He knew they weren't true friends. They listened to him and allowed him to hang around only because he shared his pot and cigarettes. He considered it a small price to pay to tap into their knowledge. Street kids were skilled at hiding and seeing things regular people did not. Need bread? They know which bakery window has a broken lock. Need fuel? They know where extra tanks of every type of fuel are stored in the city. Need s.e.x? Need drugs? Need a weapon? They had the connections to get it all.

He siphoned their knowledge and they pretended to listen to his warnings about the future. He knew when his message reached some of them. Usually the females. They didn't like the thought of an uncertain future and would latch on to whoever they thought would protect them. Some asked to see the place he'd prepared for an uncertain future, but he never took anyone there. People steal. People lie. People kill to get what they think they need. One look at his supplies and he'd be a marked man.

Several of the females had offered him s.e.x in exchange for his protection. He'd refused. He had no need for s.e.x. Another curiosity his doctors liked to explore and offered to medicate. Why fix something that didn't bother him? To his horror they'd discussed it with his mother, along with his other treatments.

He'd raged when she'd brought it up.

She hadn't mentioned it again.

He parked at a MAX station and changed his shoes and coat, throwing the others in his trunk. He preferred to wear the Converse with the holes when he hung out with the street kids. He kept a ratty camouflage-print coat in his car. It was thick and warm but stank to high h.e.l.l. They were articles he knew people from the street wouldn't try to steal from him.

Even if they did, he was prepared. He was never without a weapon handy.

It was important to dress and look like the other street kids. He'd studied them for a long time before making the subtle changes to fit in. In the end they'd approached him. He'd watched long enough to see what caught their interest. For several days he'd hung out near them with his cigarettes always handy, acting as if he didn't have anywhere else to go and ignoring their stares. Curiosity had driven them his way. Pot and cigarettes kept them coming back.

They wanted to know where he slept at night, but he never told them. He lied, saying that he slept on a friend's couch at night but had to be out of the apartment during the day. If they found out he went home to his mother's house, they'd never speak to him again. He was careful to maintain his facade. When he needed his bed, he took the light rail, hopping off and on at multiple MAX stops, watching for followers, but they never tried to follow him. When he finally got off at the stop where he'd parked his car, he'd cut through the lot and circle the block, watching to see if he was followed. He didn't go back to his car until he was positive he was alone.

Good habits.

He yanked a filthy cap onto his head and headed toward the MAX stop to wait for the train. The light rail system would speed him into the heart of the city, where he'd vanish for a few hours and hang with his friends. He'd be back in time to wait outside the man's office building and follow him home.

Maybe he'd watch through the windows for a bit.

The last week had been exhausting and he wondered if his quarry would have anywhere he had to be tonight. He hoped not. He was tired and ready for a break.

12.

"What do we got?" Nora asked.

Mason leaned against the wall, trying to blend in with the paint. Nora hadn't looked in his direction, and he was determined to keep it that way. Zander, Ava, and Henry Becker, the detective who shared Nora's office, sat at the conference room table. Henry was also a new transfer from Salem whom Mason didn't know that well. He'd been added to the case that morning after OSP learned another of its officers had been murdered. Investigators from Vancouver, Lincoln County, Multnomah County, and the Portland Police Department also had joined. One from each location where a murder had been committed.

The task force had been formed within the last few hours, but across the country, officers had been feeling targeted. Several states had experienced sensationalized murders, and new ones were cropping up every month. This week it'd struck Portland. The nationwide hate and panic felt like an erupting volcano, impossible to stop or cool down.

The local media had been digging as hard as possible into Denny's murder and the Samuelson murder. National media correspondents had arrived and crawled through the small town of Depoe Bay like scavengers. Others had set up down the street from the Samuelson home, interviewing willing neighbors. So far the task force had kept Vance Weldon's case from being connected in the news. The investigators still weren't certain if it'd been suicide or murder. They'd all agreed the masks needed to be kept out of the news before the detail caught the imagination of every wannabe cop killer in the country.

The conference room was being transformed. A picture of each victim had been tacked to a bulletin board, along with crime scene photos, a timeline, and maps.

"We haven't found what was used to strike Samuelson in the back of the head. Careful inspection of the gravestones indicated they hadn't been moved for several days," said Ava.

"It looks like we were right that our killer brought a weapon with him. And took it when he left," said Zander. "What else appears to be missing from the scenes? What's been done to the bodies or scenes that we don't see the source of?"

