You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,140

killer was obviously taunting them—or, at least, taunting Earl.

“I’m going to have to take the phone. Evidence,” Rivers said, his mind racing. Pictures of two dead women, obviously from the killer. Somehow the murderer had killed Charity Spritz in the Bay Area, then come to Riggs Crossing to take Willow Valente’s life. Or possibly the other way around; he didn’t have a timeline on Valente yet. His insides turned cold.

“Yeah, I figured you’d want this.” Earl frowned, but he handed over his cell. “But just so you know, I’m running with the story. Both homicides. They’re the Clarion’s. Exclusive.”

“Whoa. Wait. Not until we investigate. Check and find out if this really is Willow Valente. This could be staged,” Mendoza said. “We just don’t know yet. She may be still alive.”

“She’s not,” Earl said with confidence. “Look at that picture.”

Mendoza reminded him, “If she is deceased, you can’t run her name until we notify next of kin.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. But the minute you do, we’re going to put it out in the digital edition, and then as the lead for the next printing.”

Rivers couldn’t do anything about that. “Is Willow Valente a friend of Charity Spritz?”

Earl lifted a shoulder, puffed out his lips, thinking. “Not that I know of. Never heard her speak of her.”

“Had she talked to her recently?” Rivers asked.

“Hey.” Earl Ray scowled. “Didn’t I just say, ‘I don’t know’?” Then he swiped at the air dismissively, as if he were swatting at a bothersome fly. “I guess it’s not all that odd. I don’t keep track of my employees’ personal lives. Unless Charity had been working on a story on Valente, I have no reason to connect them.”

“So she hadn’t?” Rivers pressed.

“That’s what I’m saying, not that I know of.”

“What do you know about Valente?” Rivers figured Earl Ray had already started doing some research.

“Not much. We did do some checking, for the story. All I know is she’s twenty-three, grew up around here, has an older sister who lives outside of Olympia. Can’t think of her name right off the top of my head . . . no, wait!” He snapped his fingers. “It’s um . . . Fern. Another woodsy name. Last name of Smithe, with an ‘e’.”

“You talked to her?” Mendoza asked as she typed in the information on her phone.

“No.”

Rivers asked, “What else?”

“She—Valente—holds down, well, held down two jobs. Basically maid service at the Cahill Inn and then janitorial work at the McEwen Clinic.”

Where Megan Travers had been employed.

“Does she have any friends?” Mendoza asked.

“Haven’t gotten that far. Don’t know.”

“Okay.” Rivers needed to get moving and took a step toward the door. Mendoza was ahead of him, already calling for deputies to check out Valente’s place.

“Hey, man, I want my phone back ASAP!” Earl jabbed a long finger at Rivers. “Tomorrow.”

“ASAP,” Rivers assured him.

As they clambered down the staircase from the newspaper offices, Mendoza said, “She lives out on Taylor’s Creek Road, an old building just on the other side of the train tracks. I’ve got the map on my phone.” They sidestepped an old Volkswagen van emblazoned with AUNTIE’S ANTIQUES. “Deputies should be there by the time we arrive. Wait—Deputy Brown is calling.”

“Let’s go.”

Rivers drove east toward the outskirts of Riggs Crossing, past the center of town, where people were still on the streets and bright Christmas decorations were visible on the storefronts. The town was bustling, a happy holiday fever in the air.

It was all directly at odds with his grim mission. Squinting against oncoming headlights, he thought about the person who had been photographed at the San Francisco airport. Had the killer left Charity Spritz to hop a plane, then land somewhere—Seattle? Spokane? Then what? Find Willow Valente and kill her within twenty-four hours? If so, it seemed that it might be easy enough to track down airline information. But on whom? Who would want both women killed? And why? He couldn’t believe these killings were random. There had to be a link between them. His first thought was James Cahill. But he couldn’t see Cahill flying to and from San Francisco. Driving would take . . . fifteen or sixteen hours, maybe longer, each way. Nonetheless, Cahill and the missing Megan Travers had to be part of this. And what about Harold Sinclaire’s cabin, where they’d found the black Toyota Corolla? How did it all hang together?

“Okay,” Mendoza said into the phone as he drove past an abandoned gas station. “Just hold her there; we’ll want to