The Girl Who Survived(83)

Thomas had rung the bell, then pounded on the door, even called inside, but there was no response.

“She’s not home,” a female voice said, and he turned to spy Sheila Keegan walking across the snow-crusted lawn. “I’ve called her, tried to catch her at the hospital and waited around here, and figure she must be with a friend or something.”

“Or something,” Thomas said, and glanced up the street to where the white news van was parked under a streetlamp and idling, exhaust visible.

“Everyone else left, Cole,” she explained, walking closer, her face beneath the hood of her station’s winter jacket a little shadowed, but he could still make out the slope of her jaw and curve of full lips.

“Who else was here?” Johnson asked, and Thomas felt his partner sizing up the situation.

Sheila was, as always, way too familiar, and he suspected she did it on purpose with her coy smile and knowing lift of her eyebrows, silently reminding him that they’d once been intimate, that for months they’d shared a bed and ultimately she’d shared a source with him, that he “owed” her.

“Mostly freelancers, though someone from the local paper hung around for a while. I expect some of them will be back. And there will probably be more, once the highway’s open again. Portland’s a mess—it always is in a snowstorm—but the stations, they’ll figure out a way to send crews. This is too big a story to let slide.”

He couldn’t argue.

“So, is it true that Kara McIntyre didn’t even wait for a doctor’s release to leave the hospital? Did she really just walk out, past all the guards even though Whimstick General had all kinds of security on-site?”

“You know I can’t comment on that,” he said, irritated that he’d run into her, even more irritated that his new partner was going to witness the conversation.

“Oh, come on, Cole. What about Jonas? My sources say he’s already hired a new attorney and that he, too, is trying to get out of the hospital.”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

Her lips pulled into a tight little knot. “Are you reopening the McIntyre Massacre case?”

“We’re investigating Merritt Margrove’s death.” He figured that was safe. Common knowledge.

“I know. Any suspects?”

He smiled. “You know me, Sheila. Everyone’s a suspect.”

“Don’t try to be cute,” she threw back at him, and from the corner of his eye he saw Johnson give him a what-the-hell look. “I heard the nine-one-one call and don’t ask me how, but Kara McIntyre called in the murder. Was that before or after she picked up her brother?”

“I can’t comment on an ongoing case.”

“Like hell,” she said, challenging him. “And what about the accident? How did that happen?”

“We’re still figuring that out.”

“Why were both Kara McIntyre and Jonas McIntyre, barely out of prison, at Merritt Margrove’s cabin on Mount Hood?”

“As I said, the investigation is ongoing.” Which was the truth. But it was complicated. Jonas had been Merritt’s client, his conversations with his attorney privileged.

“Is Merritt Margrove’s death connected with Jonas McIntyre’s release from Banhoff Prison?” she asked, and waved a gloved hand toward the van parked up the street. “Is he a suspect?”

“We’re looking at all angles.”

“Oh, come on, Cole.” She was frustrated, bordering on angry. “What about Kara McIntyre? How is she involved? Why was she up there? Was it to meet her brother?”

Another quick, frantic wave and the door to the news van opened, a big cameraman hopping to the ground. He was hoisting the shoulder cam in one arm, while in the other hand he was pressing a cell phone to his ear. He kicked the door shut and started heading their way.

“I can’t comment on that.”

“And you don’t know where Kara McIntyre is?” she said.

“No.”

“So she just walked out of the hospital? How? Isn’t her car wrecked?”

“I don’t know.”

Sheila’s eyes narrowed, thick lashes thinning. Over her shoulder, she said, “Carl, can we set up here?” And then to Johnson, who was just slipping her phone into the pocket of her jacket, “So she took Uber or Lyft or had a friend pick her up?”

“Don’t know.”

Thomas’s phone rang and he answered. “Detective Cole Thomas.” He paused, frowned, then glanced at Johnson. “Come on. We gotta go.”

“What?” Sheila’s eyes laser-focused on him. Her reporter instincts went into overdrive. “What’s going on? Who called you?”

“Official business,” he said, and they walked back to the car.

“Meaning what? Does this have something to do with Jonah McIntyre? Or Kara?” Sheila called after them, the cameraman trailing behind. “Well, of course it does or you wouldn’t be here.”

He kept walking, using his remote to unlock his vehicle. The Chevy responded with a flicker of its lights and a sharp beep.

“Co-le,” Sheila said, making two syllables of his first name. She sounded frustrated. “Remember—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I owe you. So you’ve said. Got it.”