Ms. Bladworth waited a long moment, seeming to wait for some response from Mala. When none was forthcoming, she cleared her throat with a wet, chesty sound.
“Now perhaps you can understand why I wanted to talk to you in person.” Her tone was a stab of condescension wrapped in honey sweetness.
Feeling like she was attempting to swim to the surface of the sticky substance, Mala nodded her head. “Yes. I can.”
“This is a serious problem, Dr. Charan. I’m sure you can appreciate that.” The woman seemed to be attempting to keep a smug smile from creeping onto her face. She was not succeeding.
A chill wash of dark feelings surged out from the center of Mala’s gut. The sensation threatened to overwhelm her, even as she pushed to try to push the feelings back down. It was not a feeling Mala would have expected to feel in the offices of DSHS, talking to a bloated lump of a human being who could barely manage to get out of her own chair without a shoehorn.
It was fear.
Mala was terrified she was going to lose Janey.
Putting words to her fear helped to put things into perspective. All was not lost. Not yet. And until Mala gave up, the fight was not over. And on this count, Mala knew that giving up was not in her makeup. She had more than a few tools at her disposal and was prepared to utilize every single one of them.
“Ms. Bladworth, I can certainly appreciate your concerns. And, possibly, the concerns of your co-worker Richard.” At Richard’s name, Joan gave a start, her eyes darting around the office as if to determine if anyone else could hear. It was a telling slip. From what Mala could tell from the woman’s body language, it was clear that she didn’t want anyone to know about the possible connection between Richard and Mala’s current troubles. She continued without giving any indication that she had caught the look.
“What you don’t have access to in those files of yours are the signed affidavits of Detectives Keane and Darcmel, as well as that of Captain Merle. Oh, and that of the mayor. Affidavits that speak to the heroism of a little girl who saved the entire city.”
Ms. Bladworth scoffed, then choked on the sound as she saw the look on Mala’s face. “You can’t be serious. The whole city?”
Mala nodded. “It’s very easy to judge from that chair, but you weren’t there. What you see as endangerment was empowering to that little girl. She was afraid, yes, but she chose to help. She chose. And I’m not going to let you second-guess her. Or me, for that matter. Are you a licensed child psychologist?”
The woman’s face blanched. “You know that I’m not.” She shuffled through the papers in the file that was open on her desk. “And I have certainly never seen anything like those affidavits you mentioned in her file.”
“That’s because they aren’t there,” Mala responded.
“Well, then—”
“They aren’t there yet,” Mala continued over Joan, “because I haven’t asked that they be written.” The social worker opened her mouth to protest, but once again, Mala cut her off. “But let me assure you, when they write them, and they will, those gentlemen I mentioned will also be told of a social worker who was doing all she could to work against the best interests of that very child.” And just to put an additional nail in the coffin, Mala continued. “And those names I mentioned are just what I can round up in the next fifteen minutes. Give me a day, and your desk will be flooded with statements.”
Ms. Bladworth’s eyes narrowed, becoming mere slits through which her pupils glittered, tiny black coals entombed in wrinkled pink flesh. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No,” Mala answered. “I’m appealing to your sense of enlightened self-interest. Not only is this what’s best for Caitlyn, it’s what’s best for you.”
“Well, I’m concerned with what’s best for Caitlyn,” Joan fired back.
“Yes, let’s talk about that, shall we?” Mala had been hoping the conversation would cycle back around to this. Did this woman really believe that Mala hadn’t been keeping tabs on Janey? “How many homes has it been now?”
The social worker’s face went slack. “Excuse me?”
“Caitlyn. How many different homes has she been shuttled off to at this point?” Mala watched Ms. Bladworth’s face for a sign. “Four? Five? Oh really, more than that? Six? Seven?” At seven, the woman’s eyes narrowed. “Seven homes in two days. That has to be some kind of record. And let me guess… she’s scaring the other kids? Drawing disturbing pictures on the walls in crayon? None of the heads of the group homes can handle her? She’s being sedated?” The last was just an educated guess, but Mala knew the way things worked. The furrowing of the social worker’s brow was all the confirmation Mala needed.
