After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 68

“She did. Called last night.”

Trent relaxed a little, but didn’t understand why Carter was here.

“Jenna wanted you to know, didn’t want you to worry. In case you hadn’t heard from her.” A sidelong glance.

“Thanks.” But there was more. Trent sensed it as surely as he knew that rain would pour from the heavens before nightfall.

“She’s coming back. Probably tomorrow.”

So there it was, the reason for the visit. Next, he expected, would come the warning to back off again. Judging from Carter’s attitude it would be couched in a bit of family concern, not quite as harsh as it might have been, but he’d be told to “stay away.” Probably for the sake of Cassie’s emotional and mental state.

However it turned out Shane was through. “Jenna wanted me to thank you. She was busy with the local theater today, but she’ll try to give you a call. If we hear anything else, we’ll let ya know.” He hitched his chin toward Trent’s small herd of mares. “Good lookin’ horses,” he said, thumping a fencepost with his fist before heading to his Jeep.

Helluva thing, now that his marriage was nearly over, his wife’s family was treating him with some kind of guarded respect. Son of a bitch.

As Carter drove away, Trent’s thoughts turned to Cassie. It pissed him off that she didn’t have the decency to return his phone calls. Carter had said she was returning to Oregon in the next couple of days.

Trent wasn’t about to wait.

Shorty would see to his place and the livestock. He’d make sure of it just as soon as he booked the first available flight to LA.

Striding to the house, he pulled his cell from his pocket, punched out Shorty’s number and glanced at the sky just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Enough with the unanswered phone calls and texts.

He was going to see his wife face-to-face.

Whether she liked it or not.

The day had been a bust.

Cassie had driven all over LA and beyond, adding another hundred or so miles to her odometer but getting nowhere. No one had been available to talk to her, no one had returned her calls. She’d spun her wheels trying to get answers and had come home with the feeling that she was some kind of pariah. She’d left voice and text messages with anyone she could think of who might know something about Allie, and in the end she’d only connected with Sig Masters, who had actually pulled the trigger and shot Lucinda. He had refused to meet with Cassie. On the phone, he’d sounded freaked beyond freaked.

“For the love of God, Cassie, I can’t talk!” She’d heard the click of a lighter and the quick intake of breath as he’d lit a cigarette. She’d just filled her tank with gas and had pulled onto a side street, parking in the shade of a tall building, when she’d finally gotten through to him. “My lawyer has advised me that I shouldn’t say a word to anyone. Not to any of my friends or anyone I worked with on Dead Heat or the police or . . . oh, shit . . . every fuckin’ person on earth! It’s a nightmare, y’know. I didn’t mean to shoot Lucinda Rinaldi and I certainly didn’t mistake her for Allie Kramer, and I’m not a murderin’ bastard. I didn’t even know Allie. I’m sick of being hounded, y’know? No one will hire me, but the press . . . shit . . . they’re all over me. But . . . fuck it. Just leave me the hell alone.” He’d hung up abruptly.

Rebuffed, Cassie had considered calling back, but figured she’d get nowhere. Instead she had stopped at her apartment, picked up her mail and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then headed to a fast-food restaurant where she grabbed an iced tea. After that she drove to the athletic club where Ineesha Sallinger worked out. Knowing that the prop manager was a gym rat who worked out two hours or so a day, often after work, she parked in the shade on the street with a view of the club’s front entrance. Then she settled down into the driver’s seat to wait.

She spent the time on her phone accessing the Internet before sorting through the snail mail that had been left at her apartment. Most of what she had were bills, but there was one envelope she hadn’t spied earlier, this one hand-addressed. She opened it with a fingernail and found an invitation for the members of the cast of Dead Heat and the media to a party celebrating the premiere of the movie. The event was to be held at the Hotel Danvers in Portland, where several scenes of the film had been shot, and the party was hosted by Dean Arnette and Galactic West Productions. It was slated for the coming weekend—only a few days away—and an RSVP card was enclosed.