Extreme Exposure

by Alex Kingwell

  The park took up a small city block. Just ahead in the center was a large ornate fountain, surrounded by manicured flower beds set in a sweep of lawn. Small trees lined the perimeter. It was a place people came to sit for a few minutes. Nobody in their right mind would come to hide. It was too open, exposed.

  Two young men in suits sitting on a bench gave her a look. A hard stare convinced them to lose interest. The steady rush of water splashing in the fountain all but drowned out sounds from the street above. To her right, at one end of the park, another set of stairs led to a small church. It was white clapboard, one of the oldest in the state, its doors open to tourists. And fugitives. Time to move again.

  Half crouching, she peered over her shoulder up the stairs. No sign of the cop. Taking a deep breath, her bag secured across her chest, she stood up, turned around.

  And slammed into something hard as a wall. She bit her lip and tasted blood. Blinking, she tried to pull back but was spun around, both arms yanked behind her back.

  The cop.

  “Take it easy, will you?” she shouted as the handcuffs snapped shut.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When the cop whirled Nicky back around, she found herself staring at a broad, muscled chest. No wonder her nose felt like it’d been smashed into a wall. He had plenty through the arms and shoulders, too, and stood at least a head taller than her.

  The word “strapping” came to mind. It would be perfectly natural for him to start thumping his chest and yelling a Tarzan-like call of the jungle. How he had managed to move so quickly was a marvel.

  Shifting back a half step, her glance moved up his chest—lingering momentarily on the man cleavage peeking out from two undone buttons—to his face.

  The curse emerged out loud this time. His eyes were intense. Not just the color, a clear, medium blue, but the way they seemed to examine every inch of her face. But not in a way that suggested he liked what he saw. If anything, it was the opposite. Like the way a rude plastic surgeon might react when presented with a particularly nasty facial disfigurement.

  Swallowing hard, she took a full step back. Something weird was going on.

  Those eyes not leaving her, he let go of her arm, took out his wallet and stuck a shiny metal badge in her face. Police investigator, it said. He brushed sweat from his brow with his forearm, then pocketed the badge.

  “What the hell did you run for? Don’t tell me you didn’t see the badge.” Still catching his breath, he relaxed his scrutiny of her and leaned over, putting his hands on his knees.

  The question seemed rhetorical and she wasn’t about to answer anyway. Not asking about Michelle didn’t make sense, but maybe he wasn’t too smart. Not that he looked dull, but you couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  Not getting an answer, he curled his lip in disgust, reached down for her handbag and rummaged through it. Finding nothing of interest, he put it under his arm, then used his cell phone to request a car to pick them up and for someone to fetch the sedan parked outside the shelter.

  Off the phone, he looked at her again. He’d caught his breath, and seemed less angry, but his odd expression suggested he remained convinced she was an alien life form.

  An alien life form he was not. He was an excellent example of the male human species, in fact. Impressive eyebrows, a strong jaw, and a long, straight nose on a squarish face still flushed from exertion. The dark blond hair was messy and in need of a trim, but it combined with the stubble on his chin to give an impression of rough, raw masculinity more in keeping with thugs than cops. He’d be a natural at undercover work.

  Finished with the call, he put the phone on his belt, took hold of her arm again.

  The manhandling she could do without, but she had to keep her cool. She had to cut herself some slack for running, but antagonizing him further would be a fool’s errand. And he’d stopped looking at her as if she were some kind of freak, the scowl on his face now reflecting that mix of irritation, suspicion, and disgust cops wore so well.

  A small crowd had gathered. A chubby girl licking an ice-cream cone resisted the efforts of her father to tug her away. Behind the girl, a teenaged boy videotaped the incident. The suits had returned to their nine-to-five jobs.

  She rolled her eyes at the teenager. Didn’t he have anything better to do?

