Declination

by Gregory Ashe

  They went back and forth for a while, North probing, feeling her out, until he was satisfied with the answers. Then he waved for Shaw and Marjorie to approach. Dzeko swung the door open and motioned for them to follow as she led the way deeper into the apartment.

  North caught Shaw at the door, and they hung back. “Can you fill her in?

  Shaw nodded. “Where are you going?”

  “I think you’ll be safe; she’s as eager as you thought she’d be.”

  “I’ll be fine. I can handle Dzeko. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to find out if Waggener put a price on our heads. I won’t be gone long; just need to find a payphone.”

  Another nod, this time slower. “Be safe, North.”

  “You too.”

  North took the stairs, skipping the parking garage where they had stashed the two cars and plunging out onto Market Street. He crossed the park that surrounded Soldiers Memorial; sunlight gleamed on the pale stone. The afternoon shadows shifted, lengthening out, almost hiding the words carved above the entrance: To Our Soldier Dead. North turned away from the words, away from the statue of Sacrifice, wiping his palms on his jeans as he crossed the next street and climbed the steps into the 1970s-era municipal courthouse.

  Keeping an eye out for cops he might know, North made his way to the bank of payphones near the restrooms. He dropped in two quarters, pulled the card from his pocket, and dialed.

  A familiar voice came on after the second ring. “Barr.”

  “It’s North McKinney.”

  The rustle of clothing came across the line, soft breathing, the whick of a door shutting. All the clues of someone moving quickly with the phone pressed to his ear.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Barr asked in a soft voice.

  “This must be how I sound when I talk to Shaw.”

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on? Ste. Genevieve police found Philip Taylor dead; someone stopped at the Marie Antoinette winery for a late lunch and found him in the doorway. Jesus Christ, your stupid muscle car showed up on every traffic camera between here and there. Every cop in the city is looking for you.”

  Suddenly the courthouse didn’t seem like such a good place to be; the air conditioning was still running, even on the brisk September day, and North’s neck prickled in the cold. “Waggener shot him.”

  This time, the silence across the line was absolute. Then Barr exhaled and said, “People are already talking. She hasn’t checked in. Some people think you got her too. But other people are asking questions.”

  “Listen, I need you to—”

  “No. Here’s what you need: you need to turn your dumb ass in. Right now.”

  “Do you want me to save you the trouble and just shoot myself?”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ll come get you. We’ll make it all really public.”

  “Really public? You’ve seen what some of your buddies do even when they know a phone is recording them. Public isn’t going to keep my brains inside my skull.”

  “I’ll get you myself. I’ll make sure you get to the jail. I’ll sit outside your cell and read the paper all night if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “You know how to read?”

  “Christ, why are you being an asshole at a time like this? If you don’t turn yourself in, they’re going to find you anyway, and then I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “This is easy, Barr. Open and shut. Find Waggener, check her gun against the round that killed Taylor. That’s the end of it.”

  “It’s not that simple. You don’t know how bad these guys want to pick you up. If you—”

  The prickle on North’s neck had gotten worse. The receiver felt slick in his hand. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Listen, I’ll send Kelso to help you out. You can trust her. Just tell me—”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me you stupid—”

  He hung up the receiver and made his way to the doors. He took one deep breath when sunshine and fresh air replaced the over-cool interior of the courthouse. He took a second deep breath when he was jogging across the park and could taste the leaves and the old cigarettes and the grass clippings left to rot from the last cutting. He stopped at the GTO, dug the American Spirits out from under the seat, and smoked two. He tucked a third and the lighter into his pocket, decided he could see Shaw without falling apart all over again, and took the stairs three at a time.

