by Stacy Green
Still glaring at me, he stood in the middle of my living room and unzipped his department-issued jacket. Mousecop jumped down from the window, stretched, and then strolled over to sniff Chris’s black boots. The cat’s mouth hung open for a moment before he hissed and stalked off, tail in the air.
“Weird,” I said. “He likes most people. Then again, I don’t get a lot of visitors.”
“I was inside a nasty house a couple of hours ago.” Chris finally spoke. “God knows what’s on my boots.”
I hugged my chest. Feeling foolish and strangely intimidated, I hung back near the door and hoped he’d talk first.
Chris raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
I sighed. “All right, so you’re pissed off at me for using you for an alibi. Sorry about that.”
He gritted his teeth. “You also forgot my building has cameras. It won’t take Todd Beckett long to realize your lie. Backing you up means I lie to the police too. That could cost me my job.”
My shoulders drooped. I shuffled to the nearest chair and plopped down. “You’re right. I realized my mistake as soon as I said it, but I couldn’t take it back.”
“That’s unlike you.”
“I know.” I still had no idea why I’d been so stupid. That’s how good criminals get caught. A shudder rippled down to my toes. Considering myself a criminal was new. In the eyes of the law, I was no doubt worthy of the death penalty. But my victims–if you could call them that–were the worst of the scum. Ask any average Joe on the street about killing child molesters, and he’d likely give me a pat on the back.
“I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” I said. “I can’t blame you for telling Todd the truth.”
Chris’s sharp expression finally softened. “I never said I did.”
Our eyes met, his full of blue and warmth and loyalty, and mine feeling strangely leaky. I actually moved to cross the room to throw my arms around him but stopped myself. “You lied for me?”
He nodded. “But we’re on borrowed time until the security footage comes back. So we’re going to have to figure out something.”
“What are you thinking?”
Chris took off his jacket and folded it nicely across the end of my couch. His Philadelphia EMS shirt clung to his shoulder blades as he stretched. He quietly made his way into the kitchen, trailing his fingertips across the countertops. “Got anything to eat?” He opened the fridge as if he’d been in my apartment a hundred times before. As if he belonged.
Fuzziness spread through my already foggy brain. I connected with very few people. My sister, Kelly, Kenny. And now Chris, in a way I’d not thought possible. He was the only person on this earth who came close to knowing my true darkness. Even more frightening was that he stayed around in spite of it. “There’s leftover sausage casserole. Put it in the microwave for a couple of minutes.”
We sat in silence as the gentle whirring of the microwave filled the air. I couldn’t stop staring at Chris. His shoulders were broader than I realized. His hair darker in the back, almost brown. A small scratch peeked out from the collar of his shirt. Self-inflicted or left by a female conquest? My cheeks heated up just as he turned around, stuffing a forkful of steaming pasta in his mouth.
“What?” He spoke around the food.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
He sat down on a barstool and once again gazed around my small apartment. “I like your place. It’s very homey.”
I laughed. “Is that rich people code for cheap?”
“Not at all. It’s a compliment. My place is sterile, and I don’t have a clue how to fix it.”
I’d never been inside his high-rise apartment, but I imagined it with lots of monochrome and steel. “Try color.”
He smirked. “Good guess. And don’t think I’m not still pissed off at you.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have used you as–”
“It’s not that.” He savored another bite. “This is really good. Did you make it?”
“Yep. Cooking is one of my little-known talents.”
“I’ll remember that.” He licked the fork, finished his pasta and then washed the bowl out in the sink. He didn’t speak again until he sat down on the couch and fixed his perceptive eyes on me. I hated the way he seemed to see through every protective layer I possessed. Resting his chin on his hand, he yawned. “So what are we going to do about this alibi thing?”
“I’m not sure what to do. Were you home that night and the next morning?”
He closed his eyes. “I didn’t work that night. I went out with some guys from the department and then to my aunt and uncle’s.” An impish smile spread across his face. “Actually, I fell asleep there and didn’t come home until around eight the next morning.”
My heart leapt. “So…you won’t be on the security tape?”
“Not until after the time frame Todd gave you.”
“What did you tell him then?”
“He asked if you were at my place. I said no, we’d gone out to dinner at Chatzky’s, a restaurant by my aunt and uncle’s. Then we went to their place and wound up too drunk to drive home. We crashed there, and then I took you home that morning. Dropped you off at 7:30.” He leaned back, spreading his arms over the back of the couch.
My hopes crumbled. “Your uncle is the freaking ADA. He isn’t going to lie.”
“That’s the beauty. They weren’t home. I had to go over to feed the dog. But their security system logs will show that I used the code to enter the house and then reset the alarm several hours later. No camera set up. But as long as you were home and not seen anywhere else, they can’t prove otherwise.”
“What if they ask around the department?”
He shrugged. “I doubt Beckett will specifically ask about my going out with the guys that night. It’s not something I do very often. They’ll tell him I’m a good worker, never miss a shift. All around good guy.” He wrapped his hands around the back of his head. “And one or two will probably tuck their heads, mumble and hem haw around, until they say it’s amazing how adjusted I am, considering where I came from.” His eyes dimmed into a hazy gleam. “If they only knew.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose as chills washed over me. “The papers pretty much covered most of it, didn’t they?”
