Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  “This is all a game to him,” she said. “A calculated game.”

  “Remember anything else?”

  Lauren shifted in her seat, willing memories to surface. “He said he knew I was shut out of the case, but if I wanted in, maybe we could work something out.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “He was trying to find out what we had on him.”

  “This guy’s been playing you at every turn,” Hardy said, giving her a slow, evaluating look.

  Lauren felt her muscles stiffen. She didn’t like Hardy’s implication that she was an easy mark. “He’s shrewd and methodical, Lieutenant. He’s trying to make me a victim, too. Psychological assault.”

  “You’re internalizing too much,” Hardy said, an edge creeping into his voice. “Letting him get to you.”

  Lauren’s pulse raced. “He’s been in my house. He stole my daughter’s underwear. He killed my partner! You’re damn right I’m internalizing!”

  The three men sat in silence, her angry words echoing within the four walls. The room seemed to hold its breath.

  “I’m going to suggest you get some counseling, Starkley,” Hardy said, his posture as stiff as his short iron-gray hair. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  The room was so quiet Lauren could hear Hardy swallow. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, controlling herself. Keeping her face blank, she said, “I’m fine.”

  “It wasn’t a request.” Hardy’s heavy-lidded eyes landed on hers. “You’ve been through heavy shit lately. Get the counseling. Then we’ll review your status, see if you need extended leave.”

  Beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and along the edge of her upper lip. Extended leave? Christ. She needed to be working, not sitting alone in her house.

  Jack cleared his throat. “I’ll have the artist do another sketch of The Strangler with short hair, no glasses. We’ll get both sketches released to the media today.”

  “That wraps it up,” Hardy said, scraping his chair back from the table. With a curt nod in her direction, he promptly left the room.

  She walked out with Sergeant Birenski and Jack. She caught a faint whiff of Jack’s sandalwood aftershave, and a touch of longing resonated within her.

  “When are you back on patrol?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Stick close to home when you’re not on the job. Makes it easier on our surveillance.”

  “Surveillance is no longer necessary. Courtney’s at Mom’s, and I can take care of myself.”

  “That attitude worries me, Starkley,” Birenski said brusquely. “Police work is teamwork. Not vigilantism.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This was important information you brought in,” Jack said. “A description puts us one step closer to catching him.”

  She shook her head, sighed. “Wish I had connected the dots earlier, given his description weeks ago. It might have saved Tina, saved Steve.”

  “Don’t even go there,” Jack said. “Don’t mind-fuck yourself. Work through this with the counselor. I’ve been there. It helps.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three stood in silence.

  “I need to get back to work,” Jack said, his tone and manner professional. Clearly, he was giving her the space she had requested. As she watched him stride away down the hall with Birenski, she sucked in a long, difficult breath, and found herself struggling with something that was becoming all too familiar—an intense feeling of isolation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  LAUREN spent the rest of the day unleashing her furies on housework, organizing drawers and closets, vacuuming, scrubbing floors and shower stalls. The house filled with the smell of Pledge and Mr. Clean. She kept the TV on as company, tuned to the local news, pausing whenever the sketch of The Strangler filled the screen. That evening she nursed her melancholy curled up on the sofa with buttered popcorn, two bottles of cold Corona, and old Humphrey Bogart movies.

  The next morning the artist’s rendering made front-page news, along with the mention that the ID came from an off-duty police officer. Reading the article over oatmeal and two cups of French Roast coffee, she felt a measure of grim satisfaction. Though her name wasn’t mentioned, The Strangler would know the news tip came from her. She wondered if he was reading the paper at this very moment, feeling anxiety creep along his spine as his controlled world began to unravel.

  Lauren slept all afternoon, then dressed and reported to roll call at the station. After dismissing the five rows of crisply uniformed officers, the evening sergeant, Denise Ruba, took Lauren aside and handed her a business card, instructing her to schedule an appointment with the counselor. With a nod and forced smile, Lauren shoved the card into her breast pocket and left the station.

