by Trisha Wolfe
I hold up a hand, halting her retreat. “Miss, one more second. Please.”
“Make it half a second, duce. I gotta get my girl to her gig.” She nods to another young woman sporting an even shorter jean skirt seated on a motorcycle.
We interviewed everyone from the adjourning businesses last night, canvassed the nearby neighborhood today, but somehow missed this one waitress. “Were you working last night?”
She shakes her head. “No. Like I told your partner here, I’ve only been in Arlington for a couple of days. Tonight’s my first shift, thanks to a friend who got me the hookup.” She glances around the alley. “But to be honest, I don’t need this crazy-ass, serial killer shit you guys got going on here. Not in my life. Soon as I heard the news…” She throws up her hands. “We’re riding out tonight after Dar’s shift.”
Smart girl. “Safe travels.”
“Thanks, duce,” she says with a wink, then heads off toward her bike.
There’s a look of longing on Carson’s face as he watches the biker girl leave. I have to admit, I don’t blame him. It is tempting… Maybe twenty years ago tempting for me.
He’s making the right call, though. He could’ve held her here for another twenty-four hours. Longer if he pressed the full charges. The white powder coating the tip of her nose and the jacked-up tremble of her hands are dead giveaways.
“Glad to see you got the right head in the game,” I say, drawing his attention away from the girl.
He jerks his head back, feigning ignorance. “I don’t have time to waste on simple possession charges. Not with another murder hitting headlines.”
I let it ride. He knows I’m talking about more than popping the girl with a drug charge, but neither of us are going there.
“You learn anything new?” I ask, heading back around to the other side of the Dumpster. CSU already processed the scene last night, but that was before the M.E. had any info on the possible murder weapon. I read through the reports, looking for any mention of pens, pencils…any circular object that could’ve been tossed in the Dumpster with the vic. Nothing of the like made it into the CSU reports.
Doesn’t mean that there’s not something here, however. I don’t envy the CSU crew, Dumpster diving into the early hours of the morning, picking through garbage and rotten food. My nostrils flare as I lean over the edge and get a rank whiff.
“Besides the fact that I’m too old for biker chicks?” Carson says, and I send an impatient glare his way. “Yeah, I did. Melody said she recognized the vic from her picture on the wall inside the bar.” He points toward The Cosmo. “I figured I’d go check it out. Find out why the rest of the staff failed to mention she was a regular.”
This piques my interest. “I’ll go with you.”
Inside the bar, I let Carson question the bartender while I get an impression of the place. Dim, multicolored track lighting highlights crimson leather-backed chairs and white marble counters. Cherry oak tables match the hardwood flooring. It says “money.”
It’s the kind of bar that let’s you know you’re spending a hefty wad just walking into the place. In the corner near the floor-to-ceiling window, a group of suits stand around a tall table, doing just that.
I stroll toward them, picking up on their conversation before they make me. Their discussion of the recent murder dies abruptly.
“Gentlemen,” I say, reaching inside the inseam of my trench coat to produce my badge. “I need a moment of your time.”
The leader of the pack makes himself known immediately. “This in regard to Marcy Beloff?”
I hold my poker face. “You know the victim?”
“No. Not at all. Just an educated guess,” he says, motioning the hand holding a tumbler toward the yellow tape marking off a section of the side door.
“Right.” I glance over at the door, then look at him. “But normally strangers don’t refer to a victim by name. I believe you’re educated enough to understand my leap there. What are you…?” I take in their faces; clean shaven, soft as a baby’s butt. “Post grad? First year interns just passed the bar?”
I hate lawyers. I especially can’t stand cocky little yuppie lawyers living off their trust funds. They waste my time, get in the way, and make my job harder. All of them—every single slimy one—bend the law. And not for their client’s sake; so they can get their headline claim to fame for when they run for the District Attorney’s office.
“I’m second year,” trust fund says. His eyes narrow. “And I happen to always refer to the ‘vic’ by name. I find it helps me remember they’re a person who deserves justice, instead of just another victim whose case I need to close out to meet my monthly quota.”
