Dead Wrong

“You got it. But beyond that, I want you to get him to tell his story about what happened the night Gillian Pappas was murdered. Just…listen.”

Trina nodded. “Is there anything you want to tell me about him?”

There was a history here she didn’t know.

But Lieutenant Patton shook her head. “Meet him, hear his story. I don’t want to predispose you in any way.”

“I have been reading police reports and the transcript of the trial.”

“But talking to him in person, that’s different.” She got to her feet. “I’ll call over to Salem, we’ll set it up for tomorrow.”

“If he’ll agree to talk to me.”

She snorted. “Oh, he’ll agree. Ricky Mendoza never misses a chance to tell someone he’s innocent.”

THE APARTMENT WAS DECENT, the rent exorbitant. That was the price you paid for being in a hurry.

Will unpacked his suitcases and made the bed. After signing the lease that afternoon, he’d visited the storage unit where most of his worldly possessions were stowed and managed to find boxes labeled Bedding and Kitchen. He hoped like hell his coffeemaker was in one of them.

When the doorbell rang, he abandoned the box of towels on the floor in front of the incredibly tiny linen closet and went to let Travis in. His friend glanced around the blandly furnished living room, wincing at the watercolor print of Juanita Butte that hung above the distressed leather couch and peeled pine end tables.

“You know, you could have stayed with me.”

“It’s looking like I won’t be able to buy until spring. You don’t need a roommate for months.”

“If I’m not on the ski hill, I’m in the studio. You’d have hardly seen me.”

“This will do.” Will nodded toward the kitchen. “Beer?”

“Sure.” Travis waited until he was popping the top of the dark German brew to say, “I talked to your mother today. She told me Amy’s murder had similarities to Gillian’s.”

“Similarities?” Will made a sharp sound. “More than that. It was damn near a carbon copy. Too close for coincidence.”

“Why didn’t you call me? This must have stirred up some hellish memories.”

Will deliberately took a swallow, feeling the cold, bitter beer slide down his throat. The pause enabled him to say almost steadily, “You could say that.”

“Do you need to talk about it?”

Will looked at his hand gripping the bottle and realized it was shaking. The tremor was fine enough he hoped his friend hadn’t noticed.

“That’s all I’ve been doing! Even Jimmy McCartin called to talk about it!”

“My fault. I ran into him when I stopped for an espresso on the way up to the hill. I tried to back out the door, but he spotted me before I could make a getaway.” His gaze rested on Will’s hand. So much for not noticing. “Come on, buddy. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Will turned his back, staring out the small window above the sink. “What is there to say? Some sick son of a bitch thought it would be fun to copy another murder. Maybe it was chance he chose another woman I know. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he picked her because that’s another parallel. Either way… Do you know what he did to her?” Will asked in anguish.

Travis clasped his upper arm, just briefly, a gesture of support not so different from the reassuring slap on the back when one of them struck out on the ballfield, from the squeeze Will had given his arm when he visited him in the hospital after his career-ending pinwheel down the mountain at Kitzbühel. It meant something.

“Yeah,” Travis said. “I know what he did to her.”

Will felt his friend’s scrutiny. He lifted his beer and swallowed.

“Your mother asked me if I could think of anyone who hated you.”

Beer went down the wrong way. Still choking, he gasped, “What?”

“She looked scared, Will.”

Voice thick with fear of a different kind, fear that she was right and he was wrong, Will said, “She’s jumping to conclusions.”

“She’s looking at all the options. She was up at the Butte talking to Doug.”

“And?”

“He worked Wednesday night. He told me after he talked to her that he had been with other people until two in the morning or so. And his roommate swears he never left the condo.”

Will set down the bottle on the counter so hard it clunked. “This has to do with Mendoza.”

“But what?”

“Somebody is trying to get him off. To make everyone think Gilly’s killer is still out there.”

Travis would have made a hell of a lawyer. Mild enough to catch you off guard, he could still corner you. “Not many people are sick enough to kill like that. A man would have to enjoy it. You and I are good friends. I’d do a hell of a lot for you. But rape and murder? Nah.”

Savagely, not wanting to hear the logic, Will said, “You’ve been talking to my father.”

“You know better than that.”

Will closed his eyes. Travis had stuck with him through the worst. And now he was being a jackass.

“Yeah. I know better. I’m sorry.”

Travis just shook his head. “No need. Are you going to be able to start work with this hanging over you?”

“Yeah.” Tension arced through him as if live wires were sparking. “I need to be busy. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch soap operas while I wonder if some other woman is being stalked?”

Relentless in his own way, Travis said, “If this guy stalked Amy, then that means he chose her. It had to be her. Why?”

“I don’t know!” Will all but shouted. He paced a couple of steps, turned back, bounced his fist on the counter. “I don’t know. I was using a figure of speech. Probably nobody is being stalked. Chances are the killer just grabbed Amy because she was available…”

“Has your mom figured out where she was snatched from?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Then maybe she wasn’t all that available.” Travis still leaned against the edge of the counter, seemingly relaxed, but his eyes were both watchful and compassionate. “You know, maybe the guy picked her. Maybe he had to plan how to lure her to him.”

“Which brings us back to me.” Will swore under his breath. “What did you tell her?”