  ***

  Lauren rode solo for the rest of the week, experiencing routine low-level crime activity: drunk and disorderly, minor traffic violations, domestic disputes. Buzz generated by the sketches of The Strangler kept her and other officers scrambling like mice in a maze, pursuing endless leads, all dead ends.

  ***

  At the end of her shift, Lauren showered and changed at the station and headed home in rush hour traffic on Mission. She made a mental note that The Bone Collector with Denzel Washington was playing at the Regal Cinema. Warm popcorn in a dark theater with Denzel might be a good way to spend one of her lonely nights. She shoved a CD into the slot and Sarah McLachlan’s mournful voice singing “I Will Remember You” filled the car, personifying Lauren’s mood exactly.

  Goodbye, normal life. Goodbye, great sex. She felt the driving pulse of “Livin’ la Vida Loca” by Ricky Martin streaming from the BMW convertible seconds before it pulled up next to her at the stop light, the young driver bobbing his head, oblivious. She rolled up the windows and pulled off to the side of the road and parked, deciding to get out of congested traffic by grabbing breakfast at Chuck’s Coffee Shop.

  The home-style restaurant was bustling with tourists and office workers, and the half dozen matronly waitresses looked frazzled. The smoky air smelled of bacon, burgers, and coffee. Sitting at the counter with a couple of glass-domed apple pies taunting her, Lauren ordered a mushroom and cheese omelet with hash browns. The elderly waitress was a Mae West look-alike whose plastic nametag read Dolly. She had a busty figure, platinum hair, and a liberal use of orange blush, red lipstick, and blue eye shadow.

  “Here ya go, hon,” Dolly said in a husky voice as she slid a cup of coffee across the counter. “Breakfast will be right up.”

  Being around other people improved Lauren’s appetite and she ate heartily, watching Dolly work the counter. After polishing off her breakfast, she nursed a second cup of coffee and read the headlines from a paper left by another customer. The Strangler’s sketch was still front-page news.

  “I watch for him in here every day,” Dolly said, topping off Lauren’s cup. “My granddaughter and her friends have been scared witless.”

  Lauren tossed Dolly a sympathetic look, but the waitress was already on the move, passing out checks to customers. Only a dozen people remained by the time Lauren got to the entertainment section.

  “Sir, you can’t go back there,” Dolly said sharply.

  Lauren looked up to see a tall, sinewy man blocking the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. He looked homeless: sun-darkened skin, ragged clothes, matted hair, a soiled army blanket draped over one shoulder. His long bony fingers were cutting into an apple with a four-inch bladed knife.

  “I go where I wanna go,” the man said in a threatening tone, pulling his lips back from his yellow teeth.

  Lauren’s hand darted for her gun before she realized she was wearing civvies. Her Glock was in her gym bag in the Jeep. Shit.

  “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” Fear showed on Dolly’s face.

  The man stood there staring her down and then with uncanny speed, he thrust the knife in Dolly’s direction. The waitress shrieked and barely bolted out of his reach. In quick, jackal-l
ike movements, the man backed up across the floor toward the plate-glass window, swinging his knife, wild-eyed. “I walk where I wanna!”

  Screeching, the customers leapt from their booths and herded themselves against the counter, fear raw on their faces.

  “I’m a police officer,” Lauren said calmly, adrenaline fizzing in her veins. She cautiously approached the man, showing him the badge attached to her belt. “Put the knife down, Sir. Slow and easy.”

  Crouching, muscles coiled and ready to spring, the man watched her intently, tendons straining in his neck. He lunged, knife slashing the air, just missing her right shoulder. Half aware of the screams and gasps from spectators, Lauren dodged several more slashes while closing in on him. Catching an edge of the blanket, she yanked it from his shoulder and tossed it over his head. With muffled curses the man struggled to free himself. As the blanket slipped off, Lauren moved behind him and swept his left leg out from under him, dropping him to his knees. She got him in a chokehold, pressing her body tight against his back. Her free hand pressed the arm holding the knife to his side, but she couldn’t reach his hand to dislodge the weapon. Holding the position required all her strength. Sweat trickled from her armpits and rolled down her sides beneath her shirt. “Call the police!” she yelled at the crowd.

