by R. T. Wolfe
She opened her eyes and looked into the nearly onyx ones that stared back at her. A large tear threatened to fall from Gloria's lid, too.
"I can stuff it all, focus on the job. Take it out on perpetrators for the sake of the victims. But his need for commitment. And now marriage? He is Duncan Reed," Nickie whispered as her breath began to speed and her heart to panic. "He is making me remember. To think about it. I am not worthy."
Tears fell freely now. So many parts of her were numb.
"Has he ever done or said any—"
"No," Nickie interrupted. "This is on me. I have scars. I am confused and moody. I can be heartless and selfish."
A tear dripped down Gloria's wonderful face. "You have made me proud to call you daughter."
Chapter 6
"Are you sure you don't want to come?"
Duncan shook his head. "You go. I'm going to get started on your next painting."
He lifted his arm as Sophia Colour's limousine drove away, then turned to greet the doorman at the Hotel Grande. The paparazzi's flashing lights still burned holes in his vision. They'd nearly thrown him into a flashback right there on the red carpet.
"Good evening," he said and held out his hand to the doorman. The gentleman opened the door and dipped his head toward Duncan, almost missing Duncan's outstretched hand.
Startled, the man straightened. "Oh, thank you, sir." He took Duncan's hand and shook. "And you as well, sir."
Duncan slipped him a healthy tip before taking hold of the door himself. He loosened the tie from his tuxedo. "Warm evening. I hope it cools off for you."
"Thank you, yes. Thank you, sir."
Duncan's heels clicked on the marble floor as he made his way to the elevator. Digging in the pocket of his jacket, he searched for the key card to the penthouse suite and found the small velvet bag. Grinding his teeth together, he took out the card and started the long trip to the top. He rode alone, pulling the tie from his neck and winding it around his knuckles. The door opened to his room, and he did as he always did when he came into a new place. He checked his surroundings, memorizing every detail. Habitually, he pulled the jacket from his arms and carefully hung it on the freestanding coat rack.
He looked at it, hanging there, for a long moment before taking it and tossing it on the floor along with the tie. He went straight for his travel easel and collapsible swivel stool. As usual, he picked a spot by the window, although the lights of the city wouldn't provide proper lighting. He set up a makeshift studio, including his paints and the canvas from his oversized portfolio. Unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, he rolled his sleeves as he considered.
The velvet bag.
He turned and had to force his feet to walk at a normal pace over to the jacket he'd thrown on the floor, then dug through the pocket. Taking out the small bag, he stuck it in his pants pocket without opening it. Before he took his seat on his swivel stool, he pulled out a pad of practice paper and laid it over the canvas. He had no idea what he was doing and decided on chalks.
Closing his eyes, he did something he rarely did, yet seemed to be doing more often as of late. He allowed images to run freely over the backs of his eyelids. Years of them. Images of his aunt attacked at the spot along Black Creek that was tattooed on his chest. His stint in the Middle East. The scars on Nickie's back. The remnants of the paintings he'd drawn of her, burned to ashes in the fire that was meant to draw him away from his Nickie.
He started with larger lines using his blackest chalk. He copied one of the paintings he'd already drawn of her. The one that had been for his eyes only. The lines of her curves as she lay on his walnut settee. She'd been flushed from a lengthy tryst in his bed. No, he recalled. They hadn't made it to his bed. Rarely had they made it to any bed. He let the lines flow as his head pounded.
In a corner of the paper, he drew a small sketch of her scars. They were like a map to him. Six lines, straight and deep. Three circular cigarette burns. In the opposite corner, he drew him. Jun Zheng. The time Duncan saw him at the casino in Vegas. The images of him he and his brother had found on the Internet.
He stood, his chest pumping and knocked over the easel, letting it slide across the floor. He walked to the shiny oak desk, locking his elbows and dropping his head between his arms. He'd made the right decision. He was sure of it. Then, why did it cut so deeply?
