No One Needs to Know (13 page)

“There it is,” Derek said. “They haven’t taken her name off yet. M. Forester, three.”

“Yeah, well, how are we getting past this gate?” Gwen whispered. “It’s not like she’ll buzz us in.”

The property was surrounded by shrubs and a tall fence. Beyond it was a charming, though slightly shabby courtyard with a patchy lawn, a walkway, some trees, and a fountain, which wasn’t running. It was deathly quiet. Except for a couple of dim lights in two windows, it looked like everyone in La Hacienda must have been asleep—or away.

The beige stucco complex was U-shaped, with two-story apartments all connected—each having its own outside entrance. Only three units had their outside lights on.

Derek let go of her hand to push at the gate. To Gwen’s amazement, it squeaked open. “Someone must not have shut it all the way,” he whispered.

Gwen couldn’t help thinking something was wrong. It was almost too easy getting inside. They crept into the courtyard. She was careful not to shut the gate all the way behind them—in case they had to make a quick getaway.

Now that they were here, it was kind of exciting and scary. Derek was holding her hand again as they crept toward the corner unit. Gwen saw the number on the door: 8. It was C. Wheeler’s apartment.

“Number three must be on the other side,” she said under her breath.

They hurried across the courtyard. Derek accidentally kicked a small rock that ricocheted off the side of the fountain with a loud crack. “Get down,” he hissed. They ducked behind the fountain and waited. They didn’t hear anything. No lights came on inside any of the apartments.

After another minute, he finally nodded at her and they continued across the courtyard. They found apartment 3. The outside light was off. But someone must have left a lamp on somewhere inside, because past the open slats of the window’s mini-blinds, Gwen could just make out the shape of furniture. There were pictures on the walls, but Gwen could see only the random black squares in the murky darkness.

Maneuvering between some bushes, they moved closer to what must have been M. Forester’s living room window. The bushes’ branches scraped against their bodies and at the glass. Gwen wondered if anyone heard it. The expression
Enough noise to wake the dead
came to mind, and she shuddered.

It didn’t seem all that exciting anymore—just creepy. “Listen, I think we should go,” she whispered.

“Just a sec,” Derek murmured, pulling out his phone. He held it up to the window, and pressed the flashlight function. The living room was bathed in an eerie bluish light—with shadows sweeping across the walls as Derek moved his phone. For some stupid reason, Gwen had thought the dead woman’s place would look like a Victorian haunted house inside—with big Tiffany lamps, overstuffed old furniture, and doilies on antique tables. Instead, it looked like a normal living room with the type of furniture she saw in Macy’s. One of those mysterious, dark pictures on the wall was actually a framed print of the Eiffel Tower, which Gwen could have hung in her own bedroom.

She thought of the woman who had lived here up until twelve days ago, and how she’d been blown to pieces in that food truck. She’d been sixty years old, not that much older than Gwen’s mom.

“Derek, I really want to get out of here,” she whispered.

“Hold on, I just want—”

He fell silent at the sound of the wrought iron gate squeaking open.

They both turned to look toward the courtyard. It sounded like one of La Hacienda’s residents must be coming in late. Gwen and Derek waited to see who it was, and which apartment was home to the night owl. They cowered in the bushes by the dead woman’s unit, and tried not to make a sound. Gwen still couldn’t see anyone, but she heard pebbles crunching underfoot.

Then it dawned on her that whoever else was here must not have wanted to be seen either.

She caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadows over by number 8, C. Wheeler’s unit. It happened so quickly that she wasn’t sure who or what it was.

She wondered if Kent had followed them here. Maybe the two guys were pulling some kind of gag on her.

Well, it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t a bit funny.

“Did you see that?” Derek whispered, nudging her. He nodded toward the apartment across the way.

“I saw,” she whimpered. Gwen noticed him trembling. It wasn’t an act. If this was some kind of joke, Derek didn’t know about it.

She heard a twig snap. It sounded close.

“I think we should just make a run for it—head for the gate,” she said under her breath. “If we stick around here, we—”

Derek shushed her. “Someone’s trying to break into the unit across the way.” He slowly raised his phone.

At first, Gwen thought he was going to call 911. But instead, he shined his flashlight across the courtyard toward apartment 8. Gwen couldn’t believe how stupid he was—giving away their location like that.

