by Gregory Ashe
He found a lot of tile, a lot of glass, and a security guard who had left his friendly smile at home that day.
“I’m here to see Hilda Coker.”
The guard looked at North. He looked at the phone. He sighed. He picked up the phone. He dialed. He left about twenty or thirty seconds between each number just to make sure he got it right. It was a level of thoroughness that North often encountered in situations like this. This guard was being so thorough that North was likely to die of old age before the guard got a number wrong.
“Name?”
North gave it.
The guard mumbled into the phone, hanging up almost before he finished speaking. “She doesn’t know you.”
North looked at the guard. He looked at the phone. “Is that right?”
The guard stared off into space.
“That’s what she told you?” North said.
Nothing.
“Do they have a suggestion box? I’ve got a few ideas.”
“Can I help you with something, sir?”
“No. I don’t want you overdoing it.”
North estimated the distance to the bank of elevators and then gave it up; he didn’t know which floor Coker worked on, and by the time he found her, security would turn the whole thing into a circus. An industrious guy like the one at the desk might even call the cops, and that was the last thing North needed.
Instead, North walked outside and got out his phone. He found a switchboard number for the newspaper and dialed. When he asked for Coker, he was transferred, and hold music chimed pleasantly in his ear. Then a smoker’s voice, scratchy and high and still somewhat musical. “Coker.”
“My name is North McKinney, and I—”
“Not a chance.”
The sound of a receiver slamming down came, and then the call disconnected.
Well, North thought, staring up at the high windows and the long sheets of sunlight reflected along the glass. That told him a few things, and they were all very interesting.
He walked back to the GTO. He dug out the pack of American Spirits from under the seat and smoked two and a half. One was for all the fucking mess with Shaw. One was for this nightmare with Jadon. And half was for Coker. He didn’t think Coker had earned herself a full smoke yet, so he stubbed it out on the curb and put it back in the pack.
He sat in the GTO, windows down to allow circulation of the cool, crisp, Midwestern air. He could smell barbeque from up the street, and his stomach rumbled. He read a few more of Coker’s stories, and then he rolled up the windows and walked two blocks to a Phillips 66 where he stood in front of the refrigerated cases and finally made a decision. He dialed on his phone.
“You messed up,” Shaw said. “You need me to come down there.”
“Hardly.”
“You miss me.”
“Like crotch rot.”
“You want to take this overgrown rat off my hands.”
The puppy yapped as though in confirmation.
“I thought maybe I could buy you a Coke,” North said.
“Kind of like we’re going steady in high school. We can walk on down to the soda shop. I’ll wear your letterman’s jacket.”
“I actually do have a letterman’s jacket.”
“I know. You wore it freshman year. In the fall. Until you realized nobody thought it was cool.”
“I wore it once and then stopped wearing it because it didn’t fit me.”
“You stopped wearing it because Percy made a joke about you looking like you were starring in Grease and you got embarrassed.”
“Do you want a Coke, or do you want to give me shit?”
“Can’t I do both?”
“Shaw.”
“You said I shouldn’t drink too much Coke. You said I’m wired enough as it is.”
“I just want to buy you a Coke, baby.”
He heard the wary eagerness in Shaw’s voice. “I’m listening.”
“And I thought you could bring me something on your way down.”
“I knew you needed me.”
“It’s in one of those boxes I left in the garage.”
“I’m only doing this because I know you need my help.”
“You’re doing it because you’re a fucking addict and you would crawl over broken glass to get a Coke.”
“Ok,” Shaw said. “I can do it for two reasons.”
Chapter 15
AFTER NORTH LEFT the office, Shaw let the puppy run wild and wiped blood from the nips on his fingertip. Then he went back to researching. He returned to Jadon’s Facebook page and clicked again through the pictures, more slowly this time. Shaw didn’t think Ricky looked like him. Not really. Although maybe something in the face. And the hair, a little.
Blowing out a breath of disgust, Shaw pushed the thoughts away and checked Jadon’s Instagram. Fewer pictures here, although still several containing Jadon and Ricky, side by side, arms around each other. No snapshots of incriminating documents. No photographs of whatever evidence Jadon might have turned up. Just the normal images: food, fun, an afternoon feeding baby goats.
Shaw went back to Facebook, but this time he followed Jadon’s Facebook page—In a relationship with Richard Ullman—to Ricky’s. Aside from two pictures of Ricky and the fact that Ricky had gone to high school in University City and was currently enrolled at University of Missouri-St. Louis, the profile was locked down. Shaw sent a friend request and a private message: I know we haven’t met, but I’m trying to help Jadon.
That felt like the limit of what Shaw could extract from Jadon’s social media, at least for the moment, so he forced himself to close tabs and think. Shaw had hoped that he might be able to uncover more of what had happened to Jadon by figuring out Jadon’s movements over the last few days. If Shaw could decipher what Jadon had learned, or where he had gone, or whom he had spoken to, Shaw might be able to piece together more of this puzzle.
