

Myra would be beyond pissed.

Adrenaline firing his blood, he shot across the brush-covered land. His legs pumped as each breath was drawn in and expelled through his bruised windpipe. Faster! Faster! He’d been an athlete in school, a hunter afterward, and could run miles without difficulty. But it was hard to run in hunting boots, packing a gun and being beaten as he had been. Still, he should be able to overtake a wounded girl.

Pushing his muscles, pumping his arms, he focused on Zoe, ignored the pain, and ran flat out.

He’d make it.

He’d stop that little bitch.

Or, damn it, he’d die trying.

Selma Denning was a wreck. The poor woman nearly shattered into a million pieces when Bentz and Montoya showed up on her doorstep. At their arrival, she’d been certain they’d come to report one of her daughters dead.

“No, no, we’re just here to ask a few questions,” Bentz assured the distraught woman.

At that point, she let the detectives into her home. Sitting on a floral rocker by the window, the woman chain-smoked while she answered questions about the twins. Most of the information confirmed what Bentz had already learned from Brianna Hayward. Though it had obviously been difficult for her, she had come up with recent pictures of the girls as well as two hairbrushes. With little success, she fought tears as Montoya placed each brush into a bag labeled with the girl’s name. The notion that the police might need DNA samples to identify her daughters was nearly too much for her.

Bentz got it. He’d been in her position when his Kristi had been abducted years earlier.

“I just want them back,” Selma whispered, crushing out her third or fourth cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

“We’re doing all we can.”

She stared into space, unblinking, her mind somewhere else.

“Do you mind if we have a look at their car?” Bentz asked. She nodded numbly, but didn’t move from her chair. Instead, she reached for her half-empty pack of cigarettes on the table where her phone and the ashtray sat. “I mean, now,” Bentz clarified.

“What?” Her hand paused midair. “Oh, yes . . . sorry. It’s out back in the lot. One of the visitor’s spots.”

“We’ll probably have it towed to the garage,” Montoya said.

“Oh . . . but if the girls return . . .” Her voice faded. “Sorry. Certainly. I’ll get the keys.” She retrieved a set of keys and then led them outside to a lot that was surrounded by low-growing shrubs. Roughly half of the spots were taken by vehicles. “The manager will be glad if you do take it. I’m . . . I’m, um, not supposed to have any extra cars here for longer than, I don’t know, five hours or so. But the manager, Stan, he’s cutting me a break. You know, because of the situation.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, then pointed out a fifteen-year-old Toyota. Selma Denning stood there smoking another cigarette as Montoya and Bentz gave the car a once-over.

They found nothing out of the ordinary. A pair of sunglasses along with the registration and car owner’s manual in the glove box. A phone charger, pack of gum, and mess of tissues and gas receipts in the console. A warm, half-drunk soda in the cup holder. Gum wrappers and half a dozen French fries under the front seats. In the back, two jackets, a collapsible umbrella, and some trashy magazines were tossed over the faded seat. Montoya checked the pockets of the two jackets and found lip balm, a bracelet, and a ticket stub from a movie dated six months earlier.

Nothing that looked as if it belonged to anyone but the twins.

A total bust.

Still, they called to have the car towed, just in case. Leaving Selma with their cards, the detectives headed across town to a two-storied home built at the turn of the previous century.

As he searched for a parking spot, Montoya’s cell phone rang from its spot in the empty cup holder. He picked it up, saw the caller ID, and clicked the cell off. “Speaking of my family. Second call I got today. They’re all thinking I should be hunting for Cruz,” Montoya said as he slowed for a red light, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. Cruz was Montoya’s brother, a bad ass who had recently lost his Harley to a fleeing nun. The desperate woman had stolen it, and Cruz had taken off after her. “No one’s heard from him, can’t reach him, so they all have decided that I, as the one cop in the family, should drop everything and chase him down.”

Bentz smothered a smile. Montoya’s tight-knit family was always bothering him in one way or another. “Did you tell them you’ve got other things to occupy your time?”

“Like a full-time job nailing bad guys, as well as dealing with a wife and kid? Even though Abby’s on hiatus from her photography for a while, she still expects me to be home and spell her with Ben and, you know, she needs a break. Geez, he’s only three months and hasn’t figured out sleeping through the night yet. We’re all sleep deprived.” He snorted and frowned, brackets lining his mouth. “So someone else in the family can go looking for Cruz. He’s a big boy anyway, a grown man.” Frowning at the traffic on the street, he finally found a parking spot close to a fire hydrant. “It’s okay, right?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “We’re cops. The good guys.”

