“So she expected to die,” Chelle mused, opening the stationery and reading, her eyebrows drawing together. “Weird. ‘Makehimpay,’ but ‘Theykilled him.’ Like two or more people actually killed her son and she kept it quiet, even though she knew? And now, what? One or more of them are gone? What happened? Did they move away? Did they die? I don’t get it,” she said, but the wheels were turning in her head when he gave her the bank statement and torn vehicle registration for the van. “More?” she asked. “What’s this?”
“From Levi Hunt. The bank statement came with the note from his mother. He got hold of the van’s registration from Sievers and did some checking on his own.”
“Yeah, he’s a PI. I know that much.”
“Right.” Rand relayed his conversation with Levi including, when she asked, that Levi didn’t know how Cynthia got from the care facility to the lake. She bit her lip, lost in thought as she returned the note to Levi. “Do you have any theories?”
“Nothing solid. Just bits and pieces,” he said. Over the course of the fitful night and the run this morning, his thoughts had gone down dark alleys to blind corners and blank walls and doors that he was going to force open. But his ideas were half-baked at best, worrisome and dark at worst, and certainly not ready to be shared.
She perused the pages, her eyebrows drawing together. He thought about what he’d known about Vargas and decided the guy made up personas with his aliases. No way could someone named Larry Smith pull off the cool hippie vibe Trick exuded.
“So you think this is all connected?”
“Don’t know. But possibly.”
“So we need to find Trick.”
Chelle, bothered, set the page of stationery aside. “Strangest suicide note I’ve ever seen.” She glanced up at Rand. “As for our friend with the multiple aliases, I haven’t nailed his whereabouts down yet. But I’m hoping good old Moonbeam can shed some light on where he might have landed.” She smiled at her own joke. “Van Arsdale—she’s Janet Collins now—still in the area. Milwaukie—well, really the Oak Grove area—divorced with two teenaged sons. I’ve got a call in to her.” She eyed him speculatively. “You didn’t have any dealings with them growing up? Moonbeam and Trick/Larry?”
“Are you asking if I scored drugs there? No. I knew about it but wasn’t into it.”
“What about girls?” Chelle asked. “Did you score with any of them?”
He scoffed. “Give me a break.”
“Hey, I was just asking.” She blew across her cup before taking a swallow and eyeing him over the rim. “Wasn’t it the Summer of Love or something?”
“Not that year,” he said. “Not for me. I was in the army.”
“If you say so.” Chelle slid out of her chair and walked to his desk. “So you’re reopening the Olivia Dixon case?” she asked, motioning to one of the case files on his desk.
“Just looking it over.”
“Maybe find some connection to Chase Hunt’s disappearance?” she suggested, leaning back in her chair. “Both happened on the same night. With Harper Reed at the center of both investigations.”
“Don’t think there’s a connection,” he said, noticing the papers strewn on her desk. “You’ve got Anna Reed’s file out, too.”
“I figured another look wouldn’t hurt.” Taking a sip from her cup, she said, “Too many deaths around the damned lake. All with connections to Dixon Island and Harper Reed.”
“You still think Harper’s involved?” he asked, disbelieving.
“I can’t make the connections,” Chelle admitted, “but she’s always there, on the fringes.”
Much as he’d like to, Rand couldn’t argue the facts.
“Not only did she mess up her grandmother’s pills and it killed her but she was there when Anna Reed ended up in the lake—”
“She was a kid,” he reminded her.
“And then there was her brother, too. She found him.” Chelle held his gaze. “Kind of a lot of trauma for one girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“Evan’s case was open and shut.”
She reached for a file on her desk, flipped it open, and scanned the old pages. Her brow furrowed and her lips puckered.
Rand read Evan Reed’s name typed in bold letters.
His insides squeezed. No way did they need to look into Evan Reed’s death.