You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,135
draping an arm around Jennifer’s shoulders. “We just don’t need the headache.”
Sinclaire and Korpi watched as the Toyota was secured onto the flatbed and the tow truck lumbered off, almost too big for the little bridge spanning the creek.
Rivers hoped they would get lucky, that fingerprints or some other bit of evidence would be located in the car, that there would be a clue to what had happened to Megan Travers, but he wasn’t betting on it.
By the time they left the cabin in the woods, it was after seven, and they stopped at Lucy’s, ending up in a booth near the one where they’d met Andie Jeffries, Mendoza sliding onto one high-backed bench, he opposite her. The place was crowded, conversation drowning out the oldies music, several waitresses hurrying from one table to the next, the sizzle of a deep fryer adding to the cacophony. Mendoza ordered a meatless burger and sparkling water. Rivers decided on chicken-fried steak and french fries with a Coke, as he was still on duty. A beer would have to wait.
“You’re killing yourself,” Mendoza observed when the orders came and thick gravy oozed over the side of his plate.
“In more ways than one, I’m sure.” He grabbed the bottle of catsup and squeezed out a huge puddle onto his plate, right next to a pile of steaming fries. “And the jury’s still out on fake meat. You know, it can be made with some kind of three-D printer. How nutritious can that be?”
“But oooh, so yummy.” She cut the damned thing in half, exposing layers of pickles, tomatoes, onions and lettuce, before she took a big bite. “You’re missing out.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You notice how Gus Jardine’s name keeps coming up?” Rivers asked, once he’d taken two bites of the steak. “Always on the periphery, but there.”
“Uh-huh. Which links Jennifer.”
“Maybe.” Rivers thought about it. Took a swallow of soda. “Maybe there’s another connection.”
“Other than that his sister was dumped by James Cahill?”
“For Rebecca Travers, not Megan.”
Mendoza raised one hand and tilted it back and forth to indicate she wasn’t convinced. “Maybe it’s the samey-same. You know, get back at whatever woman he’s currently dating.”
“Thin.” He cut off another bite of steak, plopped it into his mouth.
“I can see your arteries clogging from here.” She grinned, teasing, her dark eyes flashing.
“You’re just jealous.”
She snorted and stared at his plate. “Hardly.” Then she looked up at him again. “Okay, if you don’t buy my theory, then what?”
“Not sure yet. Maybe Gus Jardine has another connection to Megan.”
“So what is it? Why would Jardine—what? Kidnap her? Force her to drive to Sinclaire’s cabin? Then . . . snowshoe out? Have another vehicle waiting? What would he do with her?”
“Maybe they were in it together,” Rivers said, thinking aloud. “She fights with Cahill, meets up with Jardine; they stash the car, and she hides out.”
“Why? Makes no sense. What would be the point? Revenge for Megan, but what’s in it for Jardine?” Her eyebrows raised inquisitively, and then she made a bleeping sound, like the buzzer on a game show when the contestant fails. “Not buying it.”
“Yeah, me neither,” he admitted and grew quiet as he finished his meal. Nothing was making sense, but he felt as if they were getting closer to piecing it all together. Jardine was involved. They just had to figure out how.
Once they were on the road again, Rivers drove toward the station, and Mendoza, as ever, was on her phone, scrolling through messages and e-mail. He’d just pulled into the lot when she said, “Uh-oh . . . what’s this?”
“What?” he asked as he nosed his Jeep into a parking slot near a department cruiser.
Her eyebrows knitted as she stared at the screen. “It’s weird.” But there was an edge of excitement to her voice. “Let’s go inside. I want to bring it up on my computer. Bigger image.” She was already unbuckling her seat belt and opening the passenger door.
Rivers followed her to her cubicle, where she peeled off her coat and slung it haphazardly onto a filing cabinet; then she slid into her roller chair and pulled it close to her computer monitor. “It’s from the lab,” she explained. “DNA on the hairs found in James Cahill’s bed.” Her fingers were flying over the keyboard and working the roller ball of her mouse. “Here . . . look.” The report came onto the screen. “Three specimens,” she pointed out, “all different. One male. James Cahill and two others.