Читать книгу: «Within Range»

Chapter One

“Birdie!”

Helen Boyd glanced in the rearview mirror first to her two-year-old son, then out the side window to the row of crows sitting on the electrical wire.

“Lots of birds,” she agreed. “Those are crows. Crows are always black.” Helen had the passing thought that in some cultures, they were considered bad luck. Or was that ravens?

Jacob tried to shape the word, which came out sounding more like “cow.”

“Crow,” she repeated. “Like ‘row, row, row your boat,’ only it’s c-row.”

He giggled. “K-k-krow.”

“Yes.” She laughed. “And we’re home!” Thank heavens; her feet were killing her, and she was starved. The day had been so busy, she’d never had a chance to stop for lunch. And, ugh, this was only Tuesday.

Home was a small rental house with an even smaller detached garage that held the lawn mower, a rolling tool chest belonging to the landlord, and some boxes and furniture that might have been left by previous tenants. There was no room for a car, so she parked in the driveway.

Helen climbed out stiffly, her attention caught for a brief moment by bright sails on the Columbia River. Her view was barely a sliver, but that was better than nothing. This was June, but the day seemed way too chilly for anyone to want to go windsailing. Whoever was out there was sure dedicated to the sport, she’d learned. The winds channeled through the Columbia Gorge were one of the biggest draws of the small towns strung along the banks of the river east of Portland.

She circled around to release Jacob from his car seat and swing him up in her arms, using her hip to bump the door closed. “Hamburgers for dinner tonight,” she told him.

“Hot dogs!” he shouted.

She planted a big kiss on top of his head. “Hamburgers.”

He loved to argue. “Hot dogs.”

“Hamburgers.” After letting them in the front door, she set him down, staying crouched beside him for a minute. “Do you have to go potty?” He still wore a diaper at night but was doing pretty well using the toilet during the day.

“Uh-uh,” he declared.

“Hmm.” Tempted to kick off her heels right now, Helen decided to make it to the bedroom first. Set a good example. Or maybe she should dump them straight in the trash. There was a good reason they’d been on clearance. Knowing Jacob would follow her, she started for the hall—and came to an abrupt stop, staring into the kitchen.

What on earth was that?

Her heart thudded hard. Jacob, fortunately, was clambering up onto the sofa. She took a tentative step, then another, disbelief and fear clawing inside her chest.

It was a high-heeled shoe sitting all by itself that had first puzzled her. She had on the only pair of black pumps she owned. But then...then she saw the woman who lay sprawled on the kitchen floor.

Fingers pressed to her mouth, Helen tiptoed closer. Dark hair fanned over the lifeless face, but Helen could see enough...including the hideous dent in the woman’s head.

“Oh, no, oh, no.” Helen backed away.

From just behind her, Jacob said, “Mommy?”

Whirling, Helen snatched him up and pressed his face to her shoulder. Then she ran for the front door, pausing only to grab her purse on the way.

* * *

“THAT THE HOMEOWNER?” Detective Seth Renner glanced toward the car parked somewhat crookedly at the curb in front of the house.

The uniformed officer followed his gaze. “Don’t know if she owns it or rents, but that’s her. Name’s Helen Boyd. She’s got a two-year-old in the car.”

Easy to imagine how quickly she’d fled the house when she discovered a dead woman on her kitchen floor. Unless, of course, she’d had something to do with the death, but he wasn’t ready to speculate yet.

Instead, he signed the log the responding officer had started, bent to put on disposable shoe covers and stepped into the house. Scanning the living room, he saw evidence that a toddler lived here: a small plastic wagon piled with building blocks, a tidy pile of simple wooden puzzles on the fireplace hearth and a crib-size comforter crumpled at one end of the sofa. Built-in shelving to each side of the fireplace held books, including a good-size collection of children’s picture books. Coffee table with rounded edges. Foam had been fitted to cover the sharp edges of the brick hearth. TV. If not for the books, the room would have been stark.

Because there was no art, he realized. Maybe this was a rental, and the woman didn’t feel like she could put holes in the walls. Although, he’d have expected to see framed photos or something decorative on the mantel.

He shook his head slightly and moved on to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to study the body and then work outward to the surroundings.