"Good question," said Nora as she wrote, What's missing? on a whiteboard.

Mason thought back to the cabin at the coast and to today's early-morning scene. Then he mentally flipped through the crime scene photos from the FBI murder. "Two of the bodies were lifted. One was hung and the other was lifted to the wall. What did we miss that could have helped with that?" he asked.

The investigators exchanged looks. "In the Weldon hanging, I could see how a pulley could have been used and removed," said Henry Becker. "But there's no location for that in this morning's case. The body didn't have to be lifted that high and there was a chair nearby that we suspect he used."

"That's a.s.suming Weldon wasn't a suicide," reminded Ava. "The medical examiner is reviewing the case again and we haven't found anything to indicate otherwise."

"The masks are the link," stated Henry. "I think we need to treat it as a murder for now."

"That's why the case is on the board with the other two," said Nora. "Let's keep a mental asterisk near all the evidence from that case. We'll view that evidence with a grain of salt until we have confirmation."

Mason's gut told him she'd have that confirmation soon.

"I had officers do a canva.s.s of Samuelson's neighbors this morning," Nora said. "No one noticed anything unusual at the property yesterday. The owner directly behind Samuelson's mentioned that the backyard motion sensor lights go off and on several times a night because of small animals. He told us he refused to complain about it because there'd been a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood about six months ago, and he wanted everyone to do what they felt was needed to stay safe. He knew Samuelson was a state trooper. He liked having him in the neighborhood and wasn't about to cause problems with him over what he felt was a reasonable security precaution. Instead he invested in blackout shades for his bedroom and keeps them drawn at night. He couldn't say if the lights had been activated last night."

"Nothing else from the canva.s.s? No strange cars parked on the road?" Zander asked.

"No," said Nora. "It's so d.a.m.n clean, it's spooky. I want to live in this perfect neighborhood."

"What about home security systems? Did any of his neighbors have cameras running outdoors?"

"None," stated Nora.

"No one saw Brian Wasco jogging at night?" Ava asked.

"No one mentioned him," said Nora. "Some neighbors didn't even hear the police cars respond at one A.M. They woke up at their regular time and were surprised at the activity on their street."

"We found three sets of footprints in the backyard," said Zander. "One set was next to that larger indentation in the barkdust that we saw from the deck. The evidence guys say they look similar to what stocking feet would make."

"They can see prints in that choppy mess?" Ava asked.

"Samuelson's sprinklers are set to run twice a week. The ground was pretty soft right near the deck." Zander shook his head. "I could barely see them when they pointed them out, but our guys are used to looking for things like that. It was clear to them."

"So they think they're Samuelson's footprints from last night because he was wearing socks?" Henry asked.

"It's very possible," said Zander. "There's a bigger set in the same area but they're wearing shoes, and another set that indicates someone stood and looked in the kitchen window. Also in shoes."

"Those are different sizes?" asked Nora.

"They are."

"Two people wearing shoes in the backyard," murmured Nora. "No shoe prints in the house. b.l.o.o.d.y or dirty. Did they take off their shoes?"

"One of the shoe prints in the backyard could be Samuelson's," argued Ava. "It's his yard and clearly he spent time outside. It's well manicured."

"Does he have a yard service?" Zander asked.

Silence.

"Putting it on the list," noted Henry. "I'll look into the burglaries from six months ago, too."

"If he has a service, ask about that large indentation by the deck," said Nora. "There might be an easy explanation for it. Maybe a barrel that they scoop leaves into."

"Our guys think it looks like someone laid down on their side," said Zander. "They pointed out where it's deeper where the shoulder and hip would have been. Once they showed me, I could see it."

Henry pulled up a photo of the indentation on his laptop. "I can't see it," he said. The investigators crowded around his desk. Mason quietly stepped forward and peered over shoulders. He didn't see it, either.

"You have to look at it from the right angle," said Zander. "This photo is from a different one."

"We know Samuelson wasn't lying there. At least not last night. His clothes were clean," said Ava.

"I would revise your statement to, 'He wasn't lying there while wearing the clothes he was killed in,'" said Zander.

Ava nodded in reluctant agreement. Mason felt her frustration. What'd seemed important at two this morning had been suddenly made irrelevant by logic.

"Have we found a connection between Samuelson and Denny Schefte?" Ava tried a new topic. "They're both OSP. Surely their paths have crossed."

