As he put the phone away, Lewis said, “You believe Durant about the killer following the cops to the motel?”
Peter put the car in gear and eased around the espresso shack to the street. “It’s a reasonable explanation. Two police cruisers sandwiching a big SUV, it’s an easy follow. Especially because the driver of the rear cruiser would have had no reason to look for a tail.” There was a gapin traffic. He hit the gas and pulled onto Pacific Highway. “Let’s go back to Stella’s house and get June set up so she can keep digging. Once she figures out how to find the people KT interviewed, we can make a plan.”
“That reminds me,” Lewis said. “I didn’t bring a piece. I need to make a stop before things get loud.”
“We can do that now if you want,” Peter said.
Lewis smiled, his teeth bright. “Better at night.”
June said, “I think we just passed the convenience store where Geoffrey Reed worked.”
“Should I turn around?”
“No. But his sister’s house isn’t far. Why don’t we stop and see if she wants to talk?”
24
Sylvia Reed lived in a working-class neighborhood less than a mile from the airport. Tucked between several freeways, the small ranch house hid behind a high green hedge with glossy leaves that shone darkly in the soft rain. A cluster of inexpensive vinyl patio furniture had been pulled into the mouth of the narrow driveway, blocking passage through the hedge. A soggy handwrittenNo Trespassingsign was taped to a chair back. Behind the house, a two-story garage loomed.
A pair of newer vehicles were idling at the edge of the street, a heavily logoed KING 5 TV van with a microwave mast on the roof and a silver Pathfinder with a press card on the dashboard. Both drivers eyeballed Peter through rain-spattered windows as he eased past.
There were no curbs or sidewalks, just a muddy verge and abrupt knee-deep drainage ditches flanking the cracked asphalt. At the next intersection, Peter made a U-turn and pulled in behind the Pathfinder, opening his door as a huge Delta jet screamed overhead, almost close enough to touch. The engine noise made Peter’s teeth hurt.
June hopped out of the car and marched toward the furniture barricade. Peter hustled to keep up. As they passed the KING 5 van, its window dropped down. The driver wore a beard, a flannel shirt, and a wool hat. The passenger was a younger man with excellent hair, disturbingly regular facial features, and a spray-tan. “Be careful,” he called to them through the driver’s window. “She’s not doing interviews, and she’s got a shotgun.”
Peter raised a hand in thanks, then broke into a jog to catch up to June, feeling the weight of the .357 in the back of his waistband. “Maybe this is a bad idea.” He’d already been shot once by a member of the Reed family and didn’t want to repeat the experience without a vest.
June kept walking. “Part of the job, Marine. You worry too much.” She wasn’t wearing a vest, either.
“I’m serious. We don’t know anything about this woman. Maybe she’s as crazy as her brother.” They were almost at the tangled pile of patio furniture. He went to grab June’s elbow.
She twisted away and slipped through a narrow gap between an upended picnic table and the hedge. Then she turned to face him from the far side, still backing toward the house. “Sylvia Reed works at a middle school. Which makes her practically a saint. Are you coming or not?”
“You’re not bulletproof, June.”
She flared at him. “You aren’t, either, and that didn’t stop you yesterday.”
“Yesterday I didn’t have a choice. Today I do. Can we pick our battles?”
Her face was stony. “KT was my friend.” She turned away and headed toward the tiny front porch. In the picture window, the long white vertical blinds began to sway.
Peter shoved the picnic table aside and charged through the enlarged opening. “June, let’s talk about this.” He heard nothing behind him but knew Lewis would be right on his heels.
The storm door opened. A gray-haired woman stood in the opening with a worn-looking 20-gauge snugged against her shoulder, barrel rising. Her face was tight, her voice loud and angry. “I told you people to leave me alone. Now get the hell off my property or so help me, I’ll fire both barrels.”
Peter believed her. He slowed, feeling his boots slip in the long, wet grass. “Don’t shoot. We’re going.” He put his hands out, palms forward, trying not to seem threatening, but kept advancing. “Come on, Juniper. Let’s go.”
But June didn’t stop. She climbed the steps to the edge of the porch and pushed back her hood. The rain fell on her face and her cropped red hair. The shotgun muzzle was almost at her chest.
Peter was a few strides back, reaching for her arm, when she said, “I’m sorry to bother you. I was hoping we could chat for a minute. My name is June Cassidy.”
The woman put her finger on the double triggers. “I have nothing to say to you. Leave now or I will shoot.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” June said. “I lost someone yesterday, too. Katelyn Thorsen was my good friend. I’m trying to understand why your brother tried to kill her and her thirteen-year-old daughter.”
Something passed across the woman’s face, an emotion vast and ungovernable. The shotgun wavered for a moment, then steadied and turned toward Peter, centering on his chest. “And who are you?”
He froze. This could still go any number of ways, depending on her state of mind. Her finger was tight on the triggers. He had no idea what loads she had in that thing, but at point-blank range, even birdshot could kill him.