No indication of a struggle. His first guess was that the victim had been in the kitchen, heard something and started to turn, only to be stunned by the single blow. Dead from that moment, she’d dropped to the floor. Finally going forward to crouch beside her, he did note a dirty mark on her white blouse. It didn’t go with her businesslike attire: fitted blouse, blazer, black pencil skirt, heels and hose. A shiny black handbag sat on the small kitchen table, a smartphone beside it. Had the killer kicked her once she was down?

He snapped on latex gloves and gingerly reached in the handbag for a wallet, opening it to see the license in a clear plastic sleeve. Photo looked like a match to him. Seth studied it. Andrea Sloan, brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six, thirty-six years old, organ donor.

Too late for that.

He let the wallet fall back into the purse, looking instead at the woman’s face, slack in death.

Why had Andrea Sloan been killed? And why here, in another woman’s house? Unless she was a close friend, sister, something like that to the owner-renter who’d discovered her?

Still gazing down at the body, he called for a crime scene unit from the Oregon State Police, then walked through the rest of the house. It was immaculately clean and uncluttered. Apparently, the kid didn’t go to bed without putting away his toys, and Mom or Dad—was there a dad?—didn’t toss dirty clothes over the single chair in the slightly larger bedroom that held a full-size bed, bedside table with a lamp and clock, and a dresser. No art here, either, no photos. Curious, he nudged open the sliding closet door to find it less than a third full. Several pairs of shoes lined up in a neat row on the floor, some unexciting dresses, blazers, skirts and slacks on hangers. Nothing that appeared to belong to a man.

The bathroom was shared with the kid. Nothing suggested a man lived here, either. A toothbrush holder and two toothbrushes sat alone on an otherwise pristine counter.

Pretty clearly, the residents consisted of a single mother and child.

Time to talk to the woman.

Going back outside, he shed the shoe covers and followed the narrow concrete walkway to the sidewalk and the car, a Ford Focus he guessed to be at least ten years old, possibly a lot more than that. He opened the front passenger-side door and bent to look in.

“Ms. Boyd? I’m Detective Seth Renner. I need to talk to you. Is there someplace—” A small boy poked his head between the seats.

“Boo!”

Seth pretended to jump, suppressing a grin. “And who are you?”

“I’m Jacob,” the boy declared. He had an impish face, a scattering of freckles across his nose and russet-red hair.

“It’s good to meet you, Jake.”

“Jacob.”

“Ah.” Seth focused on the woman again, taking in her appearance and noticing she had more than a passing resemblance to the dead woman. Although if they were related, wouldn’t Ms. Boyd have said so?

“Is there someone who can watch Jacob for a few minutes?”

“I... Yes. If she’s home, my neighbor is usually willing. Let me—” She jumped out, slammed her door and hurried around to his side, letting him see that she was five foot six or seven, long-legged, thinner than he suspected she was meant to be. When he backed away from the opening, she took his place.

“Jacob, honey, let’s go see Iris.”

“I like Iris,” he stated in apparent delight.

Seth had noted the movement behind the front window of the house next door. In fact, he intended to interview whoever lived there next. He strolled behind Ms. Boyd, who carried the boy on her hip. The front door opened even before they reached the small porch, revealing an elderly woman with deep wrinkles and a warm smile for the little boy.

Ms. Boyd explained briefly that she’d arrived at home and somebody had gotten into her house. She needed to talk to the detective. “Could you...?”

“Of course I can!” Iris cast a worried look at Ms. Boyd but beamed at Jacob. “I just baked chocolate chip cookies. Would you like one, Jacob?”

He held up his hand with all five fingers splayed. Iris laughed and took the boy’s hand. The door closed.

Surely at his age the kid couldn’t count. He obviously got the concept that more fingers represented more cookies, though.

For just a minute, Ms. Boyd stayed where she was, looking as if she’d give almost anything to follow her son inside. But finally her shoulders squared and she turned.

“Do we have to go in my house?”

“No,” he said. “Why don’t we sit in your car?”

Relief seemed to loosen some of the fear he’d seen on her face. Her teeth closed on her lower lip and she nodded. “Yes. Okay.”

He let her get into the driver’s seat again, guessing she’d feel more comfortable there, more in control. He had to move the passenger seat way back to accommodate his long legs, which meant she had to twist a little to look directly at him.

“Detective...? I’m sorry, I know you introduced yourself, but—” Her voice trembled.

“Renner.”

Her eyes fastened on his. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“You’re understandably upset.” He watched her closely while trying to appear relaxed and even friendly. “Tell me about your day. Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not until I got home. The rest of the day... Do you care?”

