Read Online Heartsick by Chelsea Cain - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chelsea Cain
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Psychological, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Mystery Fiction, Police, Police Procedural, Women serial murderers, oregon, Women Journalists, Portland (Or.), Police - Oregon - Portland
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his hand settled firmly just above the small of her back. “As you can see, we’re still setting up office equipment. When we’re done, we’ll have a working squad: interrogation room, conference room, state-of-the-art computer system, et cetera.” They reached an office with a large glass panel that overlooked the main room. The white venetian blinds were closed. “This is the old bank manager’s office,” the mayor explained. “But it appears our current bank manager isn’t here.” He turned to a small dark-haired woman walking past with a badge clipped to the waist of her jeans. She was eating a half a burrito wrapped in a paper towel and her lips were stained with hot sauce. “Detective Masland? Where’s Sheridan?”
She was caught mid-bite, and they had to wait while she finished chewing and swallowed. “The school. Just left. He went over there to conduct some interviews and get the checkpoint set up. I’m heading over there now.”
A trace of agitation crossed the mayor’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said to Susan. “I told him I wanted him to meet you.”
“I realize that he’s busy,” Susan said. “But eventually, I will have to meet him. I can’t profile him without talking to him.”
“Come by tomorrow morning at nine A . M . I’ll make sure he’s here.”
I bet you will, thought Susan.
Ian and Susan drove back to the paper in silence. When they pulled into the parking garage, Ian swallowed hard. “Can I come over tonight?”
Susan pulled at a wisp of pale pink hair. “Where’s your wife?” she asked.
He looked at his hands, still gripping the steering wheel. “Up in Seattle.”
Susan hesitated. “Make it late,” she said. She felt a twinge of guilt, bit her lip, and opened the car door. “You’ll find that stomaching the whole adultery thing is easier if we don’t spend too much time together.”
CHAPTER
9
T here was another reason that Susan wanted Ian to come over late. As soon as she and Ian got to the fifth floor, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, doubled back downstairs, got in her car, and drove across the river to Jefferson High School. There was no way she was going to let a night pass without getting to meet Archie Sheridan.
Portland was divided into quadrants: Northwest, Southeast, Southwest, and Northeast. Which quadrant you were from said a lot about who you were. If you were from Southwest, you lived in the hills and had money. If you were from Southeast, you were liberal and probably a vegetarian. If you were from Northwest, you were young and spent a lot on clothes. If you were from Northeast, you had some money and a dog and drove a Subaru wagon. Then there was Portland’s so-called fifth quadrant: North Portland. North Portland was carved out between Northeast and the Willamette River. Only 2 percent of Oregon’s population was black. But you wouldn’t know it walking down the street in North Portland.
Jefferson High was in this fifth quadrant, or, as it had been recently rechristened, “NoPo.” The area was still recovering from heavy gang activity in the nineties. Teenagers were still occasionally shot dead on the street, but the empty lots thatched with dead grass that punctuated many blocks were getting fenced in and being transformed into multiuse development projects. Blame the gentrification on all the hipster white kids buying up or renting houses because they were cheap and close to downtown. The houses were usually bent with dry rot, but you didn’t have to worry about neighbors calling the cops if your band played too loudly in the basement. The benefits of this renaissance—a bevy of trendy restaurants, boutiques, and renovated old Portland four-squares—had not had much impact on the local school system, which boasted some of the lowest test scores in the state. Most of the kids who went to Jefferson were poor and most were black, and many were no strangers to violence.
Susan noticed the police
She was caught mid-bite, and they had to wait while she finished chewing and swallowed. “The school. Just left. He went over there to conduct some interviews and get the checkpoint set up. I’m heading over there now.”
A trace of agitation crossed the mayor’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said to Susan. “I told him I wanted him to meet you.”
“I realize that he’s busy,” Susan said. “But eventually, I will have to meet him. I can’t profile him without talking to him.”
“Come by tomorrow morning at nine A . M . I’ll make sure he’s here.”
I bet you will, thought Susan.
Ian and Susan drove back to the paper in silence. When they pulled into the parking garage, Ian swallowed hard. “Can I come over tonight?”
Susan pulled at a wisp of pale pink hair. “Where’s your wife?” she asked.
He looked at his hands, still gripping the steering wheel. “Up in Seattle.”
Susan hesitated. “Make it late,” she said. She felt a twinge of guilt, bit her lip, and opened the car door. “You’ll find that stomaching the whole adultery thing is easier if we don’t spend too much time together.”
CHAPTER
9
T here was another reason that Susan wanted Ian to come over late. As soon as she and Ian got to the fifth floor, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, doubled back downstairs, got in her car, and drove across the river to Jefferson High School. There was no way she was going to let a night pass without getting to meet Archie Sheridan.
Portland was divided into quadrants: Northwest, Southeast, Southwest, and Northeast. Which quadrant you were from said a lot about who you were. If you were from Southwest, you lived in the hills and had money. If you were from Southeast, you were liberal and probably a vegetarian. If you were from Northwest, you were young and spent a lot on clothes. If you were from Northeast, you had some money and a dog and drove a Subaru wagon. Then there was Portland’s so-called fifth quadrant: North Portland. North Portland was carved out between Northeast and the Willamette River. Only 2 percent of Oregon’s population was black. But you wouldn’t know it walking down the street in North Portland.
Jefferson High was in this fifth quadrant, or, as it had been recently rechristened, “NoPo.” The area was still recovering from heavy gang activity in the nineties. Teenagers were still occasionally shot dead on the street, but the empty lots thatched with dead grass that punctuated many blocks were getting fenced in and being transformed into multiuse development projects. Blame the gentrification on all the hipster white kids buying up or renting houses because they were cheap and close to downtown. The houses were usually bent with dry rot, but you didn’t have to worry about neighbors calling the cops if your band played too loudly in the basement. The benefits of this renaissance—a bevy of trendy restaurants, boutiques, and renovated old Portland four-squares—had not had much impact on the local school system, which boasted some of the lowest test scores in the state. Most of the kids who went to Jefferson were poor and most were black, and many were no strangers to violence.
Susan noticed the police
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