Part 1 (2/2)

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 fis.h.i.+ng 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?

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