After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 107

Not fair, her mind taunted as she sipped from her glass. Ironically one of the neighboring properties, located just on the other side of the slope, was Mercy Hospital.

It was funny how tangled lives could become, how so many could brush against you only to disappear with the dawn. Again, she felt the pull on her heartstrings when she thought about loss, but she wouldn’t allow her mind to dwell in the painful hole that had once been her life. Instead, as always, she turned her attention to her work, always her work.

When the Kramer case had first landed on her desk, Nash had wondered about Cassie Kramer admitting herself to the hospital to be placed in psychiatric care. What had forced her through the locked doors of Mercy Hospital on the heels of her sister’s disappearance and Lucinda Rinaldi’s near homicide? Nash had questioned if surrendering to psychiatric care had been a ploy, a slyly planned move that would ultimately be integral in her defense: insanity over guilt.

Something wasn’t right with the Sisters Kramer; she knew it.

But she didn’t know if Allie Kramer was dead or alive. That was a problem, a serious problem. Allie, and maybe Cassie, too, could be part of some intricate publicity stunt gone bad, or worse yet the victim of kidnapping or homicide.

So where’s the body?

Where’s the crime scene?

Why was Holly Dennison killed, her body left where it could be found, a bizarre mask placed over her face?

Where the hell is frickin’ Allie Kramer?

Her ruminations brought more questions than answers, and her thoughts switched to the movie that was about to be released. Allie Kramer, Lucinda Rinaldi, and Holly Dennison were all a part of Dead Heat, which was to be released soon. A party to celebrate its opening was going to be held in the Hotel Danvers here in Portland. Everyone associated, at least those who could attend, would be in town, which might aid her in her investigation. She liked to talk to witnesses in person, face-to-face without relying on telephone calls or another cop’s notes and instincts.

Warm water lapped over her, foamy bubbles hissing lightly as they disintegrated. The wine helped ease the day’s tensions and frustrations from her muscles and bones. But her mind was spinning with half-baked theories and questions for Cassie Kramer.

There were more angles to consider as well.

Tomorrow, Nash thought, and finished her wine. Then she slid lower in the tub and stared upward through the surface of the water to look through the disappearing bubbles to the chandelier suspended overhead. The fixture dangled from the twenty-foot ceiling. She wondered, not for the first time, if the chandelier would ever fall and crash into the tub, maybe even kill her. Who, if anyone, would care? With no answer she held her breath as long as she could, silently counting off the seconds, trying to stay under as long as possible, fixating on the soft lights glowing overhead.

Her lungs began to ache.

Longer. Just a little longer.

She remained submerged.

How is Cassie Kramer involved in her sister’s death?

Where was she when the bullets in the prop gun were exchanged?

She heard her heart beating in her ears under the water.

What was the fight with Allie about right before she disappeared?

Her lungs were starting to scream.

Why did Cassie just happen to be in LA when Holly Dennison was murdered?

Why would the killer leave the mask? Some sick joke? How did it tie in? What was that all about?

Pain burned through her chest. Serious pain.

Why kill Holly? What was the motive? Did she know something? Her murder wasn’t a random act, couldn’t be, not with the mask. So why her?

Her lungs were on fire.

What about Allie’s interest in Cassie’s husba—

She launched herself from the bottom of the tub and gulped in air. Huge lungfuls of air. She’d held her breath three seconds less than her best time.

Damn it all to fucking hell!

No—don’t get angry. You’ll do better next time. Take a few more breaths. Regain your equilibrium.

Slowly, she drew in air through her nose and expelled it through her mouth. Her heartbeat slowed and her anger melted away. It was still early enough that she could read a chapter or two of the paperback that had been sitting on her night table, or watch TV before turning in. She should probably catch the news. But she probably wouldn’t. A much more likely scenario would be that she would spend the next few hours in bed, with her computer, perhaps a last glass of wine, while going over her notes in the Allie Kramer disappearance case.