Deck just nodded at her, probably calculating the ridiculous number of words she’d just spoken without taking a single breath. Still, she kept going. Better to give him a little something, the way she did with her curious patients.
“Plus, I grew up in San Francisco. In the Double Rock.”
“Double Rock, huh? I’m from Bernal Heights.”
Olivia wondered if it was a detective thing—the way he seemed to look into her, not at her—or a Will Decker thing. Either way, she needed it to stop. Because she preferred her past stay right where she’d put it. In a dark, dank hole—no sunlight, no air—where she hoped it would wither and die.
“You know the Double Rock, then. I can’t believe the place is still standing. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”
“Why?” Deck’s face twisted in genuine confusion. “Look at you now. My mom always said it’s not where you start out but where you end up.”
“I suppose. But I don’t go around telling people, especially at the prison. If my patients knew, they’d think we have something in common.” Which they did, of course. The same twisted roots. Thick as redwoods, persistent as weeds she’d spent a lifetime trying to chop back.
Deck nodded again. Like a therapist would. The keep talking nod. The oldest trick in the book. She wasn’t about to fall victim to her own techniques.
“Was your dad around?” he asked. “As a kid, I mean.”
“Here and there.” She tried not to squirm. But the car felt too small. Deck’s presence, too large. Her secrets, too easily uncovered. “You know, Drake mentioned the Oaktown Boys. About seeing something they were involved in. He’s had a beef with them for a while, with this guy Riggs.”
“Do you think they could be involved? In your professional opinion.” Her words parroted back to her made her blush. Especially now. When she was being anything but professional. Lying by omission. To a detective. To the first man she’d ever wanted to tell the truth to—all of it.
“From what I know of the Oaktown Boys, they hold a grudge, and they don’t think twice about collateral damage, so it’s certainly a possibility.”
Another flash of lightning whipped across the sky, and she shuddered. She didn’t believe in signs, only desperate people needing to see them. To make meaning in a world where fathers did the unspeakable. Where mothers drank away their sorrows. Where love seemed a cruel joke. Still, as the sky lit an eerie yellow, she wondered.
“They’re extremely dangerous,” she said. “Not that you don’t already know that, but…”
After a pause that seemed to extend for an eternity, he turned to her, grinning. “Are you worried about me, Doctor?”
“JB, actually. It would be a shame if he had to start over with a new partner at his age.”
“He’d probably prefer it. Speaking of the old codger, did he say anything about me after I left this morning?”
She leaned in until the warmth radiated off his skin onto her own. He smelled like rain and sweat and dryer sheets. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Olivia sped home down the rain-slicked road, cutting a path through the fog, a sick dread twisting her gut. As she’d watched Deck pause and wave from his porch, it had come to her. And now that awful thought made her foot heavy with urgency.
She zipped past the SPEED LIMIT 45 sign, going well over sixty. The patrol car’s dark nose perfectly camouflaged by the forest, the fog. The inky night.
When she saw it, she cursed, tapped the brakes.
Too late.
It swung out behind her, lights flashing. Siren like a scream.
No choice but to pull to the side of the road. Her tires sank and slipped a little in the swampy shoulder. She peeked up into the rearview, glanced in her side mirror. Still, she couldn’t see beyond the bright lights of the patrol car. Couldn’t hear above the throb of her heartbeat.
It could be him. Though she’d told Deck not to make assumptions, her imagination drew a man. Though she’d told Deck that Drake didn’t fit the profile, the man had slick dark hair, like wet crow feathers. Two beady yellow eyes, like a bird of prey. A makeshift garrote—CDCR blue—ready in his hand.
Knuckles sharp against the window, and she jumped.
“What in the hell, Liv? You need to slow down.”
Her mouth dry, her tongue a useless slab, she cracked the window.
“Graham?” she squeaked. “I thought you got off at two this afternoon.”
“I’m doing extra duty on account of the stepped-up patrols. Keepin’ an eye on folks out here. It’s a good thing, too. Did you know you were doing sixty-seven in a forty-five?”
“No,” she lied. “I must’ve been daydreaming.”
“Daydreaming, huh? Alright.” With a sudden laugh, he smacked the side of the car. “Only if it was about me.”
She tried to smile.
“So, where you comin’ from?”
“Just dropping off a friend.”
