Spiraled (Callahan & McLane Book 3) (5 page)

Mason nodded. The shooter’s feet pointed at the sink and his head was nearly at one of the stall doors. A fine dark mist and small chunks of
. . .
something
. . .
covered the stall door. And the ceiling. Beneath the head, blood had pooled. The center of the pool still gleamed wetly, but the edges had thinned and dried.

“God damn it,” Mason muttered. Beside him Ray nodded, spotting the dried smeared footprints in the blood on the floor that’d made Mason swear. “We’ve got the contact team’s boots for comparisons, right? And the medical guys’?”

“Yes,” said North.

“The back of his head has a big chunk of skull missing,” said Dr. Rutledge. “The size I would expect for this caliber and how close the weapon was.”

Mason carefully stepped as close as he dared and squatted to get a better look at the suspect’s clothing. The jacket was zipped as high as it could go. Its Nike logo on the breast matched the one on the hip of the pants. He pointed at the logos and glanced back at Ray. “Looks like he supports local businesses,” he said, referring to the Nike’s world campus a half hour away. “And likes to color-coordinate.”

“Even you can match black with black,” Ray gibed.

Mason made a mental note to find out if the Nike athletic wear was from a newer line. Had the shooter recently shopped for a new outfit for his last day on earth? He stood, ignoring the quiet popping in his spine as it straightened. “Who pulled up the mask?” he asked the ME.

Dr. Rutledge frowned as he studied the corpse. “I was told the contact team. They checked his vitals and breathing.”

“Young,” commented Zander.

The cheeks, chin, and jawline of the shooter were angular, that look that younger men have when they burn more calories than they eat. Their energy levels keep them lean until they discover the joy of nightly beers, steaks, and burgers.

“I’ll guess early twenties,” said the ME.

“Eye color?” Mason asked.

“Blue,” answered Dr. Rutledge.

Suddenly tired of the gore in front of him, Mason scanned the rest of the bathroom, recalling Walter Borrego’s description. He turned around and walked past the row of stalls to the back portion of the restroom. The layout mirrored the area he’d just left. Stalls, urinals, sinks. Two evidence techs were huddled over a sink as one swabbed something and the other snapped a picture. Mason didn’t want to know what sort of bacteria grew in a public bathroom. Granted, the Rivertown Mall’s restrooms were pretty darn sparkling compared to other public restrooms. They’d been constructed with marble and high-end finishes. Glancing around, Mason figured the janitor made very regular stops to keep the rooms as pristine as possible. He stepped closer. “Find something?”

“Blood on the side of this sink,” said the younger tech.

“Fresh?”

The other tech shrugged. “It’s dried. Don’t know if it’s been there for five hours or five days.”

Mason took a hard look at the clean floor. “Find blood anywhere else?” At the looks on their faces, he amended his statement. “Find blood anywhere else in
this
section of the restroom?”

Both men shook their heads.

“Anything else odd catch your interest?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Mason gave them a nod and went back to the other group, where Dr. Rutledge was stating that he’d take a closer look at the body once it arrived at the morgue.

“We need something to identify him with,” North was saying. “Scars, tattoos, see if there’s anything we can put out there.”

“I’ll see what I can find and let you know immediately,” promised the medical examiner.

“I interviewed Walter Borrego, the older yoga guy who was in the bathroom when the shooter entered,” Mason said. “Who interviewed the father with the boy and the last guy out of the bathroom?”

“Not sure.” North flipped through a few pages, shaking his head. “I don’t have that here. Seems like I saw one of my guys talking to the father. Don’t know about the other witness. I’ll find out.”

“Okay, everyone got their look?” North asked. “Then get out. I need to bring in the next group.”

Mason followed Zander out of the bathroom, feeling the touch of a million tiny vibrations from the death scene scatter along his bones, and wondered what the dead were trying to tell him.

7

At eight in the morning, Ava poured her second cup of coffee as she watched her dog, Bingo, plead with a squirrel in the backyard to play with him. She was attempting not to look at her kitchen. The room was a work in progress. A big, gigantic, messy piece of work. The contractor had ripped out every shred of the previous 1970s kitchen, demolished a wall, and promised her she’d love it one day.

Six weeks, my ass.