  Shaw answered the door. “They’re talking through the whole thing,” he said in a low voice, jerking his head toward the sound of conversation. Beyond Shaw, North could see Dzeko and Marjorie sitting opposite each other in matching Eames chairs, silhouetted by the sunset coming through the glass slider that opened onto the balcony.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “They’re both doing great. Dzeko’s got good questions. She’s writing down specific dates when Marjorie can remember them, but even better, she asked about records on all the car’s maintenance. Get this.” Shaw was grinning. “Marjorie kept a log. Every time the car got a tune up or an accessory. She’s totally bonkers, but she wanted a clear record in case she ever sold the car. Even the work that was bogus, Marjorie says she wrote it all down. Dzeko thinks she can match those to the Slasher killings.”

  “Yeah. What about Taylor and Waggener?”

  Shaw’s smile grew. “She’s working that angle too. She’s trying to get as many specifics as she can, but she’s not pressing too hard. I think she wants to see what Marjorie can give her first.”

  North blew out a breath. “If things keep going at this rate, there won’t be anybody left to prosecute. Taylor’s dead. Parrish is dead. Waggener is in the wind, and I just gave Barr a heads up to check her gun if they can catch her. That’s everybody.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re missing something,” Shaw said with a frown. “I know Waggener wasn’t the Slasher.”

  “That’s a little sexist. Women can be serial killers too.”

  “Yeah, but Waggener’s too small. The Slasher had me pinned up against the wall. He was strong, and he was around my height. We were face to face when I tried to gouge his eyes out.”

  “So it was Taylor. Or Parrish. Or this mysterious friend. We already went over this.”

  “But the night I was attacked—”

  “Does it match up with the car’s maintenance record?”

  It took a long moment for Shaw to answer. “Yes.”

  “So it matches the pattern?

  Another moment. “Yes.”

  “So it could have been one of them?”

  An even longer moment. “Yes. But the gold crown—”

  “Then that’s it.” North tried to soften his voice. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”

  Shaw just stared at the floor, his features frozen.

  “Anyway,” North said, breathing out slowly, “we’re not going to figure it out up here. Come on. Let’s take a look at the Caddy.”

  Shaw turned toward the two women. “We’re going downstairs. Dzeko, lock the door.”

  “Deadbolt it,” North added.

  “And don’t open for anyone but us. Not the police. Not anyone.”

  Dzeko rose, her shape unfolding as a shadow against the sunset, and opened the balcony doors. Cold air chased her toward the door; it carried a hint of her laundry detergent when it reached North. When they stepped out into the hallway, she shut the door behind them, and North heard the bolt go home.

  In the garage, with the smell of motor oil and bad weed thick in the air, they searched the Caddy. They started in the body, pulling back upholstery and carpeting, dismantling the glove box and console, ripping out the stitches above the doors.

  “She’s going to be pissed,” Shaw said as he stretched an arm behind the headliner, groping for anything that might be hidden.

  “She can s
ell the damn thing,” North said. “And she can be grateful she’s still alive.”

  “Why is she still alive?” Shaw said, squirming onto the floorboard now to check under the seats from another angle. “Why didn’t they kill her years ago and make the Caddy disappear then?”

  “Because they thought they’d gotten away with it,” North said. He was poking around in the small interior fuse box, checking for anything that might be loose. “Because they liked her. They’d gone to dinner at her house, watched her kid grow up. Because they felt like they owed it to her husband. But mostly because they had Roman Stroud in prison, taking the heat for the Slasher killings, and nobody was looking.”

  “Nobody but me,” Shaw said.

  “Yeah, well, even you didn’t scare them until the video showed up and you ran that search on Marjorie’s plates.”

  Shaw rocked back and forth, trying to weasel out of the back seat.

  “We’re not done looking,” North said.

  “I got an email. Oh. It’s from Ricky.”

  “You’re penpals with Jadon’s boyfriend?”

  “He was going to send me a list of all the stuff related to the Slasher that he gave Jadon. I thought maybe it would help us figure out what Jadon was looking for.”

  “And?”

  Shaw was silent for a minute. “Come on, Ricky.”

  “What?”

  “He just sent me his dissertation. The whole thing is about the Slasher. I don’t have time to read this.”

