“Our boy’s awake,” Mendoza said as she appeared at the doorway of their shared office.
“Cahill?” Rivers glanced up from his computer.
“One and the same. I just phoned the hospital.”
Rivers was irritated. “The doctor was supposed to call me.”
“Probably still will.”
He was already rolling back his chair, away from the clutter of his desk, and reaching for his jacket. “I thought you went home.”
“I did. Even took in a kickboxing class, picked up takeout, showered, and called the hospital. According to the nurse on duty, James Cahill woke up about twenty minutes ago and had a visitor. Megan Travers’s sister, Rebecca Travers.”
Rivers’s brows lifted.
“It wasn’t a social call. According to the nurse, Rebecca Travers was aggressive and argumentative and wouldn’t leave when asked to. Had to nearly be thrown out of the hospital.”
“Have you spoken to her?” He was on his feet, stuffing an arm down one sleeve of his jacket.
“No. She called in to Missing Persons. Filed the original report. But she lives out of town. Seattle.”
He remembered that.
Mendoza went on, “She answered some questions on the phone with a deputy, but is scheduled to come in on Monday.”
“Good.” Maybe then they would make some progress. He had several people he wanted to interview again, plus he wanted to talk to someone at the state police about Megan Travers’s Toyota. So far the BOLO hadn’t turned up anything on the Corolla. “Why didn’t the hospital call us and let us know he was awake?”
“Don’t know.”
He checked his pocket, jangled his keys, felt for and found his wallet.
Mendoza stepped out of the way and started for the exterior door, following half a step behind him. “The nurse, Sonja Rictor, had already spoken to Dr. Monroe, and he gave us the green light to talk to his patient.”
“Good of him,” Rivers said sarcastically.
“We all have rules.”
“And some don’t make sense.”
“So you end up bending them, right?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, didn’t want to go there. “I’ll drive.”
“Have you had dinner?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll drive. I brought along half of a veggie sandwich from Jerry’s Deli for you.”
“Veggie?” he repeated as he pushed open the back door and Mendoza stepped through. The bitter cold wind slapped his face.
“It’s got two kinds of cheese—Havarti and cheddar—so not really vegan.” She shot him a glance. “And you know what they say about beggars not being choosers.”
“Yeah. I heard.”
They crossed the lot to the spot where she’d parked her Prius, and he slid into the passenger seat. Once inside, Mendoza reached behind him to the back seat and retrieved a white sack. “You can eat on the way. Hopefully it’s not frozen.”
“Thanks.”
The sandwich wasn’t, and was better than he expected. He munched away, wishing he had a beer as she drove through the streets, where Christmas lights had been strung and were now dancing in the wind. “So tell me about Rebecca Travers,” he said around a final bite.
“Don’t know a lot. She’s unmarried—not sure if she’s divorced or single; no kids and a couple of years older than Megan. As I said, she lives in Seattle, Queen Anne district, a condo she bought a few years back, and does some kind of marketing, I think. Not sure about that. Something with computers, though.” She slowed for a light.
“She tight with her sister?”
“Tight enough that Megan called her last Thursday after the fight with Cahill.”
“Alleged fight,” he cut in.
“Phone records concur. And I caught a glimpse of him when I stopped by earlier. He does look like he went two rounds with a bobcat.”
“Nothing’s been proved. Yet.”
“I know. Oh, and I called the snowplow driver who was working the road in front of the Cahill lane that night, the same dude Deputy Mercado interviewed. His story hasn’t budged. Dark car, maybe an import, pulled out in front of him. He didn’t notice the plates, but thought they were from Washington.” She pulled into the parking lot, which had been plowed earlier but was now covered with snow. He wadded up the white sack, and she said, “Just toss that into the back. I’ll get it later.”
Mendoza parked, and they headed into the hospital and to the second floor, where they found James Cahill sitting up on the edge of his bed and arguing with a nurse about being released. He was dressed in jeans and socks, a hospital gown still covering his torso. Bandages were visible on his shoulder and head, but his eyes were clear.
“James Cahill?” Rivers asked, though, of course, he recognized the man.
“That’s right.” Wary, lips flat, eyes suspicious.
Rivers offered up his ID. “Detective Brett Rivers, Riggs County Sheriff ’s Department. This is my partner, Detective Mendoza.” She too held out her ID wallet.
Cahill slid a glance at the outstretched identifications, then met Rivers’s gaze without flinching. “Okay.”
The phrase cocky son of a bitch flitted through Rivers’s mind. “We’d like to ask you some questions about the night you were injured.”
“I don’t remember much of it.”
Rivers felt the back of his neck tighten. “Well, maybe you can tell us what you do remember.”
“Just a sec. Do you mind?” He indicated a wrinkled shirt on the bed beside him—one he’d been told Bobby Knowlton had left for him as the police had confiscated the clothing he’d been wearing on the night he’d arrived. Before Rivers could say anything, he let the hospital gown