He pulled his tablet from his briefcase and placed it on the slippery desk. He decided to check on his house alarm system via remote. Maybe she had come home. He wrung his hands as he waited impatiently for his tablet to power up, for Wi-Fi to connect.
The alarm hadn't been disengaged or tripped. The doors were locked, and the timed lights were all in working order. No sign of her. He switched to the perimeter. It had rained since he'd left. Clusters of small puddles created bare spots in the snow between the trees. The camera switched screens. The garage door was shut and sealed.
He went back to the previous image. The bare spots looked too uniform. It could be a pattern created from the melting snow, but the few depressions looked like footprints. He took out his phone and texted his brother. 'have you checked on my house?'
He tapped his fingers for a few minutes before he took his phone into one of the bedroom suites. He placed the velvet bag on the side dresser, then started to undress, purposely tossing one article of clothing after another half-heartedly onto the Victorian dresser near the bed. His phone vibrated on the glass top.
'no. was i supposed to?'
Duncan considered. Wearing his boxer briefs, he walked back to his tablet, checked the stills again, and copied and saved them this time. Snow doesn't melt in a walking pattern.
'if you were thinking of it, don't'
'like hell. sup?'
'i mean it, little brother. stay away. i'll call the captain and have him check it out.'
'don't give me that little brother shit. check what the hell out?'
'it's nothing'
'i'll just go up and see'
'i think i see footprints. it's probably nothing. if it's not nothing, it's bad. stay away'
* * *
Nickie dressed casually. No one was going to peg her as a cop in her taller heeled boots, tight black slacks and a sweater that hung like loose curtains over her shoulders. It was the one that concealed her holster well. Her hair was down and in long waves. She wore her makeup thicker than usual.
Eddy, on the other hand, was a beacon. His clothes screamed unmarked uniform, his haircut status quo.
Captain Nolan made her take backup. She would have preferred Parker. If she was going to take someone who looked like a cop, at least he was in full blues and didn't talk her ear off.
Regardless, work was good for her. It was right. She'd been able to spend the day assisting with checking video records on a robbery as well as doubling back over the SS8 records.
This time, she came to the hotel with a warrant. These places never seemed to slow down, not even on a Tuesday night. Same smell. Check. Same people. Check. And here came Mr. Edwin the wannabe. He was practically waiting for them, although minus the outstretched arms this time.
"Detective Savage." He nodded in her direction. "Detective Lynx. I have a key card for each of you. No one has inquired about the room as of yet."
Had Joe Johnson read the paper? Learned his lover was murdered? Was it he who did it? Most police work was chasing tails. This would likely be the same.
She took the key and slid it into the back pocket of her pants. "No activity from a Joe Johnson anywhere?"
"No. I have each outlet keeping an eye open for any transactions or reservations made with that name, just as you requested." The sarcasm in his voice was oddly comfortable.
"Keep your cameras rolling, Ed. We'll be upstairs."
Eddy shook his head as they rode the elevator to the floor with the Fox River Suite. "The thought of picking up a hooker always gives me the creeps. Don't they know where that thing's been?"
Nickie didn't have it in her to retort
.
"What's up with you today?"
Still nothing.
"Is it Pretty Boy again? Did he—?"
"Fuck you, Lynx."
He held up both hands, palms out. Asshole.
Eddy took out his handkerchief, but Nickie shoved her shoulder in front of him. "Let me," she whispered when they got to the room. She knocked three times softly. "Room service."
No one called out or opened the door, so she used her key and cracked it. Without a handkerchief. She couldn't hear anything. Stepping inside, the room looked like it hadn't been inhabited since the last time they were there. Rustic wood trim, earth-toned couches. The stools at the wet bar looked like half-sawed logs. Not a single footprint crossed the pattern left from the lines of the vacuum. It was chilly. Was that different from last time? Fresh flowers. Chocolates on the pillows. Blah, blah, blah.
Like good little cops, Eddy took the bedrooms and she checked the bathroom and closets. They'd kept the door cracked, and she heard footsteps.