  North grunted. “Fuck this,” he said, climbing out of the car. “I’m checking the trunk.”

  “It’s the whole thing. Two hundred and thirty-eight pages. He sent the whole dang thing, North.”

  “So start reading,” North said. He pulled out the trunk mat, lifted out the spare tire and jack, and saw nothing. “And don’t stick your tongue out at me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You were.”

  “I wasn’t—hold on.”

  North sat on the bumper and twisted, prying off the internal plastic covers for the taillights. Something the size of his hand tumbled out and slid across the bottom of the trunk.

  “Shaw,” North said.

  “Hold on.”

  “Shaw.” He picked up the device. It was a microcassette recorder. With a tape inside.

  “Hold on, I—Jesus Christ, North. Jesus Christ.”

  “You’re going to want to see this.”

  “I said hold on. This is—this is unbelievable.”

  “Fine. I’ll listen to it myself.”

  He thumbed the play button. Voices came on, crackling on the cassette’s deteriorated magnetic strip. The first, North didn’t recognize.

  “—can’t believe he’s holding out.”

  Mingled voices came next, impossible to understand.

  “North,” Shaw said, “he’s got a whole chapter about the election.”

  “Quiet,” North said. “I’m listening.”

  “That’s not very much money.” That voice, North didn’t recognize. A man’s voice. If he’d had to guess, though, he’d have said it was Thomas Parrish.

  Then a new voice: “He didn’t do the hard work; it’s enough for what we’re asking.”

  North jammed the pause button. His heart had moved into his throat. He recognized that voice. A woman’s voice.

  Shaw came around the car, holding out his phone, blocks of text visible on the screen. “He’s got a whole chapter about her,” Shaw said, swiping at the screen, paragraphs flying up. “About the election. About her campaign to stop the Slasher and protect the city’s LGBT community.”

  North hit rewind. He hit play.

  “—can’t believe he’s holding out.” A voice he didn’t recognize. Parrish, maybe.

  Shaw’s face lost all color.

  The chorus of voices.

  “That’s not very much money.” Parrish.

  “He didn’t do the hard work; it’s enough for what we’re asking.”

  North bit the inside of his mouth and met Shaw’s gaze.

  “That was Anna Dzeko’s voice,” Shaw said.

  They ran. North thought he was faster, but Shaw outdistanced him, his long, lean form flying ahead.

  “Shaw,” North shouted. “Wait.”

  But it didn’t matter. Shaw was just reaching the stairwell when they heard it: a scream that lasted two seconds. Those two seconds felt like twenty minutes to North. And then a sickening crash, the scream cutting off, and the blare of a car alarm.

  Shaw slid to a stop and looked back at North, beyond him, not seeing him. When he spoke, the words sounded mumbled, as though he were speaking through a mouthful of oatmeal. “The balcony doors. Dzeko opened the balcony doors when we left.”

  I’m sorry, North wanted to say. I’m sorry you keep getting hurt. I’m sorry I can’t stop you from getting hurt over and over again.

  And then Shaw pulled open the door to the stairwell and ran again.

  Chapter 28

  WHEN THEY REACHED the apartment door, it was locked and bolted. Just the way they had told her, Shaw thought. He hammered on the wood, calling Dzeko’s name. No response. Then he started kicking.

  “All right,” North said, grabbing his arm. “That’s enough. She knows we’re out here.”

  “Help me.” Shaw twisted, trying to pull free. “Don’t just stand there. Help me.”

  “I am helping you. For all we know, she’s standing in there with a gun, waiting for one of us to force the door.”

  Shaw managed to rip himself free of North at the same time that a voice shouted, “Stop! Police! Hands up!”

  At the top of the stairs, Detective Bryce Barr of the Metropolitan Police had a gun trained on them. His bushy eyebrows were wild, like he’d received an electric shock. But his hand was steady. The gun was steady.