“There are the interests of the other children to take into—”
“I’m going to stop you right there. I’m well aware that the other children’s well-being must be given precedence. But if you’re not wanting to be judged out of context, I suggest you offer me the same professional consideration.” Mala paused for a breath. “Now, I expect to be in full custody of Ja—Caitlyn Walker—within two hours. If that has not happened, a storm will rain down on your head the likes of which you have never seen before.”
Without waiting for a response, and hoping the social worker had missed the slip up with the names, Mala turned on her heel and walked back toward the entrance. She could check in on the status of her application tomorrow with another worker. While the two-hour time limit had been dramatic in the moment of their confrontation, Mala knew the reality of the system. If things hadn’t changed by the next day, she would hope that her mouth hadn’t tried to write a check that her relationship with Seattle’s police department and the mayor couldn’t cash.
But as she strode toward the double doors she had come in through just minutes ago, the detectives, the captain and the mayor were not on her mind. Her body began trembling, her breath came in huge gasps, and Mala had to struggle to keep from bursting into tears. Even more disturbing than the physical reaction was the thread of doubt, of fear, that Mala couldn’t shake. Joan Bladworth was an unpleasant woman with a vendetta against Mala, sure.
But what if she was also right?
*
The threads of logic wound themselves about the precinct hallways, stretching out to their limits, then retracting, ever moving, never content. The space here was familiar, theirs, in a way that even Darc’s apartment was not.
As he made his way past other faces, some familiar, many not, Darc paused for a moment as one glowing stream caressed the head and shoulders of a specific individual. Someone involved in the case. Blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled jawline. Van Owen, the Deputy Attorney. He was engrossed in a file he had open in his hand while he walked.
The lawyer looked different than the last time Darc had encountered him in Captain Merle’s office. The change was processed in the same moment in which Darc recognized there was a change. Van Owen’s hair was messy, looking as if he had just run his hand through it. The top button of his crisp pale blue dress shirt was undone, his tie pulled down and off to one side.
The differences registered, but the reason for them remained a gray mystery to Darc. In the same way that facial expressions continued to puzzle him, this new appearance of the Deputy Attorney baffled Darc’s attempts to decipher it.
Van Owen’s head popped up as he came close to colliding with young woman in a white blouse and a charcoal skirt. The woman blushed as Van Owen turned his ice-blue eyes on her. Curious. That seemed an unusual response for unsustained eye contact. Perhaps she had committed some sort of social faux pas that Darc had not caught. That seemed unlikely, but Darc could think of no better explanation. Especially as social interaction was not his area of expertise.
His gaze now drawn up from the file he was carrying, Van Owen caught sight of Darc. The lawyer’s face brightened in a smile and he hurried forward, his unoccupied hand extended. Darc accepted the handshake.
“Detective Darcmel! I was looking for you.” He glanced around the
hallway. “Is Keane around? I wanted to talk to both of you, actually.”
“Trey went on ahead of me. I calculate it at an 87 percent possibility that he is at his desk.”
Van Owen’s lips quirked up in a pursed smile. Trey called that type of smile a smirk. At one point in their professional relationship, Trey had drawn an array of different smiles and labeled them all, including their likely meanings. This one indicated some sense of irony or humor. Or sexual intention. Darc concluded that Van Owen was a homosexual. The margin of error was significant, but there seemed to be no discernable irony in this situation, and it certainly was not humorous.
“I see,” the lawyer replied. “And what about the remaining 13 percent?”
“Four percent that he could be in the bathroom. Eight percent that he is at the vending machines.”
“Your math is off. You’re missing a percent.” The smirk grew. Darc wondered if he should inform the attorney that Darc was heterosexual, and therefore uninterested.
“My math is precise. The one percent is for the margin of error.”
“Wow,” Van Owen breathed. “That’s a pretty narrow margin.”