Graham leaned down, shining a flashlight at her. At the empty interior.
“He’s not here,” she said, too slow to bite her tongue.
“He? Hope it’s not that Decker fella. The one who snitched on his own—”
A truck sliced the wet air, spraying Graham with rain from the pavement. Not a single strand of his hair moved. Deck had been right about that. She remembered what it felt like under her fingers. Stiff and sticky.
He raised his middle finger at the truck’s taillights. “Asshole.”
“Are you going to write me a ticket or not?”
“That depends.”
Olivia bristled. “On what exactly?”
“What are you gonna do for me?” He paused, looked at her, his eyes narrow slits. “I’m just kidding. Of course I won’t write you a ticket. I know you said you need some space, and I respect that. But we’re still friends, right?”
She nodded begrudgingly, considering the alternative. She certainly didn’t need Graham Bauer as an enemy.
“Maybe friends who sleep over sometimes?”
“Don’t push it. And for the record, we only did that once.”
“Well, for the record, we didn’t really sleep.” He laughed like he’d just delivered the punchline to the best joke he’d ever heard. And she asked herself again how she’d ended up in bed with him. Tequila. Lots of tequila. That, and loneliness. Though she kept it well hidden, it festered like a blister on her heart.
“Just be careful, alright? We’ve got a serial killer on the loose.” He paused, flashed her a brazen grin. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“Congratulations, Graham. Your mother must be so proud.”
“Thank—” The squeak of her window, then sweet silence.
“So?” Em perked up, as the door shut behind her. “What happened with your detective?” But Olivia didn’t have time. She didn’t bother to take off her shoes or strip out of her raincoat. She went straight for it. Stopped cold when she got there, suddenly afraid to go in.
Her mother’s bedroom had been long neglected. She had insisted on packing it up alone, intent on having it all hauled away to the dump. But when the time came to get rid of her mother’s belongings, she’d gotten stuck, unable to cut the last cord that tethered her to the past. So, it had stayed exactly as Olivia had left it, accumulating dust and accommodating spiders.
She stepped inside, shivering. The room at least five degrees colder than the rest of the house. A flick of the light, and she scanned the room. Past the discarded Christmas socks to the row of boxes on the left.
“What’re you doing?” Emily asked from the doorway.
“He knows about Dad.”
“Who?”
“Deck. Uh, Detective Decker.”
“So?”
Olivia groaned in frustration, grabbing for the framed photo set atop the nearest box, a stack of loose photos beneath it. “Did you take these out?”
Emily grimaced. “Maybe.”
“When?”
“A few months ago, when Dad wro
te. I was feeling nostalgic.”
The backing of the frame felt loose beneath her fingers, and the picture she’d hidden inside it slipped right out. The shot caller for the Oaktown Boys—otherwise known as Dad—mocked her with that grin, that blatant tattoo, those thick arms that had scooped her up and carried her away when she’d felt as small and terrified as a rabbit. She remembered it clear as that picture. He’d left red smears on her dress.
“Is it really that big of a deal?” Emily asked.
“Yes, it is. You wouldn’t understand.” She pushed past her sister and up the stairs, slamming the door behind her. Illogical, she knew. Totally irrational. But she couldn’t help feeling as if she’d just been caught with a bloody knife in her hands.
Chapter Thirty-One
Will subjected himself to an ice-cold shower first thing, watching as the water swirled down the drain. With it, the urge to grab a fistful Olivia’s hair and press his mouth to hers. Because that would be a mistake. A colossal fuck-up. Keep it professional. Keep it simple. He’d learned that much from Amy. When they’d met, she’d been fresh out of the academy, a rookie cop. He’d been a hotshot first-year detective. Then, he’d turned into a pariah, and she’d exited stage left.
As Will toweled off for the second time that night, his cell rang.
“Hey, partner, what’s up?”
A basketball game blared in the background. Chewing noises right in his ear. “Did you get the email from Forensics?”
“Hang on. I haven’t checked.” He hit the speakerphone, scrolling through his email, leaving a few drops of water on the screen. “I just got out of the shower.”
“Well, it came in over an hour ago. What the hell are you doin’? A steam and a facial?”
“Bubble bath.”
“Figures.”
Will opened the email, subject line: TIRE TRACKS. He scanned the text as JB talked.