  North angled his body in front of Shaw’s. Like he could stop a bullet, Shaw thought. Like he’d ever been able to stop anything bad from getting to Shaw. And Shaw hated the thought; he hated how much he had meant it.

  Barr looked up and down the corridor. The apartment doors were all shut. No windows, Shaw thought, and he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing a handful of North’s shirt. No witnesses. Nobody to say that North and Shaw weren’t violent. Nobody to say they weren’t threatening Barr’s life. The gun was still trained on them.

  Then heavy steps slapped up the stairwell. The door opened, and Kelso’s heavy form moved out into the corridor, her face gleaming with sweat. Some of her hair had escaped its bun and flew in a frizzy flag over one ear.

  “What’s going on?” Kelso said. “Detective Barr?”

  Barr’s voice was cold. “They were trying to break into her apartment.”

  Shaw twisted another handful of North’s shirt. Her apartment. Not that apartment. Her.

  “On the floor,” Kelso said. “Hands behind your back.”

  “Marjorie Parrish was just murdered—” North began.”

  “On the floor,” Kelso said, her hand dropping to her service weapon.

  “She was killed by Anna Dzeko—”

  “On the floor. Right now, on the floor!”

  Tugging on North’s shirt, Shaw got to the ground. North stretched out next to him. Shaw watched Barr approach: gray slacks swished above clunky black shoes. Kelso came toward them as well, her black boots scuffed.

  Cuffs snapped closed around Shaw’s wrist, and Kelso said, “Don’t move.”

  Then one of them pounded on the door. Dzeko’s voice came back, too faint for Shaw to hear, and Kelso ordered her to open up. Everything seemed like it was moving too fast: Shaw’s heartbeat sped up, his vision graying out at the edges as he tried to get enough air. He did the breathing exercises Dr. Farr had taught him. He channeled the inner mantra Master Hermes had revealed to him. He thought about North; all he could think about was Barr standing over North, that gun in his hand, and then Shaw started wriggling and pulling and trying to g
et free.

  More talking from Kelso, demanding, bargaining, explaining. More muffled responses from Dzeko. And then the door opened.

  Shaw could hear the thud as a body hit the wood, forcing the door open farther, and Kelso shouting, “Down, bitch, down, down on the fucking ground!”

  Barr was shouting too: “Cool it, everybody cool it. Jesus, Kelso.”

  “Can you twist your arms into a pretzel,” North whispered, “and get out of those cuffs?”

  “What? No.”

  “Then what the fuck good was all that yoga?”

  “I’m centered.” From inside the apartment came a crash and then more shouting. “I’m one with the universe. Present in the moment.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d give just about anything not to be in this moment.” North’s breath licked the side of Shaw’s face; Shaw could hear the ragged edge that North was trying to control.

  “You smell like cigarettes,” Shaw said.

  “The person who used the payphone before me must have been a smoker.”

  “I don’t think that—”

  “Shaw, if they get us into a patrol car, we’re dead. One of those cops will make sure of that.”

  “We can’t do our job if we’re fugitives, North.”

  “We can’t do our job if we’re dead.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “When we get to the parking garage, we’ve got to make a break for it. We’ll be in public. The chances that they’ll shoot are low. We make our way—”

  Footsteps came back, and North cut off. A moment later, an unfamiliar pair of black flats stepped over them, followed by Barr’s clunky black shoes. They moved down the hall, and then Shaw could see that Barr was escorting Dzeko toward the stairs. Kelso’s boots came next, stopping in front of Shaw and North.

  “Stay right there until he gets back.”

  “You know we didn’t do this,” North said. “How the fuck did you find us, anyway?”

  “Well, a woman thrown out of a building did make me think of you two; you leave a trail of disasters a mile wide. But it also helped that you called from the municipal courthouse. We knew Dzeko lived close, and we knew you were still trying to work Jadon’s case from some angle. To be honest, I thought you might be here to take care of Dzeko.”