"Get a load of—"
She held up a finger to quiet Eddy as the footsteps stopped in front of the cracked door. A short woman with asymmetrically cut jet-black hair leaned in.
"Hello? Oh—" She pulled her head back and checked the number on the door. "Wrong room. I'm sorry."
Short cocktail dress with matching pumps in fuck-me red. "Joe Johnson." Nickie said it like she was sure, which she wasn't.
The pause was slight, but it was enough to answer her question.
The woman turned and hightailed it toward the elevator. "Shall we talk to you here or at the station, Ms. Johnson?" Nickie called before she had to run after her.
Nickie swore the woman was about to stomp the floor like a toddler, the way her body language flipped. "I didn't do anything." Turning to face Nickie, Miss Joe Johnson crossed her skinny, white arms.
Nickie glanced from one end of the hallway to the other. "Are we talking out here? Or should we make use of your kick ass suite? It's very pretty."
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, Johnson strutted back to the room and plopped on the wooden bench in the foyer.
"We're not here to discuss your work, Miss...?"
"Wendy. You can call me Wendy."
"Right. Well then, Wendy." Nickie didn't bother sitting but pulled out her recorder. "Do you mind if I record this?"
"Of course I mind the freaking hell if you tape me."
Nickie lifted her brows.
"Fine. I agree," Wendy-Joe Johnson amended.
Nickie wasn't going to push stating her name verbally with this one. The woman was a cute little thing. She didn't show any outward emotional or physical signs of captivity. Nickie would never understand how so many striking women voluntarily let men do this to their bodies and wondered if the gal fell into that category.
"What can you tell me about SS8?"
Wendy's head remained tight, but her gaze turned to Nickie. "I've never seen any of them."
She seemed to have her alibi prepared. "Of course you haven't. A woman in your position would never do anything illegal."
"I mean it's all done electronically. Mostly phone calls."
"I'd like that number."
"Okay, but it's a prepaid phone and changes almost daily."
"Give me what you've got, Wendy. How many times have you met with William Juracek?" And how could she have missed that he was dead? Nickie made sure to keep that question to herself.
"Just one other time. And I don't know about the other girls. We don't talk about this shit. Is he a cop?" Reluctantly, Wendy handed her a business card. A hooker with a business card. Nickie thought it was a sign of the apocalypse. On it, there was a phone number. Nickie didn't imagine she had a new business card each day to go with a daily changing prepaid cell number.
Hookers who don't talk to each other? This, Nickie personally knew was a crock. "Lucky you. No, he's not a cop. Write down your name. Your real name. And your personal address and phone."
Wendy-Joe Johnson didn't look too pleased.
"Give me false information—" Nickie sat next to her and dipped her face to within inches of the woman's. "—and I'll hunt you down like a stray dog in the woods."
* * *
Unlocking the door, Nickie checked her surroundings and stepped in. The bag and her cello case were still there, untouched. Not that he was coming back to get them. He'd placed this in her lap.
The ache to play her cello finally became stronger than the fear she had of touching the things Duncan left in her foyer. Standing just inside the door, she gathered the nerve. She was going to man up and empty the damned bag. She imagined each of her articles of clothing, the ones she'd accumulated at his place over the past year, each cleaned and folded neatly.
First, a glass of dry red. Keeping her feet planted, she looked around her town house. Not a scrap of newspaper or clothing anywhere. The tops of the coffee table and end tables were wiped clean with single candles centered on each. Her coats were hung, her boots in a line at the bottom of the coat closet.
"It looks like we have a new murder suspect," she said, contemplating Sherie Douglas, alias Wendy-Joe-Johnson, as she took off her boots. In her closet, she had a pair of house shoes waiting side by side in the spot where her boots went. She traded the two, slipped on the furry, moccasin house shoes, then hung up her coat.
Mrs. Juracek hadn't mentioned an escort service. Surely, she knew. The look on her face when Nickie mentioned SS8. The night he was murdered, he'd been out in the middle of the night dressed to kill. Or be killed.
