Perfect Girls: An absolutely gripping page-turning crime thriller Read online

  ‘What about the father?’ asked Rachel. ‘Does he live here?’

  Rainey nodded. ‘Luke. He’s at work.’

  Rachel showed her the family tree in her notebook and then wrote in Luke’s name to the right of Rainey’s, which seemed to please her.

  ‘The baby’s going to be called Lark,’ she told Rachel. ‘Can I put her in too?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rachel handed her the notebook and pen. Rainey wrote the name slowly, in a clear, childlike hand, then held it up and admired it.

  ‘This is so cool… oh, wait, you haven’t put in Cadence.’

  ‘Cadence?’

  ‘Cadence Rowe. Ethan’s sister.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘Really? I could swear Ethan and Norma told me Kathleen only had boys.’

  ‘I guess I mean half-sister.’

  Rachel took the notebook back and looked at her drawing. ‘I thought his half-sister was called Harley?’

  ‘Harland. That was his daddy’s little girl from before Ethan was born. But my mom told me that the reason Ray dumped Kathleen and took off was because he got another woman pregnant, right around when Ethan was born. And that baby was Cadence.’

  ‘Ah.’ An alternate suspect, thought Rachel, her heart speeding. She wrote the name down on the family tree. ‘Do you know her?’

  Rainey shook her head. ‘But I heard plenty about her. From my mom, and my gramma.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Rainey grinned. ‘You know what; I was no angel growing up, but from what I heard, Cadence was way worse. I mean way worse.’ She caressed her belly with satisfaction.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In trouble with the law.’

  ‘What – drugs?’

  ‘Worse stuff. Violent stuff. She’s a quite a piece of work from the sound of it. And now Ethan… they must get it from the Rowe side. Ray was a dark character I heard; you wouldn’t wanna trust him.’

  ‘Well, thank you, that’s all interesting material.’ Rachel gave a tight smile. ‘For the study. Do you know where Cadence lives?’

  Rainey shook her head. ‘On the east coast somewhere I think, like Harland.’

  ‘Are the two of them close?’

  ‘I doubt it. Knowing the way Ray was with family, they probably never even met.’ Rainey was shifting uncomfortably. Rachel stood up and cleared the tea things into the sink. ‘I’ll leave you to rest, but thanks so much for seeing me. And if you think of anything else…’

  Rachel reached reflexively for her wallet to take out a card, then remembered that her cards said she was a police detective from the National Crime Agency, International Division. She ripped a sheet from her notebook and scribbled her mobile number on it. ‘And don’t forget to call your grandmother and tell her about the baby!’

  * * *

  Rachel’s instinct was to phone Perez as soon as she had returned to her hotel, but it was Sunday evening and she reluctantly decided she should leave him in peace until the morning. There was no further investigative progress she could make until then, even though the kaleidoscopic picture had shifted, making the delinquent Cadence Rowe the most promising lead.

  After another fitful night’s sleep, she waited until the sun was up then reached for her phone and dialled.

  ‘It’s a little early, Prince-ess.’ His tone was good-natured.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So what happened – didn’t that address check out?’

  ‘It did, thanks. But it wasn’t the girl I’m looking for, so now I need you to find me another one.’

  ‘You have a name and date of birth?’

  ‘Not a date of birth, but I know she’s around twenty-four.’

  ‘You know what: I’m on the freeway right now. Email me what you have and I’ll get back to you after I’ve checked in at work.’

  ‘Be sure and give my love to Frank Gonzales.’

  Perez laughed. ‘I’m sure he remembers you fondly too.’

  * * *

  An email from Mike Perez appeared in her inbox around an hour later, after she had done some circuits in the hotel gym, showered and had coffee.

  No record of a Cadence Rowe anywhere. Is there another relative who might be able to fill in the gaps?

