Alone (A Bone Secrets Novel) (30 page)

A naked man was shouting at her.

Tears welled. She brushed at her eyes, frustrated at the sudden surge. Where was her self-control? The last few days had ripped her open. Next she’d be texting cute pictures of kittens to her friends. She felt like she stood on a precarious peak, and the wind blew at her from every direction, trying to push her off balance. Her emotional balance was threatened.

Seth put his hands on his hips and stared at her, waiting. Did he know how hard it was to argue with him when he was naked?
He stood as if dressed in a suit, completely unconcerned with how he looked. He’d always been fearless in front of her.

She sucked in a ragged breath. “I love you, too. I got rattled. I heard you talking to your daughter, and I felt like I’d interfered somehow… that
we’d
interfered, messing up your priorities. I was just trying to make it easier for you.”

Sadness filled his eyes. “Ah, Tori. Not having you won’t make anything easier. I know how to love my daughter. Being with you won’t interfere with that. You need to trust me on this,” he pleaded.

She shut off her rational brain and stepped into his arms. Inhaling, she smelled her scent on his skin. He smelled like her, and she liked it. She’d marked him, and he’d firmly imprinted on her heart.

“We’re going to make this work,” he promised.

“Okay, that was one of the weirder interviews I’ve ever done,” Ray stated as he and Mason ducked out of the downpour and inside a noisy Starbucks. Mason couldn’t agree more. They brushed the rain off their shoulders, wiped their feet on the soaking wet mat, and stepped carefully across the damp tiles to the long line.

Perpetual rain in Portland had a way of driving people out of their homes and into businesses. Residents grew restless with the drizzle and needed interaction, even if that contact was simply reading a book in a coffeehouse with a bunch of strangers. Mason scanned the seated crowd, seeking Michael Brody’s tall frame. No luck yet. The reporter had asked for a meeting.

“I feel like I need a shower. Or something to wash all the conspiracy theories out of my head,” Ray muttered. “So far, Cavallo’s progeny are a bunch of nuts.”

Mason nodded. They’d spent twenty minutes talking in circles with Nico Cavallo. Nico was the second son they’d tracked down. The first son was still too ill to talk with police, according to his wife-of-few-words. Flu, she’d claimed. At least they’d actually proved that the man existed. Instead of sending over a uniform to check, Ray and Mason had decided to pop in themselves. A quiet woman had shown them a feverish man.

She’d given Mason the creeps, rarely making eye contact. A lot of people were intimidated by the badge, but this woman appeared to be cowed by humans in general. She’d given them the address of another son. Mason asked her to call ahead and inform Nico that two detectives would like to discuss his father’s murder. Her eyes had widened, fear crossing her face.

It’d been a look that’d haunted Mason for the last hour. “Do you think she was scared of calling her brother-in-law? Scared of telling him she’d given his address to us? Or was it the mention of murder?” he’d asked Ray as they dashed down her walkway to Ray’s vehicle.

“She knew he was murdered. That wasn’t news. I gotta think it’s something about the brother-in-law.”

Nico Cavallo was his father’s clone from twenty years before. He had the same coloring, mannerisms, and proud speech. He’d greeted the detectives at his door and led them into a formal but severely dated living room of orange and green. Ray and Mason had sat politely and accepted his offer of tea.

Then Nico had cordially rebuffed every question they’d asked about his father.

Mason thought the guy should be in politics. Their inquiries were answered with questions.

Nico’s primary concern was the company cleaning his father’s home. That was it. He showed no interest in helping them discover who’d murdered his father. He wanted to know when the cleaners would be finished and when the house would be released.

“It’s the site of a murder,” Ray had spit out, shock on his face.

“Well, we still need to get it on the market. Do prospective buyers have to be informed someone was killed there? That would affect the home’s value.” Nico took a careful sip of his tea.

Mason was stunned.
What was wrong with this family?

“Uh… that might be part of disclosure laws. You’ll have to ask your Realtor,” Ray answered helpfully. “Now, about your father—”

Nico waved a hand at him. “I haven’t talked to my father in years.”

“You live in the same city. Surely you had some family gatherings or heard about him from your brothers.” Mason ached for any sign that this family gave a rat’s ass about the murdered Lorenzo.

Nico gave a casual shrug. “My wife would go clean his house occasionally. She hasn’t gone for a while. She didn’t care for him.”

Judging by the state of Lorenzo’s house during the murder scene, Nico’s wife hadn’t been there in several years. “Can we speak to your wife?” he asked.

“No, she doesn’t have anything to tell you.”

Mason looked at Ray. Ray stared back.
What the hell?

“I’d like to hear from her that she has nothing to tell us,” Mason said politely, gritting his teeth. Nico Cavallo was as much
of a dinosaur as his father. People called Mason old-fashioned sometimes, but at least he pretended to live in this century.

“She has nothing to say,” Nico stated. He met Mason’s gaze over his teacup, his eyes calm. “Now, how long before the home can be put on the market?”

Ray scooted forward on his chair, leaning conversationally toward Nico and clearing his throat.

Good luck, Ray.

“Mr. Cavallo,” Ray began. “I don’t think you realize why we’re here. We’re not here to help plan your future; we’re here to find out who killed your father. Anything you can tell us about your father’s social circle or daily interactions would be very helpful. I hate to think that there’s a murderer wandering around this city, possibly interested in your family.”

Mason watched Nico carefully. The man hadn’t flinched during Ray’s plea, but his eyes had narrowed slightly at the mention of his family.

“My family will be fine. I seriously doubt someone would target me. Why would they?” he replied stiffly.

