Rivers walked through the long back porch as he retraced his steps, and in the mud/laundry room he noted the work boots beneath a bench and ski jackets hung on hooks. Nothing out of place.
At least not where the cops had left well enough alone.
One of the jackets was stained and frayed. Well worn. Rivers walked to it, found a pair of work gloves that were nearly worn through stuffed in the pockets. Favorites. Stiff with sweat. Without a second thought, he slipped the pair into a pocket of his own coat and headed back inside.
He made his way through the kitchen and dining area that Cahill had obviously used as an office, then walked into the living room, where he stared at the cold fireplace, the blackened bits of logs, and the thick ashes in the firebox, the smell of burnt wood barely discernable. His gaze focused on the corner of the hearth, on the stained bricks and discolored mortar.
Just what the hell had happened? He knew there had been a fight; somehow, Cahill had fallen and cracked his skull, along with a few ribs, and the Travers woman and her car were missing. But what had been the impetus to start the altercation? How had it escalated? How had a grown, strapping man let a smaller woman get the better of him? And where the hell was Megan?
Christ, was she even alive?
Rivers let his mind imagine James Cahill as he’d seen him that night. The Cahill heir had been unconscious but was being tended to by two EMTs, a man and a woman, who had hoisted him onto a stretcher. There had been two deputies called to the scene to begin with, then he and Mendoza followed shortly. By then, the crime-scene techs were there, one of whom had discovered the wadded note on the floor near one of the side chairs by the window. The missive had been short and to the point:
J—
I’m leaving you.
This time forever.
You’ll never see me again!
M
The assumption had been that the note had come from Megan Travers. It was fairly dramatic and old school in this era of text messages, e-mail, and instant communication.
And why come here with the note? To leave it? Had she thought he’d been gone? Who had wadded it up? Had it even been recent? Was it from Megan? Or another woman? According to Knowlton, James Cahill had more than a few women interested in him. The note was in a woman’s handwriting, it seemed, but it could be fake. Possibly planted.
It just seemed out of place.
The lab would provide answers if there were any fingerprints or DNA left on the scrap of unlined paper. Why leave a note when you were face-to-face? Had she left the note earlier? Or, again, was it someone else?
He thought of the car speeding out of the driveway that Knowlton had spied. Presumably Megan’s. Presumably with her at the wheel.
Then again, he couldn’t presume anything.
“Where are you?” he asked under his breath.
Was she hiding?
Or dead?
Examining the room, he imagined the fight. Had it occurred right before the speeding car had left, or earlier? Had whoever was behind the wheel been involved? Certainly. That he would assume. Over a woman—or make that another woman, as Knowlton had suggested?
Was it possible that James Cahill had staged his own injuries?
That seemed too far-fetched. Too dangerous. He studied the hearth again . . . Anyone who had slammed his head against those bricks had to have been suicidal.
Or desperate.
Closing his eyes, he reached into his pocket, felt the gloves, and conjured up the vision of a woman coming at James. She is angry, her features twisted in fury, her hands swinging, nails sharp enough to gouge deep ruts in his flesh.
Screaming, she attacks, pushing him and slicing his left cheek as she swipes at him. He steps backward to avoid the attack, stumbles, and hits his head on the hearth? Knocks himself out? Cracks his ribs in the fall?
Or had he been the aggressor?
He considered the scene from a different angle, even physically turning, though his eyes were still closed. Was that a dark figure lurking on the staircase? An accomplice waiting to attack? If so, in league with whom? James? Megan? Someone else?
Had there been another player here? A third party, either by design or, no—His brows knit together as he concentrated. That wasn’t quite right. Not exactly lurking in the shadows. But pulling the strings, taking advantage, and—
“Rivers?” Mendoza’s voice cut into his vision.
His eyes flew open.
Embarrassed, he glanced over his shoulder to find Mendoza standing at the foot of the stairs.
“You okay?” she asked, watching him closely.
He hadn’t even heard the door open, nor felt the rush of wintry wind racing through the entryway.
“Fine. Just wanted another look.”
“What were you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Huh.” Disbelief. “You find anything?” She was eyeing him skeptically from beneath the hood of her jacket.
“Nah.” He gave a quick shake of his head. He was irritated that he’d been disturbed, but he hid it. “Let’s go.”
“Ohhh . . . kay,” she said as they walked outside to the porch. He pulled the door closed and heard the latch click into place.
In silence, they headed to the Cherokee.
She was already strapped in by the time he climbed inside. “What is it with you?” she asked, turning to face him. “It was like you were in some kind of trance or something.”
“I told you, I was thinking.” He started the engine and backed around the Silverado, giving the Jeep a little too much gas. “Just getting the feel of the place.”
“That was it?” she asked.
“That was it.”
“And what did you feel?”
He slid a glance her way and put the Jeep into DRIVE. “Nothing,” he replied, remembering Astrid’s laughter when he’d confided about his methodology to her. “Absolutely nothing.”
CHAPTER 7
James opened a bleary eye.
Night had fallen.
But he guessed only a few hours had passed, that he hadn’t lost another day. God,
