by A. R. Torre
“Again, thank you for your time.”
“Wait—you never said what was up.”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss this with you, Mr. Malcove.”
“Well that’s some bullshit. I had to leave work for this.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’m sure you’ll find out more soon. If you are, after all, good friends.”
“Who do I talk to about validating my parking?”
CHAPTER 40
Present
WE SHOULD MOVE for a warrant.” Brenda pushes an energy bar into her mouth and balls up the foil, stuffing it into a pocket of the car door.
“Too early. We won’t get it.”
“Mort will. If we get him late in the afternoon. Nap time. Brosky said she approached him then, and he all but gave her his firstborn grandchild just to get rid of her.” The words tumble out through granola, a speck of matter flying out and landing on the center console.
“For God’s sake, Brenda.” He glares at the piece of food. She lets it sit there. “You really think this girl’s got it in her?”
“I can’t believe you don’t. You’re letting her pretty face turn you stupid.”
“And you’ve been wanting a female killer since you lost the Howard case. You gonna clean that off?” He shifts in his seat, his feet stretching out, hand reaching for the glove compartment for a wet wipe. This is why she drives. No one can maintain his level of cleanliness and stay sane. Or married. The man has two ex-wives to prove it.
She swallows the last bit of granola down with a swig of bottled water. “I still say that bitch did it. You men don’t understand the depths of our psyche. Hell, I come close to killing you about three times a day.” She smiles at him and rescrews the lid to her water, flicking at the piece of food and watching it bound toward the floorboard. Beside her, David lets out an irritated sigh, a wet wipe finally in hand. Pansy.
“You talk to Chelsea Evans yet?” He glances over as he asks the question.
“Yeah, questioned her yesterday. It’s in the file. Why?”
“Had a voice mail from her this morning, wanting an update.” He balls up the dirty wipe.
She shrugs. “She’s a rookie. Doesn’t know the ropes yet. I’d bet you it was her first time ever being questioned. She probably just wants to make sure we got everything.”
“Well, you call her back. Last thing I need is a newbie crushing on me.”
She laughs in response. “That newbie might be the key that cracks Deanna Madden wide open.”
“We got bigger shit to deal with than this chick. You know that, right?”
“Talk to me about that at Jeremy Pacer’s funeral, when we still don’t have an arrest.”
He looks out the window, across the street and to the apartment building, a prostitute on the front steps raising a middle finger in greeting. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”
“That’s your job, optimist. I’ll stick to reality. And the reality is, this girl’s guilty.” Putting the car into drive, she glances over. “You done sitting here? I’m starving.”
CHAPTER 41
Present
RUN THIS BY me one more time. What you have on the girl.” Judge Thomas Mort sits back, the chair creaking, his eyes falling on the desk clock. The clock is dead. Its arms haven’t moved in years, the dust layer dulling the brass top. The pen, stuck in its side, also dead. He should throw it out. No one would notice; his grandchildren never visit anyway. He closes his eyes, linking his fingers on his chest and dropping his head back. He’d seen the pose in a movie once, Robert Duvall assuming the position, and it had looked intelligent, like a deep meditative thought on whatever fate was being decided. The pose has the added benefit of hiding whenever said decision making led to a short nap, a frequent reprieve when one deals, as he does, with so many heavy topics each day. Why did these clowns insist on coming in the afternoon, right after his lunch? This is the third pop-in this week.
Somewhere from the right, the female detective speaks. “She’s the girlfriend, for one.”
“Which means nothing,” he barks, his eyes still closed. “That’s why you investigate her, not a motive for any crime.” Hell, if love and sex are suspicious, he’d be arrested a hundred times over.
“Well she’s a girlfriend he seemed to hide from everyone. Maybe she got sick of it. Didn’t want to be put in the corner any more.”
Those lines of stupidity come from the left, from the man, and it’s a dumb enough statement to crack an eye open for. He arches a brow in response before letting his head fall back to the headrest. “Tell me you didn’t come here and waste my time over circumstantial theories my eight-year-old grandson could poke holes in. You guys know the drill. Stop massaging my balls and get on with it.”