“I’d like to hear about it.”

“I commute to Portland every day. I work as an executive assistant.”

He took a notebook from an inside pocket and jotted down the name of the company, her boss and the phone number.

“I left at 5:30. I’m pretty insistent on that, since I have to pick up Jacob from day care by 6:00.”

That sounded standard to him. He made a note about the day care, too, an in-home one.

“I parked in the driveway, like I always do.”

He left the question of why she didn’t use the garage for another time. She sounded steady enough now to make him curious. Anxiety wouldn’t have surprised him; her poise did.

“I carried Jacob in,” she continued, “set him down and started toward the bedroom.”

“Just like that?”

She stared at Seth. “I told him we were having hamburgers, and he insisted he wanted hot dogs. Oh, and that he didn’t need to use the potty. Is any of that relevant?”

He smiled. “No, you sound like you were rushing.”

“Well, I was, because my feet hurt.” She glanced down. “They still hurt.”

He saw that she wore black pumps. “They look similar to the shoes the victim was wearing.”

No, her outfit didn’t match, but color-wise...yeah. Almost. A cream-colored, finely knit cardigan over a sleeveless top, and black dress pants. If someone had seen her go out the door, then caught sight of this Andrea Sloan in the kitchen, a mistake might be possible.

Seth reminded himself not to jump to conclusions.

Ms. Boyd swallowed. “I know. There was a weird minute—”

A weird moment?

Shaking her head, she said, “I just thought, did I leave my shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor? But they were still on my feet, so that didn’t make sense, and I’d already seen the...her legs. But...my mind wasn’t making the connection right.”

“That’s often the case when you see something completely unexpected,” he said gently.

She shuddered. “Yes. I took a step closer, and then realized Jacob was coming into the kitchen after me, so I grabbed him and my purse and raced outside. My hand was shaking so much I had trouble getting the key in the ignition, but I locked all the doors, backed out of the driveway and kept backing halfway up the block. I didn’t come closer until the police car arrived.”

“That was smart. You couldn’t be sure there wasn’t somebody still in the house.”

Her steadiness must have been a facade, because her fingers twisted together and he saw fear on her face. “Do you think he was?” she asked.

“He?” Seth repeated.

“I just assumed it would have to be a man... I mean, could a woman have enough strength to bludgeon someone to death like that?”

Not likely for a woman, but he wouldn’t rule one out. “I doubt the killer was still in the house when you arrived home.” Seth’s guess that the murder had happened within the last half hour or so suggested the killer hadn’t been gone long, though.

He asked her what cars she noticed parked on the street. She turned her head, telling him she recognized the pickup truck near the corner as belonging to the man who lived in that house. Otherwise...

“That almost has to be her car, doesn’t it?” He followed her gaze to the sedan right in front of her car.

“I’ll find out,” he said, and continued to ask questions.

No, Ms. Boyd hadn’t seen anyone outside or even looking through their windows when she turned onto the block and then into her own driveway, although she really hadn’t paid attention. “Less than usual,” she admitted. “Because my feet hurt.”

“New shoes?”

“Yes, and I’m going to throw them away.”

He smiled faintly, then asked, “Does anybody else have a key to your house?”

The way her hands continued to writhe, he was surprised he hadn’t heard the snap of her knuckles cracking.

“The landlord must.” She frowned. “And...I suppose Andrea might have had one. I guess she must have, or she couldn’t have gotten in, could she?”

He didn’t even try to hide the spike of anger. “You know the victim?”

Her gaze slid away from his.

“Any reason why she might have been in the house?”

“But there isn’t any reason for her to be here. I mean, the real estate firm she works for also manages the property, but I haven’t needed any repairs, and I can’t imagine anyone complained that I was doing damage to the house. Why else would she have let herself in?” Alternating between determined poise and vulnerability, Ms. Boyd was now all but vibrating with indignation that spilled over. “I can’t believe she’s allowed to just do that. If I’d thought anyone could just poke through our stuff, I wouldn’t have rented a house through that firm.”

“I’ll be talking to her boss, but I seriously doubt she was supposed to let herself into rentals when the tenants weren’t there. That makes me wonder why she did. Have you heard from her in the recent past?”

Ms. Boyd shook her head. “Not a word. She showed me the house, I filled out the application, went into the real estate office to sign some paperwork and pay first and last months’ rent. They gave me the key and that was it.”

