Saving Emma

by Banks, R. R.

  Crossing the room, I open the closet door. Shining the light around, I see some coats, and dingy boxes on the floor. I lift the lids and peer inside, but don't see anything noteworthy. I don't know what I'm expecting to find exactly. I doubt I'm going to find a signed confession laying around, but I'm hoping to find something that stands out. So far, this escapade has been a huge failure.

  Sighing, I put everything back and close the closet door. I'm down to the desk. Crossing the room again, I sit down in his chair and shine my light around the top of it. Nothing but papers, and a few books. I open the top middle drawer and find more papers, pens, and typical office supplies. I poke through the other drawers, feeling very disheartened that I've found absolutely nothing, and for the first time, doubt creeps into my mind.

  Maybe, I've been wrong about Carlyle this whole time, and I've been following the entirely wrong leads, leaving the real killer out there, roaming free. Reaching down, I grab hold of the handle for the last drawer and find it locked. I quickly pick the lock and slide it open.

  I shine my light down and see a bunch of files – important tax information, some business certificates, and whatnot. Something beneath the hanging files catches my attention. Reaching in, I push the files to the side, and see a leather photo album. My heart thumping almost violently in my breast, I pull the album out of the drawer and set it on the desk.

  My mouth is dry, my hands sweaty and damp, as I open the album with one hand, holding the light with the other. The first photo, dated February 2010, shows a dark-haired girl with blue eyes, and freckled skin. It's a candid shot, and the girl is looking toward the camera, smiling, though it doesn't appear she’s aware of being photographed. Her arm is raised, and she's waving to someone behind the photographer.

  Yeah, that's not creepy at all.

  I don't know the girl, but at least I have a date to start researching. I flip through the ensuing pages – until I get to three girls whose faces I recognize – the most recent murders. Adrenaline courses through me, and my heart is beating at what feels like a Hummingbird’s pace. I was right. I've been right this whole time. Carlyle Hawkins is a vicious murderer.

  I pull a small notebook out of my pocket and grab a pen from his desk. I jot down basic descriptions and the corresponding dates for each girl. There are twenty-three of them in all, dating back eight years.

  Jesus Christ.

  I sit back in the chair and adjust the hat on my head. I can't believe this. I mean, I've always felt like Hawkins was the perp, but to finally have concrete proof is – it's overwhelming. The bitch of it is, I can't use any of this. The police can't use any of this. So, until I can get the cops even looking in his direction – something they've refused to do up to this point – or I find a way to smoke him out, he's going to go on doing what he does. Killing innocent women.

  In fact, as I sit here, I wonder if that's what he's out doing now – killing a girl. Is that where he was going earlier? Was that luggage, or his murder tools? I've heard a lot of serial killers have their “kill bags” – is that what I saw him loading into his car?

  I don't know, but just in case he's coming back, I need to get the hell out of here. I have a ton of information to process, and I have to start figuring out what to do with it all.

  Putting everything back just as I found it, I back out of the room, making sure to lock every door and drawer that had been locked when I came in. Stepping back out into the darkness of the night, I hustle back to my car, and drive home quickly, my mind reeling from my discovery.

  * * *

  I'm standing in my living room the next morning – after a mostly sleepless night – staring at the photo of Carlyle Hawkins on my whiteboard. I'm staring hard at it, as if it's going to give me all the answers I'm looking for.

  In the picture, a black and white headshot, he looks like such a kind, unassuming man. He has an almost grandfatherly look about him, with his bushy white mustache, thick beard, and sparkling blue eyes. He's tall, well-built, but with the pudge around the middle that comes with age and living a good life.

  He's also a cold-blooded killer. Of that, I have no doubt. The question is, how am I going to prove it? How am I going to get enough physical evidence to take it all to the police, and have them haul his sorry ass in?

