Callahan and McLane.

Targeted.

Kendra Elliot.

To my new espresso machine, which fueled me through this book.

And to the man who watched me fall in love with espresso in Italy and bought me a machine because he knew I'd never buy it myself. He's pretty smart.

1.

The scent of death entered his nose.

Mason Callahan sniffed again, but the odor vanished in the cool morning air.

He'd stepped out onto the small front porch of the remote cabin, sipping his coffee and watching the low fog slowly weave through the tall firs, before the smell had reached him. Inside, the other four men still slept; multiple snores rumbled from the bedrooms.

It was the third day of their escape. After years of talking about taking a fishing charter off the Oregon Coast, they'd finally made it happen. It'd taken some major shuffling to a.s.sign the five detectives the same vacation week, but it'd been worth it. Yesterday's fifteen-mile ocean boat trip had netted them more big lingcod than they could eat in a decade.

He shrugged and stepped off the porch and circled their vehicles, automatically checking for signs of break-in or low air in the tires. He moved toward the forest, searching for the source of the brief rancid scent, but he smelled only the fresh pine nearly masking the faint smell of ocean. Two neatly stacked cords of chopped wood sat in a three-sided wooden shed. The group had built a fire in the woodstove last night, feeling the chill of the coast that hadn't moved into the valleys. Winter was coming, but Portlanders had experienced a long Indian summer that had bypa.s.sed the coast. Mason decided to bring in an armload of wood and fire up the woodstove before the other men woke. He balanced his coffee on the woodpile and started to load his arms.

Death reached his nose again.

Nothing else smells like death. Coppery and putrid and rank.

He froze and then sniffed at the stack in his arms. It's not the wood. He leaned forward and sniffed along the woodpile. It smelled woodsy and musty.

His adrenaline spiking, Mason silently set each piece of wood back in its place on the perfect stack. A dead animal must be nearby. He listened for the sound of a bear or cougar or another predator, but all he heard was the quiet rustle of the wind in the high tops of the fir trees. He slowly stepped around to the back side of the woodshed, his hand automatically touching the empty s.p.a.ce at his side where he usually wore his weapon, and saw the source of the odor.

He sucked in a breath, unable to move. The man's face was hidden by a rubbery covering that had dozens of tiny spikes sticking out of it, but Mason knew he was dead. No one could survive the wide, gaping gash that had opened his neck.

"Denny?"

Mason's vision tunneled as he recognized the shirt Denny had worn to the bar last night and the tips of his thick black mustache poking out from under the odd covering. The ground seemed to sway under Mason's feet, and his fingers went numb.

It was definitely his boss.

Alarms shot off in his head as Mason crouched low to the ground and tight to the woodshed, scanning the area.

Nothing.

He listened harder, searching for a sound, any sound. His gaze jumped from shadow to shadow in the forest.

Silence.

Accepting that he was alone, he took a long look at his friend, fighting the urge to uncover his face, knowing he couldn't disturb evidence. Unable to stop himself, he reached out with one finger and touched the back of Denny's hand.

Ice-cold.

Dammit.

Mason slowly backed around the corner, trying to place his feet where he'd stepped before.

Vacation was over.

Denny Schefte's vacation cabin sat deep in the woods, ten minutes from Depoe Bay. It was the last week of October, so the tiny coastal fishing town was quiet. Unlike during the summer months, when tourists clogged the main highway, searching for vantage points from which to take pictures of the ocean, the enclosed bay, and the quaint town.

Fish and chips, salt.w.a.ter taffy, and miles of backed-up traffic constructed Mason's memories of his old coast trips with his son and ex-wife. This trip had been different. The locals were more plentiful than tourists and the roads were clear. Their group had been the only outsiders in the bar last night. They'd gotten a few stares and had one rude drunken encounter. Mason had blamed Ray in his ironed shirts and polished loafers for highlighting the fact that they were tourists.

The Oregon coastal towns were less affluent than the larger valley cities. This wasn't California. Most of the year, the Oregon Coast was cold, windy, and gray, and many businesses struggled to survive. Tourism was a primary source of income, but the season was extremely short. Mason didn't consider himself a sn.o.b; he'd been raised on a ranch in rural Eastern Oregon, but he'd grown used to a Starbucks on every corner and clean silverware in a restaurant. Yesterday he'd bought a cup of coffee from the snack counter in the fishing shop. Probably not his smartest move. He could drink almost any cup of black coffee, but that one had tasted . . . odd.