“Looks like they found a match in the Tire Tread Guide. It’s a Michelin Road All-Terrain Truck Tire.”
Will murmured his agreement, anxious to get off the phone. After the night he’d had, JB’s antics were the last thing he needed.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m calling?”
Will made an exasperated face at himself in the mirror. “I thought you’d already told me.”
“Do you honestly think I’d call in the middle of Duke versus Carolina, with a full tub of popcorn—real butter—to tell you to check your email?”
“Why are you calling, JB?”
“Ha! I thought you’d never ask. This is good, City Boy. You might want to take a seat on the john.”
“Sitting.” Only because JB had already worn him out.
“I called over to the prison. Apparently, they have a fleet of work trucks they store off-site, a little ways down Pine Grove Road. Guess what kind of tires they put on those babies?”
Will headed for the garage. In one hand, he carried his laptop. In the other, the five-pound sack of Tasty Whiskers he’d picked up that afternoon from the grocery mart downtown, along with a litter box. He poured a handful of kibble into an old pie tin and watched as the smell reached Cy’s nose. It twitched a few times before he opened his eye and sauntered over, giving Will a pointed look, as if to say, it’s about damn time.
Will signed in and opened up the Fog Harbor Police database. He typed the inmate number he’d committed to memory.
As he pored over the file, the rain beat on, and his thoughts drifted to Olivia. How she’d leaned in to his space, daring him. How she’d smelled like fresh air and salt water. It seemed inevitable. Someday, he’d be stupid enough to kiss her.
*
SUPERIOR COURT OF CALIFORNIA
COUNTY OF SAN FRANCISCO
PROBATION OFFICER’S REPORT
NAME: MARTIN REILLY (aka Mad Dog)
ADDRESS: 164 LARKSPUR LANE, APT “E”
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
DOB: 11/5/63
AGE: 29
SEX: M
RACE: CAUCASIAN
TYPE REPORT: PRE-CONVICTION
DEFENSE ATTORNEY: PAULUS PROSECUTOR: O’LEARY
PRESENT OFFENSES:
COUNT 1 PC 187 (MURDER), FIRST DEGREE
COUNT 2 PC 209 (KIDNAP)
COUNT 3 PC 12022(b) ARMED WITH DEADLY WEAPON, NOT FIREARM
CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE OFFENSE:
ON MAY 3, 1992, AROUND 1 P.M., SAN FRANCISCO POLICE OFFICERS RESPONDED TO REPORTS OF A WOMAN SCREAMING IN APARTMENT E OF THE DOUBLE ROCK PROJECTS IN SAN FRANCISCO.
UPON ARRIVAL, OFFICERS LOCATED THE VICTIM, TINA SOLOMON (AGE 28), LYING FACE UP ON THE FLOOR OF THE LIVING ROOM, BLEEDING FROM THE NECK AND CHEST. SHE WAS UNRESPONSIVE. OFFICERS RECOGNIZED SOLOMON AS A KEY WITNESS IN THE UPCOMING MURDER TRIAL OF OAKTOWN BOYS GANG MEMBER, CHRISTOPHER “BABY FACE” DESOTO. SHE WAS TRANSPORTED TO SAN FRANCISCO GENERAL HOSPITAL WHERE SHE WAS PRONOUNCED DEAD ON ARRIVAL. AUTOPSY RESULTS INDICATED A FATAL SLICING WOUND TO THE NECK WHICH SEVERED THE CAROTID ARTERY. DEFENSE WOUNDS WERE FOUND ON THE VICTIM’S HANDS AND FOREARMS.
A WITNESS INFORMED POLICE THE DEFENDANT HAD FLED THE APARTMENT A FEW MINUTES BEFORE POLICE ARRIVED, CARRYING HIS DAUGHTER, “OR” (AGE 8). OFFICERS LOCATED THE DEFENDANT IN A NEIGHBORING APARTMENT. AFTER A BRIEF STANDOFF, HE SURRENDERED TO POLICE. “OR” WAS TAKEN INTO PROTECTIVE CUSTODY BY THE DEPARTMENT OF CHILD AND FAMILY SERVICES. ACTING ON AN ANONYMOUS TIP, THE MURDER WEAPON WAS RECOVERED DAYS LATER UNDER A SEWER GRATE IN THE TENDERLOIN DISTRICT.