But the frustrating reality was that Jadon was a cop, and he was a good cop, which meant that he had been careful to keep his public profile squeaky clean. The only thing someone might learn from Facebook or Instagram was that Jadon was gay, which wasn’t exactly a secret, especially not with Jadon working on the Metropolitan PD’s LGBT task force.
A yip dragged Shaw out of his thoughts. The puppy stood in the doorway, barking frantically. A moment later, Shaw heard the outer door open, and the puppy went into a frenzy, barking and hopping in place like a wind-up toy.
Pari let out a delighted squeal. “Oh my God, aren’t you just adorable?”
“Watch out,” Shaw called. “He bites.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Pari shouted back.
“He bit me.”
“Of course he did. You’ve been acting absolutely terribly. You can’t imagine a sweet little thing like this would put up with you.”
“You hated him yesterday. He chewed up your shoe.”
“But look at him!” She cooed at the puppy. “He’s just so cute. He’s trying to defend the office.”
“You wanted to kill him yesterday.”
“I absolutely did not. You have the worst memory, Shaw Aldrich.”
“I remember that you were supposed to be getting me breakfast.”
“Come here, baby. Let me see you.” The barking escalated and then cut off with a whine. “Oh my God, Shaw! Look at us!” Pari trotted to the doorway. She had the Löwchen clutched in one hand, their faces side by side. Pari was pouting. The puppy licked her cheek and gave a resigned whimper. “Aren’t we just adorable? Take a picture.”
“I’m working.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry. I didn’t realize that you were so busy cutting your hair and finding normal human clothes—”
“I always wear normal clothes.”
“—and taking pictures of yourself on your phone and trying out the makeup filter—”
“That was one time.”
“—to find out which
Sephora lipstick looked best on you—”
“I was trying to figure out if a criminal could use it to disguise himself. Or herself.” Shaw felt proud of how forward-thinking that was.
“—and you’re so incredibly busy deciding which of those selfies to send to North to try to get him riled up so he’ll drag you upstairs—”
“I knew it,” Shaw said. “I told North we should have waited until you left.”
“—while a decent, respectable woman has to listen to the ungodly noises you make in bed—”
“I shut the door! What else do you want?”
“—that you can’t take one picture of me and this adorable puppy. Fine, Shaw. Message received. I’ll get back to work. Do you want me to fill the coal scuttle? Do you want me to mop the char from the steps? Should I break my back hauling in water so you and North can have a bath together?”
“Jesus Christ. What class are you taking now?”
“Dickens in the World,” she said. “Not that it matters to you. You’ll probably turn me out and send me to an orphanage—”
“You’re too old for an orphanage.”
Pari went deathly still. The puppy squirmed in her grip, fixed Shaw with an unreadable look, and yipped once.
“Excuse me?”
“I was just saying—”
“I’m too old?”
“No, I just meant—”
“At what age exactly, Shaw, does a woman lose her value in your mind? The minute her breasts begin to sag? Because I can show you that mine—”
“Never mind. Never mind. I’ll just take the picture.”
“Thank you,” Pari said with an exasperated shake of her head. She ran fingers through her hair, put on her best smile, and squeezed the puppy against her cheek. The poor thing looked like it was at risk of being flattened.
Shaw snapped a few pictures on his phone while Pari cycled through various faces and poses. Then Shaw sent the pictures to her, and she immediately began to flick through them on her phone, setting down the dog, immediately oblivious to it again. It whined and trotted over to Shaw.
“God,” Pari said, still looking at her phone. “I’m starving. Hold all my calls, Shaw. I’m going to eat breakfast.”
“Nobody ever calls—never mind. Do you have mine?”
She glanced up from her phone. “Your what?”
“My breakfast sandwich. You said you were going to get me one?”
“I bought one breakfast sandwich, Shaw. And now I’m emotionally and physically exhausted because you acted like such a child about taking those pictures.”
“I just thought—”
“No, Shaw. You know what? You’re right. I’ll give you the sandwich. And then I’ll get my bowl of gruel. Is that what you want me to eat? Gruel? And you’d only let me have one, wouldn’t you.”
“Just eat the sandwich.”
“Thank you, good sir. Thank you for being so generous. I’ll remember that when I’m begging for my next bowl of gruel.”
Shaw dropped his head onto his arms. “Goodbye, Pari.”
“I’m also only working until three today, Shaw. Remember?”
“Sure.”
“No, you don’t. You have the worst memory, Shaw. The absolute worst. Sometimes I wonder about you. Maybe we should take you to one of those doctors for old people.”
“I’m only a few years older than you,” Shaw tried to say, but she was already gone.
A few moments later, the smell of sausage wafted in from the outer office. The puppy whined and scratched at Shaw’s ankle.
“I know,” Shaw said. “We’ll get something too.”
But something in that encounter with Pari was gliding through Shaw’s subconscious, so close to the surface that he could almost see it. Something about memory. Pari liked to rewrite history; for the most part that was fine, although Shaw was increasingly wondering if he might have made a mistake in hiring her. And her usual trick was to state the new facts as though she fully believed them. For all Shaw knew, she did believe them. She was uncanny that way.