“Actually, I rounded up for ease of conversation.” Darc turned to maneuver around the Deputy Attorney. There was evidence from the crime scene he wished to examine as soon as possible, and this conversation had extended further than desired.
“Hey, Detective,” Van Owen urged, putting up a hand to stop Darc’s sideways motion. “I have to go drop off this file with the captain real quick, but why don’t you grab Keane and meet me for a drink. You guys are almost off, right?”
Darc glanced at his watch. It was not a habitual motion. Darc rarely concerned himself with what time it was. When Trey started complaining that he lived here at the precinct, that usually meant it was time to go home. The watch display winked back at him. Six forty-five. It may be time for most to have completed their daily tasks, but there was far too much for Darc to accomplish.
“I do not consume alcoholic beverages.” Darc was unsure of the protocol, but not drinking seemed a good excuse not to go to a bar.
“That’s fine. We’ll get you a Shirley Temple or something. A Red Bull. Whatever.” Van Owen waved the concern aside. “Listen, if you’re worried about knocking off ‘early,’ I’ll tell whoever wants to know that you’re still working. ‘Cause we will be. Sort of.” The smile had progressed from the pursed-lip variety to the showing-teeth kind. Anticipation or excitement, according to the chart. Darc pondered the wisdom in rebuffing the attorney’s apparent advances now. Perhaps he should discuss the matter with Trey before doing so. That seemed prudent.
“You wish to discuss something work-related? At a bar?” Darc had heard other detectives and officers refer to similar events, but Darc himself had never experienced one. It seemed time to bring Trey in on the decision-making process. “I will discuss it with my partner. Where did you wish to go?”
“The Owl N’ Thistle. Down on Post Avenue. I’ll meet you guys there in like fifteen minutes.” Van Owen waved for Darc to go as he turned to head back down the hallway before Darc could interject that he was uncertain that either he or his partner would be attending. At a loss, Darc contemplated running after the blond-headed lawyer, but then decided that this was best left in Trey’s hands.
Darc understood so little about what had just happened. All he could really do now was just report the events as they had occurred. Darc found it unsettling.
*
The pub had a sign out front with a huge yellow owl perched on what Trey guessed was a branch of thistle. Branch? Did thistles have branches? Or were they stems? Darc probably knew, but Trey figured it wasn’t important enough to suffer the humiliation that inevitably followed on the heels of any question he ever asked of the bald detective. Probably best to leave the embarrassments to the case at hand. Trey was sure there wouldn’t be any lack of those.
There never were.
The place looked like your typical Irish pub. It was dark, loud, crowded, and filled with serious drinkers. You know, the kinds of drinkers that only make eye contact with you when you bump into them and almost spill their drink. “Almost” because serious drinkers never spill their drink, no matter what happens.
The walls were exposed brick and plaster. The booths were backed with plush red leather. All of the tables looked like they had come with the original building that was opened back in the 1930s, battered and beaten into comfortable submission by each and every patron thereafter. The décor was tacky-kitsch, made up of old Guinness ads, pictures of dogs, and what looked like tintype family photos of grim Irish potato farmers. There was an antique turquoise bicycle hanging from the ceiling.
It was an awesome bar.
To be honest, Trey was surprised he had never made it out here before. He’d heard people talk about it. He’d even made plans to meet with some of the guys here once or twice, but they’d never panned out. And now he was going to down his first Guinness at this Seattle landmark in the presence of the Deputy Attorney.
Didn’t sound like the best idea, but as long as it included the Guinness, Trey figured he’d make do. No use crying into his beer over the whole thing. So to speak.
Trey’s prospects brightened when he saw the now almost unrecognizable attorney wave them toward a table at the back. Unrecognizable because Van Owen had removed his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and looked like he had already pounded back at least a beer or two before Trey and Darc had gotten there.
“Detectives! Over here!” The Deputy Attorney’s voice was too loud even for the noisy bar. Trey mentally re-tabulated Van Owen’s beer total and came up closer to three or four. Maybe this “meeting” wasn’t going to be so bad.