  The cop said, “Let’s go.” Holding her arm, he put his hand on her upper arm and led her up the stairs. At the top, avoiding the stares of passersby, she snuck another look at the cop. His blue shirt brought out the color in those penetrating eyes. He would wear blue a lot; she’d bet good money that he was the vain type. The shirt had a logo on it, a little pony. Why did people do that, make themselves walking advertisements for clothing companies?

  A few minutes later, a squad car pulled up. He helped her inside. The cop talked with the driver, but the radio chatter was too loud for her to make it out. She tried to come up with a game plan, but quickly abandoned the effort in favor of just winging it. She crossed her fingers that Michelle would be able to hide out for a couple of hours until the cops released her.

  Inside the station, she drew a few looks as they walked off the elevator through the squad room. On a far wall, behind some cubicles, a bulletin board displayed pictures of missing people. Michelle was front and center, smiling in a school photo. Nicky averted her gaze as the cop led her down a hallway to a small office, where he gestured toward a chair. He dumped her bag on the floor beside her, then left without saying anything or looking at her.

  Somebody was clearly still pissed.

  The office was small, too small for the two desks, three chairs, a bookcase, and a tall metal cabinet that had been crammed into it. On the ceiling were those large white Styrofoam tiles, held in place by steel brackets. Some were crooked, exposing long strands of red and black wires.

  A minute later, the cop returned and asked her to stand, then removed the handcuffs. Rubbing her arms, she sat back down, conscious of feeling strangely calm even as he watched her every movement. She hadn’t been in a police station in a few years, but it already felt familiar. Even the smell was the same, a mix of sweat and cigarette smoke. Old feelings began to resurface, a mix of disgust and dread that made her skin crawl. She took a breath, steeling herself.

  A woman came in, glanced at Nicky, then sat down at the desk directly in front of her. She was short, somewhere in her forties—at least a decade older than the guy. The man introduced her as Anna Ackerman, himself as Cullen Fraser. They were detectives. He didn’t say partners, but it seemed a given.

  Ackerman’s desk was messy. She had to sift through some files to find the one she was looking for. His was tidy, two piles of paper neatly stacked, a laptop computer, a picture in a frame she couldn’t see.

  Fraser leaned against the front of Ackerman’s desk—to the side so he didn’t block Ackerman—just a couple of feet away, and looked down at Nicky. If his aim was to be intimidating, he’d have to try harder.

  The woman said, “Let’s start with your name, and age.”

  Nicky crossed her arms, happy to focus her attention on Ackerman. “Nicole Bosko. Twenty-five.”

  Ackerman wrote that down on a notepad in front of her. “You’re originally from Stephenville, just north of Riverton?”

  Nicky nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “You work at Stevens Youth Shelter?” She started writing something.

  Something strange was going on, as if this weren’t about Michelle at all, but about herself. “You seem to know that already,” she said cautiously.

  Fraser’s face hardened. “Yes or no will be fine.”

  Somewhere along the line he’d rolled up his shirt sleeves. Veins popped on his ripped arms and the room seemed way too small for that much sweaty manliness. She could practically smell the testosterone.

  She looked at Ackerman. “Yes.”

  The questions continued like this for several minutes. They asked her when she’d moved to Riverton, what courses she was taking at college. They dro
pped hints that they knew about her youth record but made no mention of Michelle. She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, tried to think of why they would be harassing her, but came up short. She’d been a good girl. In detective shows, the cops often used clever tactics to interview suspects but she couldn’t figure this out. If it wasn’t about Michelle, what was it? In another minute, she would ask for a phone call. The shelter had to know Michelle was on her own.

  Five minutes later, just as Nicky decided it had to be a strange hoax, Fraser said, “Who was the girl?”

  Nicky shifted. Here it comes. “Just a kid I met on the street.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Why’d she take off?”

  Shrugging, she gave her best version of nonchalant. “She’s shy.”

  “Do you realize it’s an offence to run from the cops?”

  “I didn’t realize you were a cop.”

