Page 30 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

The woman who had snarled, “You’ll never see me again,” as she’d brandished a poker at him.

But now there were other mental pictures as well. In his mind’s eye, he glimpsed her laughing and sipping wine on a verandah overlooking Puget Sound, and then another image of her tossing a snowball at him as he turned . . . and many, many more, all coming to life suddenly. His throat tightened as he thought of waking up next to her and kissing her and . . .

He closed his eyes for a second and tried like hell to remember that night. Before the rage. What had happened? He remembered eating takeout, letting Ralph have a little bit of cornbread, and leaving the remains in the sink. The dog had barked, and he’d looked out the window to see headlights cutting through the falling snow.

And then?

And then . . .

Had the doorbell rung? Had she let herself in with her key?

“. . . worked as a receptionist at the McEwen Clinic in Riggs Crossing and hasn’t been seen since she left the office last Thursday,” the TV reporter was saying, breaking into his thoughts. “Allegedly, there had been a fight at Cahill’s house, located just north of here. James Cahill was found by someone who worked for him. That individual called nine-one-one. Once help arrived, Cahill was transported to the hospital, where he is currently recovering from wounds he appears to have received during an altercation.”

“But Megan Travers wasn’t there?” the female studio anchor asked.

“No, Beth. Megan Travers and her vehicle were missing. And still are. A witness, the driver of a snowplow in the vicinity Thursday night, saw a black car drive away from the scene after nearly running into the plow, and it’s thought the driver was most likely Megan Travers, who was supposed to be heading to her sister’s home in Seattle. She never arrived. Police are asking anyone who’s seen or heard from Megan Travers to call them at the number on the screen.” As she spoke, a telephone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “She was driving a black twenty-ten Toyota Corolla.” The reporter rattled off the Washington license plate number of the car before she signed off, and the double image changed into a studio shot; the anchors smiled and went to commercial.

Switching off the television, he glanced at the clock, decided to give the doc one hour.

Then, come hell, high water, or hospital red tape, he was out of here.

CHAPTER 8

Rivers stared at the computer monitor in his office. On the screen was the driver’s-license photo of Megan Travers—not a great picture, more like a mug shot of a serious woman in her twenties with layered brown hair and deep-set blue eyes. High cheekbones and freckles. He knew her stats by heart: height, weight, birth date. She’d grown up in Yakima and gone to college at Evergreen State College in Olympia before dropping out for an unknown reason. She’d done office work in a car dealership and several medical offices, had never been married, and less than a year earlier, had moved to Riggs Crossing, where she’d taken a job with a local clinic. Somewhere along the way, she’d met James Cahill, more than likely before moving from the city to a town of less than three thousand. She’d rented a one-bedroom unit at the Abernathy Apartments on Cedar Street.

“Our boy’s awake,” Mendoza said as she appeared at the doorway of their shared office.

“Cahill?” Rivers glanced up from his computer.

“One and the same. I just phoned the hospital.”

Rivers was irritated. “The doctor was supposed to call me.”

“Probably still will.”

He was already rolling back his chair, away from the clutter of his desk, and reaching for his jacket. “I thought you went home.”

“I did. Even took in a kickboxing class, picked up takeout, showered, and called the hospital. According to the nurse on duty, James Cahill woke up about twenty minutes ago and had a visitor. Megan Travers’s sister, Rebecca Travers.”

Rivers’s brows lifted.

“It wasn’t a social call. According to the nurse, Rebecca Travers was aggressive and argumentative and wouldn’t leave when asked to. Had to nearly be thrown out of the hospital.”

“Have you spoken to her?” He was on his feet, stuffing an arm down one sleeve of his jacket.

“No. She called in to Missing Persons. Filed the original report. But she lives out of town. Seattle.”

He remembered that.

Mendoza went on, “She answered some questions on the phone with a deputy, but is scheduled to come in on Monday.”

“Good.” Maybe then they would make some progress. He had several people he wanted to interview again, plus he wanted to talk to someone at the state police about Megan Travers’s Toyota. So far the BOLO hadn’t turned up anything on the Corolla. “Why didn’t the hospital call us and let us know he was awake?”

“Don’t know.”

He checked his pocket, jangled his keys, felt for and found his wallet.

Mendoza stepped out of the way and started for the exterior door, following half a step behind him. “The nurse, Sonja Rictor, had already spoken to Dr. Monroe, and he gave us the green light to talk to his patient.”

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