"We're still looking," said Nora. "Nothing yet. I have a programmer running database searches of our records to try to put the names together in some way."

"If only there was a database to search for their personal activities," said Zander. "It's best to start with interviews of the people close to them. Who's close to Samuelson? Who does he hang around with?"

"We've reached out to his ex-wife," said Nora. "They were married for a few years about a decade ago. She lives in Idaho and said she hadn't heard from him in over a year."

"Denny's been single a long time. Almost fifteen years," said Mason, breaking his silence. "Maybe there's a connection with that? Maybe he and Samuelson were both members of a dating service or belonged to some singles clubs?"

"Weldon's married," said Henry.

"But his wife said they'd had their ups and downs like any couple," pointed out Ava. "I think we all know that people can find a lot of opportunities online if they want to have affairs or get a date."

Nora made a notation about dating on the whiteboard. "Bank records and credit card reports," she said. "That'll turn up a lot of leads. Who did Samuelson hang around with?"

"I asked his sergeant," said Henry. "He's promised me a list of coworker names."

"Can you set up the interviews with his a.s.sociates and family?" Nora asked. Henry nodded.

"I'll handle the banking records, cell phone records, that sort of thing," said Zander.

"Did we get a complete autopsy report on Denny Schefte?" Ava asked.

"I saw it come in, but I only had time to glance at it," said Nora. "It's too early for some toxicology reports, but the bulk of it didn't reveal anything more than we already know." She glanced quickly at Mason.

He didn't look away. It was odd to know there was a doc.u.ment that described every aspect of Denny's dead body. Half the time Mason forgot he was dead. He expected him to walk through the door, or to hear him holler down the hall. Denny was one of those people who was too alive to be dead. His life force had constantly burst out of him.

It lingered in the building.

"His funeral is scheduled for tomorrow," Nora said slowly, meeting everyone's gaze. "We'll have cameras on all the attendees."

"I want to have this solved before that," Mason stated.

"You're not the only one," said Nora.

13.

Ava rushed through the organic grocery store.

It wasn't her favorite place to shop, but its location by her home was convenient when she needed a few things. She preferred the big generic grocery store with its wide aisles and familiar brands. This store had narrow aisles, foods she'd never heard of, and a tiny bar where she could have a gla.s.s of wine or beer.

She liked the alcohol idea, but the brightly lit store was the last place she wanted to relax and enjoy wine. She noticed several men sitting at the small bar and wondered if they were pa.s.sing time while their wives shopped. Or if they simply liked to hang out at the grocery store.

She shook her head and moved on, searching for crackers that Mason would eat. He liked familiar labels, too. He was highly suspicious of anything new. Especially if it claimed to be healthy. She spotted a type he'd reluctantly eaten in the past and p.r.o.nounced edible. She'd stopped at the grocery store primarily to pick up olive oil, but she'd known they were low on a few other staples.

She grabbed the crackers, whirled around to dash to produce, and nearly knocked over an older man. She grabbed his arm to steady him. "I'm so sorry . . . oh . . . h.e.l.lo." She stared at his face, trying to place him.

He smiled back, "Ava, right?"

She nodded, her brain still spinning.

He saw her confusion. "We met the other day. You bought the art piece I wanted. I'm David."

"Oh! Of course." He clicked into place in her head. "I'm sorry, it's been a busy couple of days." She frowned. "Do you live in the neighborhood?"

A small suspicion niggled at the back of her brain.

"I'm staying nearby," he said. "Did you hang up that lovely piece of work yet? I've been trying to find out more about the artist. She's hard to hunt down. Maybe she paints under a pseudonym."

"No, that's her name," Ava said, and immediately wished she hadn't. "I believe it's the first time she's ever put her work up for sale."

"I'd love to find out if she has more available somewhere," he said.

Alarms sounded in her head.

"I don't know how to help you," she said. "You'll excuse me? I'm running very late." She turned and left before he could answer.

Twice in a few days? Both times with questions about Jayne? Her brain spun with scenarios. He could be a bill collector. No doubt Jayne owed someone money. But would a collection agency send someone to track Ava, hoping to reach her sister?

Maybe he was an enforcer for a drug lord Jayne had stolen from?

"David" was in his sixties. He didn't look like someone who would break Jayne's kneecaps, but to be effective all he needed was a gun. For a normal person, that would be a ridiculous scenario.

Jayne wasn't normal, and Ava knew the scenario was very plausible.