Page 152 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“Shouldn’t we tell the cops?”

“What?” His head whipped around. “No. I don’t trust ’em, and you shouldn’t either. Remember why you called me in the first place: You’re still their number-one suspect. They don’t need any help. They have the technology and manpower to figure this out. If you want me on your side, then the cops are out. You decide.” He checked his watch, then finished his beer. “Gotta run. I just wanted to talk to you face-to-face.”

“You think my phone’s being bugged?” James asked.

“Just being careful. By the way, I swept this place since the cops searched it. Looks clean.”

“Not every cop is dirty.”

“Yeah, I know, but you just don’t know which ones are clean. So . . . let’s just keep all this on the down low.” Rowdy snapped his laptop closed and pushed back his chair. “I’ll let you know what else I find. Shouldn’t take too long. And then we’ll settle up.” He stuffed his equipment into the battered case and headed for the front door. “And, James,” he said, as he stepped onto the porch, “be careful, okay? The reporter’s dead. Probably because of you. And a woman’s missing, again, probably because she was close to you, so watch your ass, okay? And while you’re at it? Why don’t you try hiding your spare key someplace where a three-year-old can’t find it?”

CHAPTER 40

Darkness had fallen by the time the search crew was finished going over Sinclaire’s cabin, and the cold was getting to them. Rivers rubbed his gloved hands together to conjure up warmth, while Mendoza stomped her feet in the snow.

Upon spying Megan Travers’s car in the garage, Mendoza had called for backup and gotten a search warrant. Rivers had phoned Harold Sinclaire, and Sinclaire, shocked, had agreed to meet them at the property and had given them the code to a lockbox near the front door with a hidden key. With the owner’s permission on top of the search warrant, Rivers and Mendoza had searched through the house and grounds. The car in the garage had turned out to be Megan Travers’s, and her phone, laptop, and purse were inside.

But the woman hadn’t been in the car, nor the trunk, nor the house. No body of Megan Travers. Or anyone else. Yet someone had driven the car to the cabin, and the keys to the car, and presumably her apartment, had been left in the Toyota’s ignition. They were still puzzling it all out when, along with another couple of deputies, the tow truck had arrived, the driver managing to back the huge rig with its flashing amber lights over the narrow bridge and between the trees to park in front of the garage where the Corolla had been stashed.

“No clothes,” Mendoza remarked. “Nor any kind of overnight bag—no makeup kit or bag for prescriptions.” She frowned as she shone the beam of her flashlight over the car’s interior. “I get that she was angry and left in a huff, but she had the presence of mind to bring her laptop and iPad and phone with her.”

“Maybe they were already there, in the car.”

“But she knew she was leaving. She wrote the note at her apartment and didn’t return, right?”

“Yeah. She got off work, went home, changed, and then drove out to Cahill’s house, got into it with him; things got physical and she took off, nearly hitting the snowplow and driving like a bat through town, calling her sister and . . . then what? She didn’t just drive here.”

“Not unless it was some kind of disappearing act on her part, which I doubt.”

“Agreed.”

“So she either planned to meet someone here, or got a call and came here because of that call, or was forced to drive here.”

“And then what?” Rivers said just as he caught a glimpse of a new set of headlights, beams reflecting on the snow as a white Range Rover came into view, growling across the bridge spanning the creek. As Rivers watched, the SUV stopped to one side of the series of ruts created by the other vehicles. The driver’s door swung open, and a beefy man no more than five feet, eight inches tall swung out, slamming his door shut.

“Harold Sinclaire,” Rivers told Mendoza.

“What the hell is this all about?” Sinclaire demanded, his eyes wide, his face flushed. He was dressed from head to toe in red and black snow gear, a matching knit cap pulled down over his ears, all adding to the image of a spark plug. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Megan Travers’s car is here?”

Rivers nodded. “In the garage. We’re going to tow it back to the department’s garage.”

“But why?” Harold asked, astounded, his eyes round. “I mean why would she end up here . . . or her car end up here? What the eff is this all about?”

“That’s what we were hoping you could help us with.”

“I have absolutely no idea.” He turned his gloved hands palm up to show his state of confusion.

The passenger door of his Range Rover opened, and Jennifer Korpi, bundled in a long coat, stepped out, picking her way through the snow in high-heeled boots that were more fashionable than functional.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, glancing at the tow truck, its lights flashing as it winched the Toyota onto its bed.

“You know what it is, honey,” Sinclaire said. “I told you I want to get rid of this place. It’s just a headache. All the upkeep with snow in the winter—I’m always afraid the roof might collapse, or the pipes freeze, or raccoons make nests in the attic—that’s happened before, and what about someone siphoning off the propane?” He turned to Rivers. “Who would do that? Clear up here? Who the hell would drive all this way to steal damned propane? I was just lucky some snowshoers saw it happening, or when I came up here after the new year, I wouldn’t have had any heat!”

“When was that?” Rivers asked.

“Dunno. A month ago maybe . . .” He glanced at Jennifer for confirmation.

She nodded. “Maybe four, maybe five weeks ago. After that big storm. Which was . . . just before Thanksgiving, I think.” She bit her lip. “I just don’t get why this is happening. Why Megan’s car is here. It doesn’t make any sense.”

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