“If you’re willing to risk a ticket.”

“From someone on the force? Bah. Look, if I get one from some meter maid who doesn’t know the drill, I’ll fight it. Like I said, ‘We’re the good guys.’” He was already out of the car and locking up. They made their way under an arbor and through a garden of exotic tropical plants to a two-storied front porch that ran the width of the building and was decorated in finely detailed wrought iron.

They were met at the front door by a pretty if harried-looking woman who seemed a little nervous when they introduced themselves. Erin Denning, Carson’s second wife, was petite with short reddish hair, an upturned nose, and wide, worried eyes. She could only have been five or six years older than the twins, her stepdaughters, and, Bentz already had learned from Selma, was raising Carson’s two sons, Carson Junior, “CJ,” a rambunctious four-year-old with red hair, and his little brother, Jayden, whom Erin carried on her hip. She led the detectives through a spacious foyer with inlaid marble to an office with double doors and a glass desk, where her husband sat before three computer monitors and two television screens. These days Carson Denning was a day trader and worked from home.

“Detectives,” he said after introductions. Though he grinned widely, there was barely a trace of happiness in his eyes. “Tell me you’ve found my girls.”

“Not yet,” Bentz said, and he saw what little light there was in Carson’s pale eyes fade. “We have a few questions about your daughters.”

“I see. Let’s step outside.” His lips folded in on themselves and he motioned the two detectives to walk out a side door that opened to a veranda where a variety of lush ferns and palms offered shade. Overhead lights had been strung to create ambiance in the evening. Water spilled from a stone waterfall into a basin where goldfish and koi swam slowly, their scales catching the sunlight. Bentz looked up, noticed a screen stretched between the wings of the house so that no bird could fly in and make a meal of the brightly colored fish.

“Look,” Carson said, “whatever it takes, whatever I can do, just say the word. You have to find my daughters. My divorce from their mother was not amicable; it’s hard for us to be civil to each other, but my Zoe and Chloe . . .” He let out a shuddering breath and stared at the fish darting beneath the water’s surface. “They’re special. I’ll do whatever I can to help find them.” He sat on a bench and clasped his hands between his knees. “That being said, the less my wife, Erin, has to do with this, the better.” He looked up quickly, frowning. “I mean, she’s fond of Chloe and Zoe, of course. They’re, well, they’re contemporaries of hers, but because she’s related to Selma, it’s . . . touchy.”

I’ll bet, Bentz thought, though didn’t admit that he, too, had been through a messy divorce where family members were compromising partners. That, however, had been long ago; water under the emotional bridge.

“And really, other than my meeting Erin because of Selma, she had nothing to do with the divorce. Nothing.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “The truth of the matter was that Selma couldn’t get over the loss of her twin, Sandra. That was the nail in the coffin of our marriage, though she wouldn’t believe it. I don’t mean to sound harsh, because it was a horrible ordeal that she went through, to lose someone that close to you. But it affected everything she did, all aspects of her life, of our life as a family. It was too much.” He stood, stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, and bit his lower lip. “Since no amount of private counseling sessions seemed to have helped, I was hoping that twinless twin support group might be the ticket. I’m glad she joined. But about the girls, what can I do?”

“We just want to double-check some things with you, ask about their acquaintances, anyone you might know who might have been with them that night after they peeled off from the group of friends.”

“I wish I could. But . . . I didn’t talk to them that day, hoped to celebrate their birthday after the fact, when they could come out here. I thought I’d take them to dinner and buy them a drink sometime after the initial celebration died down.” He shrugged. “They’re kids. They want to be with people their age.”

Bentz and Montoya asked about Zoe and Chloe’s friends and, it seemed, Carson’s impression was nearly identical to his ex-wife’s. Neither one had cared for the most recent boyfriends, Zach Armstrong or Tommy Jones. “Oh, they were fine, I guess,” Carson said. “Just not going anywhere as far as I could see. What the girls found so fascinating about them was lost on me.”

Within forty minutes, they’d learned everything they could. As Bentz stepped out on the front porch, Carson stopped him, asking, “Are you doing everything you can to find my daughters?”

