As she dropped into her desk chair again, she made a note to meet him personally and check to see if anyone had a life insurance policy on Brandi Potts. Just in case. Though it seemed from outward signs that Brandi’s murder was more likely related to the other women who were a part of Dead Heat than a kill-for-a-quick-payoff scheme, you never knew. Nash had already decided to look into Conger’s finances and to check just in case girlfriend number two was stashed away somewhere.
Besides, Brandi Potts’s connection was a thin thread as she was only an extra.
Nonetheless, Nash kept coming back to the film and the fact that Dead Heat’s female lead was still missing.
Where the hell was Allie Kramer?
Nash wrote the question down and circled it. The timing of the star of Dead Heat’s disappearance had to be significant. Had she been killed, an earlier victim of the same killer? Then why hadn’t her body been left and displayed in plain view like the others? If the killer’s MO was to leave the dead bodies at the killing ground and decorate them with a bizarre mask, then why hadn’t he done the same to Allie? Or had she somehow escaped? Had she been warned of the attack that would happen on the set? If so, how? Who had tipped her off? Was she involved? If so, how had she vanished off the face of the damned earth?
Frustrated, Nash reminded herself to double- and triple-check the chain of command on the prop gun again. Someone had messed with the weapon. Someone who had access. It seemed a very unlikely coincidence that Allie Kramer’s double had been gunned down on the last day of filming when Allie herself hadn’t been on the set. The actual shooter, Sig Masters, was still on the list of suspects, but from all outward purposes he had no reason to try to kill either Lucinda Rinaldi or either one of the Kramer girls, each of whom, at one time in the script, Nash had learned, was to be the target of the killer in the movie.
She was missing something, she knew it.
The obvious link was Cassie Kramer, sister to Allie, daughter of Jenna, but that was just too easy, Nash thought.
One killing had occurred in LA.
The next happened in Portland.
Of course Cassie Kramer had been in the area of each homicide when it had been committed.
Convenient.
Others connected to Dead Heat had been up and down the coast.
It seemed unlikely that there were two killers, so whoever had shot Holly had come to Portland in the last few days and killed Brandi Potts.
Nash tapped her pencil on her notepad. Every damned lead was guiding her back to Cassie Kramer. She’d been on the set when Rinaldi had been shot, here in Portland on location, she’d been in LA and had drinks with Holly Dennison the night before the woman was murdered, and she was back in Oregon last night when Brandi Potts had been gunned down.
And, of course, there were the notes on the backs of the hideous masks: Sister. Mother.
Who else would refer to the women in the pictures as such?
Someone who wanted to set Cassie Kramer up as the fall guy while he or she had her own reasons for wanting the two women killed? What if the masks were a distraction? What if they were left with the sole purpose of keeping the police guessing and pointing them in the wrong direction? What if there were some other unknown links between the women? An ex-lover? The only witness, Peggy Gates, had said she’d seen a woman or small man running from the scene. Hell, that person, male or female, might not be the shooter. He or she could be a witness to the crime, who ran off or was running for some other reason.
Except there was another piece of damning evidence that had just come in via e-mail from the traffic department. Nash looked up at her computer monitor to study an image captured by a traffic cam late last night. A woman driving a Honda making an illegal U-turn within half a mile of where the murder took place. The traffic cam had time-stamped the picture at 1:14 AM and the woman behind the wheel of the car registered to her name? None other than Cassie Kramer.
Cassie was not only in the area, she’d been within blocks of the murder within the time frame that the crime had been committed.
Yeah, it was harder and harder to think Cassie effin’ Kramer, certified mental case, wasn’t involved with two homicides, one attempted homicide, and her sister’s disappearance.
Still, it didn’t sit right.
Disgusted, she threw her pencil onto the desk just as she heard someone outside the opening to her cubicle. As she looked up she found Double T entering her space.
Somewhere between the middle of the damned night and now, he’d managed to change into fresh jeans, an open-collared shirt, and jacket. In his right hand, he carried a bag with a sticker indicating that he’d stopped at her favorite local deli, located on the opposite side of the next block. In his left, he held a drink carrier with two oversize cups. “Figured you could use something besides bad coffee and ibuprofen.”
“You’re right.” And to confirm, her stomach growled.
“I like the sound of that.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Pointing at the bag she asked, “What’ve you got?”
“Vegetarian Delight or some such crap. And a Diet Coke. I know you’re a purist these days and try to avoid soda and sweets and whatever, but go ahead, indulge. Live a little. A little caffeine and pseudo sugar could do you some good.”
“Or more harm than good, but okay. I’m in.” She needed a kick start and some days all the body cleansing, organic foods, and meatless Mondays got to her, so she broke training. Today just happened to be one of those days.
Double T set the drinks and white sack on the corner of her desk, then pulled up the visitor’s chair and spread out the lunch. After a morning of bitter coffee, two power bars, and yes, the ibuprofen, the contents of the bag smelled like heaven.