  Rachel consulted her amateur attempts at genealogy, and wrote:

  Only two possibilities, I think – father Raymond Rowe, born in Oregon, and his older daughter Harland Rowe. Born 1980s? That’s all I have. Do your best x

  She checked out of her room, stowed her bag in the car and walked through the Fields park on the edge of the river. A light breeze blew wisps of cloud through a hazy spring sky and she strolled briskly, feeling energised and purposeful. Although if Perez could not help this time, she was not sure of her next move. Five days of her trip down, only six to go.

  Perez phoned her as she reached her car again. ‘I’ve found Raymond Rowe.’

  ‘Fantastic, thanks.’

  ‘That was the good news. The bad news is, he’s dead. Died two years ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rachel stopped in her tracks, her heart thumping. ‘And the sister?’

  ‘I only found one Harland Rowe. Aged thirty, living near Baltimore.’

  ‘That must be her.’

  Perez read out the address.

  ‘Hold on…’ Rachel scrambled in her bag for her pen and wrote it down.

  ‘So I guess it’s next stop Baltimore, Ms Prince?’

  She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Another day, another city: that’s how I roll.’

  * * *

  The rental car was due to be returned in Madras, but Rachel was not about to drive for two and a half hours to hand it over, only to turn straight round and fly back to Portland. She phoned HandyCarz and explained that due to circumstances beyond her control she would be forced to leave the vehicle at Portland International Airport. A disgruntled employee informed her that an additional ‘relocation’ charge of $450 would be placed on her credit card. Time is money, she told herself, and it seemed hers was currently rated at $200 per hour. On leave meant not on expenses.

  Direct flights between Portland and Baltimore were another time saver, as was the available seat on one due to leave at midday. Rachel sprinted down the jetway and buckled herself in with the same sort of excitement she remembered from childhood car journeys to the seaside.

  She was getting closer, she could feel it.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The difference between time zones was not in Rachel’s favour this time. When the plane had finally taxied and emptied its passengers into the terminal and she had queued to collect yet another rental car – so many now, she could barely keep count – it was after nine in the evening. The map on her phone estimated that the drive to Harland Rowe’s address would take around forty minutes. So by the time Rachel arrived, Rowe might well have turned in for the night. The visit would have to wait until Tuesday morning. For now, a room in another airport motel beckoned.

  * * *

  Pikesville, where Rowe lived, was a pleasant outer suburb north of the city. The nine-storey block was bland 1960s red brick – rectangular windows flanking rectangular balconies – but well-maintained and prosperous-looking, surrounded by mature trees. And it had a doorman.

  Rachel waited while he went into the office area behind his desk twice to fetch spare apartment keys for visiting workmen. When she finally had his attention, he informed her politely that Miss Rowe was out at work.

  ‘I believe she works at Johns Hopkins,’ he told her, naming the world-renowned centre of medical research, adding, ‘She normally leaves like clockwork at five before nine, gets home quarter after five. Can I give her a message?’

  Rachel smiled. ‘It’s okay, thanks.’ She didn’t tell him she would be back later, in case this was relayed to ‘Miss Rowe’, and she in turn was minded not to be in to callers.

  The area around Baltimore’s inner harbour was lively and tourist-friendly. Rachel whiled away a pleasant couple of hours drinking coffee and wandering aimlessly in and
out of shops whose contents didn’t really interest her. She ate some lunch in a seafood restaurant, admired the boats and visited the modern aquarium building. When she passed a bowling alley called ‘Strike Three’, she sent a photo of the sign to Brickall, captioned ‘Guess I’m buying the drinks.’

  And this time, finally, her phone buzzed with a reply.

  You’re still not funny, Prince

  * * *

  And you’re still a grumpy git

  As she stuffed her phone back in her pocket, it rang.

  ‘No good trying to deny you’re grumpy,’ she said, grinning into the handset, ‘Not after that epic two-week sulk.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  It was Rob.

  ‘Oh… hi. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Is this a bad time? Only I can call back later.’

  ‘No, this is fine,’ she said levelly. ‘How was your maybe ex-wife’s party?’

  He paused a beat. ‘Well, I guess I deserved that.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘You’re mad at me.’

