SK01 - Waist Deep

by Frank Zafiro

  I watched Kris. She’d let up on the knife’s pressure against her neck. I focused on the blade of the knife, watching LeMond out of my peripheral vision. My mind was whirring, searching for options.

  “Maybe we can all walk away from this,” I said.

  “Make everyone happy?” LeMond’s voice was filled with sarcasm.

  “No,” I said. “Nobody’s leaving this situation happy. But we can all three walk away alive.”

  Neither one of them answered, so I forged on.

  “Let’s start with this,” I said, meeting Kris’s eye. “You are going home to your parents.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I didn’t come this far to let anything else happen.”

  “I won’t stay,” she said. “If you take me there, I’ll just run away again or take some pills or something. I won’t stay.”

  I tipped my head toward LeMond. “Why are you with him, Kris? He’s just using you. Can’t you see that?”

  “I love him,” she said and shot a glance of pure adolescent idolatry at him. “And he’s going to make me a star. Bigger than Adrianna Apple to start, big as Audrey Hepburn before we’re through.”

  “Audrey Hepburn didn’t—” I started to say, then stopped. I had meant to say that she never starred in any porn movies. But I didn’t want to push her further away. Instead, I finished, “Audrey Hepburn had class.”

  “So does my Star,” LeMond said. “One hundred percent.”

  Kris flashed him a smile, her eyes glistening with tears. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Do you plan on visiting him in prison?” I asked her. “Because that’s where he’s headed, after I blow the top off this operation.”

  Her eyes snapped back to me at the word “prison” and narrowed. “He won’t go to prison. That’s bullshit.”

  I shook my head. “Rape of a child. Third degree.”

  “He never raped me,” she protested, her confident voice betraying a hint of a petulant whine. “Besides, I know the law. We looked it up. Gary even showed it to me.”

  I raised my eyebrows and said nothing. The knife remained pressed to her throat.

  “I’m sixteen,” she continued. “I’m old enough to decide who to have sex with.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “Except when that person has a position of trust and authority over you.”

  She cast a confused look toward LeMond. “What?”

  “Like a teacher,” I added.

  Kris’s gaze returned to me. “You’re a liar,” she said, but her voice wavered.

  “No, I’m not. That’s the law. You’re under eighteen and he’s your teacher, so it’s rape whether you gave your consent or not.” I waited a beat, then said, “So you see, he is headed for prison. Unless we make a deal.”

  Her eyes became narrow and suspicious. “What kind of deal?”

  “Simple,” I said. “You put down the knife and come with me. I take you back home to your parents. You stay there, finish high school and be the perfect daughter. You want to go make skin flicks on the Internet when you turn eighteen and move out, that’s your business. But until then, you stay there.”

  “No,” Kris said, but LeMond piped in. “Hear him out, baby doll.”

  A twist of anger shot through my chest when he called her that, but I fought it down. “In exchange for that, I don’t tell anyone about you and LeMond having a relationship. Or about these movies you’ve been making. None of it. I don’t send him to prison.”

  Kris chewed her lip and glanced at LeMond.

  I followed her gaze. “Same deal to you,” I said. “You shut down the operation and I keep my mouth shut. And you move away. Find a different place to teach.”

  “No!” Kris said. “I don’t want him to leave.”

  LeMond and I remained silent, staring at each other across the barrel of my gun. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. It’s a deal.”

  “No!” Kris cried out. “I don’t want to—”

  “It’s all right, baby doll,” LeMond said. “I’ll let the school know where I go. You can follow when you graduate. We’ll be together eventually. It’ll work out.”

  “But I love you!”

  “And I love you,” LeMond said, his voice smooth. “And we’ll pick up right where we left off, once we’re free of all of society’s bullshit. All right?”

  We both looked at Kris. She swallowed hard, her eyes flitting back and forth between our faces. I was nodding slowly, urging her to agree. LeMond was murmuring lovey-dovey words to her that turned my stomach, but I let him continue in order to get her to comply.

  After a moment, she lowered the knife. “Okay,” she said, looking at LeMond. “If you think it’s what’s best.”

  “I do, baby doll,” LeMond cooed. “I do.”

  “Toss the knife back into the bedroom,” I told her gently. She did it.

  “Stand by the door,” I said.

  “What about my stuff?”

  “Leave it. Leave it all behind.”

  She frowned, then pouted. For the first time, she actually looked like a sixteen year old to me. I felt a rush of relief in my chest. Maybe that little girl was still there, somewhere inside. Maybe she hadn’t been completely snuffed out.

  I motioned for LeMond to stand up. Once he was on his feet, I limped toward him. “I don’t want you following us,” I said.

  “I won’t.”

  “I know. I want you to wait in that bedroom until we’re long gone.” I pointed over his shoulder. When he turned to look, I clobbered him with the barrel of my .45. And damned if it didn’t work just fine this time.

  Kris yelped and LeMond hit the floor like a bag of pus.

  “Let’s go,” I said, and took her arm.

  55

  “You didn’t have to hit him, did you?”