I raise my eyebrows. So trust fund has some experience—and some balls. I let the jibe go and bring out my notepad. “Were you and your party here last night?”
“We’re here nearly every evening,” one of the even younger looking lawyers says. “The firm is a couple blocks away.”
Noted. I look up. “Then I gather you’ve seen Marcy Beloff in here before.”
Vacant stares.
“Come on, guys,” I say, pointing toward the wall of framed photographs behind the counter. “You’re here every night, and not a one of you have laid eyes on a woman who’s obviously in here enough to make the wall of fame?”
Trust fund clears his throat. “Listen. I don’t know anything about her. Never seen her—but that’s because I doubt the pic was taken for her sake.” At my pinched brow, he adds, “Ryland Maddox. The guy in the photo with her. I’m sure that’s how she got up there.”
A familiar itch tickles the back of my head.
“Hotshot attorney who just made partner at Lark and Gannet,” he continues. “Maddox has a different girl on his arm at any given time, so I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
Maddox. The face in the photo clicks with the name, and tension grips my shoulders. Captain Wexler had a run-in with this guy a couple months back. Maddox got a felony offender off on a technicality. The charge: rape.
An ugly picture is starting to develop, and I don’t like how this puzzle is piecing itself together. I make a note to pull all the cases Maddox was appointed to before I jot down all the lawyers’ names and relieve them of my company.
I meet Carson at the door. “Looks like our vic was a high dollar call girl,” he says as we exit the bar. “At least, that’s what I gathered from the bartender. Once he recognized her in the pic with some rich lawyer, he claimed she catered to big names in the city.”
A prostitute murdered—or possibly an accidental death, according to Avery—and dumped in the alley where her possible rich clients frequent.
There’s too many possibilities, too many weak theories in that scenario, and not enough substantial evidence to make a case. Without a murder weapon, we’re just pissing in the wind. And that stank breeze is blowing around a lot of key players.
Which never ends well.
“We need to have our shit in order before we take this to Wexler,” I say. I click the key fob and open my car door, turn toward Carson. “I want files on Maddox. Keep any investigation into him low-key. If the press gets word of this—”
“I got it.” Carson holds up a hand. “These upper crust douchebags will make the department look like idiots.”
“That would be the least painful consequence,” I mutter as I climb into my Crown Vic.
I sit for a minute and watch Carson track back through the alley toward his car. When I see his taillights fade, I pull onto the main road, confident I’m making yet another mistake.
But with where my career is heading, what difference does one more make?
* * *
Avery’s porch light is on. The lights inside are off, but the glow of the TV pulses against the drawn shades. I should wait until tomorrow. There’s no new evidence, not really, and she was exhausted earlier.
I should back out of her driveway.
But I don’t. The state she was in last night has me con
cerned. And so here I am, watching her house. Making sure she’s safe. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I sit here sipping a fresh cup of coffee at nearly ten o’clock at night. Staring at her windows, checking for signs of life. Like a fucking stalker.
I groan and shift in my seat, setting the cup inside the holder. This was easier when I had a legitimate excuse, like visiting her in the hospital. What the hell am I doing here now?
I grip the door handle, deciding that I do have new evidence to present. Avery can confirm if the vic was a pro. There are telltale signs that every prostitute exhibits; drawbacks of the job. Prostitution has its own occupational hazards.
And if our vic was a pro, that’s going to open up a huge investigation into her johns. I should get started on that right away. Get ahead of the press.
I’ve made my decision and am slowly making my way up the front porch when the door opens. I stop on the third step, shove my hands into my pockets.
“Quinn? What the hell?”
Avery stands in the doorway, a black silky-thing of a robe draped around her body. Her blond hair is pulled up in one of those messy buns, loose wisps falling around her eyes and shoulders. I get a glimpse of her legs through the cracked doorway, and have to force my gaze up to meet her eyes—which are glaring at me something fierce.