  She sighed. ‘No Rob, I’m not mad. But I could use your help.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry I couldn’t take your call over the weekend, I was—’

  ‘Look, I don’t care about that. I want to talk about the Stiles case.’

  ‘Where are you now? Still in Oregon? Or back in California?’

  ‘Baltimore, actually.’

  He took this in. ‘Not so far away then.’ When she failed to respond to this, he went on, ‘So what’s been going on? Fill me in. How was Ethan Rowe, blood relative of a serial killer?’

  So she did fill him in, about the Pine Ridge Correctional Institute, and Norma and Rainey.

  ‘Wow, you’re quite the bloodhound. This Cadence girl: it sounds like you may have found our suspect.’

  ‘Identified her: yes. Found her: no. Not yet. But I’m going to.’

  ‘Well if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.’

  ‘Tricky, if you don’t pick up the phone.’

  ‘Next time I will, I promise.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’d better go—’

  ‘Wait. Rachel… friends again?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ They probably could still be friends, she reflected as she hung up, and walked back to retrieve her car from the multi-storey. After all, she handled the situation better than with Giles Denton. She and Rob hadn’t ultimately crossed the professional line, so she had no right to feel disappointed over his personal life.

  It was five thirty when she arrived in Pikesville, and the doorman had left the condo building and locked up his office. Clearly the service charge did not extend to twenty-four-hour cover. She called the elevator and headed straight up to the sixth floor.

  * * *

  The brains, but not the looks.

  Norma’s assessment of Harland made glaring sense. The door was opened by a plain, dumpy woman in baggy black trousers, a shapeless roll-neck sweater, and the sort of orthopaedic footwear favoured by the elderly. Her hair was a dull mid-brown and worn in an unflattering bowl cut and she looked much older than thirty. Only the Rowe green eyes stood out, from behind thick-rimmed glasses. She reminded Rachel of someone, but it was neither Ethan nor Rainey.

  Rachel’s research cover story was met with a look of scepticism.

  ‘Do you have your academic credentials with you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Well, no, they’re back at my hotel. ‘

  ‘You have tenure where, did you say?’

  ‘At Berkeley. In California.’

  ‘I’m aware of where it is. So you’ll know Professor Roger Goodman.’

  This threw Rachel completely. She groped for a response.

  ‘He used to work with one of my colleagues at Johns Hopkins.’

  ‘What is it you do there?’ Rachel blindly went for a change of subject.

  ‘I work in the medical center. So, you know Professor Goodman?’

  ‘I believe I may have met him, yes.’

  Harland folded her arms across her doughy chest. ‘Well that’s strange, because I just made him up.’ She stared, those unsettling eyes magnified by the fishbowl lenses in her glasses. ‘So, who are you really?’

  Rachel hesitated. The truth was, she could not come up with a sufficiently convincing lie, not when her interrogator was already one step ahead. She was only left with the one card to play: her warrant card. With a sigh, she pulled it out and held it up for inspection.

  ‘Police. I thought so,’ said Harland with satisfaction. To Rachel’s surprise, her smile became friendlier. ‘Come in.’

  Harland led the way into an open-plan living and dining room, with parquet floors and a view over a golf course. The furnishings were spare and functional, but with a few feminine touches. Floral blinds, matching cushions, an arrangement of silk flowers, a linen runner on the dining table. The old-fashioned hall stand had just one coat hanging on its row of pegs, and one pair of frumpy low-heeled pumps on the shoe rack. It reminded Rachel a little of her mother’s house.

  ‘May I get you a coffee, Detective?’ she asked politely. Rachel nodded, and Harland disappeared into the small kitchen off the hall. Her gait was awkward, limping. She reappeared carrying a tray neatly set with a coffee pot, cups, a jug of cream and a bowl containing paper sachets of sugar and sweetener. There was a plate arranged with chocolate chip cookies.

  ‘This is a nice apartment. Is it just one bedroom?’

