And then there was Rebecca Travers.
She punched the gas, and her car slid a bit at the nearest corner, just at the edge of town. The trouble was that James was definitely intrigued with Megan’s sister, and that was a problem. A serious problem. Worse yet, it seemed as if Rebecca was interested in James as well. Really? Even though he’d dumped her for Megan and was probably the prime suspect in Megan’s disappearance. Still, she wanted him? What was wrong with her? Was she too playing a secret game? Well, if so, it had to end, and fast. Her eyes narrowed as the interior of the Escape finally started to warm.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror, strands of blond hair wisping from beneath her cap. It was then she realized she hadn’t been as careful with her makeup as usual, had used less mascara than usual, and no blush, and she’d lost her favorite tube of lipstick. She’d even forgotten to make certain her foundation covered the slightest of her flaws, including the freckles that bridged her nose and the back of her neck. Well, too bad. She still looked good. Beyond good. Sophia knew she was gorgeous. She was just having a confidence problem. In the driver’s seat, she straightened her back, sat up taller. “You can do this. He loves you. You know he loves you. How many times has he said, ‘Sophia, I love you with all my heart’?”
Well, not that many.
Maybe never.
But she knew he did, damn it. A woman can sense these things!
Fingers wrapped around the steering wheel in a death grip, she was still thinking dark thoughts about Rebecca when she saw lights from the inn glowing through the snowfall. Good, she was almost there. She set her jaw. It was time to use every one of the feminine wiles she had tucked away in her arsenal.
* * *
After watching the local news, Rivers switched off the television. He was considering a shower or another beer and leaning toward the beer when his phone rang. The display registered an unfamiliar number with a San Francisco area code. He answered, “Detective Rivers, Riggs County Sheriff ’s Department.”
“Glad I caught you. Jasmine Tanaka, detective, San Francisco PD.” Her voice was serious.
“What can I do for you?”
“We’ve got a body down here. Female, early thirties. She didn’t have a purse or cell phone or any ID. The vehicle she was found in is registered in Washington to Charity Spritz, address in Riggs Crossing.”
He went cold inside. “You sure?”
“We pulled up Ms. Spritz’s driver’s license, and it’s obvious that she’s the victim. Her address is Riggs Crossing, and after a little digging, we found out she’s a reporter. She had your name and number written on the inside of some papers I found in the van, so I thought I’d call you.”
“We’ve met. Most recently, she was all over a missing woman case we’ve got going.” Briefly, he filled in Tanaka about Megan Travers’s disappearance.
“Why do you think she was in San Francisco?”
“No idea,” he said, then corrected himself. “There’s a loose connection. James Cahill, the boyfriend I told you about, his family hails from down there.”
Tanaka knew all about the Cahills; her ex-partner, a retired cop by the name of Anthony Paterno, had dealt with a couple of bizarre cases involving members of James’s family.
“So what happened?” Rivers asked, but he already knew, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
“Not sure. She was registered in a motel in Oakland and had been there as recently as two days ago, according to a clerk at the motel who had seen her going into her room. Her body was found at the airport in the 2006 Hyundai minivan that was registered to her. It’s a little odd; she had surveillance equipment in the vehicle, and we’re checking that out too. Anyway, her body could have been left for days or weeks before she was found, but whoever drove the van there used her credit card to prepay for the space, then did a lousy parking job, boxed someone in, and that someone complained. Airport security checked it out, saw the body, and called nine-one-one.
“Looks like she was killed somewhere else—not enough blood in the van, and we’re working all that out, piecing it together. This much is certain: Ms. Spritz didn’t drive herself to the airport, and she damned well didn’t die of natural causes. Definitely homicide. She was attacked, has all kinds of defensive wounds. We’ve bagged her hands, hoping to get some scrapings, hopefully DNA from beneath her nails, trace or fingerprints or DNA in the van, but it’s still early on. We’ll know a lot more in a day or two. The only thing we’re sure of is that, for whatever reason, random or targeted, she was murdered.”
* * *
It was now or never.
Phoebe Matrix had watched Sophia Russo climb into her little gray car and wheel out of the parking lot. The only problem was that Phoebe had no idea how long her tenant would be gone. Didn’t matter, she told herself. She’d be quick. She slipped on her rubber boots and heavy jacket, then, telling Larry to guard the place, hurried out the front door, closing it before her little dog could escape.
With more dexterity than most people would believe, she hurried along the overhang of the L-shaped building and made her way to the Russo girl’s unit, then, using her key, let herself in.
The place was fairly tidy, more so than Phoebe had expected, the living room free of a lot of clutter, just a jacket and a sweater left over the back of a small sofa. In the kitchen area, the countertops were clear, only a few glasses in the sink. Phoebe was surprised, as the unit was small, a studio with a loft. So often tenants with little space had clutter, but not