  Kris had been crying silently ever since we left the apartment.

  I shook my head, turning out of the parking lot and heading south. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then why’d you do it?”

  “Because I wasn’t allowed to kill him.”

  Kris shot me a venomous look. “If you hurt him again, or if you go back on your word, I will run away. I’ll go so far that not even the FBI will find me. And I’ll tell my father that it was your fault.”

  I believed her. “I’ll keep my word, Kris. You just keep yours.”

  We drove in silence for a few blocks. The early nightfall of winter had begun to shroud the city streets and the first weak glare of streetlights came on. I drove easily, in no hurry. It was nowhere near ten o’clock. I had plenty of time.

  “Tell me something,” I said to her, downshifting for a stop light.

  “What?”

  “The running away. It was all a sham, wasn’t it?”

  She looked at me as if I were retarded. “Duh.”

  “And you weren’t upset about losing the play? The one-part production?”

  “I suppose I was at the time,” she said with a shrug. “But high school is small time.”

  “What about the hooking?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were out on East Sprague, working for a pimp. I saw the police report.”

  She laughed. “I was out there for two nights.”

  “Why?”

  “Research,” she said, in a perfectly serious tone. “Gary says that method acting is the most persuasive. Anyone can ooh and ahh while getting fucked, but only an actor can sell it to the audience.”

  “Method acting?”

  She nodded, her face serious. “It’s the only way to become a star.”

  “I talked to a pimp. Rolo was his name. He said—”

  “He got his cut,” Kris said. “It was all part of the research.”

  I let it go. Had Rolo lied to me? I thought about it for a moment and realized that he really hadn’t lied. He just hadn’t told me the whole story. In fact, he really couldn’t have without giving up LeMond or Jackson. I suppose he was good to his
word. He sure could have saved me a lot of trouble, though.

  The light turned green and I accelerated. “Why these movies, Kris? They’re so…crude.”

  She gave a confused look. “Porn, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s just sex,” she told me. “And porn is no big deal. Look at Adriana Apple.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Right,” she snorted. “Whatever.”

  “No,” I said. “I really don’t.”

  She glanced over at me. Her expression had changed from one suspecting retardation to one of disbelief. I might as well have said that I’d never heard of Elvis. “She’s only the biggest star this side of Jenna Jameson. Duh.”

  “I gathered that,” I said. “But she’s a porn star. Not a movie star. Not like Audrey Hepburn.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Do they talk about Adrianna Apple on Entertainment Tonight? Is her picture in People Magazine?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have a TV and I don’t read People.”

  “Well, they do,” Kris snapped. “Adrianna Apple is on TV and in all the magazines. Because she’s a star.” She stared at me, then shook her head in wonder. “Jesus, what planet are you from?”

  “One where sixteen year olds chew bubble gum and moon over Leif Garrett, I guess.”

  “He’s gross,” Kris said. “I saw a special on him on the E! channel. All old and bald and stuff. He wasn’t that cute even back in ancient times when he was a kid, either.”

  “You know what I meant,” I said.

  She shrugged. “The world changes. Maybe you’re getting old or something.”

  I fell silent, navigating the car west and then south. Kris chewed on her thumbnail absently, then asked, “What are you going to tell my mom and dad?”

  “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then that’ll be part of the deal.”

  She smiled briefly, then went back to chewing on her thumbnail.

  56

  It was fully dark by the time I pulled up in front of Roger Jackson’s place and turned off the car.

  “What are we doing here?” Kris asked. “I thought you were taking me home.”

  “I am. But I left Roger in a delicate situation. Besides, he needs to know that the deal we’ve made extends to him, too.”

  She shrugged and looked up at the house.

  “Kris?”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t know a girl named Linda, do you?”

  She turned to face me. “No. Why?”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Do you want me to come in with you or wait in the car?”

  I considered for a moment, then decided that she was probably not going anywhere. I started to answer her when I heard the pounding of heavy boots. Someone swung my car door violently open.

  “Don’t you move, scumbag!” a deep voice brayed at me. “Hands on the steering wheel! Now!”

  I moved my hands slowly toward the wheel and grasped it lightly. Beside me, Kris’s eyes grew wide as her door flew open, too.

  “Outta the car, missy,” another gruff voice told her.

  A single file line of men in black fatigues trotted quickly up Roger Jackson’s walkway. All the men were helmeted and wore goggles. The lead man carried a ballistic shield. The second man carried a black battering ram with white lettering on the side that read “Knock, knock.” The rest of the men carried assorted weaponry.

  It was a police raid and we were caught right in the middle of it.

  I glanced over at Kris, who was staring back at me. Her eyes were wide with surprise but still shrewd beyond her years.

  “Let’s go, missy,” the gruff cop’s voice told her.

  “Remember our deal,” Kris whispered, and got out of the car.

  57

  I reached my hands out to my left, stretching them out the open door as far as possible.

  “Now step out of the vehicle with your left foot only,” came the next command.

  There was a loud crash, cries of “Police! Search Warrant!” and the S.W.A.T. team knifed through the front door and disappeared into Roger Jackson’s house.