Then, for a moment, Shaw glimpsed it: he had a bad memory. That wasn’t actually true, not the way Pari meant it. But she had been right in her own way. When it came to the Slasher, Shaw really did have a bad memory. Normally, he had excellent recall, but trauma had damaged his record of that night in the alley. That was a normal response to traumatic events, Shaw knew, but it wasn’t exactly a helpful one.
The puppy whined again, scratching at Shaw’s ankle, and Shaw scooped him up and carried him outside. The puppy immediately went about his business. Shaw stood in the September sunlight, enjoying the relative cool of the day, the breeze, the first smell of autumn coming. It felt like the seasons had shifted overnight, and now summer was in retreat. He glanced up and down the street at the rows of tall brick houses and the beat-up cars, smelling the third-rate weed somebody was smoking nearby.
What did he remember about that night with the Slasher? Not much, unfortunately. Master Hermes had tried to channel the night psychically, but he had got a crick in his neck and had asked Shaw to end their session early. Dr. Farr had talked about regression therapy with hypnosis, but she hadn’t really believed in it, and she had encouraged Shaw to move on and leave the past behind.
Standing by the hydrangeas, Shaw ran his hand through their leaves, enjoying the tickle against his palm and the soft, green smell they exuded. He remembered a few things. He remembered the pain in his gut and thigh and between his legs, where the Slasher’s knife had almost taken off his balls. Carl lay on the alley’s pavement, already dead. The Slasher had abandoned the knife then. He had wanted to use his hands, and he had choked Shaw; Shaw remembered sensing how much the man had enjoyed it, slowly throttling Shaw. Shaw remembered the glint of a gold tooth floating in blackness like a dead man’s coin. He remembered digging his thumbs into the Slasher’s eyes, and then the other man’s scream as he tried to get away.
Shaw wiped his forehead even though the September morning was still pleasantly cool. He couldn’t smell the weed anymore, although he did think briefly of the joints he kept next to his bed. He couldn’t smell the hydrangeas either. All he could smell was his own flop sweat as his brain reacted to a threat from the past.
Catching the puppy before it could reach the road, Shaw returned to the office. That was all he remembered. Not much, unfortunately. And neither Waggener nor Taylor had a gold tooth, which made Shaw wonder who they were protecting and why.
As Shaw settled back in at his desk, he realized that he didn’t even remember the weeks surrounding the attack. Not much, anyway. He remembered Tucker telling him that North would never date him. He remembered asking Carl out, planning on taking him to Kayak’s Coffee for their first date. He remembered the way Carl’s fingers had slipped through his on the walk. He remembered, after, the dark night in the hospital bed, and the sound of North and Tucker scuffling in the hallway. But around those details, Shaw’s brain had wrapped layer after layer of gauze, shrouding anything else.
Again, something dark darted through Shaw’s subconscious. What else had been happening? Not just in Shaw’s life, but in the city, in the state, in the world. Why had the Slasher emerged at that point? More importantly, why hadn’t Shaw thought about this before? Shaw didn’t know. He didn’t have any idea. But the stirring in his brain, beneath that frozen crust of consciousness, made him think he had been overlooking something important for a long time.
He pulled up the Post-Dispatch archives and found that they had outsourced their digital collection to another website, Newspapers.com. Shaw navigated there, opened an account, paid the subscription fee, and began to search. In the back of his mind, he had entertained the possibility that he would have to trawl through stacks of microfiche at the city library. This was so much better; the 21st century might have struck a serious blow to the newspaper industry, but it had made research infinitely easier.
Even better than the easy access, th
ough, was that Shaw could view the Post-Dispatch in its printed format, rather than reading isolated articles. Searching by articles was useful when he needed to find everything connected to a specific topic, but that wasn’t really what Shaw needed. What he needed this time, in contrast, was a kind of panoramic view of the days and weeks and months surrounding the Slasher’s emergence and his spree of attacks.
And that, he quickly realized, was going to take a lot of time. Every edition had multiple pages. And although digital format was easier to manipulate than sheets of microfiche, it still required zooming in and then out, adjusting the image to read the print, clicking over to the next page and waiting for it to load. After forty minutes, frustration started a low boil in Shaw’s gut. This could take days. It could take weeks.
Shaw’s phone buzzed, and North’s name appeared on the screen.
Grinning, Shaw answered by saying, “You messed up. You need me to come down there.”
Chapter 16
NORTH WAS SITTING on the curb outside the Phillips 66, enjoying the sudden break in the heat, when Shaw pulled up in the Mercedes. North tilted his head back; he studied the ultramarine sky. A breeze had picked up, carrying away the stink of gasoline and motor oil, replacing it with the smell of meat seared over charcoal. North thought about lunch.
“Hi,” Shaw said. He dropped something on the ground next to North. “Can I have my Coke?”
“That’s how an addict greets people.”
“It’s just a question, North.”
North kept looking up at the sky. “You don’t see blue like that very often.”
“I can’t really hang around. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“You can take five minutes to talk to me. You like talking to me.”
Shaw’s face swam into North’s vision. “Hi,” he said again. “Where’s my Coke?”
North lifted the sweating bottle, holding it just out of reach.
“North!”