Ray jumped on the question. “You’re not worried? This doesn’t read like a random attack. There was nothing stolen from your father’s house. Robbery probably wasn’t the motive. It felt very personal to me. Why would that be?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that your job to find the answers? I already told you I didn’t keep in touch with my father. I don’t know what he’s been doing for the last ten years.”

“When he came in and talked to us, he mentioned his sons several times. I saw a proud father. He said nothing of being estranged from his family. Why did you shun him for the last ten years?” Ray pushed.

“You’re asking personal questions. Things that have nothing to do with his death.”

Ray waited. Nico’s teacup rattled as he set it back in its saucer.

“We didn’t get along,” Nico added. He clamped his mouth shut and turned his gaze to Mason, his message clear. He was done talking to the police. He stood. “I’m sorry I haven’t been of more help to you, detectives. But I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Mason and Ray slowly stood, the interview clearly over.

Outside Nico’s home, Ray had commented, “He’s lying. He has a good hunch why his father was killed.”

Mason had completely agreed.

Sipping on his coffee at Starbucks, Mason let his mind sift through the interview. “I wish his wife had come in. I could hear someone clinking dishes in the kitchen. I assume that was her.”

Ray leaned back in his chair, stretching out long legs. “I wanted to pound on his face because of his attitude about her input.”

“Sounded just like his father,” commented Mason. “Apparently they’d been close enough at one point, so he could hand down his asshole views on women.”

“I don’t get how attitudes like that survive today. Don’t people watch TV? Don’t they interact with their community? Especially here in Portland. I mean, this is where changes in America’s behaviors begin, right? Portland always has it first, whether it’s the newest foodie trend or social behavior. Doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed to catch on. But you can’t live here without being exposed to new shit.” Ray looked perplexed.

“Succinctly put,” Mason agreed. “Portland is where new shit is shoved in the face of the mainstream. But there are always
pockets of people who don’t like change.”
Like me.
“Takes a while for stuff to catch on.”

“But surely no one believes that whole ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ crap. We’ve come further than that, right?”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Mason wanted to smack him in the head. Ray talked about the way he wanted the world to behave, not how it did. “How many battered women do our people deal with every day? How much domestic abuse? I think communities try to fool themselves that we’ve moved beyond that, but the fact is
it’s still there.
Every fucking day. And maybe the Cavallos don’t beat on their women, but they sure as hell beat them down in other ways.”

Mason slipped out of his coat, feeling overly warm. “How’d we end up with this family where the women are second-class citizens? At first I wrote it off as Lorenzo’s old-time culture, but damn it, it was handed down to his kids, who’ve trained their wives to hide and not speak to strangers. It’s like they were brought up in another country. I don’t fucking get it.”

Ray stared glumly at his latte.

Mason knew he hadn’t burst any bubble for Ray. He’d simply brought him back to earth. “All we can do is teach our kids to treat people well.” Mason stepped off his soapbox and scorched his tongue with a big sip of coffee. The pain felt good.

“And catch the assholes who abuse,” Ray added.

“Damn right.”

They drank in silence, looking out the window as water streamed down the glass in rivers. Puddles littered the parking lot. Not puddles, lakes. Mason eyed the hundred-foot-tall firs waving in the wind. According to the latest forecast, they were in for strong winds over the next two days. He’d rolled his barbecue into his garage before leaving for work that morning. He
didn’t want the wind to turn it into a missile to blast through his glass slider to the deck.

But the biggest risk to the city and homes was the firs. Portland was thoroughly soaked. A strong windstorm after heavy rains was a recipe for disaster. Trees would topple everywhere, taking out power lines and putting fresh skylights in houses. He’d avoided buying a home with firs on the property. He’d already experienced a fir taking out the fence at his previous house. If the wind had blown a different direction, his son’s nursery would have been toast.

A chair scraped the floor and Michael Brody sat down at their table. The tall man brushed at his sleeve, sending a fine spray of water over their coffee.

“Watch it.” Mason made a show of wiping his coffee lid off with a napkin. He’d been watching the parking lot. How had he missed the reporter’s entrance?

“Brody,” Ray greeted him with a toothy smile. He liked the pushy reporter. Mason simply tolerated the man. He respected Brody because he knew how to get shit done, but he found the reporter’s laid-back view of privacy and basic law to be grating. He waited impatiently while Ray and Brody discussed the acidity and flavor of the coffee of the day.

It’s coffee! Just drink it!

Michael turned sharp green eyes on Mason as if he’d heard his thought. “Where are you at with identifying the three women from the old Forest Park killings?”

No pleasantries for me?

Mason appreciated the reporter’s directness. Brody knew better than to discuss off-topic crap with him. Ray was the one for that stuff. In an abrupt moment of clarity, Mason realized that the reporter had a powerful gift of reading people. Mason had
worked for years on his skills; it was a tool that came in handy when dealing with suspects. Not for the first time, he cursed the reporter for not putting his skills where they could be utilized. Like at any police department in the state. Brody preferred to use them for his own devices.

Mason sipped his coffee, considering his words. Discussions with Brody called for discretion. “You asking because you care, or because you’re writing something?”

Brody didn’t blink. “This is for me. The old deaths are clearly tied to the new deaths, and the new deaths are tied to shots fired at the service I was at yesterday. I’m not cool with that.”

Who is?

“We’ve identified one, well, she’s ninety-nine percent identified. Her brother came forward with an inquiry that put us on the right track. Then he was murdered.”

Mason was rewarded as Brody’s eyes widened slightly.

“The Italian guy in southeast Portland?”

Did he just pull that out of his ass? What the hell?
The reporter had an uncanny knack for putting two and two together. “That’s the one,” Mason admitted, fighting the urge to sulk.

Brody held his gaze for a long moment. Mason could nearly hear the gears spinning in his mind. “You know Victoria Peres asked me to help find her birth parents.”