  I'm concentrating so hard on the board, turning the story over and over in my mind as I try to craft a narrative, when my cell phone rings, I let out a startled yelp and nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of my ringtone. Putting my hand to my chest, I try to get myself under control, as I pick up the phone and look at the caller ID.

  It's the paper. Probably Ava Drake calling to see if she can pressure me into coming back. I connect the call and press the phone to my ear.

  “Emma Simmonds,” I say.

  “Emma,” Ava's clipped British accent comes over the line. “It's Ava Drake.”

  “What can I do for you, Ava?” I ask. “I haven't come to a decision just yet if that's what you're calling about.”

  “It’s not,” she says, an amused tone in her voice. “Actually, our publisher would like to meet with you.”

  “Bringing out the big guns?”

  “Not my idea,” she says. “I said you'd be tough to crack, and that pressure doesn't work with you.”

  “No, it really doesn't.”

  “Regardless, our publisher wants to meet with you,” she says. “A car will be arriving at six o’clock sharp this evening. You will be dining at Nokata, so dress accordingly.”

  “Oh – okay,” I say, shocked at the direction this phone call has taken.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “Ummm – no, I don't think so.”

  “Fantastic,” she says. “Then have a lovely evening.”

  “Thanks,” I say slowly.

  She disconnects the call, leaving me to stare at the phone in disbelief. Setting it down on the table, I stare at my phone a moment longer, trying to process what just happened, not fully understanding why I'm having such a hard time with it – I'm going to have dinner with the owner of the paper, who will try to pitch me on coming back.

  Not difficult to understand, right?

  Then I realize the one piece of information missing from that equation. I sit down at the table, open up my laptop, and plug Nokata into the search engine. It's an upscale sushi bar, so I need to dress nice. Okay, got it.

  I'm actually kind of excited. I haven't had good sushi in a long time. It's a luxury I can't normally afford. For a meal like that, I can certainly deal with a little rah-rah, come back to the paper pep talk. As long as the owner plies me with a mountain of high-grade, expensive sushi, I'll listen to them all night long.

  Sure. I can do that. No problem.

  * * *

  I'm standing at the curb outside my building at six on the dot when a large, black SUV pulls to a stop in front of me. A driver gets out and comes around to my side. He gives me a nod and a smile.

  “Ms. Simmonds?”

  “That's me.”

  He opens the rear door, and I peer inside, expecting to be looking at my mysterious benefactor. But, the back seat is empty. I look to the driver questioningly, and he gives me a small shrug.

  “I'm here to take you to the restaurant,” he says.

  “Oh. Umm – okay,” I say.

  I climb into the back seat, and the driver closes the door. I look down at myself, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. A driver, a fancy restaurant –I'm way out of my depth here. I feel like I'm about to be exposed as a fraud. I feel like my dress – a cheap knockoff.

  Oh, I can do all kinds of things to fancy myself up – put on some makeup, do my hair, and put a stupid little bow around my waist, but at the end of the day, just like my dress, I'm just a cheap off-the-rack sale item. I don't have a fancy education. The program I went through at Morro Bay State is the equivalent of a junior college certificate. Maybe even less than that.

  As I sit in the back of the SUV as it rumbles toward the restaurant, I
feel my stomach churning. Who am I kidding? I'm never going to be able to compete with some of the professional writers I look up to. I'm never going to be noticed by an outlet like the New York Times. I'll never be taken seriously.

  At best, I'm a hack. A true crime fangirl. At worst, I'm – I don't even want to think about that.

  All the crushing self-doubts and insecurities I work so hard to keep at bay seem to have broken loose from their moorings and crash down on me all at once. I'm tempted to tell the driver to turn around and take me home, that there's no point to this meeting, since I'm sure the publisher is going to take one look at me and realize I'm nothing special.