Three weeks had passed since the demolition, and she wasn’t seeing much progress. Her usable appliances were reduced to a microwave, coffeepot, and mini-fridge. A million boxes holding her kitchen’s contents were piled in her formal living room. She and Mason had bought the old Tudor home in June. It perched on a corner lot in an older Portland neighborhood with a huge fenced backyard and quiet neighbors. The lot was large but the home was small and needed lots of work to restore it to the condition of its glory days of the 1920s. She’d stepped through the front door and fallen in love. Where Mason had seen money pit, she’d seen quality and strength. It just needed tender loving care. Their contractor loved it, too—maybe too much. If he had his way, their remodel would cost as much as the home. Ava reined him in except when it came to her dream kitchen. Nothing was held back there.

It’d be a while before they could afford to restore the rest of the home.

From behind her, Mason slipped a hand around her waist and pressed his lips against her neck. “You smell like coffee.”

“No better perfume,” she said.

“What’s wrong with Bingo?” he asked, peering over her shoulder and out the window. “He’s been whining for the last ten minutes.”

“The squirrel refuses to play. It just sits on the fence and chatters at him. Are you leaving already?” She’d briefly awoken when he’d crawled in bed, and had noticed it was two
A.M.
She’d asked him if he knew how Misty was doing. He’d told her the doctors had said she’d make a full recovery. Ava had instantly relaxed at his words and gone back to sleep for a total of twelve hours.

“Yes. They spent part of the night setting up a room at the Cedar Edge Community Center to use for the investigation. Zander pulled some strings and got an amazing amount of federal technical support. Washington County had no complaints about the FBI having a foot in the case once they saw the resources he finagled.”

“They shouldn’t complain.” Ava frowned. “The cases crossed and now we’ll work together. They should be thankful we have an interest in why a shooter decided to act.”

He tightened his arms around her stomach. “Last night I stood at the place where you hid with Misty.” He pressed his mouth against her hair, and she felt him shudder.

She exhaled. “I saw it all night long in my dreams.”

“That was no hiding place, Ava. He could have easily spotted you.”

“He
did
see us. He turned around and looked right at me on his way to the bathroom.”

Mason straightened, his arms stiffening. “You didn’t say that last night.”

“I told Shaver during my debriefing. I thought I’d mentioned it to you,” she lied. She’d held back that morsel of information from Mason. There’d been no point in his worrying about something that’d already happened. He’d had enough to think about.

“I’d remember if you’d said that. What’d he do?”

“He looked at me.” She shrugged, covering up the need to shiver. “He was checking the doors in that section of the mall. I met his gaze. He lifted his rifle and pointed it at us, but didn’t shoot. He looked at his watch and left. I felt like he didn’t have time to deal with us.”

“He aimed at you?”
Mason spun her around to face him. His eyes were wide and his hands were tight on her shoulders. “You said nothing last night. Dammit! Don’t try to protect me. You held that back, didn’t you?”

“What good would telling you have done?”

Emotions flitted across his face. Terror, anger, understanding. “Nothing. It would have affected nothing,” he admitted.

She lifted her chin. “I knew that. It would have only thrown off your concentration.”

He pulled her tight to him and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t do that again,” he growled.

She slid her hands around him, guilt creeping over her at the sensation of his heart pounding in his chest. “I won’t.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, forgiveness and intimacy weaving between them. She knew her boss would call about the shooting and no doubt he’d steer her toward seeing a therapist before she returned to work. That was okay with her. She wouldn’t mind dumping her thoughts in a stranger’s lap instead of holding back the scary parts the way she did sometimes with Mason.

“Did they get an identification yet?” Ava asked softly.

“Not yet. We obviously couldn’t give a photo to the news stations, and the description of a tall man in his twenties is too vague. Early this morning the medical examiner told us he had a tattoo on his upper arm, so we’ve added that to the description. I’ll bet twenty bucks the morning newscasts will trigger the right lead once they broadcast that information.” He pulled back and glanced at the silent television. “Not going to watch?”

“No. I don’t need to watch speculation about what happened yesterday.” She’d dreamed about the shooter all night. Sometimes he was still alive as the police rushed the bathroom entrance, and he killed all the team members. Then he stalked up the aisle and shot her and Misty. Other times the shooter had a hostage: the small boy who’d been carried out in his father’s arms. One time she’d dreamed the bathroom was empty, and it was her fault for telling the police she’d seen him go in. Several times she’d dreamed he shot her and Misty during the moment she’d finally told Mason about.

She didn’t want the TV on; the silence inside the old house was soothing. The occasional sounds of the frustrated dog and the teasing of the squirrel kept her grounded after her surreal experience yesterday. She needed normal.

“I get to go watch an autopsy this morning,” Mason said.

“I assumed the examiner already did it, since you mentioned the tattoo.”