  “You are the police!” Dolly wailed, immobilized behind the counter.

  Several customers ran out into the street and screamed, “Police! Police!”

  “Call 911! Use the phone!” Lauren gasped, panting. The man struggled, forcing her to increase the pressure on his throat. He froze, but she could feel his muscles tightening against her body, ready to spring loose. Her heart pounded. She blinked against the beads of sweat dripping into her eyes. If his knife hand got loose, she’d be slashed into ribbons. Breathing in the stale sweat of his body, muscles trembling from the strain, the longest seconds of her life ticked by. Clenching her teeth, Lauren prayed for help. Jesus. Send help!

  The door burst open and two male officers rushed in, one black, one Chinese. After the Chinese cop manipulated the knife from the suspect’s hand, the two officers wrestled him to the floor, pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him.

  Gulping in air, Lauren backed away. She leaned forward with her hands on her knees, fighting the compulsion to vomit.

  The suspect struggled, chattering incoherently, spitting at the officers’ shoes, then he went limp, almost catatonic, eyes staring at the floor. The Chinese officer turned him on his side and checked his airway, pulse, and pupils. His voice was interspersed with static as he called in the suspect’s status and requested a police escort to get him to the ER. The black officer; tall, mid-forties, head shaved clean, pulled out a notepad and started questioning spectators and scribbling notes. Both men, from the Special Bike Unit, were dressed in shorts, and had the lean, muscled legs of cyclists.

  Lauren was impressed by the thoroughness of the two officers, and she felt immensely grateful they’d shown up when they did. She was so angry with herself for forgetting her handgun, her hands trembled. The Chinese officer turned his attention to her and glanced at her badge. “You okay?”

  She nodded, still winded.

  “Maybe you should sit down for a minute.”

  Lauren wiped her sweaty palms on her pant legs. “I’m okay. Just a little shaken up.”

  “That was a really brave thing you just did. A lot of people could have been seriously hurt.”

  She put her game face on. “Just doing my job.”

  “I’m David Wong. Been at Valencia Station for six months.” He had an alert, earnest face, dark hair and eyes, and appeared to be in his early twenties.

  He thrust his chin toward the suspect. “You’re lucky we were riding through the neighborhood. Another few seconds—”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said crisply. She didn’t need her negligence rubbed in her face. “He okay?”

  “Vitals are stable. Probably a schizoid off his meds.” He glanced down, eyes narrowing. “Let me look at your arm.”

  Lauren lifted her arm and gave a little gasp at the wide slash in her shirtsleeve. Blood was running down her forearm and dripping on the floor. She suddenly became aware of an intense burning sensation.

  Wong pushed back her sleeve and examined the two-inch-long laceration. He grabbed a wad of napkins from the nearest table and pressed them hard against her wound.

  Her breath hissed on a quick intake.

  David caught Dolly’s eye. “Ma’am, can you get me something to wrap this with?”

  Dolly rushed over with a clean dishtowel.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. Missed the artery, but you’ll need stitches.” He skillfully fashioned a makeshift bandage and tightened it over the wound. “What’s your name?”

  “Starkley. Lauren Starkley.”

  “Ahhh.” His expression softened and she saw a shadow of sympathy darken his eyes. “Sorry about your partner. Heard he was a good guy.”

  She felt her throat tighten. “The best.”

  He continued gazing at her with what she could only describe as deepening concern.

  “What?”

  “Just been hearing a lot about you at the station.” After a moment’s consideration, he added, “I heard The Strangler singled you out. He’s been in your house. I can’t imagine how tough that must be.”

  “Mostly on my daughter. I had to move her out.” She glanced away from his gaze. She didn’t want his sympathy. “What other garbage is floating around about me?”