I clear my throat. “Had a break in the case,” I say, which is a clear exaggeration for what Carson and I uncovered. “Thought we could go over a couple of things before tomorrow. Get a jump on—”
“You’re so full of it.” She shakes her head. “A break in the case, huh.”
“Yes.”
Her deep brown eyes don’t waver. “And just how is this case any different than the others?” At my obvious loss to her question, she clarifies. “You’ve never shown up at my house in the middle of the night before. Actually, you’ve never shown up at my house ever. Even when we were working the serial murders,” she says, glancing down before lifting her gaze to mine again. “Go home, Quinn.”
Her harsh assessment stings, but it’s dead on. This isn’t about the case. I’m not entirely sure what it’s about…but the case hasn’t brought me to her door tonight.
“Sorry to have bothered you.” I step down, ready to end my humiliation, when the signs stop my retreat. Fresh makeup. Not worn or removed, like someone getting ready for bed. Dangly, silver earrings showing through her loose tresses, and a bra strap peeking from beneath the robe.
I might be clueless when it comes to women in general, but I’m not completely blind. I knew when Jenna was lying, and I don’t need my keen detective instincts to see that Avery is hiding something now.
My mouth pops open to inquire, but a loud noise coming from inside snaps it shut. I’m already marching up the porch and pressing against the wood paneling of the door. “Let me in, Avery.”
Her eyes widen. Whether in fear or hesitancy, I’m not sure. But she’s desperate to keep me from entering. I tower over her and pull my stubborn gaze away from her to stare into the darkened living room where two guys are hustling to get their shit together.
I hear one of them say, “Cop…” and that’s when I delicately maneuver Avery aside and push the door open. “Stop right—” I reach for my badge, but Avery clasps my forearm with a tight grip.
“Quinn, you can’t shoot them—”
And like that, the guys are hauling ass toward the back door and I’m staring down at her stunned face. “I’m not pulling my gun. Jesus, Avery.”
She releases a clipped breath and drops her hands. She’s shaking.
“What’s going on here?” I let my gaze travel around the dark room. Flatscreen on but muted; a topless girl giving a lap dance on the screen. A couple candles lit on an end table. On the other table, there’s another one of those baggies.
Avery follows my line of sight. “It’s not what you think…”
“You keep saying that.” I walk toward the table and take out a pen from my inseam to pick it up by the corner. “But if you really want me to believe you, then you need to talk.” My instincts say that I don’t actually want to know—that I’ve interrupted some kind of kinky sex party…and I really don’t need that image of Avery in my mind.
I hear her force out a long breath before she picks up the remote and clicks off the TV. She walks over to the end table, blows out the candles, and flips on the lamp. The room fills with a light. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
This isn’t what I expect. Cocaine, molly, meth—all drugs I know about and how to handle when it comes to the user. What the fuck is an aphrodisiac? “Like Spanish fly?”
I face Avery and glimpse a hint of her smile. “Wow. You are old school. Spanish fly,” she repeats with mock humor as she sinks onto the couch. “No. Yes…it’s something in the realm, but more potent. Think red wine and chocolate on crack,” she says, pulling her robe more securely around her chest.
I lay the baggie on the table and pocket my pen. My mind starts deducing the facts. I can’t help it; there’s no Off switch for the detective in me. Avery has a boyfriend. At least, that’s been the gossip around the department. She keeps to herself, always professional, but I run a mental tab on everyone.
I’m sure transitioning back into her life hasn’t been easy since the abduction, but what I’ve seen of her the past couple of days goes against the grain of the Avery Johnson I know.
“And the two guys…?” I prompt.
She shrugs. “I tried to make it work with Rick,” she says, confirming my suspicion about the boyfriend. “He was so accepting. Completely willing to wait. Never pressuring me for—” she breaks off and looks up at me. “Sex.”
This conversation is entering a territory beyond my comfort zone. I shift my feet, glance back at the door, wondering if it’s too late to flee. Only as I look at Avery, I know I’m not going anywhere.
The downturned corners of her full lips is like a force reeling me in, and my feet are moving me toward her. “What a bastard,” I say, pleased when another small smile graces her mouth.