“He only looked at the body, trying to put together a better description to broadcast for an ID.” Mason stepped to the counter, poured coffee in his
Star Trek
travel mug, and kissed her good-bye. “I love you,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “Don’t go to any malls today,” he added half-seriously.

“No worries.” She shuddered.

He winked as he left, but she saw the stress in his face.

It was over, and there was no point in worrying over something that had already happened. She wasn’t in a hospital with a gunshot wound.
This time.

She watched out the window as he backed his vehicle out of the driveway, feeling very domestic and June Cleaver-ish. She still had another week left on her vacation. Her goal had been to paint one of the guest rooms, but so far she’d read two books and played with Bingo at the dog park every day. She’d watched the other dog parents, wondering what they did for jobs that allowed them so much freedom during the day.

She could get used to a life of leisure.

Too bad she bored easily.

She glanced at the huge pile of boxes from her kitchen and moaned as she remembered she needed to dig through them to find more coffee filters. The sight was so overwhelming, she couldn’t move. She’d tried to label them as they were packed, but her previous searches for chopped almonds and her cheese grater had proven that something had gone drastically wrong with her labeling technique.

Go buy some.
She’d already made multiple trips to Target to buy supplies she
knew
she had. How many more trips would there be?

How about just finish the damned kitchen?

Last remodeling project ever. The dated master bath popped into her head. It was next on their list to tackle. Surely a bathroom wouldn’t be as disruptive as a kitchen?

Her cell rang, and the sight of the number made her heart speed up. No matter how well her sister might be doing, Ava sweated when she saw Jayne’s number on her phone.

“Hi, Jayne,” she answered, setting down her coffee. She situated herself in an easy chair and propped up her legs. Calls with Jayne often required a comfortable place to sit. Jayne liked to talk.

She was par for the course that morning. Ava heard about Jayne’s previous day at work, and her roommate’s odd clothing choices. Ava smiled, enjoying her sister’s talkativeness. Jayne was currently in a stable position both mentally and emotionally. Her twin had completed an extensive drug rehab program and had spent the last twelve weeks in a good halfway house. She enjoyed her job at a coffee shop, and the customers found her to be amusing. She claimed she was avoiding men and “trying to get myself fixed before taking on someone else’s baggage.”

Ava prayed it would last.

But part of her knew it couldn’t. It never lasted.
Maybe this time it will?
She never completely gave up hope. Several times she’d washed her hands of her sister, but she’d recently watched Jayne make several good decisions in a row, so Ava had her fingers crossed. Right now Jayne was on a solid streak.
Please don’t let her fall.

Even Jayne’s voice sounded in control. Her previously high-pitched, speedy, pointless chatter had been modulated into normal conversation—pleasant and polite. And right now the best Ava could do for Jayne was offer a listening ear. She’d kept her distance as Jayne struggled through therapy and searched for a job. Her twin needed to dig her own way out of her giant hole.

“
. . . 
shooting yesterday.”

Ava blinked as she realized she’d let her mind wander. “I’m sorry. What’d you say about the shooting?”

“It’s just horrible. How can anyone feel safe in public?” Jayne asked with an appropriate amount of concern, in contrast to her out-of-control emotions from six months earlier. “That’s the second shooting this summer.”

Ava didn’t mention she’d been at the mall. There were a lot of things she didn’t tell her twin—like her new address. Jayne and her drugged-up ex-boyfriend had broken into Mason’s old home and stolen personal property.

Once burned.

Ava no longer revealed anything personal in conversations with Jayne. She’d mastered the art of being “specifically vague.” Jayne didn’t know Ava was on vacation, she didn’t know she’d bought a new house, and she didn’t know Ava had dreams of marrying Mason on a beach someday.

Theirs wasn’t the typical twin relationship; Jayne had crushed Ava’s trust over and over. Now Ava operated under a new rule: Share as little information as possible.

But she’d discovered she still loved to idly chat with her twin. Lately the conversations had been blessedly calm and rational, and they only seemed to improve. Ava’s brain took a rest as her twin carried 90 percent of the conversation.

Has Jayne finally harnessed her demons?

Wait and see. Don’t trust her
. Hard lessons learned from her wombmate, Jayne McLane.

“You can’t let the fear of the unknown keep you from your regular life,” Ava advised. “Yes, the shootings are horrible and they severely traumatize our population. But we can’t let them win.”

“Our shop has a plan of what to do if someone is shooting.”

“Every business should.”

Jayne was silent for a moment and then changed the topic to describe a watercolor painting she’d recently admired. Ava relaxed and pretended she was a normal woman with a mentally healthy twin.

Much better than watching an autopsy on a gunshot wound to the head.