  Icy eyes narrowing, Fraser shook his head slowly in disbelief. He knew she was lying—and he knew she knew he knew—but she didn’t care. Now didn’t seem a good time to disclose her motto: Rules were made to be broken.

  Ackerman said, “Tell me about your family.”

  She stiffened, sat forward. “Are they okay? Was there an accident?”

  The woman gave a small smile. “They’re fine. We just have some routine questions.”

  She sat back, swallowed. Her patience wearing thin, she blew out a breath. “I have a father, James, and a sister. Her name is Karina. She’s five years older.”

  The man watched her closely but seemed content to let the woman ask the questions. Ackerman opened a file on the desk in front of her. “Your father is a doctor?”

  “That’s correct. He’s a perinatologist. That’s—”

  “A specialty for high-risk pregnancies,” Fraser cut in before she could explain. He leaned over, looked at a newspaper clipping. “I see your sister is a nurse. And a concert pianist. Very accomplished.”

  You bet, Sherlock. She nodded at the clipping. “That’s probably about her latest recording, one of the Bach concertos.” The local paper went nuts about her sister. They couldn’t resist her fresh-faced good looks. In Riverton, Karina was a superstar. Nicky wasn’t any kind of star. A chronic underachiever is what her father had always called her, not realizing that it would only make her more rebellious.

  He brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes, then crossed his arms over his big chest again. Something animalistic about him made a little shiver shoot through her. He should find a way to neuter some of that sexiness.

  He said, “And your mother?”

  She froze. He waited, eyebrows raised. “What about my mother?” Her voice sounded flat and emotionless even to herself.

  Ackerman read from a file. “You last saw your mother, Lisa Bosko, when you were five?”

  Managing a nod, she kept her eyes on Ackerman, acutely aware that Fraser watched her like a hawk watched its prey. She took a steadying breath, then another, and tried to think where this was headed. When they didn’t say anything else, she said, “There isn’t much to tell. She took off and I haven’t seen her since.”

  He raised an eyebrow and those sharp eyes were on her. “What do you mean, ‘took off’?”

  Gripping the chair, she inhaled deeply. What possible justification could they have for asking her these questions? “She walked out of the house one day and we never saw her again. That’s what I mean by ‘took off.’” She glared at him, her dislike growing by the minute.

  “Did you see her leave?” This question came from Ackerman.

  “No. I came home from school one day and she was gone.” Her fingernails dug into the upholstered arms of the chair. She’s most likely living quite happily somewhere with another family, unless she’d decided to ditch them, too. “Why are you asking me this?” she asked Ackerman, who was the good cop to Fraser’s bad, it seemed.

  “We’ll get to that,” she said.

  Nicky sat forward, a sour taste in her mouth. An explanation came to her. “Have you found her? Is that it? She wants to meet me?” When they didn’t respond, she shook her head. “Not going to happen.”

  The cops exchanged a look but Nicky wasn’t about to try to explain herself. What they thought of her was no concern.

  Ackerman said, “So you haven’t seen her in twenty years?”

  “Correct. Apparently I was too much to handle.” The words got out before she could catch them.

  Ackerman nodded. “We’ve read a transcript of an interview conducted at the time with your father. There was apparently some suggestion you had some behavioral problems that caused difficulty at home.”

  She swallowed hard, shot the woman a hard look. “Apparently so. I don’t remember it myself. I suppose I was too busy causing those problems.” A bitter tang rose in her mouth. “Why are you asking this? Did I commit some crime when I was five that you’re interested in?”

  Ackerman ignored the question. “Were you interviewed?”

  “Again. I don’t remember. I was five.”

  Fraser’s jaw hardened even more. “You’re not five now. Have you ever tried to find your mother?” His tone was accusatory.

  “Why would I?” They obviously didn’t get it. Her mother clearly didn’t want anything to do with her or her father and sister. “You should be talking to my father.”

  “That’s going to be a bit of a challenge. Your father and sister have left the country.”