She unbuckled her holster and hung it neatly on her standing coat rack in the foyer.
As she made her way into her bedroom, her feet stopped before the rest of her. Instinctively, she backed up slowly, searching the area with her eyes. Foyer, living room, hallway. She slid her gun from the holster and took it off safety all in one, quick movement. Stepping back against the nearest wall, she listened. Someone had secured a set of handcuffs to each of her four bedposts. It was a message, and it was for her.
Chapter 7
Come on, baby. Show yourself. Nickie crept along the carpet, thankful she was in her quiet house shoes. Slipping back into her room, she checked the mirror. No one in the bathroom. She pushed open the door with the back of her hand to check behind the door anyway. Like a cat, she dipped low, checking under the bed before moving to the closet.
The cuffs. They were arranged the same way Zheng held the girls when he did his training. It was the word he used for drugging and beating early teens until they did what he wanted. She was never smart enough to quit fighting. Instead, she earned the name Savage and was given to men who liked it.
She hated checking around clothes in a closet. Too many places to hide. She did it anyway. Her hand ached to reach for her phone. It wasn't to call the captain, or even Eddy. She didn't want to think of the man whose number she wanted to call.
She continued until she'd searched every inch of her house. She found an unlocked window that was still cracked. Securing it, she noted that she hadn't left it unlocked in the first place.
It was Zheng. He'd either been in her town house or had someone to do it for him. Was he grooming her for what was to come? Because she was too far gone to let this shit scare her. He'd made her savage enough that she legally applied for a name change the day she turned eighteen. She didn't do it for him. She did it for the girls. The ones she didn't go back for.
Looking out into the ink black, she decided to play her cello after all, just in case he was out there. He would listen to her play like she would any other night. Her days of being scared of Jun Zheng were over.
* * *
It was the crack of dawn, and Nickie stood at Sylvia Juracek's home, pressing the nifty ringer in the middle of the enormous door. Technically, she'd ditched Eddy but still planned to give him shit about getting in too late that morning to tag along.
Mrs. Juracek had recognized SS8. William Juracek had been having an affair with an SS8 employee, a
nd she didn't know a thing about it? Even when her husband, who doesn't sleep in the same room with her, leaves the house in the middle of the night dressed in a suit and tie? Mrs. Juracek earned herself a ticket to the top of the suspect list.
It was cold as hell and icy from the melting that happened the day before. She rang the bell another time for good measure. Her breath made a small cloud around her before someone finally opened the door. It wasn't Mrs. Juracek, nor was it her twenty-something son or her daughter. Gerald Jackson stood wearing a royal blue robe and matching slippers. She went from haughty cop to schmuck in three seconds flat.
To make things worse, he was nice about it. "Good morning, Detective. Do you have news? Did you find who killed William?" As if he suddenly realized he was the one with bad manners, he stepped aside. "Please come in. Did you come out here at this hour alone?" He glanced down the walk before shutting the door.
"Yes." Nickie squirmed as she stepped inside and wiped her feet.
He gestured for her to follow as he limped to the kitchen.
Great, Nickie. You woke up an elderly handicapped man so you could get some satisfaction in giving shit to his daughter.
"Can I get you something to drink? Cranberry juice? Coffee?"
Twist the knife in her back, why doesn't he? "No, thank you. Is Mrs. Juracek home?"
He paused. The look on his face was pained. "She'll be asleep for hours yet. Depression medicine. Little Renee, too. Well, not the pills." He grinned as he opened the fridge. "She's going to be a teenager soon. She sleeps until noon any chance she gets."
"And Tommy?" Nickie asked.
The man was an open book. His expression went from pained at the mention of his daughter to endearment at the mention of his granddaughter to content at the mention of his grandson. Tommy Marino. No blood relation to William Juracek, yet this elderly man and Juracek had been considering leaving Juracek's half of the business to him.
"He's not quite home yet."
Ah. "Was he out the night William was killed?"
The man sighed. "No. He was home before midnight that evening."