What about Rebecca Travers? Sure, she seemed interested in what had happened to her sister, but was it just an act? She and her sister had been at odds often enough, and Megan had stolen Mr. Wonderful—James Cahill—away from her.
He pulled out of the lot and headed back to the station.
Jennifer Korpi was another ex who was connected with Cahill and, despite her protestations, didn’t seem over him.
Or was this whole scorned-woman thing overrated?
According to Andie, Megan thought James Cahill was capable of doing her bodily harm. If anything happens to me, it’s James, his fault.
Was he a murderer? One with an accomplice? So that he could suffer an attack, but survive, and whoever was involved with him would take care of Megan—follow her? Chase her down? Did that hang together?
Charity Spritz had been in San Francisco when she’d been murdered. What had she dug up? Maybe something about the Cahill family? Something someone didn’t want anyone to find out?
Or had it been about Megan? She and Rebecca had grown up in the area. He wondered again what Charity Spritz had known, what she’d been doing in San Francisco, and what, if anything, her death had to do with the mystery surrounding Megan Travers.
If Rivers was a betting man—and he was—he’d put his badge on the line, wagering that the two cases were linked. But then, that was an easy bet. Charity Spritz had been onto something in San Francisco, something that had gotten her killed.
CHAPTER 37
At noon, Rivers counted three news vans in the parking lot and twice that many reporters gathering around the steps to the Sheriff ’s Department. Rebecca Travers, pale-faced but determined, stood next to the public information officer, Roxy O’Grady. Travers was speaking into the microphone, making a plea for her sister’s safe return, and all eyes were on her as a cold wind blew, rattling the chains of the flagpole and rushing through the branches of the bare shrubbery surrounding the brick building.
“. . . and to anyone who has information that leads to locating Megan, we are offering a five-thousand-dollar reward. My family just wants Megan back. Thank you.”
Rivers thought her speech had seemed heartfelt, despite her lack of tears, but Mendoza wasn’t convinced.
“That woman has ice water in her veins,” she said. “I don’t trust her.”
Rivers was on the fence about Rebecca Travers, not convinced she was innocent, not completely trusting her, but then he was suspicious of most people. He watched as she concluded her plea, then took a step back as the PIO took over. Roxy O’Grady asked anyone who had information to call the department and offered up the Sheriff’s Department’s phone number.
Thankfully, neither Rivers nor Mendoza was asked to speak or update the public on the case. O’Grady, all five feet, two inches of her, handled the questions the press called out to her, and she was up to the challenge. Fiftysomething, petite O’Grady was as fit as most women half her age. With short, near-white hair and a few premature wrinkles, she was attractive and absolutely no-nonsense, firing back answers quickly until the briefing took a sudden turn and a reporter, a lanky man with curly brown hair sticking out of a green cap, looked up from his cell phone and called out, “Is your department investigating the murder of Charity Spritz?”
“Here we go,” Mendoza said under her breath. “The news is out.” Until now, there had been no reports of Charity Spritz’s homicide in Riggs Crossing. But that was changing.
There was a murmur through the small crowd collected at the base of the steps as other members of the press consulted each other or their mobile devices. Rebecca Travers visibly started, and she turned her questioning eyes toward Rivers.
O’Grady said, “We’ve just recently heard about the suspected homicide of Ms. Spritz.”
Rebecca blanched, took an involuntary step back.
The newsman in the green cap pressed on. “It’s being reported that she was killed in San Francisco. Can you confirm that?”
“We’re still getting details from the San Francisco Police Department as the investigation is ongoing.”
“She was rumored to be working on a story about Megan Travers,” another reporter, a woman in a yellow coat, said. “Is Charity Spritz’s homicide connected to Megan Travers’s disappearance?”
“As I said, the investigation is ongoing.”
More questions were thrown out: Why was Spritz in San Francisco? Who was a suspect in her death? How did she die? Was there any person of interest? Would the Sheriff ’s Department here work with the force in California?
All the while, Rebecca seemed to shrink back from the barrage of questions, outstretched microphones, and clicks of photographs. O’Grady handled it all, responding over and over again that the investigation was ongoing, there was nothing to report, and when there was, the public would be informed. She thanked them all and stepped away from the podium, a signal that the conference was over. As the reporters dispersed, Rebecca, her dark eyes grave, her jaw set, headed toward Rivers and Mendoza.
“This is true? Charity Spritz is dead? Murdered?” she demanded, obviously stunned.
Rivers nodded.
“But . . . but . . . She was just at my mother’s house the other night. Mom called and complained, said she was being harassed by her! She—Mom—she had the security guard come and escort Charity out of the gated community. She was really upset.”
That was news. From the corner of his eye, he noted that Mendoza was already taking notes on her phone, and the green-capped reporter was drawing near.
“Let’s go inside,” Rivers suggested, shepherding them up the remaining steps and holding open the door.
As they walked inside, the warmth of the building enfolding them, Mendoza said, “We need to talk to your mother.”
“You need to talk to me!” Rebecca charged and stopped in the main lobby, where glass windows separated them from officers who were working at the front desk. “You knew about it, and you