A good question. What was everything? The Missing Persons Departments of both New Orleans and Baton Rouge were working together, and the press had been informed that the girls had gone missing. The FBI had been called in, and half a dozen cops from each city were canvassing the area, talking to acquaintances, checking on leads, including the security video taken near Bourbon Street. Bentz and Montoya, homicide cops, were working the case as well, mainly because of Bentz’s experience on the original investigation of the 21 Killer. There was still no proof that 21 was behind this, especially since most believed that they’d locked up the killer when Donovan Caldwell was sentenced, but there was also no denying the crime pattern.

“We’re doing the best we can,” Bentz assured Carson, then asked him to call if he thought of anything that would help.

Once in the car and heading back to the station, Bentz said, “Twinless twins?” He snorted and shook his head as he opened his window a crack. “You know, I think there’s a support group for just about anything you want these days.” Before Montoya could add his two cents, Bentz’s phone jangled.

He slipped it from his pocket, recognized an LA area code, and answered, “Detective Bentz.”

“Hey,” Jonas Hayes said, his voice grim. Bentz imagined his ex-partner’s face set, his features hard, the harbinger of bad news. “I wanted to give you a heads-up before you heard it somewhere else.”

“Heard what?” Bentz asked.

“About Donovan Caldwell.” A pause. “He’s dead.”

CHAPTER 26

Brianna’s cell phone rang just as she and Jase were heading back to the offices of the Observer. She pulled the phone from her purse, saw that it was Milo again, and didn’t answer. Though she wanted to connect with him, she needed a little privacy to talk to the reticent member of the twinless twin group, a man who rarely shared, but sometimes called her for advice. It was weird. He did not make an appointment, didn’t want her to be his counselor, and rarely shared during the group meetings. And yet, sometimes he sought her out. Brianna wouldn’t have bothered dealing with him if he weren’t a part of the group. As it was, she felt obligated, as a twinless twin herself, to give comfort or advice or just lend an ear.

But not right this moment.

He’s called twice. Maybe he’s in trouble. You need to talk to him.

As they reached her car parked on the street, she noticed the time on the meter had expired.

She and Jase had already decided to work out of his apartment, on his computer. “What time works best for you?” she asked.

“I’ve got a few things to deal with right now. Give me a couple of hours?” His gaze delved a little deeper into hers and her stupid heart had the nerve to flutter. “Work for you?”

“Perfect.”

He gave her his address and she repeated it back to him. “You said apartment 3-C.”

“That’s it.” One side of his mouth twisted upward. “Okay, I’ll see you then.” He rapped on the roof of her car twice, then headed into the building that housed the Observer offices. She watched his tall frame disappear through the glass doors and couldn’t help but wonder about running into him again after all these years, after half a lifetime of believing that she’d never see him again. Not that she’d given it much thought since college. A high-school crush was just that, a first little palpitation of the heart that one remembered fondly but left back in school.

Then why did she experience the same rush now? Why did she realize that her cheeks were warm and it had nothing to do with the Louisiana sun moving slowly across the sky?

“Because you’re an idiot,” she told herself as she settled behind the wheel. She didn’t have time for schoolgirl fantasies, not when Selma’s daughters were missing. “Get it together.” She jabbed her key in the ignition. As her little car started, she forced herself to concentrate on the importance of meeting with Jase. They had to find Zoe and Chloe. And in the process, she believed that they would prove that Donovan Caldwell was not the 21 Killer.

In the hours before she was to meet Jase, she needed to gather and copy her notes, make a few phone calls, and emotionally gird herself. She’d already discovered dealing with Jase was complicated. Not only was she fighting her attraction to him, but there was something else going on between them, something she didn’t understand, an underlying tension that she couldn’t pinpoint.

Was he interested in her?

Or was it something else, something a little darker?

As she checked her mirror and nosed her Honda into traffic, she noticed a parking enforcement officer turning down the street. Well, maybe it was a good omen that she’d narrowly escaped getting a parking ticket. Maybe her luck was changing. Maybe today was the day Selma’s daughters would be found.

Or maybe not.

Maybe the girls would never be located.

“Don’t even go there,” she warned, glancing into the rearview mirror.

When her phone rang again, she saw Tanisha’s number and promised herself that she would return the call the second she got home. And Milo’s, too. And she would check in on Selma. Yeah, she didn’t have a lot of time before she met up with Jase again.

At that thought, she actually smiled.

“Wait. What?” Bentz said, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing from Hayes, who’d called him from California.

Donovan Caldwell was dead?

No! Not at the very moment Bentz was starting to believe he might be innocent of the murders of his sisters and wrongly convicted of being the 21 Killer.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No joke.” The tone of Hayes’s voice was flat, all business.

“But he’s locked up.”