MARTIN “MAD DOG” REILLY IS WELL KNOWN TO SFPD AS A HIGH-RANKING MEMBER OF THE OAKTOWN BOYS. THE SERIOUS NATURE OF THE CRIME AND REILLY’S GANG INVOLVEMENT MAKE HIM A POOR CANDIDATE FOR PROBATION.
RECOMMENDATION: PROBATION DENIED, STATE PRISON
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shauna Ambrose stumbled from the Hickory Pit through the cobwebs of fog toward her sunshine-yellow Mini Cooper. The parking lot spun like a tilt-a-whirl as she careened through it, staggering. Her polka-dot umbrella wobbled over her head. Every bit of her, soaked.
She should’ve left hours ago. With the Murdock twins or that rookie CO. Whatever his name was. But she’d never known when to say when. Now, her brain felt fuzzy, filled with cotton balls. Cotton balls soaked in vodka and laced with bad decisions. Like flirting with Hank. To her, it meant one thing. She’d always liked to be noticed, desired. To him, it meant something else entirely. The distance between, as vast and slippery and dangerous as the rocks at high tide.
When he’d put his hand on her thigh and his mouth on her ear, inviting her into the men’s room, she’d panicked. I’ll meet you there, she’d told him, with a wink. But the moment he’d disappeared inside, she’d tucked her phone in her pocket and made a run for it. Her heart thrashing like a caged bird in her chest.
Shauna looked back over her shoulder—no one, thank God—and nearly lost her balance. The umbrella tumbled from her hand and skittered across the lot, blown by a gust of wind and another and another until it was lost in the fog. She didn’t know why she ran, only that it seemed necessary to put as much distance as she could between herself and Hank. Between herself and this whole rotten day.
Locked safely inside her car, she felt better now. Wet and freezing, but better. Almost giddy. She giggled, burped, then giggled again, searching her purse for her iPod. She needed “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” and she needed it now. That song was the epitome of happiness, the antidote to everything gone wrong.
As she pawed through her things, her woozy head floated away like a runaway balloon. But the feeling didn’t last. The balloon popped and shriveled as a palm smacked on the window beside her. Hank’s face through the rain-streaked glass. Mouth open, teeth bared. Eyes wild.
“You’re drunk,” he yelled. “You shouldn’t be driving.” Then, when she jerked the car into reverse, “You’re crazy, Shauna!”
All true, sadly. Maybe her parents had been right when they’d told her to pick a new major. Anything but psychology. Then, to pick a new job. Anywhere but the prison. When she’d moved in
with her grandmother in Fog Harbor, they’d probably taken bets on how long it would last. How long till she’d run back to San Francisco with her tail between her legs. Now, she’d have to tell them they’d been right all along. She’d have to start over, toss out her college dreams of saving the world one sad soul at a time. Probably they’d make her get a desk job like her mother, answering phones for important people and watching the seconds of her life tick by.
With a sob, Shauna floored it, hurtling through the empty lot and ignoring the vicious scrape as she bottomed out at the dip near the exit. In her rearview, Hank flailed like a fish out of water. Flopping in the cold rain.
The windshield wipers worked double time. Even so, she could barely see the road in front of her. In the fog, the world revealed itself too slowly. The double yellow line seemed to blur in and out of her vision. Her thoughts swam in circles.
Most of all, she regretted telling Dr. Rockwell about Drake. She shouldn’t have blamed him for the photo, shouldn’t have told on him about the phone. At least she’d kept the one thing to herself. Well, mostly. The thing she’d seen today in the chapel. She’d tried to put it out of her mind completely. She’d have to, or else. But the memory lodged at the back of her brain, sharp and penetrating as an icepick.
Anyway, the photo with Drake meant nothing. Hardly overfamiliarity—not even a real word, by the way. It’s not like she’d straddled him in the kitchen storeroom or smuggled in cocaine. Hank had done worse, and look at him. A sergeant.
The car drifted to the left.
Headlights blinded her. A horn blared.
She jerked the wheel to the right and skidded off the road, her front end colliding with the sign she’d passed hundreds of times: PRISON AREA: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS. It crunched against the hood, the metal pole yielding, bending toward the ground in surrender.
Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1) Page 18