  I'm still grappling with the idea of going home and forgetting all about this fool's errand when the car comes to a stop. The driver gets out, and is holding the door open for me a moment later. He gives me a nod and disappears around the car again, and the SUV drives off, leaving me standing on the curb in front of the restaurant. Suddenly, a sushi feast doesn’t sound as tantalizing as before. My stomach is somersaulting inside of me, and I feel like I'm on the verge of throwing up.

  “Yeah, that'd make a great first impression,” I mutter quietly to myself.

  With Halloween fast approaching, fall is definitely in the air. As a chill sweeps through me, I’m suddenly grateful for the white sweater I'm wearing around my shoulders. I'm so glad summer is finally over. The cool air is much more pleasant. Taking a deep breath, I stand up straight and head toward the front doors of the restaurant. The attendant opens the door for me, and I step through, giving him a word of thanks as I do. At the host station, a young Japanese woman in stylish dress greets me with a wide smile.

  “Welcome to Nokata,” she says, her words colored with a faint Japanese accent. “Party of one?”

  “Actually, I'm supposed to be meeting somebody here,” I say. “I'm Emma Simmonds?”

  The woman looks at the computer screen and nods. “Yes, Ms. Simmonds,” she says. “Please, follow me.”

  She leads me back into the restaurant. On one side, there's a large sushi bar that runs the length of the restaurant. Every seat is taken, and with the sushi chefs bantering with their customers, it's a raucous atmosphere.

  Nokata is one of the trendy, upscale hot spots in Huntington Beach. It sits on Pacific Coast Highway and has a clear, unobstructed view of the pier and the ocean. It's gorgeous inside, with traditional Japanese artwork everywhere, including an authentic suit of samurai armor and the accompanying swords in one corner.

  Oddly enough, the restaurant is full of Halloween spirit with origami bats, spiders, and cobwebs everywhere. Around the samurai armor is a faux graveyard, with each headstone bearing a funny inscription or idiom. The frivolous decorations almost clash with the more traditional décor of the place.

  But hey, I guess that's what holidays like Halloween are for – to let our funky, irreverent sides out. I'm definitely not looking forward to working at the sports bar as Halloween approaches. We’re pretty much expected to wear slutty, degrading costumes. Some of the girls like it – and thankfully, the tips are usually a lot better than normal – but I don’t enjoy it. Not one bit.

  I'm still feeling a little shaky and under siege by my doubts and insecurities, as the hostess leads me further into the restaurant. As we turn a corner into a more private room, and I see my mysterious benefactor, my anxiety transforms into disbelief.

  “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brice

  When I see Emma round the corner, she nearly takes my breath away. In a dark green, vintage-style dress with a black bow around her waist, dark heels, and a white sweater, she's stunning. The cool, porcelain skin of her face is framed by loose tendrils of her raven black hair, and her lips, painted a vibrant shade of red, look plump and inviting – it's all I can do to not stand up, run to her, and press my mouth to hers.

  As the hostess departs, I stand up and step around the table, careful to camouflage my growing erection. I hold the chair out and gesture for her to have a seat. She hesitates for a moment, and I'm half-convinced she's going to turn and run, but she takes a deep breath and sits down. I push her chair in and walk back around to my own seat.

  “You're the new publisher?” she asks.

  “In the flesh.”

  I pour her a glass of sake, then refill my own. Picking up my glass, I raise it to her. Emma bites her bottom lip – I'm still not totally convinced she isn’t going to bolt – and eventually, picks up her glass. She gives me a long, even look, her dark eyes boring into mine, and I feel my heart swell – not to mention, other parts of my lower anatomy.

  “To new beginnings,” I toast.

  “Is that what this is?”

  I purse my lips and nod before giving her a meaningful look. “Yeah. In a lot of ways.”

  We both down our glass of sake. Emma grimaces and sets her glass down.

  “Wow,” she says. “That's – interesting.”

  “You've never had sake before?”

  She shakes her head and brings her napkin to her mouth, coughing a bit, but laughing at the same time.