“Deanna Madden has a familial history of psychosis. Her mother murdered her father, along with her two younger siblings.”
“She ever, herself, demonstrate any violence?”
“Hints of it, sir. Chelsea Evans, a new hire in the department, lives a few doors down from her. Madden attacked her once, in jealousy over Jeremy Pacer.”
“Define attack.”
“Shoved her onto the floor and climbed on top of her. Evans says she tried to strangle her.”
Now he opens his eyes, sits up enough to see the woman’s face. “She put that on the record?”
“Yes, sir.” The woman flips a few pages in the file and slides it forward. He pulls his reading glasses onto his nose and skims the passage, then looks up.
“Is this it?”
The male detective leans forward. “Also, the proximity of where the body was found to where Madden lives. It’s less than three blocks away. Pacer’s house is up in Bethany Park… so the crime scene is most likely Madden’s apartment. Give us the warrant, and we can make a big move either toward or away from this girl. If we’re wrong and she’s innocent?” He spreads his hands out. “Then we’re out of her hair. No more bothering her.”
The judge flips through the file, glimpses of the girl’s face, direct and unsmiling, peeking through the passing pages. He turns pages forward, then back, then forward. Finally, he snaps the file shut and tosses it across the desk.
“Limited search. Luminol up the place, poke around a bit, then get out of her hair. I don’t want a lawsuit coming out of this, you hear?”
“Thanks, Judge.” They stand as one and the woman leans over, pushing a form forward.
He scrawls his name across the bottom, then looks up. Nods somberly and waits for them to leave. Wonders if he’ll have time for a nap before his next interruption.
CHAPTER 42
Past
MY APARTMENT WAS pitch dark when someone knocked on my door. When I opened my eyes, I didn’t move. I was on my back, one leg kicked free of the covers, the other toasty warm. The right side of my face was sticky and I lifted a hand, wiping at the drool at the corner of my mouth. I rolled onto my side and slid a hand under the pillow.
Knock knock knock.
I sat straight up, my heart beating, a pause passing before I scrambled from the covers, my ankle tangling, my body pitching forward, and I rolled off the bed, trying to find my bearings and wondering what time it was. So dark in the apartment. I moved to the door and grabbed the handle, pushing to my tiptoes and looking through the peephole.
Simon had a hand on the door, his weight on it, his chin lifted up, eyes on the peephole. Something caught his attention and he turned his head, said something too soft for me to hear. He made a fist and pounded on the door, and I waited. Thought. Waded through the final layers of sleep.
“Simon.” I called his name during the fourth set of knocks.
“Deanna?”
“Stop fucking knocking.”
“Okay.” Simon. Such a polite little waker.
“What time is it?”
“Uh… four something.”
“What do you need?” I squatted down and eyed the door frame’s crack. The dead bolt was in place. At least
he’d done something right. My psychosis twitched. Damn him for sticking to the rules.
“I have to go to Oklahoma City. I won’t be back till late tomorrow night. So… uh… you know today, the…”
“You can’t lock me in?”
He looked confused for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh. No. I mean… yes I can’t lock you in tonight but today is the first. So… uh…”
Oh. Right. This wasn’t about concern over my lock-in. This was about his drugs, the day he waited for all month. The trip must be important; the kid scheduled his bowel movements around getting his pills. “The delivery. You want me to hold it?” I could have Jeremy give me the package from Dr. Pat. I could hold it for Simon. No biggie. Let him stop by when he gets home tomorrow night. Could even invite him in. Tie him down and feed every last pill down his throat. Pop some popcorn and watch the excitement. I traced a finger over a dried drip of paint on the door. Scraped my nail over it and watched it drop to the floor. I’ve neglected this door. I used to spend a lot more time here, a piece of me pressed against its cool metal, a TV dinner or laptop on my knees, loneliness my best friend. I almost miss the simplicity of that time. Back then I had no expectations of anything else. No aspirations, no fantasies other than those that involved death. I just existed, worked, breathed, behaved. I was content. And others were safe.