  Shit.

  Lieutenant Crawford must have worked late and read Adam’s report. My grace period just went up in a puff of smoke.

  “Put your left foot out. Now!” the voice commanded again.

  I put my left foot out the door.

  “Officer—” I started to say.

  “Don’t talk! Put your right foot—”

  “I have a gun.”

  There was a short silence. Then, “Where?”

  “On my right hip. In a holster.”

  “Okay. Do not reach for it.”

  Duh, I thought, like Kris would say. But I only nodded.

  The voice talked me the rest of the way out of the driver’s seat and then ordered me to face the car. I did, and braced myself. Even so, I was surprised by the raw force that took me into the side of the vehicle. Hands trapped my arms and pressed on my shoulders, pinning me to the hard metal. Another set of hands started searching me. It was an awkward pat-down motion that either belonged to a rookie or someone amped up on adrenaline. Had I searched like that when I was on the job? Before I could consider that thought, someone jammed a boot against the inside of my right foot, forcing it outward. My left knee quivered under the strain. After a second, it gave way. I started to fall in that direction.

  “Don’t resist!” came two voices at once. The pair of hands at my back pushed harder.

  “I’m not,” I shouted. “My knee’s bad.”

  “Gun!” someone shouted.

  Then everyone tensed up and a moment later I was eating asphalt.

  58

  I sat in the interrogation room and stared at the wall, rubbing my wrists.

  The cops on scene had handcuffed me once I was proned out and they had my gun. That began what seemed like eight hours in handcuffs for me. My cheekbone had a nice little cherry on it from grinding into the pavement, the weight of some cop across the back of my neck. I knew it was all textbook. I’d been the “bad guy” hundreds of time on the mats out at the police academy gym. But when it was for real and on asphalt, it hurt like hell.

  After a complete search of my body, they’d shoved me into the back of a patrol car without a word. All in all, I felt mildly grateful. No one had recognized me.

  I’m sure it wouldn’t last.

  I sat in the room with my back to the door. Every few minutes, I could sense a body at the door. I wasn’t sure if it were the same officers, a rookie named McLaren and an FTO that looked like a rookie himself. Maybe word had started to spread and other people were coming to check things out.

  The interrogation room itself was bare. A table and three chairs. That was it. Not even a clock. I didn’t have a watch but I imagined it had been almost an hour from the time we arrived at the police station.

  About twenty minutes in, I’d asked to go to the bathroom. The rookie had conferred with his FTO and initially refused. When I asked if the detectives would enjoy having to skirt a puddle of urine to get to their chairs to interrogate me, he reconsidered. He was smart, though. He did another complete search, turning out all my pockets, and stood two feet away from me while I used the urinal.

  Time slipped by, maybe as much as another half hour. My wrists stopped hurting. My knee didn’t. The wheels in my head just kept spinning. The whole while, I sat there just wishing I’d taken Kris straight home to her dad.

  The thing was, I was in a bind now. I’d made promises. I’d promised Rolo I wouldn’t tell the cops about his involvement. He might not have told me the whole arrangement he had with LeMond or Jackson, but he hadn’t out and out lied to me. He wasn’t, as he’d say, in breach of contract. And his information had help lead me to Jackson, eventually.

  I’d also made a promise to LeMond that I wouldn�
��t tell anyone about Yvette. He’d pretty much invalidated that when he lied to me about Kris but then I’d made another promise at Kris’s apartment. I couldn’t break the first one without breaking the second.

  Most importantly, I’d promised Kris. That was the promise that, if kept, might give her family a fighting chance. It might keep Kris from thinking that all she really was to anyone was damaged goods. I knew that right now, she still thought she was on her way to being a star. Something told me that could change very easily and it would be the damaged goods scenario that might take root.

  The real question was, how hard of a hit would I have to take to keep all of those promises?

  I sighed, and waited.

  59

  Thirty or forty minutes later, the door opened and two detectives strolled in. I didn’t recognize the first one, but I knew the second.

  Jack Stone.

  Stone had been a patrol officer when I was on the job. He was a veteran then, working day shift. I hadn’t heard about him making detective, but then Adam really only updated me on the few people he thought I’d care about, such as Katie. I’d never had any real trouble with Stone, but I knew his reputation.

  Stone flopped down in the chair opposite me, his collar open and his tie askew. He’d gotten a little heavier since I’d seen him last and it showed in his middle and in his face.

  The other detective sat in the chair to my right. He looked mildly Asian and younger than me, with his dark black hair combed forward in the front. Red port wine splotches of birthmark stood out on his cheek. He wore a pair of thin, square glasses, which he adjusted several times after sitting down.

  Stone pointed at him, but looked at me. “This is Detective Matsuda. I’m Detective Stone.”

  I gave a short nod, but said nothing.

  He turned to Matsuda. “This,” he said, pointing to me, “is Stefan Kopriva, formerly of the RCPD.”

  Matsuda nodded, as if this was news to him. I knew better. This was an orchestrated dance, the steps to which the two of them had worked out before ever coming into this room.