Montoya, cutting through an alley, shot Bentz a look.

“I know,” Hayes agreed. “Housed in a private cell. Well, at least it’s been private for a few days. There was room for another inmate, of course, but his most recent cell mate was released a couple of days ago and for some reason, some red-tape clusterfuck I think, the other bed was unoccupied. Despite all the prison overcrowding. So the past few nights, Caldwell’s had the cell to himself.”

“Okay. So what happened?” Bentz asked as Montoya gunned his Mustang onto a major arterial again. Staring out the side window, Bentz barely noticed the sidewalks of New Orleans flash by. The storefronts and pedestrians and cars were a blur as he tried to wrap his brain around what Hayes was saying. In his mind’s eye he saw Donovan Caldwell, the odd older brother of the murdered twins. Donovan had been out of step with society, a bit of a recluse, even a little nasty. He had harbored a hatred of his sisters but refused to take the blame for their horrific deaths, maintaining his innocence.

“Looks like suicide,” said Hayes. “I mean, the guy was in the cell alone, but who knows what goes on in the middle of the night in the big house? Guards can be bribed. Some inmates have more privileges than others. You know? It’s really too early to tell.”

“Movie stuff.”

“It happens.” Bentz nodded, thinking of the time difference. California was two hours behind New Orleans, so there hadn’t been much time for an investigation. Yet.

“I don’t have all the details,” Hayes was saying. “But apparently he had some sort of tiny shiv, sliced his wrists, but had the guts and determination to leave a message before he bled out.”

“A message?” Bentz felt a niggle of apprehension skitter through his insides. “What was it?”

Montoya wheeled the Mustang around a final corner to the station and slowed for a couple of runners who cut across the street. As he did, he sent his partner another “What gives?” look.

“He managed to write ‘I’M INNOCENT’ in block letters on the wall of his cell. Written using his own blood.”

“Jesus,” Bentz whispered, a deep sadness stealing over him. He thought of the man everyone believed to be the 21 Killer now dead, at his own hand. Some people would celebrate, believing that a serial murderer had been taken off the streets for good; that he no longer would be chewing through taxpayers’ money; that, if he offed himself, all the better. Good riddance to bad rubbish! But if they were wrong? If Caldwell wasn’t 21? If he’d sliced his own wrists in resignation because he couldn’t take the fate he’d been handed? So out of his mind and desperate that he would take the time to leave a final proclamation of innocence as he bled out?

“A guard found Caldwell this morning,” Jonas was saying. “He was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late to save him. DOA.” He paused for a second. “Look, because you called about the 21 Killer, I thought you’d want to know.”

“I do. Thanks.”

“Yeah, gotta run.”

Bentz hung up.

“Bad news?” Montoya asked as he pulled into the lot closest to the station and drove the Mustang into a vacant spot.

“Not good.” Bentz had held out a tiny iota of hope that Donovan Caldwell would eventually confess, that he would admit to being 21. Now, that wasn’t going to happen. Ever. Nor would he ever be free from prison, vindicated and released because of the conviction of another perpetrator.

Guilty or innocent, Donovan Caldwell was dead. A statistic. And Bentz, climbing out of the car and heading into the station house, was more determined than ever to either exonerate an innocent man or prove that the right suspect had been tried, convicted, and sent up the river for life.

Once home, Brianna was greeted by St. Ives, who meowed at her insistently until she fed him half a can of “tuna delight” from her refrigerator. Once his needs had been met, she started gathering her notes and information for Jase. She made two copies of everything she’d given to the police in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. She still wasn’t certain how her working relationship with Jase was going to play out, but she figured she needed a duplicate set just the same. As the printer chugged out pages, she made the call to Milo. After four rings, the phone went to voice mail.

Brianna decided to leave a message. “Hi, Milo. This is Brianna Hayward, returning your calls. Sorry I missed you. Hope everything’s okay. Call back if you’d like.” After she ended the call, an uneasy feeling came over her, and she stared at the phone a minute, almost willing it to ring. Maybe it was just part of the pitfalls of her profession, but whenever a client phoned and she wasn’t able to return the call right away, she worried. In her line of work, she dealt with people who suffered from depression and anxiety and all forms of neuroses, some more dangerous than others. She had no idea why Milo was calling her; perhaps it was nothing important, but still, she worried.

He’ll call back.

Don’t make a mountain of a molehill. It was two lousy phone calls, nothing to get worked up about.

And yet she did.