“Just tell the UPS guy to give them to my sister.”
“No.” I’m not having that bitch sit in my hall all day and wait for Jeremy. Not gonna happen. I’m not gonna be able to work all day knowing she’s out there, hearing her giggle. The day before, she sat in the hall on her cell and carried on a twenty-seven-minute conversation. I know that because I timed the damn thing. And I had better things to do with my time than listen to her on the phone. She didn’t even discuss anything relevant. It was the stupidest, most pointless conversation I had ever eavesdropped on, the bulk of the chatter around a House of Cards plotline. After they’d exhausted that topic, and touched on a new OPI polish color (Over the Maroon and Back) and bitched about Delta’s new policy on carry-ons, she finally hung up. Heaven forbid the woman has more friends. More conversations to conduct. More unintelligent chatter that might occur should she have to wait on Jeremy. At least Simon is quiet when he waits. He just leans or sits and plays Bejeweled. Occasionally he’ll groan, or cheer, or pop his gum. Sometimes he paces, an entirely silent activity. But Blondie… She’ll be loud and annoying in her waiting, I have no freakin’ doubt about that.
“Come on… please. I never ask you for anything.”
I frown and turn over the sentence. “You ask me for things all the time.” More pills, more pills, more pills. It’s a freakin’ mantra out of his mouth. Though, to his credit, I never say yes. Does it count as a question if the answer is always no? I think it does. He slammed a hand against the peephole and I flinched, then cursed myself for the weakness. “Back the fuck up, Simon,” I snarled.
He lifted his head and stared at me. “Just give it to my sister. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Jeremy can give it to me, you can pick it up from me. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be here. You’ll get it at the same time as before.”
“But you’ll be locked in.”
“Not if you’re not here to lock me in.” That stopped him and I could see the mental struggle, his stagger as he tried to work through the pieces in his mind. I tried not to be excited, tried to stop my mind as it went to the dark, to all of the possibilities that a night of freedom might mean. How late? I wanted to scream. How late will you be back? Will I have a second night of freedom? Or will you return at the disappointingly early hour of ten? I could feel my breath quicken, the gentle tremor of my fingers.
“I have to lock you in.” He said the words so quietly I almost missed them, his head down, the words not direct. “You’ve always said, it doesn’t matter what you say to me at night, I have to lock you in.”
Damn him. The man fucks up his entire life a hundred different ways a day yet somehow, through the haze of whatever cocktail he’s currently on, remembers the cardinal rule, the one that I’ve spent three years pounding into his brain. I watched him step back, his hand falling off the door. “Please give them to my sister.”
Then, ignoring the scream from my mouth, he turned and headed toward the elevator. I jerked at the knob but it didn’t move.
CHAPTER 43
Past
THE MORNING AFTER Simon’s late-night visit, I slept in. Screaming for forty-five minutes at an empty hall is, apparently, my cocktail for a good night’s sleep. I don’t know what it says about my neighbors that no one once pounded on the walls or screamed at me to shut up. I guess the soundproofing really does work. Either that, or they’ve gotten used to a litany of ridiculous noises from my apartment.
I finally fell asleep curled against the door, wrapped in a comforter, my neck at an odd angle that I’d spend the next twelve hours paying for. I assumed, when I did finally drift off, that the unlocking of my door in the morning would wake me. It didn’t. Mainly because it didn’t happen.
When my mind did crawl from sleep, I blinked in the lit room, then rolled my neck, wincing at the ache. I stretched out my legs and pushed slowly up, the comforter falling off me. Plodding over to my phone, I checked the time. Ten fifteen. Late again. I glanced down, approved the cami and matching panties, and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge. Drank half, rinsing out my mouth, spit, then finished off the bottle. Took a leisurely tour of my cam setup, flipping switches, turning on my laptop, cameras, and lights, then flopped on the bed and logged in. Smiled lazily into the camera.