It was as if he'd bought that cup of coffee in a different lifetime; today everything was different.

Standing next to him in the yard of Denny's cabin, Ray muttered, "How can this be happening?"

Mason watched him wipe his eyes and politely looked elsewhere.

After backing away from the body, Mason had immediately roused the other three men in the cabin. He'd never been so relieved to see Ray's face. His blood pressure had shot up as he pounded on one bedroom door and then another, scared he'd find more corpses. His partner Ray Lusco, and Detectives Duff Morales and Steve Hunsinger, had lunged out of bed within a split second of Mason's yells at their doors. No rubbing of eyes or stretching of limbs. All three men had been instantly awake and alert, ready to react.

It came with the job.

Anger, shock, and then sorrow had shot through them at varying and dizzying speeds. The four of them had reported the death, studied the scene, and walked a fast perimeter. They'd found no indication that another person had been near the cabin. Now they stood a small distance from the body, waiting for the first local police to arrive. They'd reached out to the locals, the closest OSP office, and Denny's boss. Mason wanted to call Ava but was waiting, wanting to be able to tell his fiancee more than "Denny's dead."

"Did he hear something and leave the cabin?" Duff asked. "Or did he just happen to step outside?"

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it," Steve swore. "Could someone have been inside the cabin? Taken him outside?"

Mason shook his head. "We would have heard. Denny's a big guy. There's no sign of a struggle anywhere between here and his room. No scuff marks, no drag marks in the dirt. He walked out here on his own."

"Where's his cell?" Ray asked.

"He usually keeps it in his shirt pocket." Mason glanced back at Denny. "Clearly it's not there now. I didn't see it when I looked in his room, but I didn't dig. Call it," he told Ray.

Steve darted back into the cabin to listen for a ringtone as Ray called. "It went straight to voice mail," stated Ray. Steve jogged back down the steps shaking his head to show he hadn't heard a sound inside.

"It was probably taken and turned off. We shouldn't start messing with anything that could be evidence," Mason stated. "It's not our place to meddle in someone else's investigation."

"Bulls.h.i.t. This is Denny," said Steve. "We're not going to let the local yokels handle his murder."

"They won't," Mason said with forced confidence. "The murder of an Oregon State Police captain? They'll pa.s.s it up to the Lincoln County sheriff, who will probably call Major Crimes in Salem," he added, referring to OSP's primary office. If the command of the investigation didn't immediately move in that direction, he'd prod until it did. Steve was right. This couldn't be left to the locals.

"Anyone know his ex-wife's number?" Ray asked the group.

Everyone shook his head. Mason couldn't remember the woman's name.

"Two boys, right?" asked Duff.

"Yeah, both married and live out of state," said Ray.

Mason had forgotten that, too.

"We need to be doing something," Steve said. "We can't just stand around." He ran a hand through his hair, making his case of bedhead even worse. "What was the name of that bar we were at last night?"

Mason wasn't the only one thinking about the argument Denny had had last night with a local.

"Pete's Bar," answered Ray. "But you can't think-"

"Yeah, I can," said Steve. "That guy had it in for Denny. If Mason hadn't stepped in, someone would have thrown a punch. I don't know what that a.s.shole's problem was, but Denny said it had something to do with his truck. It sounded like it went back a few weeks."

Mason nodded. "But just because someone made a dent in your truck doesn't mean you cut his throat."

Steve's brown stare met Mason's. "You know as well as I do that plenty of people have killed for less."

True.

"Who saw Denny last?" asked Duff. His calm manner had always been a good balance for Steve's temper. The four men exchanged looks. "I went straight upstairs to my room when we got home," Duff said. "Since Denny was the only one sleeping on the main floor, did you guys see him after I crashed?"

"I stayed up and talked with him a bit down there," said Mason. "I noticed it was nearly one thirty when I went to bed. Anyone else see him later? Or hear him after that?"

Everyone shook his head. "I was in bed before one," said Ray. "I didn't hear anything."

"Same here," said Steve. "What'd you guys talk about?" He turned a curious gaze on Mason.

Dej vu pa.s.sed through Mason. He was suddenly on the hot seat, the one who had seen the murder victim last. He'd been here before, when one of his informants had been murdered and the killer had set up Mason for the crime.

It'd nearly ripped him apart.

"No work stuff. We just talked about fishing and why he bought the cabin," he hedged.