So when the phone rang in her hand, she expected the caller to be Milo Tillman. Instead, Tanisha was on the other end of the line. “Didn’t you get my messages?” she demanded.

“Yes, sorry.” She rinsed out the cat food can at the sink. “I was going to call back when I had a little time to talk. I’ve just been busy today. So, what’s up?”

“Obviously you haven’t been online.”

Obviously? “I’ve been out. Why?” Drying her hands, she glanced out the window over the sink and watched sunlight play upon the backyard.

“I called earlier just to ask you about Selma; see how she’s doing. We’re really not that close, you know, even though I tried to keep her company that night after the meeting. I’m not getting much from her.”

“Nothing’s changed. Nothing that I know of. I was about to call her.”

“Then you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Something in Tanisha’s tone gave her pause. “Did something happen?”

“I just saw it on Twitter, from a friend in California. Breaking news.”

“What?” From the tone of Tanisha’s voice, Brianna knew it wasn’t good.

“Donovan Caldwell? The 21 Killer?”

“He’s not the killer,” Brianna said automatically, then caught herself. “What about him?”

“He’s dead, Brianna.”

“He’s what?” she whispered, disbelieving.

“Donovan Caldwell. He’s dead.”

“What? No!” She was shaking her head, as if Tanisha could see her. “But that’s impossible.”

“I’m telling you, it’s true. I double-checked.”

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, her knees threatening to buckle. “But he’s . . . he’s in prison.” Leaning against the counter for support, she gathered her wits. “Wait a second. He can’t be dead. He’s in his thirties and healthy. I just saw him. There has to be some mistake.” But she was already forcing her legs to move and crossing into the living room, where she’d left her laptop.

“Hey, I’m just letting you know.”

“But how? Why?”

“Don’t know. I don’t think the details are out yet. At least not that I’ve seen online. Just that he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.”

“It’s just so hard to believe.”

“I know.”

She nearly fell onto the couch and fired up her laptop. Her fingers quivered over the keyboard as denial slithered through her brain. This couldn’t be. There had to be a mistake. Just speculation. A hoax. Donovan Caldwell, the loner cousin she’d barely known, couldn’t be dead.

“I don’t know any details,” Tanisha said again. “I thought you might.”

“No.” Trembling inside, Brianna squeezed her eyes shut. She had failed him. All her promises of justice came to mind, mocking and cold. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. He is . . . was my . . . but . . . I mean, I didn’t know him growing up . . . not really.” Her family and his had been separated by distance and disinterest, busy people, busy lives. But still, she remembered her aunt Cathy, a teacher, and her uncle Greg. They’d divorced after the loss of their daughters and the ensuing media circus, their son being tried and convicted for the crime. In a way they’d lost all three children years before, but now, with Donovan’s death, it was final.

Why the hell was it taking so long for the computer to engage?

Finally, the screen lit and she was able to type in Donovan Caldwell’s name.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw his picture along with several news feeds, two of which had the story. As Tanisha had indicated, the news of his death was just going viral. Brianna felt hot tears rush to her eyes, if not for the man and his loss of life, then for the injustice of it all, the frustration of her own impotence. In her heart she never believed that he killed Delta and Diana, the sisters he claimed to dislike, but now it didn’t really matter. Brianna had failed him by not proving his innocence before he died.

Not just you, Brianna, but the system. The cops. The attorneys. The press. Everyone who helped convict him.

Tears streaked down her face. “They’re not saying how he died?” she said, scanning the first article.

“Not that I saw. But you can’t fit much on Twitter.”

“I still can’t believe it.”

“I know. Look, I gotta run. Still on the clock. I’ll call you later.”

“Do . . . and thanks,” Brianna said, still reading as Tanisha hung up. Once disconnected, she continued to search the Internet, but so far the details of Donovan Caldwell’s death were sparse.

But Jase possessed the resources to find out more.

She would go to him first. Then she would try the police, though she figured she would hit a brick wall there. Jase was her best bet.

So why the hell hadn’t he called with the news about Donovan Caldwell? Why Tanisha?

Granted, Tanisha Lefevre worked at a job where she was continuously on the Internet, but still, shouldn’t crime reporter Jason Bridges have access to even more information, just as quickly? Probably even faster?

“I guess you’re going to find out,” she said, dashing her tears away and packing up her laptop, iPad, and the notes she’d printed out. Though it was earlier than the agreed-upon time to meet, she decided to head to his apartment. If he wasn’t there, she would wait.

Rand Cooligan’s acid reflux was acting up again. Big-time.