“Morning, boys.”
The morning crowd is always a pleasure. A mix of foreign souls up late, work-from-home dads, and at-their-desk addicts. I greeted the regulars, had a dozen ten-minute flings, and took a break just after noon, a thousand bucks richer.
I was sitting at the round table, a bowl of Jenny Craig oatmeal half-eaten, when I noticed the door. I paused, carefully setting down the spoon and standing, taking a few slow steps in its direction, my journey still too fast to accept reality. When I reached the door, I slid to my knees and stared at the crack, at the gold glint of the dead bolt, still flipped. I closed my eyes and went back through my early morning conversation with Simon. Tried to place where, in that conversation, we’d discussed his unlocking me this morning. Tried to remember if I had told him not to unlock me. Came up blank on all counts.
I have to go to Oklahoma City. I won’t be back till late tomorrow night.
Had he meant right then? That he was leaving right then? He had walked away from his place, toward the elevator. Hadn’t returned, at least not in the forty-five minutes I’d spent screaming for him. It was Saturday morning, meaning… he’d be back Sunday night? I glanced toward the window, at the small hole in the cardboard. Remembered pressing against the cardboard, my nails scratching against its surface, poking and picking until the hole had emerged. Remembered pressing my eye to the hole, searching for his car on the street below. Remembered alternating between running from the peephole to the window, anxious for a glance of him, a continuation of our conversation. Now, in the morning’s normality, I see my craziness. The complete lack of sense in my actions. What was I so panicked about? What had I hoped to accomplish by screaming? I couldn’t exactly, while swallowing the forgotten scoop of oatmeal, recall what the huge deal had been. He’d wanted me to give his pill delivery to his sister. That had been the gist of the entire interaction. Not a huge request. But… I’d said no. Can’t really remember why. Spite, probably. And he’d walked away. Which left us… where? And why in holy hell hadn’t he unlocked my door? Or had her do it? I felt a rise of panic at the thought that I was locked in, a push of claustrophobia. What if something happens? What if there is an emergency? A hundred things that could happen at any given night yet right then they seemed terrifyingly possible. I breathed in, then out, in, then out, and carefully walked back to my seat at the table.
I won�
��t be back till late tomorrow night. At one, my bowl was washed, teeth were brushed and flossed, the door was still locked. I should have been back online; my clients would wonder. But I couldn’t. I sat, I stared, I contemplated.
The main question was whether Chelsea had the key. That was what it all boiled down to. Either Chelsea had the key, or I was locked in until Simon returned. And if Chelsea had the key, why hadn’t she unlocked the door? The bitch. Goes to show that, in four years of undisturbed precedent, she’d be the one to fuck it up.
I moved my waiting game to the door. Leaned against it, my eye to the peephole. Considered calling Jeremy, but I didn’t really know what to say. I hated, more than anything, hearing “I told you so.” And that’s what he’d do. He’d bitch and moan about how, for a year, he’d been telling me that this was a horrible idea. How I shouldn’t put my livelihood in a druggie’s hands. How I should give him a copy of the key in case of emergencies. How he should lock me in instead of Simon, if I insisted on the ridiculous precaution to begin with.
But I didn’t want Jeremy locking me in. For one, because it’d set the wrong tone to our relationship, one where I was no longer the dominant but instead the submissive, him literally holding the key to my freedom. Fuck that. The second piece to that puzzle is what happens when I struggle. When I claw at the door and beg for release, the breaking of my soul when the darkness drags it under and suffocates its life. I didn’t want him to see me like that. I didn’t want his cell to ring at three a.m. with a psychotic, bloodthirsty girlfriend on the other end. I didn’t want that image to stick, grow roots, and overtake anything good that we’d built. And it would. His becoming my keeper would be the first rock in an avalanche of disaster.
I heard a door shut and pressed my eye closer to the peephole. Saw the blonde wander down the hall and stop in front of my door. Stared into her face when she lifted up her hand and knocked.