“Hey, gents,” the bright-eyed attorney gushed. “Glad you could make it. Lemme order you both a beer.” He waved toward the bar, then stopped and snapped his fingers. “Oh, right. Detective Darcmel. You don’t drink.”
“Just Darc,” Trey corrected him. “Nobody calls him Darcmel. And call me Trey. You know, unless our bosses are around.”
“Right. And you can call me Bryce, whether our bosses are around or not.” He looked at Trey’s partner, assessing. “Darc. I dig that. It’s cool. Like the Dark Knight or something. Which is just about the way people describe you, by the way.” Darc had no visible reaction to that, which was not surprising. But Trey knew Darc had heard it. He heard everything. His tall partner just had no way of processing what it meant, so it appeared to go unnoticed.
“Yeah,” Trey answered for his silent companion, cutting through the awkward silence that had fallen on the little bubble around their table. “He’s definitely on the darker side of the graphic novel spectrum. No one’s going to accuse him of wearing brightly colored tights.”
“It’s an ugly world. I’m not sure the good guys should always be wearing primary colors.” Van Owen’s face pulled into a grimace that brightened the second he looked down at his dark brown beer with the foamy head. “But there’s no point in being all melancholy when there’s beer to be drunk. Drank? Drunken? Man, I can never get that one right. Ms. Jenkins would be ashamed.”
“Ms. Jenkins?” Trey prompted.
“My high school English teacher. Everyone thought she was an uptight bitch, and I’m pretty sure she was a lesbian. But she was the best damn teacher I ever had in my life.” Bryce turned back to the bar. “Screw it. You may not drink, Darc, but Trey and me are gonna make up for it.” He raised three fingers after catching the eye of the shapely redhead behind the counter. Refocusing on Trey, he shrugged. “Sorry, man. You don’t have a choice.”
“You’re forcing me to drink Guinness? Bastard,” Trey replied with a grin. This evening was turning out to be so much better than he’d expected. Maybe he should text Maggie, let her know he was going to be late. Trey watched while Van Owen took a long pull from his beer. On second thought, maybe he should call. He pulled out his phone, gesturing with it toward the exit. Bryce gave a knowing nod.
“Checking in with the lady? Good call. I’ll watch your beer until you get back.” The lawyer smirked. “But don’t take too long. Once I’m done with the other two, I’m going after yours.”
Somehow, Trey knew Bryce wasn’t joking.
CHAPTER 14
The way the layers of light in Darc’s mind intersected with the dark atmosphere of the bar was oddly soothing. A cramped, noisy space filled with too many people was not an environment that was conducive to Darc’s comfort on a typical basis. But something about this evening… the unexpectedness of the event, the combination of companions, even the dank pub itself, created an unusual sensation within Darc.
He could not be certain, but he might be having what Trey always called fun.
How strange.
Van Owen was well into his next beer, taking large swallows of the dark substance, then wiping off the ivory colored foam from his upper lip. “You sure you don’t want any? This stuff is good for your soul.” Bryce held up his glass mug, raising his eyebrows at Darc. More flirting? Darc was uncertain, and Trey was not present.
“No.”
“No, it’s not good for your soul? Or no, you don’t want any?” The lawyer laughed. “I’m just kidding. Don’t let me corrupt you.”
“It would not corrupt me,” Darc corrected the Deputy Attorney. “Guinness, while a corrosive agent, is considered by many health specialists to be as effective as aspirin at preventing heart clots.”
“Wow,” Bryce replied. “That’s good to know.” He turned to the bar at large. “Hey, everybody! I’m preventing heart clots!” Several bar patrons cheered and whistled as Van Owen downed another large swallow. He returned his attention to Darc, his eyes taking a moment to focus. “I gotta tell you, Darc, I had heard you were smart, but seeing it in action is a whole ‘nother thing. The way you’ve handled this case so far? Genius.”
Darc shook his head. “The vast majority of this case has been handled by Trey. I have offered only minor support.”
7th Sin: The Sequel to the #1 Hard Boiled Mystery, 9th Circle (Book 2 of the Darc Murders Series) Page 14