We both sat quietly in our chairs, lost in our thoughts about the discussion we were having. Accusing the mayor of having the Carters on his payroll was crazy. Who on earth would believe us? But it made sense. He had to have some relationship or connection with them. For the Carters to stop all public kills for five years at the time they were trying to frame Garrison was too perfect. But then it clicked for me.
“That’s it.” I sat up straight.
“What?” White asked.
“If the surveillance team did discover the truth about the surviving hostages—The Carters—Briggs could have struck a deal with them. We in law enforcement strike deals with criminals all the time in exchange for testimony. It’s called the Witness Protection Program. And they all go into hiding.”
“You’re saying he put them in the program?”
“I know he’s a powerful man, but he’s not that powerful. The mayor put them into his own personal protection program, one that still allowed them to keep on killing, with conditions of course.”
White held up his hand and counted off. “No public kills. Concentrate on street people. Bury the bodies. Sounds like a great deal to me. But what does Briggs get in return?”
“Their services,” I said.
86
I was beat. The conversation with White, the drinks, it all took its toll on me and sent me straight to dreamland as soon as I returned to my room. I wasn’t sure how long I had been out, but I remembered stirring just a tiny bit when I had rolled over until I lay half on my side, half on my stomach—the best position. And I would have been out in a few seconds if it weren’t for that metal clicking noise I swore I had heard.
It sounded as if someone had just entered my room. My back faced the door, and I had no idea if that person had a weapon or not. Advantage: intruder.
I heard the faint movement of a shoe brush across the carpet. My skin tingled, sounding the alarm. I had to hurry. I needed to put the bed between the intruder and me. I remembered my weapon being holstered and hanging off the desk chair next to the window side of the bed. I could slide across the sheets, hit the floor, grab my weapon, and throw the drapes open, letting the moonlight shine inside. Advantage: me.
Everything works in theory.
I had wasted enough time. I threw off the blanket cover and kicked my legs out. Reaching with my right arm, I grabbed a fistful of sheet and pulled myself over. My legs weren’t long enough to do it all in one movement. I kicked again, and that time I felt the edge of the bed. Just as I sat up and my legs were sliding off the bed, a crushing weight came down, pinning me on my side.
My attacker was male, no surprise. I couldn’t recognize him since my face was buried in the pillow. He was heavy, obviously much taller than I. I tried to kick him off, but it was like moving a large block of cement that had fallen on me. I needed to conserve my energy. I had lost whatever advantage I may have had.
His breathing was labored, and he smelled of alcohol. I hoped that was the advantage coming back my way. Wrong. In one movement, he flipped me on to my back and slipped between my naked legs, forcing me open. Is he going rape me?
I struggled to no avail. This can’t be happening. And yet it was. I prepared myself mentally for what might come. My hair still obstructed my view, keeping my attacker faceless. I shook my head back and forth in an effort to clear it. That’s when he first spoke.
“You’re a feisty bitch, ain’t you?” he said.
That voice. I’ve heard it before. Where?
Before I could identify him, he started kissing my neck while he mumbled about how he hadn’t had a woman like me. It disgusted me. He gripped both of my wrists and had my arms stretched above my head. He maneuvered a little so he could pin one of my arms down with his forearm while he grabbed the other. It freed up his other hand. Within seconds, he had unzipped his pants and freed himself. I could feel him pressed up against the outside of my vagina, and it made my skin tighten. I felt nauseated as he moved against me. Reality had set in. It was going to happen.
“Please,” I said, “let me at least get a condom.” I didn’t have any, but I needed to try to create some sort of a diversion. It was my only hope.
That’s when he said, “Stevie don’t do condoms.”
Stevie Roscoe—the mayor’s chief of staff.
How? Why? He lifted his head up and looked me in the face. He obviously didn’t care that I could recognize him. In fact, he blew the rest of my hair out of my face so I could have a better look. I did. His darkened eyes held their glare on me. He didn’t blink; he just stared into me. He had a frozen smile that revealed blocky teeth. I turned away when he started to thrust.
I thought of giving up and letting him get on with it. Maybe it wouldn’t take long. But I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t let myself do that. I wracked my brain for something to say. I still had time to talk him out of it.
“Why, Stevie? Why are you doing this?”
“Stevie got a big dick. Stevie goin’ fill you up real nice.”
Hadn’t he heard a word I had said? “But you work for the mayor.”
“No shit, Sherlock. But I like fucking hot women.” Stevie had to slide down a little to avoid stabbing my stomach with his erection. He spit into his hand and then reached down between my legs. I felt his coarse fingers rub against my folds. I was losing the battle. I could feel him dragging himself across me, searching for my opening. No, this can’t be happening.
Then he found it.
Any second now.
87
“Get ready, bitch,” he said as he looked back up at me, his nose squarely in front of my forehead.
Thank you. Advantage had come back to my side. With all the force I could muster, I threw my forehead straight into Stevie’s face, crushing his nose.
Stevie jerked away, screaming. “You fucking bitch.”
