grandmother and granddaughter spent more time together, maybe they’d find a way to bond or at least understand each other better. Besides, help with housework would be welcome.
Casey had nearly reached her apartment when her cell phone rang. She stopped and rummaged through her purse.
“Hello?” No response. “Hello?”
“Stop investigating the murder.”
The raspy, hostile whisper took her breath away. “Who is this?”
“If you don’t, then Summer dies.”
Fear slithered up her spine and tickled the hairs on the back of her neck. “I’m not investigating! I just asked a couple questions for a friend, and I’m done.”
“You’ve been warned.” The line went dead.
Casey plunked onto the carpeted step. She stared at the screen’s “Call One” message. She tried star sixty- nine to find the number and heard “We cannot complete your call as dialed.” She looked up the call log. No numbers displayed. This is what she got for buying the cheap package. Her cell phone wasn’t listed in any directory that she knew of, nor had she added it to her business card. The only people who knew this, or about Summer, were friends and coworkers.
Casey thought she’d be sick.
THIRTEEN
CASEY DROVE WEST ON BROADWAY and, for the fourth time this morning, glanced in her rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t being tailed. Despite her curiosity and questions about Noel’s guilt, investigating Jasmine’s murder any further would be a horrible risk.
However, Wesley Axelson called her landline last night and said he wanted to talk about the murder, in person. Wesley had never phoned her before. He even apologized for calling. In the eight years she’d known Wes, he’d never asked her for a favor, let alone apologized for anything. Still, she told him she wasn’t investigating for Marie anymore. Before she could tell him why, he said, “But this is real important, and you’re one of the few people at Mainland who can keep her mouth shut. See, the cops showed up at my place with a warrant. When Marie finds out, she’ll think I’m the killer, which I ain’t.”
At that point, Casey’s curiosity had taken over and she’d agreed to see him. She just wished she’d insisted on a better meeting place than a gym filled with pro-wrestling wannabes. Again, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Since yesterday’s anonymous threat, she’d been fighting paranoia. She’d contacted the cell phone provider to see if they could trace the call. After several transfers and what felt like a long wait, she learned that the call came from a pay phone in Coquitlam. Noel lived in Coquitlam. So did Elliot Birch.
Every time Casey thought of the threat to Summer, the bump on the back of her head throbbed like some sort of warning beacon. She hated being forced to look over her shoulder. She hated that an anonymous coward was trying to control her through fear, which was turning into anger, and her anger inevitably propelled her into action.
After Wesley’s call, Casey phoned Marie to tell her about the threat and to insist Marie tell coworkers that neither of them were investigating Jasmine’s murder anymore. Casey would do the same when she got to work.
“I’m sorry about the threat,” Marie had said. “Why is the freak targeting our kids?” And then she said what had also been on Casey’s mind. “I wonder if someone from Mainland really did kill Jasmine. David doesn’t like kids, you know. He and Wesley wouldn’t have anything to do with mine at the company picnic last summer. I’ve also heard Roberto brag that he never plans to have any.”
Casey had heard this, too. She still found it hard to believe that any of them could shoot Jasmine and threaten children’s lives. For the first time in a long while, Casey didn’t look forward to going to work. Mercifully, Stan had told her she wouldn’t be needed on the M10 bus until further notice. After yesterday’s ruckus, Scott and Mo were temporarily banned from MPT buses, and Stan felt that Marie could handle things alone.
The words “Barley’s Gym” were printed in large bold letters across the second floor windows of the building to Casey’s right. She eased into a parking spot at the front of the long, two-story structure. Shutting off the engine, she studied the gray stucco exterior. The main floor had no windows on this side of the building. The double black doors reminded her of an entrance to a cave, one occupied by grunting, sweaty men.
Casey rotated her shoulders to loosen stiff muscles. While struggling out of bed this morning, she’d realized her head wasn’t the only body part that had smacked the bus floor. She stepped out of the car and, scanning the area, headed for the entrance.
She’d barely opened the door when the smell of sweat and old gym socks made her gag. Good lord, when was the last time fresh air circulated in here? How many billions of bacteria were thriving on benches, mats, equipment, and doorknobs? She tried not to breathe too deeply. Ten strides away, a match was taking place in one of two rings. Between the rings were punching bags and a weight training area. Straight ahead, a hallway led to an exit at the back of the building.
A dozen guys sporting layers of hulk-like muscles stood around the ring watching the match. A guy with biceps as thick as her thigh hit the ground hard, groaned, and rolled onto his back. Wesley. He jumped up and growled at his opponent like an angry bear. Wesley lifted the guy, turned him upside down, and rammed his head into the mat. Some guys cheered while others yelled obscenities. The referee ended the match. Spittle and sweat flew from the loser as he swore at Wesley and stumbled around the ring.
“There’s a girl in here,” some genius said.
Ten gigantic heads turned to her.
“Gotta beat the groupies back with a stick,” a short, stocky guy added.
“Casey!” Wesley called and climbed out of the ring. Grabbing a towel, he wiped his dripping face as he trudged toward her.
Casey sat on a bench near the door. Wesley sat beside her and rubbed his head with the towel.
“If you want to shower first, go ahead,” she said. “I can wait outside.”
“Nah.” He watched two combatants enter the ring to their left. “I heard Birch’s alibi is real. Is that true?”
A wrestler sporting two dozen corn braids strutted past Casey and winked at her. Ignoring the gesture, she turned to Wesley. “It is, and Marie still believes her brother’s innocent.”
“I was here the morning Jasmine died; got witnesses to prove it.” Wesley’s flushed face peered at Casey. “It was my gun that shot her.”
Casey sat up straight. “Say again?”
“The Glock they found near Merryweather’s house was mine. That’s what the cops were looking for.” He glanced at the match. “I keep the guns in boxes on the top shelf in a closet. There’s so much shit up there that I didn’t know they were missing until the cops came.”
“How many guns are we talking about, Wes?”
“Two Glocks, a twenty-seven and a thirty-five, and a Winchester seventy hunting rifle.”
Sweat dripped from the ends of his hair. Casey shifted away from him. “Are they registered?”
“Just the rifle.”
“I take it your prints weren’t on the murder weapon?”
“They should have been.” He gave his face another wipe. “The pistol was wiped.”
“Were there any signs of forced entry to your place before the murder?”
“I didn’t see nothin’, but that don’t mean much. I always keep the windows open; sometimes forget to close them when I go out.”
Had David Eisler put the police onto him? “What did the cops say to you?”
“Nothing much. I don’t know why they haven’t busted me.”
Casey stared at the concrete floor. Thick mats were placed around the rings and under the exercise equipment, but otherwise the floor was bare.
“Who knows that you keep firearms in your apartment?”
“A few people at work, including Marie. The broad butted in while I was talking to a couple of guys about the
