Брайан Фриман - Alter Ego

Maggie nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re probably right.”

“I want to find where he did it.”

“Cab, we’ll search the woods in the morning. It’s dark, and the storm is still dumping snow. We could spend hours in there and not find the crime scene. Guppo will get a team out here as soon as it’s light. If that’s where Peach was killed, he’ll find it.”

Cab stared into the black mouth of the forest, his body tall and stiff like a statue. His normally spiky hair was flat and wet on his head. Maggie could see snow landing on his face and couldn’t tell whether the melting snow was mixed with tears. He looked oddly elegant, standing there in his suit and tie, yet she knew his heart was broken.

“This is not the way it should have been,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“She spent her last few seconds right here in this pissant place. She knew what was going to happen to her.”

Maggie didn’t say anything, but she took hold of his hand.

“This was my case,” he went on. “It wasn’t hers. If anyone should have faced down that gun in the woods, it was me.”

“Come on, Cab. Don’t do this to yourself. There’s only one thing we can do for Peach, and that’s the most important thing.”

Cab stared down at her and nodded.

“Let’s go get Jungle Jack,” he said.

Stride found Serena sitting in her Mustang outside their cottage. She hadn’t gone inside yet. He parked his truck and walked across the snow to her car and climbed into the front seat. She looked cold. Her long black hair was mussed. He could barely see her green eyes in the shadows.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Aimee’s locked up in a cage,” Serena replied. “She’s probably freezing to death. And I don’t know where she is or who did this or how the hell we’ll ever find her.”

“Believe me, I know what you’re going through.”

“Is it starting all over again? I mean, is it really possible that you were wrong about Art Leipold?”

Stride allowed doubt to creep into his mind for the first time. “I don’t know. Art didn’t do this, that’s for sure.”

“So what can we do?” Serena asked.

“I retrieved the case files from storage. All the notes, evidence, interviews, media reports, everything we gathered. We can go through it again together.”

“Looking for what?”

“To see if I made a mistake,” Stride said.

They both got out of the Mustang. Stride went up the driveway to the rear door of his Expedition and opened the back panel. He had several boxes inside. He stacked three of them together, then Serena took two more, and they climbed the porch steps to the front door of the cottage.

Inside, he dropped the boxes behind the red leather sofa. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock.

“Cat?” he called. “We’re home.”

There was no answer.

Serena went into the girl’s bedroom and came back out with a worried look on her face. “She’s not there. Did she say anything about going out tonight?”

“No.” Stride took a deep breath, and musk cologne filled his nose. His mouth screwed into a frown. “Curt Dickes was here. Cat’s car is still outside. She must have gone somewhere with him.”

He took out his phone and dialed Cat’s number, but the call went straight to voice mail. “Do you still have that tracking app on her phone?” he asked Serena.

“No, I disabled it. I wanted her to feel like we trusted her. I guess that was a mistake.”

Stride dialed Maggie’s number next. He had a brief conversation and then hung up the phone.

“Maggie and Cab are at Casperson’s rental house,” he said. “They were going to pick up Jungle Jack, but he’s not there. Neither is Casperson. There’s some sort of wrap party tonight up on the North Shore. They’re trying to find out where.”

“Do you think that’s where Cat is?” Serena asked.

“Don’t you?”

They turned back to the front door, but Stride’s glance strayed across the bookshelf near Cat’s bedroom door. He saw a yellow piece of paper with his name written across the outside.

“Wait,” he said.

Stride retrieved the page and unfolded it, and he and Serena read the note inside together.

You’re wrong, Stride. This time you’re wrong. I’m sorry, but I can’t do nothing if it means other people get hurt.

He crumpled the note in his fist and swore under his breath. “Cat, what the hell are you doing?”

The atmosphere at the party was subdued, and Cat knew why. Aimee Bowe was still missing. The lights were low, giving the room a romantic glow and making the faces hard to see. The band played soft string music, and a few people did slow dances on the floor. One wall of the resort ballroom was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows that acted like mirrors at night. Beyond the glass was the lakeshore and forest trails leading to individual waterfront cottages. The room was warm, but outside the snow kept burying the land.

Cat was a magnet for attention as soon she walked in. Every head turned. She was at a Hollywood-style party with the beautiful people, but she was beautiful, too. Tonight she wasn’t seventeen years old. Tonight she was someone else.

A waiter passed them with sparkling water in a champagne glass, and she took one. She wanted to keep her wits about her for what would come next. Curt already had a cocktail.

“Are any of your girls here?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah, I arranged for half a dozen to be on the bus. None of them is a stunner like you, though.”

“You know what you have to do, right? If you see Jungle Jack, keep him distracted. Make sure your girls are talking to him. He’s the only one who knows who I am. I don’t want him seeing me here.”

“Hey, I know the plan. Take Jack out of the play. You got it.” Curt leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Last chance to back out of this, kitty cat. We can turn around and leave right now.”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Okay, you’re the boss.”

Curt drifted into the crowd, sliding an arm around one of the other girls as he looked for Jungle Jack. Cat ignored the queasy feeling in her stomach and let a brilliant smile spill across her face. She fluffed her chestnut hair. She was alone, but she knew it wouldn’t be for long. Men began to descend on her as she navigated the room. They dropped whoever they were with, and the women who were left behind shot Cat icy glares. She didn’t care.

She wasn’t seventeen. She was someone else.

With each man who approached her, she made small talk about Duluth, about the weather, about the movie. When a man’s eyes wandered, she gently nudged his chin with her finger and moved his gaze back to her eyes. She teased the men, but when they tried to move in closer, she moved on. No one got more than five minutes of her time, but it still took her nearly an hour to cross the room. She had only one target tonight, and she wanted him to realize that she was the most in-demand, most wanted, most available woman at the party.

Cat kept flirting, but she was aware of everyone around her. Her plan was simple. Avoid Jungle Jack. Hunt for Dean Casperson.

Finally, she spotted him.

He stood by the tall windows, framed by the darkness around him. Even among the Los Angeles crowd, the party people gave him space, because he was special. He was the star. Casperson swirled a drink in his hand, and his black tuxedo made him look like James Bond. His hair had been colored to its usual black luster. Three other men — probably rich and powerful, too — talked and laughed with him, but his eyes moved around the room, missing nothing. It was only a matter of time until he saw her.

Cat chatted with a young man who told her that he was a rigging gaffer. She didn’t know what that was and only half paid attention to what he was saying. Her eyes went back and forth between the gaffer and Dean Casperson, who was standing just a few feet away from her. She angled her body toward him. She laughed at something the gaffer said, but the laugh was for Casperson. She baited the hook, then cast the line.