A man in black with a dark ski mask over his face stood in the doorway, caught in the spotlight. He had something in his hand. It looked like he was trying to trip the door lock. He swiveled around. Even with that mask covering his face, Gwen could tell where his eyes were. He was looking directly at them.

He took off, ducking behind one of the trees.

Derek directed the flashlight at the tree trunk. The unsteady bright spot revealed his nervousness. The man didn’t seem to be there anymore. It was as if he’d vanished. Derek tilted the phone, and the flashlight’s jittery beam swept across the bushes outside C. Wheeler’s apartment.

“Where is he?” Gwen whispered. They’d lost track of him. But thanks to Derek’s flashlight, the man knew exactly where they were. “Turn that damn thing off,” she hissed.

He finally switched off the flashlight. “I think we’re closer to the gate than he is,” Derek whispered. “Let’s make a run for it. Then we can call the cops . . .”

Crouched down between the bushes and the side of the building, they scurried toward the gate. Gwen felt a branch scratch her face—just missing her eye. She let out a little yelp of pain, but didn’t stop. She couldn’t tell if she was bleeding or not. Right now, she didn’t care.

They paused at the corner of the building. From there, they could see the wrought iron gate. Whoever had broken in must have closed it.

“I don’t see any sign of him,” Derek said. “Do you suppose we scared him off?”

“I don’t want to stick around to find out,” Gwen said, trying to catch her breath.

He turned to give her a reassuring smile, but then his eyes narrowed. “You’re bleeding . . .”

She touched her cheek, and felt it sting. She looked at the blood on her fingertips, and swallowed hard. “Let’s just get out of here,” she whispered.

“We’ll make a run for it, okay?”

Gwen nodded.

He grabbed her hand and they sprinted toward the gate, their footsteps echoing in the courtyard. Gwen prayed the gate wasn’t locked. She kept thinking that at any moment now, someone would lunge at her from behind.

They finally reached the gate, and Derek tugged at it. The latch was down. Gwen quickly reached up and lifted it. She heard footsteps in the courtyard—coming at them.

Derek flung open the gate and they hurried out toward the street.

But suddenly someone stepped out from behind a spruce tree on the parkway—right in their path. Gwen and Derek stopped dead. She gasped.

It was a thin woman, dressed in black pants and a tight black top. Her black hair was slicked back, and she had ghostly pale skin. “Hold it,” she murmured, with her hand out—almost like a cop directing traffic. “Seattle Police, Special Investigations Unit. What were you two doing in there?”

Though the woman was dressed like the man in the ski mask, Gwen knew they weren’t one and the same. From the build and height, the other was almost certainly a man. Gwen didn’t know what to say. She just shook her head.

She felt Derek squeeze her hand. He squinted at the woman. “How do we know you’re a cop?” he countered—with a hint of defiance. “Where’s your badge?”

“Here,” she said, reaching inside a long black leather cuff around her left arm.

Before Gwen could even step back, the woman grabbed Derek by his hair, and then plunged what looked like a big knitting needle into his ear. His body seemed to tense up, and a strange choking sound came out of him. Then Derek collapsed on the grass—near Gwen’s feet.

She started to scream. But all at once, the woman hit Gwen across the face with the back of her hand. She tumbled into the spruce tree. Dazed, she fell to the grass. The blow left her practically blind. All she could see were spots. She couldn’t move. Past the ringing in her ears, she could hear footsteps approaching.

“We’ll have to abort,” the woman was saying to her friend. “Goddamn it, I knew it was too soon to go after her again. It’s still too hot here. Now we’ll have to dispose of these two. The boy’s dead.”

“Stupid kids,” her friend muttered. He kicked at something. It must have been Derek’s body.

Gwen blinked several times and tried to focus. Her head throbbed horribly. But she could see shapes now—and the woman bent over her. “Does anyone know?” she whispered. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

Gwen figured the woman wanted her to say no. That was the answer she was supposed to give, wasn’t it?

The blow to her head had screwed up her thinking.

“No one knows we’re here,” she murmured.

“Good,” the woman said. “That’s a girl . . .”

Then Gwen felt something sharp tickling her ear. And in an instant, she knew she’d given the wrong answer.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

Tuesday, June 10, 2:10
P.M.

