Page 65 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“Or an old enemy, someone he screwed over or was perceived to have screwed over.” He saw her make a face. “But you’re focused on the ex-girlfriend angle.”

“So far it’s the only angle we’ve got,” she reminded him.

“Just the most obvious,” he pointed out. “He’s rich, or will be. Wealthy heirs attract interest.”

“But he’s not the victim.”

“No . . .”

They both thought about that a moment, then Mendoza said, “He’s not the last person to have seen her alive. There’s Knowlton, the snowplow driver, and a woman in town, all of whom said they saw her driving after the fight.”

Rivers scratched his head and frowned at the image of James Cahill in his battered jeans, work shirt, and well-practiced smile that stared at him from his computer screen. Was it a lovers’ quarrel? But with something else at play?

He said, “Megan Travers is missing, not James Cahill. Aside from a few scratches, a lack of memory, and his bruised reputation, he really wasn’t harmed. If he was the ultimate target, why take out the girlfriend?”

“Doesn’t make sense,” agreed Mendoza.

“We know they had a helluva fight.” He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking he was missing something. Something important. Maybe he needed coffee. “Come on, let’s get a refill,” he said, standing up.

As they walked together to the lunchroom, he said, “On the surface it looks like a fight. She and he get into it, it gets physical, he’s injured, she leaves in a huff, calls her sister, and takes off.” He looked over at his partner as they reached the break room. “And then what?”

“He’s found by Knowlton, who calls nine-one-one.”

Rivers kept the story going as he worked the Keurig machine, putting in a semi-biodegradable pod of coffee. He hit the button, and the coffee maker started gurgling. “Meanwhile,” he said, “Megan Travers and her car disappear into the night. Her cell phone is turned off or dead. All the searches turn up nothing. She’s just vanished.”

“So she’s either dead, her car was run off the road in the mountains and covered in snow, down some precipice, or she’s hiding somewhere and is damned good at it, or she was kidnapped, but no one’s trying to ransom her.”

“So, possibly a prisoner—maybe a sex slave?”

She frowned, lines creasing her smooth brow as the machine steamed and coffee drizzled into his waiting cup. “Or hiding out?”

“Or somehow James Cahill did her in?”

“Even though he was injured—comatose when he was discovered.” She tilted her head to stare at him as if he’d gone off his rocker. “You think he had an accomplice? Someone who would kill her? A paid assassin?”

“Lame,” another voice from a nearby table said.

Rivers looked over and found Arne Nagley, one of the deputies, seated at a round table and huddled over the newspaper, working the daily sudoku.

Nagley looked up from his puzzle, his eyes a crystal blue, his red hair clipped close to his skull. At six-four, he had to be pushing three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. His nose wasn’t straight, had been broken twice in his days as a right tackle for the Washington State Cougars. “This is Riggs Crossing, man,” he pointed out. “Not fuckin’ Chicago.” Then, as if he realized his opinion wasn’t called for, added, “Just my two cents, for what it’s worth, but you two, you’re the detectives.” He went back to the paper, but Rivers noted the edge to his voice and remembered that Nagley had applied for the position Rivers had landed, a perceived slight, as Nagley had worked for Riggs County for over a dozen years, and Rivers, from San Francisco, had been perceived as an outsider.

Rivers picked up his cup, and Mendoza began refilling hers. She said, “I’ve been checking on Cahill. Yeah, he’s a trust-fund baby, but he hasn’t inherited yet. He did borrow from it, though. That’s how he bough

t all the property up here and started his business.”

“Make that businesses.”

“Right. But he won’t be able to get his hands on the bulk of the money until he turns thirty.”

“So how does that fit in with a girl gone missing?”

“Dunno. Yet. Just spit-balling,” she said as she stirred creamer into her cup.

“We got anything else?”

“The lab came back with the analysis of hair samples found in James Cahill’s bedroom.”

This was news. Rivers looked up. “And?”

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