She and her son had lived here for eleven months, she said. And yes, she’d run into Andrea a few times since at the grocery store or pharmacy, so she must live here in town. They’d been friendly, in a casual way. “She’d ask how the house was working out, we might talk about some event here in town or the weather. Nothing really personal. I think she was only being polite.”

“Is she married? Does she have children?”

Her forehead creased. “She’s married, I’m pretty sure, but I don’t know about kids. I don’t remember her saying anything.”

His phone rang just then. He was relieved by the interruption, as he was undecided about how much more he wanted to ask her right now versus later. Particularly whether he should, bluntly or subtly, mention the physical resemblance between the two women.

After the brief conversation, he turned to her and said, “You won’t be able to get back in your house for at least twenty-four hours, probably longer. Do you have a friend you can stay with?”

“But...I need some of Jacob’s things. And mine!”

Her feet hurt, he remembered. “Give me a list of the most important things, and I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

THE DETECTIVE’S EXPRESSION was completely uncompromising. He wasn’t going to let them back in the house at all. The idea of going back in made Helen feel sick, anyway. She couldn’t until the body was gone, and even then...how would she feel cooking in that kitchen? Walking right across the vinyl where Andrea had died, even when the blood had been washed away?

Not letting herself look at the man who seemed to take up more space than he should, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know if I can keep living there.”

He had unnervingly blue eyes, which she knew were intent on her face right now. Somehow, that intensity compelled her to turn her head and meet those eyes.

“Death doesn’t have to contaminate a home,” he said calmly.

“But murder?” Helen asked around the lump in her throat.

“You knew Andrea Sloan. Would she want to haunt you?”

All she felt was revulsion. “I don’t know. How can I tell, when I have no idea why she was in my house?”

Detective Renner kept studying her for long enough to make her want to squirm. He must be a whiz at interrogations. Finally, he inclined his head. “Give yourself time. Tonight, it’s probably best if you stay at a hotel.”

Since he had that notebook handy, anyway, she dictated a list of essentials to him. “I can go buy some of the stuff if I have to, but I really need the blue stuffed bunny on Jacob’s bed, and his blankie. It’s probably on the sofa.”

“Yellow?”

“Yes, that’s it. The clothes and diapers and whatnot aren’t as important. Oh, it would be good if you could grab his potty seat from the bathroom.”

“Okay. I doubt it’s a significant part of the crime scene.” He smiled, got out and walked up to her rental, disappearing inside.

She rubbed her breastbone, as if to ease a strange pressure beneath it. Detective Renner had a nice smile, one that encouraged her to trust him, that crinkled the skin beside his eyes and softened the hard lines of an angular face she’d first thought looked dangerous. He wasn’t handsome, exactly, not like Richard. God knew she’d never trust a smooth, well-dressed, handsome man again. But trusting this detective wasn’t an option, either, even if he was a decent man.

Helen Boyd couldn’t trust anyone, a cop least of all.

In fact, the smart thing for her to do was bolt, before this cop had a chance to look into her background and discover she didn’t have one.

Her mind worked furiously, forming arguments on both sides. Running without changing identities wouldn’t do any good. Unless she reverted to her previous one temporarily...? But what if Richard was watching for Megan Cobb? At least here in Lookout, she couldn’t imagine that he’d make a move while the police were actively investigating a murder and keeping an eye on her, too.

Conclusion: she and Jacob were safest here for the moment.

She sagged, with no one to see her. She didn’t have a lot of stuff, but hated the idea of taking off with only what they were wearing. They’d done that last time, and it had been hard to start completely over. This time around, she couldn’t go without Jacob’s blankie and his bunny.

She did keep a couple of packed bags ready, in case they had to bolt. She’d put family photos and other mementos in them, so she didn’t have to carry them around in her purse all the time. Cash, too, and the birth certificate and driver’s license that would turn her back into Megan Cobb. Plus changes of clothes for both of them.

Tomorrow, she’d decide what to do. Andrea Sloan’s murder might not have anything to do with her.

And to think, she didn’t usually allow herself any illusions.

At last, she pulled herself together enough to get out of the car again and go up to her neighbor’s door. If only a chocolate chip cookie and milk could make her feel better. If it turned out Andrea had been killed in her place, Helen didn’t know how she could go on. Except, of course, she had to. Jacob needed her.

Allie needed her, too, but she couldn’t think about that, or crushing guilt might leave her unable to protect Jacob—and he had to come first.