I wasn’t out of the clear. He still lay completely on top of me, but he had let go of my arms. I shoved my hand down between us and grasped twice. Nothing. I tried again. That time, I came up with a handful of scrotum. Like a vise grip, my hand clamped on and squeezed as hard as it could.
Stevie roared in pain and did his best to move away from me. I didn’t let go of him. I held my grip like my life depended on it. As he rolled over to the side, I rolled on top of him and then off the bed. I reached out for my weapon with my free arm, but it was too far away. I had to let go.
Within seconds, I had my weapon drawn and pointed at Stevie, who continued to roll around on the bed in agony. I reached behind me and threw the curtains open to let the moonlight into the room. Stevie sat up at that moment. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but he had recovered.
“Don’t do it!” I shouted.
His eyes remained locked on me as forceful breaths snarled through his nostrils like an enraged bull.
“Stevie…” I warned.
He didn’t listen. Off the bed he shot, barreling toward me with both arms out. At the academy, they taught us to “shoot to stop” and to shoot “center mass.” I raised my weapon. Not this time.
The bullet struck Stevie in the head and threw him back onto the bed. I thought of putting two more slugs into him as I moved over to the desk to turn the lamp on. But the damage I had inflicted was clearer now. He had a small crater between his eyes.
• • •
I made my first call to the front desk. I wanted a new room, pronto. Then I called 911. A few minutes passed before the units arrived. I told them to secure the area; I would be back.
My new room for the night was a couple floors down on the other side of the building. I had a river view. I sat on the bed for a bit, contemplating my situation. I had come close to being raped and most likely killed. I thought about Po Po and the kids. What was the contingency plan if something were to happen to me? I didn’t know. What kind of terrible mother doesn’t have that thought out? Me. That’s who.
My ego had to understand that it was no longer about the life and times of Abby Kane. I was th
e parent of two small children and the caretaker of an elderly woman who, in fact, did a whole lot of caretaking back at home. Life didn’t need to revolve around fighting crime. It was about them, too. I wrote down a reminder to increase my life insurance when I returned to San Francisco.
The other nagging bit bothering me was a sense of loneliness. I didn’t feel like I had anybody watching my back. My partner was gone. So were the only detectives I trusted. I had no support out here.
The uniforms in the other room could be part of the cover-up. Everyone I trusted was dead. Even my supervisor had no idea what was going on. Part of me said, “Go home. Get the hell out of there.” The other part said, “Nail the bastards.” I knew I had outlived my welcome. I didn’t care though.
Stevie Roscoe had been sent to kill me that night. That bastard figured he could get a little action beforehand. Now he was dead and his balls were mush.
• • •
When I returned to the crime scene on the fourteenth floor, CSI had just arrived. I was half a step behind them as we made our way through the hallway. A few nosy guests peeked from their rooms, wondering what had happened. In another doorway, a woman dressed only in a frilly thong and a matching bra flashed a flirtatious smile.
“What happened?” she asked the gentlemen in front of me.
“Rapist. Still loose,” I answered without missing a beat. The next time you want some attention, try something else.
Upon entering the room, I noticed a pair of suits talking quietly in the far corner of the room, near the body. Detectives? They didn’t look familiar. Trust no one, Abby.
88
It didn’t take long for the crime-fighting duo to make their way over to me. They were white males dressed in dark blue suits. They looked young—recently promoted most likely, considering the call came in at two in the morning. Neither of them cracked a smile or showed any warmth. My conversation with them would be all business, fine. Trust no one, Abby.
“Agent Kane?” The taller one asked as he took out a notepad.
“That’s me.”
“Sorry about what happened to you tonight.” He motioned with his head.
I acknowledged his attempt at compassion.
“I’m Detective Rolland Russo. This is my partner, Detective Denny Hopper.”
Hopper stuck his hand out for a quick shake. Russo continued with his cold approach. I told them everything that had happened and answered their questions. Russo asked not a single question more than needed to conduct a capable investigation. I knew where it was headed: nowhere. I would be folded into the cover-up. Everyone here played for the same team. Felt like serious Stepford Wives stuff.
“If we’re done, I’d like to head over to the hospital so I can have a rape kit administered.”
The iceman looked up from his notepad. “You think that’s necessary?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Well, according to your answers, you weren’t really raped,” he said looking down at his notes. “Plus, there’s a body. So…?”
I couldn’t believe that jackass. What kind of cop tries to deter a victim of a sexual assault from completing a rape kit? I bet things would be different if iceman here had some guy trying to poke his way into his behind. The guy was thick. He made Madero seem brilliant.
I leaned in. “I’m going to have the hospital administer the rape kit. While they’re doing that, I’m going to film it on my phone. And then, I’m going to personally deliver the kit to you,” I said holding up the business card he gave me earlier. “If for some reason the evidence goes missing, whether you are involved with it or not, I will open a federal investigation on you for tampering with evidence, and I will make it my lifelong mission to see to it you suffer in ways your small brain couldn’t possibly fathom.”