  “I took the liberty of ordering some things already,” I say. “But, look at the menu, and if you see something you'd like, just let me know.”

  “Thank you,” she replies.

  A few moments later, the waitress comes out, setting bowls of steaming Miso soup down in front of us, and a couple of large plates filled with all kinds of wraps and rolls.

  “I suggest we enjoy a little food first, business after,” I say.

  Emma laughs, an enchanting noise. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  We dig into the plates of food, each of us devouring everything in front of us. We order more and consume all of that as well. To look at us, you'd think we haven't eaten in years. The conversation over dinner is light, superficial chit-chat. But hey, at least she's not screaming at me, so I take that as a win.

  Eventually, both of us are too stuffed to go on. We push our plates away and sit back in our seats. I know my belly feels like it's about to explode, and judging by the way she's groaning, I imagine hers does too.

  “It's been so long since I've had good sushi,” she moans.

  “You need to treat yourself now and then,” I say.

  I see her jaw clench, and a tightness in her face – I obviously said the wrong thing again.

  “Not all of us have that luxury.”

  “Yeah, I suppose not,” I say softly. “Sorry.”

  She takes a drink of her water and sits up, her dark eyes burning holes through me. I'm guessing the pleasant part of our meal is over, and now it's time to get down to business. Time to get down to the real reason we're here.

  “Did you really buy the paper just to give me my job back?” she asks. “What the hell, Brice?”

  “No, I bought the paper as an investment opportunity,” I reply. “I told you I was looking for the next challenge in my life.”

  “Oh, and it just so happened to be the paper I was fired from?”

  “Call it serendipitous,” I say. “Our interests aligned.”

  “Seriously, you don't find that the least bit creepy?” she asks. “That you spent – who knows how much – to buy a paper on its last legs, just to give me a job?”

  “There's more to it than that,” I say. “But, I also happen to think you're enormously talented, and that you deserve a platform like the Times Daily.”

  “It would have been a lot cheaper if you'd just asked me out on a date, Brice.”

  “Would you have said yes?”

  “Probably not,” she says with a smirk.

  “Well then, I had no choice but to buy the paper.”

  “That seems a bit manipulative.”

  “Not really,” I reply. “You're not under any obligation to come back. I promise. I can't force you to write for the paper.”

  “No, you can't.”

  The waitress comes back and asks us if we'd like dessert. Both of us, stuff
ed far beyond our limits, decline. She leaves the check and a small plate of oranges before departing again.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks.

  “Because you deserve a break,” I say. “You have a ton of talent – talent, I think your old editor didn't seem to know how to maximize.”

  “Speaking of Helen, what happened to her?”

  “I fired her.”

  She stares at me for a long moment. “Why? What did she do?”

  “My personal feeling is that she allowed the paper to flounder,” I say, answering her question honestly. “She was still stuck in the twentieth century. So, as time moved on, the paper got further and further behind the curve. I'm going to change that, and I'd really like you to be a part of it, Emma.”

  “Do you even know anything about running a paper?”

  I shake my head. “Not much. But I'm learning. And I'm putting the right people around me, to not only guide the paper but teach me as well.”

  “Why is it so important that I come back?”

  I take a sip of my water and ponder the question for a minute. “Honestly, I want to atone for some things,” I say. “I know I was an asshole when I was younger. I want to make up for some of what I did. Also, like I said earlier, I think you deserve a break. I think you have a lot of potential and I want to give you a platform to grow it.”

  She looks taken aback by my comment for a moment. Emma looks off and seems to be pondering the offer in her head. Finally, she looks back at me, and I can tell by the stubborn set to her jaw, that she's ready to start negotiating.

  “I want total autonomy,” she says. “I want to be able to pick the stories I chase, and I don't want to be confined to police blotter garbage. Ever again.”

  “Done,” I say.

  “I mean it. Helen spiked more of my stories than I can count,” she says. “I don't want Ava Drake telling me what I can and can't write about.”