  He hitched his thumbs in his duty belt, rocked on the balls of his feet for a moment, looking uncomfortable.

  “I’m sleeping with the captain?”

  David didn’t answer. He gave her a sidelong glance, a quick blaze in his brown eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted him to.

  “We’re not tight.” She felt a hot blush on her cheeks. “Anything else you want to clear up?”

  “Nope.”

  She was thankful to see a patrol car pull up to the curb outside. “Look, if you’re done here.”

  He followed her gaze out the window. “We’re done, but you need a ride to the ER. I’ll drive you.”

  “I’ll drive myself,” she said with an edge.

  “Suit yourself.” He nodded at her arm. “Keep it elevated.”

  Lauren studied the finished job. The bleeding had stopped. “You know what you’re doing,” she offered as a peace token.

  “Premed at Stanford.”

  “Studying to be a doctor?”

  “That was the plan. I ran out of money. Student loans were piling up. Decided to take a career detour.”

  “So you carry a gun instead of a stethoscope.”

  “That’s about it.” His eyes were suddenly bright. “Still saving lives and serving the community.”

  “You love being a cop.”

  “That I do.” He arched a brow. “What about you?”

  “Not a good day to ask.”

  They were interrupted as two patrol officers came through the door. After Lauren and the two bike cops filled them in on details, the patrol officers hustled the suspect into the back of their car and drove off. Lauren idled on the sidewalk, thanking David and his partner, putting more humility in her voice.

  “I’ll see you around the station,” David said, strapping on his helmet. “A senior cop wants my position in the bike unit. I’m being transferred to car patrol.”

  “Beats the hell out of cycling in the rain.”

  Grinning, David mounted his bike and rode off with his partner, their lean muscles working like engines as they negotiated the steep grade up 18th Street. She was surprised to feel hot tears sting the backs of her eyes. David was professional and had an underlying gentleness that reminded her of Steve. She hoped he could hold on to it. The rookie’s optimism reminded her of herself a few weeks back, before The Strangler imposed himself in her world. Maybe a little of David’s sparkling idealism would rub off on her. She could use it.

  ***

/>   In the ER, Lauren distracted herself from the needle tugging through her skin by reviewing the situation that unfolded at Chuck’s, made all the more dangerous because she’d been unarmed. A few seconds longer, she might have needed more than stitches. Thank God David and his partner showed up. The intern snipped the last of her stitches and dressed her wound. He looked overworked and sleep deprived, and his manner was brusque as he told her the wound would leave a good scar. Good. A permanent reminder of her near miss. Maybe it would help her avert one in the future.

  Her arm was throbbing by the time she reached home. After acknowledging the detective sitting in an unmarked vehicle in front of her house, she pulled into her garage and sat there for a long while, confronting her new reality. Her Victorian had become more of a prison than a safe haven. Her anger had erupted in front of her superiors, in front of Jack, who was her biggest supporter on the job, and she was gruff with David, who had rescued her from God knows what. Now her superiors were questioning her emotional stability. She herself questioned it. Christ, she’d forgotten to arm herself.

  To take down the man who killed her partner and threatened her daughter, Lauren needed to keep her emotions under control, and she needed to take calculated—not foolhardy—risks. To get Courtney safely back home, she was determined to do whatever it took, even if it meant putting her career in jeopardy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  WHEN LAUREN ARRIVED at roll call she spotted Officer David Wong standing in the first row. For a young rookie, he possessed a natural ease and confident manner. He turned and caught her eye and flashed a high-wattage grin, which threw her off guard. She nodded stiffly and looked away. Lauren didn’t want his friendship. Next he’d be wanting to ride with her.

  After roll call Lt. Hardy dismissed all the officers but he called Lauren up to the podium. “You’re taking on a new partner, Starkley. Captain Monetti’s orders.”

  Lauren sensed a presence behind her. She turned to find Officer Wong smiling like a seventeen-year-old picking up his first prom date.

  “I prefer riding solo, sir,” Lauren said.