  ‘Two,’ Harland informed her equably. ‘Do help yourself to a cookie. I made them.’ She offered the plate with some pride, and to make sure the ensuing interview ran smoothly, Rachel took one. Brickall would have taken more than one, she thought, suppressing a smile.

  ‘So,’ Harland spooned sweetener into her coffee and stirred it. ‘I’m guessing that if you’re here from law enforcement, then this is probably about my sister. Cadence.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Harland Rowe was not just prepared to talk, she seemed to positively relish the opportunity. She topped up her coffee – not touching the cookies, Rachel noted – tucked her feet under her ungainly body and said, ‘Shoot – anything you want to know.’

  Rachel took out her notebook. ‘I appreciate you giving me your time like this.’

  ‘No problem.’ Harland smiled. ‘I’ll give you all the time you need.’

  ‘Okay, first: how well do you know Cadence? Did you grow up together?’

  ‘Not really. But my father moved back here to Baltimore after he left his second wife.’

  ‘Kathleen.’

  ‘Yes, Kathleen. He moved here with Debra, the woman he left Kathleen for. Cadence, their daughter, was born here. He left when she was quite little and went back to Oregon. She would have been around three or four at that point, I was in my late teens. Cadence stayed here with Debra.’ Harland paused. ‘I saw her quite a bit when my father was still here. After he left, not so often.’

  ‘So… what was she like as a little girl?’

  ‘Extremely pretty.’ Harland smiled to indicate lack of rancour, but the smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. ‘Gorgeous-looking kid. But a handful. Debra could never control her.’

  ‘And now?’

  Harland looked down into her coffee cup. ‘You know, I really don’t want to bad-mouth her…’

  ‘Anything you can tell me is important.’

  ‘Let’s just say we’re very different people. Cadence started getting into trouble with the law as a teenager. Just small incidents to start with: shoplifting, DUIs, public order offences. But then she fell in with a bad crowd and got into worse stuff.’

  ‘Drugs?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘Probably. That wouldn’t surprise me. But I’m referring to even worse stuff.’

  Rachel’s pen remained poised over her notebook. ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Voodoo. Black magic.’

  Rachel stared. ‘Really? You’re sure about this?’

  Harland nodded, then s
ipped her coffee. ‘Of course I am. She belongs to an occult society. Called The House of Spirits. They believe in rituals, and fetishism, and sacrifices. That kind of thing.’

  Harland’s tone was matter of fact, rather than shocked or disapproving.

  ‘You mean animal sacrifice surely? Not…’ Rachel’s voice tailed off.

  Harland shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘So if the two of you aren’t close, how do you know about this?’

  ‘She told me.’ Harland refilled her coffee cup, holding the pot out to Rachel, who shook her head. ‘She was quite open about it.’

  ‘Do you have a picture of her?’ There was not a single photo on display in the apartment as far as Rachel could see.

  Harland took an album from the bookshelf and removed a picture, handing it to her. ‘It’s quite an old one I’m afraid.’

  It showed a stunningly pretty teenager with an angelic smile, revealing perfect teeth. It reminded Rachel at once of Rainey. And of Phoebe’s school photo.

  ‘Could I keep this?’

  Harland considered for a moment. ‘All right. But I want you to tell me why you’re looking for her.’

  Rachel was absolutely not about to start confiding in this oddly self-possessed woman about the CasaMia murders. ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss the case at this stage.’

  ‘But why an overseas police officer? Why not the FBI?’

  ‘We’re working with the FBI,’ Rachel told Harland pleasantly. Rob had almost certainly handed over the file by now, so this was technically true.

  ‘Oh really?’ Harland’s expression was unreadable. ‘Well then I guess the FBI will be able to find her for you. That’s their job, isn’t it?’

  Rachel ignored this. ‘So you don’t know where she is?’

  Harland paused, as if holding her breath. It was clear that this was for dramatic effect rather than genuine reluctance. ‘The truth is, she’s on the run. I guess that’s the best way of calling it.’