Ellensburg

“C
’mon, please, I’m begging you,” she said, tugging at the thick straps on her shoulders. “Give Mommy a break . . .”

Joey usually loved sitting in his backpack—complete with the little blue awning over his head to protect him from the sun and rain. For Laurie, with all the bars, clips, and straps, it felt like someone had pitched a tent on her back—with a wiggling, bawling twenty-pound occupant. She still hadn’t mastered how to move Joey from the car seat to the backpack without it taking at least ten minutes of contorting, pleading, and praying.

At last, she had him secured in the backpack seat, but he was still fussing a bit. He wanted his stuffed animal dog—something that resembled a golden retriever, which she called Sparky. When squeezed, Sparky said—in a high-pitched little boy’s voice—one of three things: “I love you!” “That feels good!” or “Will you play with me?”

“No, sweetie, Sparky stays in the car,” Laurie said over Joey’s protests. She shut the backseat door. “We’ll crack the window for him.”

She adjusted the backpack straps and then glanced through the window into the front passenger seat. A box full of Brian’s football trophies sat on the car floor. The cabinet Brian had jokingly used as a trophy case had been wrecked during the break-in Thursday. Brian never had much sentimental attachment to the dozen or so faux-gold cups, plaques, and figurines. But Laurie couldn’t imagine throwing them away. Still, she didn’t want to lug them to Seattle either. She checked with Detective Eberhard to make sure she wasn’t removing evidence from a current crime scene.

The police hadn’t found Tad’s accomplice yet. Three women and another man were living with Ryder McBride at the farm outside Cle Elum. All of them had alibis, none of which were airtight, according to Eberhard. They all had police records, too—everything from possession to shoplifting. Two of Ryder’s women had the same shoe size as the second intruder.

Laurie and Joey were still at the Hampton Inn while the investigation continued. Eberhard had registered them there under a different name—in case Ryder wanted to make good his threats. It took Laurie a while to figure out why her alias, Melanie Daniels, sounded so familiar, until she remembered it was Tippi Hedren’s name in
The Birds.

Though they were still searching for Tad’s partner in the break-in, Eberhard saw no reason Laurie couldn’t give Brian’s awards away. She phoned the university’s athletic department, and asked if they wanted the trophies for one of their display cases. She figured it was a fitting place for them. The head coach, Curt Reynolds, agreed, and thanked her for the donation. Brian had always been one of his favorite players.

Laurie had told him she’d drop off the trophies this afternoon. He and the assistant coach wouldn’t be around, but Reynolds had said she could leave them in his office in the Nicholson Pavilion. The other assistant coach, Gordon Poole, would be there. Laurie had last seen Coach Reynolds and his assistant at the City Hall ceremony when the army had given Brian a posthumous award. She’d never met this Gordon Poole person.

The Nicholson Pavilion always reminded her of a circus tent—with a dozen tall, angled masts and suspension cables protruding along the front of the huge brick edifice that housed the basketball stadium. The athletic staff had offices in a long, rambling one-story structure connected to the stadium. The wall in front was all honeycomb-shaped windows.

Laurie stood in the parking lot next to the building. She decided lugging Joey and the trophies might be a little too much—especially since she wasn’t quite sure where the coach’s office was. Maybe she could get this Gordon Poole to carry the box inside for her.

“C’mon, Joey,” she said, heading toward the building. He started to quiet down. “Wave good-bye to Sparky. That’s my good boy.”

Laurie thought back to her phone conversation with Coach Reynolds. She remembered he’d sounded a bit distant and cool. Maybe he secretly didn’t approve of her giving away Brian’s awards. Or maybe the coach just didn’t like her too much right now. Not many people in town did.

Everyone knew about the naked dead man in her apartment and her dalliance with him back when Brian was fighting in Afghanistan. Never before had so many customers at the restaurant tried to peek into the pass-through window for a look at the chef. Of course, that was to be expected since she was in the news. But many of them had that look of disapproval and disdain. Her coworkers seemed tolerant and nonjudgmental—except for a new waitress nobody could stand. Her name was Celia. She was skinny, with long, dirty blond hair and terrible posture. She was usually a pill to Laurie anyway. Yesterday had been Laurie’s first day back after the incident.