  “Left the country?”

  He raised skeptical eyebrows. “You didn’t know?” When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “They’re in Haiti, in a remote area on a relief mission. We’ve been trying to reach them, but the cell phone service is sketchy. They’re not due back for another week.”

  She shrugged. That they hadn’t informed her was no surprise. “I can’t help you there.”

  Neither of them seemed to believe her, which was natural enough if you weren’t familiar with how her family worked. Her father and sister were tight, always had been, even before her mother left. After her mother disappeared, Nicky became the fifth wheel.

  But that was the past. She was over it. Even the resentment—no, hatred—she’d felt toward her mother had softened through the years to a casual indifference. She wasn’t going to explain any of this to them. How somewhere along the line, somewhere between the ages of five and fifteen, she’d realized that her mother had moved on. And Nicky, a rebel but not a masochist, had done the same. Now, her mother’s face was a blur and few memories remained of her early childhood. It helped that her father hadn’t let them so much as mention her mother’s name.

  But she was a big girl now. She could look after herself. And she didn’t have to answer any questions about her mother. She picked up her shoulder bag. “I’m not under arrest, am I? I’m free to go at any time?”

  The woman said, “There’s one more thing we want to ask you about before you go.” She searched through the folders on her desk, found the one she was looking for and opened it. “Why did you take a DNA test?”

  * * *

  Nicole Bosko was gorgeous. Tall and slim, with a perfect oval face framed by long brown hair. Big brown eyes and high cheekbones that hinted at Slavic ancestry. It was an easy beauty, the kind that might have been spoiled by too much makeup, but she wore little or maybe even none and seemed unaware of the effect of her looks.

  Or maybe she was very much aware. Cullen Fraser had no idea.

  Good looks aside, one thing he could say for certain: she was a piece of work. Evasive, belligerent. A liar. And altogether too calm for someone being questioned by the police. He couldn’t shake the feeling she was playing with them. The barely perceptible smile of contempt playing on her full lips didn’t help.

  Cullen nailed her with a stare. “You heard the question? Why did you take a DNA test?” His voice remained calm only with a conscious effort.

  Ignoring him, she glanced at Anna, her brows knitted in confusion. “DNA test?”

  Scowling, he gra
bbed a file from the desk and waved it in front of her. “The DNA test you took under the name of Nola Deveau.” He slammed it down on the desk, stood up, and hovered over her. “You’re not going to deny that, too, are you?”

  Pink splotches on her cheeks replaced the sardonic smile. “How do you know about that?”

  He clenched his fist, pleased they had finally managed to prick a hole in that tough shell. “I’d say that is the least of your worries.”

  “It’s not against the law, is it, to have your DNA mapped? People do it all the time to test for diseases.”

  “Just answer the question: why did you take it?” He was aware only when he finished speaking his voice had risen. Anna shot him a warning look. Pressing his lips together, he took some deep breaths, walked over to the metal cabinet, and leaned against it.

  Anna said, “The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you’ll get out of here. Why did you take the test? What were you looking for?”

  Bosko squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, opened them. They were dark, the color of deep mahogany, and spaced wide apart. Too wide apart, but they were balanced by a strong chin, and something about them suggested a sharp intelligence.

  She said, her tone cold, “I took a genetics course last spring. A couple of us in the class decided to do it. I certainly didn’t have any criminal intent.”

  Anna said, “So why did you use an assumed name?”

  “Because I didn’t feel comfortable giving a private company access to my genetic information. And I don’t like the fact that you now have it.” Her eyes had gone cold to match her tone. “How did you find out it was me?”

  He walked over to the desk, leaned against it, wanting to be in her face. “You weren’t that clever about it. You used the shelter address, so that narrowed it down fairly quickly.”

  The pink spots on her face turned red. “That doesn’t explain why you have it. I haven’t left my DNA at any crime scene, as far as I’m aware.”