But she quickly covers it with her hand. “It wasn’t him,” she continues. “It was me. I just wanted everything to be normal again. I wanted to pick up where we left off. But being with him, seeing the commiseration in his eyes, the delicate way he handled me…it was a constant reminder that I’m broken. That I must now be treated differently.”
I try to think of something to say, wanting to denounce her very inaccurate assessment of herself, but she pushes past her statement. “Anyway,” she says, sitting forward and propping her elbows on her knees. “The two guys here…the guys at the bar last night…I don’t know them. They don’t know me. They have no knowledge of what I went through. I don’t see my pain reflected back at me in their eyes. Just lust. They just want me. And it…helps.” She lowers her gaze.
I tread carefully. “If that’s so, then why the need for an aphrodisiac?”
She visibly squirms. “I said that I wanted to be normal, not that I magically am. Ending things with Rick helped to forget some, but I still…” Her eyes capture mine. “Do you really want to hear all this, Quinn?”
She’s giving me an out. We work together, know certain details of each other’s lives, but there’s a line colleagues don’t cross. Shouldn’t cross. Once I go to that next level, once I offer myself as a confidant, it’s as good as making a promise to her. Which comes with a clause that gives her access to the intimate details of my life. These exchanges are never one-sided.
I glance around the room, seeking evidence that she already has a confidant. Pictures of parents, friends—but it’s disturbing how bare her walls are. They look like mine. Blank white slates. One obvious drawback of our careers is that they don’t leave much room for nurturing relationships.
I’m moving before I’ve even fully made a decision. Because, if I’m being honest with myself, I already crossed that line the first night I slipped into her hospital room despite the nurse’s bitching about visiting hours and took her hand. When I brushed
my fingers through her hair to calm her as she fought sleep, screaming against her nightmares.
I lower myself before her, eye-to-eye. “Yes.”
The glassy whites of her eyes shimmer in the dim lighting. Pressing her lips together, she sniffs hard, fortifying herself. “Okay.” She nods. “It’s like, I’m disgusted with myself because I can’t stop thinking about sex. Wanting to prove that what he did to me…that it didn’t ruin me. I need to have control over my body—to be able to get turned on and want to have sex when I say so. I want a man to touch me and not cringe at that touch. I want to stop flinching at something as harmless as a kiss. I want to close my eyes and not see his twisted smile. Not feel him…”
Her whole body is trembling. I move onto the couch and just sit next to her. It’s Avery who presses into my chest, clings to the lapels of my coat. My arms surround her of their own accord, and I let my chin rest on top of her head.
Having engrossed myself with the sadistic details of each of the serial killings in order to get inside the head of the man I was hunting, I know all the sick and twisted ways he tormented his victims. And when Avery was laying in that hospital bed, my mind spun on a continuous loop, like an old 70s movie reel. Envisioning her torment.
When it came time to interview her, it wasn’t me. If I confirmed the images in my head, I would never stop seeing them. Every time I’d look at her in the lab, I’d see her as a victim. And the perp was dead. I couldn’t kill him twice.
I can’t make her pain stop now. I can’t fix this for her. What the fuck good am I?
Her petite body has stopped shivering, her limbs going lax against my chest. “He didn’t even rape me,” she whispers.
I bite down on my lip. Dammit. She sounds just like a vic. “But he did, Avery. He raped your life. He tore your security and faith away.”
She shakes her head against me. “How can I be this fucked up when he didn’t even get that far? The whole time, no matter what he did, I kept telling myself that it wasn’t that bad, as long as he didn’t actually rape or kill me. That I was surviving.”
I pull her tighter to me. “You stayed strong. Avery, I can’t think of another woman who could’ve… You’re the strongest woman I know. God, before we got to you, I was terrified of finding the worst.” I brush her hair aside, my thumb wiping away the gathered tears under her eye. “Then I was amazed. You were still Avery. Even in the pit of hell, you lashed out against it. You defied it. And you were still that same, vibrant woman. You still are now.”