Before the ape could answer, I did a one-eighty and walked out of the room. Time was a factor with rape kits. And yes, I knew Stevie Roscoe was dead on the floor, but considering how corrupt that city was, I wanted to make sure everything having to do with my attack didn’t conveniently disappear.
89
Two hours later, I made good on my promise by hand-delivering the kit to Detective Russo at the central precinct. I of course filmed myself handing it over and then him checking it into evidence. He was not impressed to say the least. Fine by me; I wasn’t trying to be his buddy.
I swung by White’s office later on the off chance he would be an early bird, in at 6:30 a.m. No such luck. The door to his office was closed, and the lights were off. My next stop was the office Wilkinson and I had been using. What I found inside triggered a sudden coldness throughout my body.
The room had been completely cleared of all the case files and any trace of Wilkinson and I working here for the last month. It was now a fully functioning office. And it looked as though that person had been in there for years. What was going on?
There was a single desk with a leather chair behind it. Heavily stuffed file cabinets lined the walls. A current calendar hung on the wall. There were even family pictures. From what I could gather, the office belonged to an Officer McCormack. The name didn’t ring a bell. I knew I was tired, but I certainly wasn’t imagining things. It was the right office. I was sure of it. Just yesterday, I had sat right where those file cabinets were.
My instinct was to head straight to White’s office, but then I remembered I had already tried that. I wrote a note for White to contact me and slipped it under his door. Trust no one, Abby.
I left the precinct tired and confused. The sun had already started to rise, and it felt comforting against my skin. It was one of the few times I appreciated the temperature.
Not sure of what to do next, I settled on watching a homeless man shuffle along the sidewalk until he disappear into an alleyway. What am I still doing here? My investigation is over. I should have been on a plane heading home yesterday. This was not my fight. Nor was it my problem. I should’ve listened to myself that day. I made a lot of sense right then.
I’m sure whoever sent Stevie Roscoe after me knew he was dead and could possibly come after me again. That’s not usually something I would shy away from, except the situation at home was different. I had two kids and a mother-in-law counting on my return.
I flagged a passing taxi and jumped into the back seat. I had a decision to make. I could either get the hell out of town or head straight toward the beast.
90
The cab screeched to stop at 9240 Dwight Street. I handed the driver thirty bucks and stepped out. I followed the long oval driveway that led to a Spanish colonial-style mansion. I looked at my watch; it was nearing 7:00 a.m. He should be home.
I had not personally met the mayor of Detroit, but I had seen his picture hanging in the precinct. He looked rather charismatic, if I were to judge him by his picture alone. But I knew that wasn’t the case. He had a tight grip on that city, and no one made a move with out him knowing about it. Time to find out if the mayor set Stevie Roscoe loose on me.
The house appeared quiet. I wondered about his family and whether he had kids. If he did, they would be up by now.
Instead of knocking on the large double oak doors, I stepped off to the side from the front entrance and peeked through a window. I wasn’t taking any chances.
If he had anything to do with sending Stevie after me, I could bet he hadn’t changed his mind. As far as I was concerned, I was on my own out here. It would be very easy to make me disappear.
No signs of life so far. I removed my weapon and chambered a round. So I was on edge. Who wouldn’t be?
I moved around to the left side of the house and peeked through the windows lining the mansion—still no movement inside. I listened for a moment. My phone beeped, causing me to suck a breath in. Chill, Abby.
It was Ryan texting me. Strange, it’s 4:30 in the morning at home. He wanted permission for a sleepover. I noticed the time. The text was sent yesterday. Shit! Every now and then I got a text a day late. I could hear it now: “You alway
s answer Lucy’s texts and not mine.” The one time he texts me while I’m away, my phone screws me. I flipped the phone to vibrate mode, pocketed it, and forged ahead.
A wrought-iron gate blocked the path. It wasn’t locked, so I proceeded until I reached the back of the property. There was a garden and more pathways leading to a pool. Beyond that was the Detroit River.
I stuck close to the walls of the mansion, doing my best to look invisible. It seemed odd that I had gotten that far on the mayor’s property without alerting anyone. There were no visual signs of guards, and I didn’t get the impression I had tripped any alarms, but my gut had started to churn, a sure sign things weren’t right.
I stopped just short of the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the outdoor patio. About twenty feet from me were French doors leading inside. I listened for a moment before taking a peek. Again, the house appeared empty. I was starting to think no one was home.
I stood up for a better look. That time, I planted my face against the window and used my hand to help diminish the glare on the glass. The patio led straight into a large open kitchen. I didn’t see signs that breakfast had been prepared or eaten. Maybe he’s out of town? His alibi? I found myself asking the same question again: Do I stick around or do I get the hell out of here?
The hand that grabbed my hair and yanked me back gave me my answer.
91
The first thing I became aware of when I opened my eyes was that I hurt. My face, mostly. My left cheek throbbed, and my mouth tasted metallic. I tried to recall what had happened, but it all took place so fast. The second thing that grabbed my attention was a tightly wound rope cutting into my arms. I was tied to a wooden chair, and my shoes were missing.
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