Page 98 of Paranoid

“Maybe,” he said, pointing his remote at the oversized flat-screen.

But he didn’t believe it for a second.

He wondered if the article in the newspaper would stir any interest in the police department. Probably not. The case had been long forgotten.

Until now.

Shit.

He didn’t like that pot being stirred. His family, fractured as it was, couldn’t take the hit.

Nor could he.

He hesitated a second, staring at the TV as the late-night host interviewed some beautiful young star he didn’t recognize, then reached into the side pocket of his chair and pulled out his laptop. Unbeknownst to anyone currently working in the department, he could still access the Edgewater PD database.

Before he’d retired, he’d dated the secretary/computer whiz for a while. He’d spent a lot of time with her at the office, then later after hours, often at her house. He’d found passwords that were long out of date, but had learned how to access her account and knew where she kept her list of user names and passwords. Whenever he was blocked, he logged in as if he were she, remotely, and checked her own password manager and, presto, he was in. He felt a little bad about using Donna as he had, but a guy had to do what a guy had to do.

He finished his beer, crushed the can, tossed it into the trash along with the newspaper, and logged in as D.J. Larimer in the department and tried the latest password she’d concocted using a combination of her mother’s birth date, a symbol, and an old family pet’s name. He entered 19Rosco46* and was in. A smile crept across his jaw, and not for the first time he was thankful that the sleepy little police department was small enough not to have up-to-the-second technology. At least so far. He started searching and, as the late-night host paused for a commercial break, whispered, “Thank you, Donna Jean.”

* * *

Cade rubbed the kinks from the back of his neck as he stared at his ex-wife’s cottage. So far, the night had been quiet and he wondered if he was wasting his time. He checked his watch. Almost two. He’d give it another two hours, then go home and sleep for a few before work. He was used to little sleep and was fortunate enough to be someone who could catch up on hours lost by logging in more hours the next night.

So far.

He kept telling himself that the text Rachel had received might have been in error or some kind of stupid prank, but why the message “I forgive you”? Didn’t make sense. And the vandalism on the door? That, too, could be a nasty prank spurred by the article in the newspaper; God knew there was a lot of hate to go around these days. He wondered if Frank Quinn was involved—and was that even his real name? Had he been at Rachel’s house? With the dog? Or was that a cover? Was Quinn the person who’d marred the door? If so, why?

He slouched in the pickup. Then there was Violet Sperry’s murder. Who would kill Violet and why now?

He kept coming back to the article in the newspaper and the twentieth anniversary of Luke Hollander’s murder.

Were all the events, including that long-ago homicide, connected?

He didn’t know, and it didn’t seem likely.

Yet the murder, vandalism, and weird text had happened over a matter of only a few days.

Coincidence?

He didn’t think so.

He would contact Kayleigh in the morning and see how her investigation was going, and then talk to Richard Moretti, the doctor who had declared Luke DOA at the hospital. And while he was at it, he needed to talk to Ned Gaston, his ex-father-in-law. Ned wouldn’t want to talk about the long-ago murder of his stepson, or the fact that his only child had been the primary suspect in the homicide, but if the events were somehow related, and they seemed so, then Cade would need Ned’s insights. Like it or not, Rachel’s old man had been first on the scene.

He yawned, leaned back, and felt his cell phone vibrate. Glancing at the screen, he saw Ed Nowak’s name and number as he answered.

“Ryder.”

“Nowak here. I’m down at St. Augustine’s,” he said curtly, all business. “You’d better get down here. We’ve got a victim. Deceased. Homicide. Strung up on a bell rope and blindfolded.”

“What?”

“There’s more. Hell, Cade, your daughter and her friend discovered the woman.”

Harper? “Wait—what?” He glanced back at Rachel’s cottage. “My daughter?” But that was impossible. Harper was right here, in that house . . .

“That’s what I said. She’s here with a young man. Xander Vale. They are both fine. Got that? Your kid is okay.”

Cade threw another look at the house. No way would Rachel have let Harper be with that kid at two in the damned morning. And on a school night... Wait. Oh Jesus. “Who is it? The victim?”