A faint siren grew louder and the men turned their attention to the end of the driveway. Mason's stomach felt as if he'd eaten too much fiery salsa. It burned and twisted. Ray met his gaze, and he saw sympathy. His partner remembered exactly the h.e.l.l he'd gone through last December under the magnifying gla.s.s of his department.

It wasn't going to happen again.

Mason forced himself to stand back and watch as officers from the Lincoln County Sheriff's Department and the Oregon state police from the Newport office tried not to step on one another's toes.

"All we need now is the FBI," Ray muttered.

"Not ruling it out," answered Mason. He'd listened to each word and watched every movement of all the officers. No one would be allowed to make an error on Mason's watch.

A Lincoln City patrol cop had arrived first; the population of Depoe Bay was too small to support a police department. The cop was young and Mason bet he'd never seen a dead body before. As Mason had expected, he'd quickly deferred to the Lincoln County deputy and OSP officers who had showed minutes later. The news of a murdered OSP captain had quickly shot up the ranks. The Lincoln County sheriff appeared, dressed in jeans and hiking boots, looking as if he'd just rolled out of bed. He shook all the detectives' hands and looked each one in the eye as he offered condolences. He strode to the body and bent over, staring for a long moment, his hands on his knees as the morning sun glinted off his silver hair. Mason had heard about Sheriff Michael Jensen for the past decade. The man was known for being outspoken and getting s.h.i.t done. He wasn't an apologizer; he was a doer. If he heard something he didn't like, he handled it immediately. He was blunt and very popular in his county. He came back to the four men and crossed his arms on his chest.

"You want me to call in your Major Crimes Unit out of Salem?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." The four of them spoke at once.

The sheriff twisted his lips. "Usually I'd make a case for my detectives right now. But this one's personal for all of you, right?"

Nods.

"I'd want every available resource on it, too," he sighed. "And I know OSP has a lot more resources than we do."

"We might go higher," said Ray.

"I would," said the sheriff. "If that was my boss and friend, I wouldn't stop at OSP. No offense," he said quickly.

All of them paused as the young Lincoln City cop stopped outside their circle and asked a question.

Mason fully turned, facing the young cop. "What'd you say?"

The cop lifted his chin, looking from the sheriff to Mason. "I asked what's the deal with the Pinhead mask?"

"Pinhead?" Mason repeated. Brief clips of horror films flooded his memory. He'd never watched the movies, but his son Jake had been an addict. He moved over to where Denny's body quietly lay, waiting for the county crime scene techs to start their processing.

Mason stared at the mask that still covered Denny's face. The Lincoln City cop had wanted to remove it when he'd first arrived, but the Portland detectives wouldn't let him touch it.

Mason recognized the character. He'd seen a parade of pop culture horror icons on the TV screen as he pa.s.sed through the family room where Jake had watched movies for hours on end. He had no idea which movie franchise Pinhead belonged to, but knew it'd been one of Jake's favorites. The mask on Denny's face was ill-fitting, gathered and gapped in several places, which explained why he hadn't recognized it as a mask. It'd looked like a lumpy piece of rubber with lines and pins.

He exchanged a glance with Ray, who slowly shook his head as shock crossed his face.

"From the horror movies?" asked Steve. "I didn't realize that it actually was a mask. I thought it was just a jumbled mess."

"What's it mean?" asked the sheriff.

"h.e.l.l if I know," said Mason.

2.

Ava McLane pulled open the door of the tiny shop in downtown Lake Oswego. The bells on the door jangled softly, and she stepped into a s.p.a.ce managed by someone with much better decorating taste than herself. She was instantly jealous. The owner had a pa.s.sion for the beachy home decor that made Ava's blood pressure lower and stress flow out of her limbs. Everywhere she looked she saw something she wanted . . . or possibly needed. Pale distressed wood furniture, striking ocean photos, and beach gla.s.s in icy blue and green shades that relaxed her brain. She picked up a mesh bag of the gla.s.s, running her thumb over the water-smoothed pieces, imagining it in a clear bowl on her fireplace mantel.

She had a purpose in visiting the store. Looking around, she spotted several paintings on a wall near the back of the shop. She made her way through the store, trying not to be distracted by a fabulous weathered chest of drawers that belonged in a home on Martha's Vineyard. She stopped in front of the first watercolor and understood why the owner had featured the artwork.

The paintings of coastlines were striking. Bleak and desolate but deeply engaging in their shades and depth. The loneliness portrayed by the artist's strokes took her breath away. Am I the only one who sees it? Or did everyone experience the emptiness?