Chris’s arm wobbled making his head sway to the side. He sat up. “Most of what’s common knowledge, yeah.”
More than two decades had passed since Chris’s father was sentenced to life in prison for murdering five women. At the time, authorities believed Chris’s mother, Mary Weston, was a victim of her depraved spouse. As we searched for Kailey Richardson, Chris and I discovered Mary Weston was Martha Becket, he and Justin were half-brothers, and Mary had been very much involved in the killings. Even worse, she’d done the raping and killing Justin had been accused of when he was a child. The woman’s web was terrifying and complicated, and Chris harbored immense regret. Growing up safe in his aunt and uncle’s home, he’d had visions of Mary’s involvement. He’d hoped they were his mind playing tricks on him.
“Did you remember something else?”
“No.” Chris rubbed the scruff on his face and stared blankly past me. I’d gotten used to this habit over the last few months. As if some kind of veil descended over him, Chris’s attention slipped away from the present. I imagined his locked memories bludgeoning his head in their attempt to escape. He blinked and focused on me. “But there are things you don’t know about me, Lucy.”
“There’s plenty you don’t know about me too.”
“Possibly. But this is,” he blew out a nervous breath, “worse than you might imagine.”
“So why are you telling me?” Part of me wasn’t comfortable with Chris’s sudden need to share. It strengthened our bond, and I didn’t like that.
“First call of my shift was to a house in Chestnut Hill. Nicest ten-year-old on the block had beaten the shit out of the neighbor boy. Guess the neighbor kid was a bully and had it coming, but this ten
-year-old took it too far. He broke the kid’s jaw.”
If he expected me to be surprised, he’d be sorely disappointed. “Kids of all social status have anger issues. And often the middle and upper class are all kinds of screwed up. Skeletons in those walk-in closets.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. “Believe me, I know. This boy has one of my favorite diagnoses: ADHD. Everywhere you look doctors are slapping on that label and drugging up kids.” He paused, looking straight at me. The air suddenly swelled with tension. Claustrophobia nagged at me. “He doesn’t have an uncle who’s an assistant district attorney to get him out of trouble.”
Realization sunk in. I was about to hear something very bad, and I couldn’t say no. “What did you do?”
“I was about eight,” Chris said. “No one in the area knew who I was–my uncle kept it secret. But this kid at school-his dad was a social worker-was an eavesdropper. He confronted me in front of all the other kids, and I lost it.” Chris picked at his cuticles. “It was like a movie scene. Me and Kyle in a circle. He kept calling my dad a murderer, my mom a bad mother. I just started beating on him.”
I wanted to close my eyes, but I kept contact. “How bad was it?”
“I broke his nose and gave him two black eyes. Broke his ribs, and he ended up with a punctured lung. Kid almost died because of me.” He wiped moisture from his forehead. “He was in the hospital a long time. And my uncle made it all go away. We moved to another part of town and started over. And I got counseling.”
“Did it help?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I was so afraid I’d end up like my dad.” He laughed bitterly. “Turns out I should have been worried about dear old Mom.”
“You didn’t know.” I repeated the same words I’d be saying for weeks. “I know it doesn’t make you feel any better, but you were just a kid who’d been through a lot. We know now, and we will find her.”
“I know.” He relaxed into the couch. “Seeing those kids tonight was like being back in that schoolyard. And I just needed to tell you about it.” Uncharacteristic pink dotted his cheekbones.
“I’m glad you did.” I felt hot all over, down to the roots of my hair.
“So I’m not so innocent after all,” he said.
“Believe me, I never thought you were.” I attempted a grin, and he laughed.
“You know me better than I thought.” He stretched out his legs. So when Todd presses you on the alibi, we’ve got our story. Hopefully it sticks. In the meantime—Sarah. What’s the story?”
I told Chris about my conversation with Todd. “Until I saw the crime scene photos, my first instinct was Preacher. But this was an up close and personal killing. I’m not sure Preacher would be that involved.”
“Unless he had something on the side with her. And when she told him about you, he felt betrayed and lost it.” Chris played with a loose string on the hem of his shirt. “He’s a pimp, after all. I’m sure he gets violent. How bad were the pictures?”
“Bad. Blood everywhere. She was stabbed.”
Wincing, Chris shuddered. “I don’t know what kind of monster can kill a person like that. It’s too…”
“Personal,” I finished. I certainly couldn’t do it. The act of slicing through skin and muscle to reach a vital organ was callous. Cold. Brutal. I couldn’t allow myself to go there.
“What about Preacher?” He asked. “All you’ve got on him is that you followed him into North Philly. That’s a big area.”
It was my turn to grin. “Kelly got a lead, and Kenny and I followed it today. Preacher hangs out in Strawberry Mansion.”
He jerked to a sitting position. “You went to the ghetto with only the wonderful Kenny G for protection?”
“You’ve never met Kenny. How do you know he’s not good protection?”
“Because all you talk about is how fun and happy Kenny is. What is it you call him? Your light in the dark?” He rolled his eyes. “Not exactly a bodyguard.”
“We were surrounded by people.” I shrugged, pretending I hadn’t been every bit as scared as Kenny. “Nothing was going to happen. He knows the streets.”
Chris scowled. “I’m sure. Once again, I can’t believe you’d be so stupid. And so much for Kenny having a brain in his head.”
“Enough,” I snapped. “You can insult me all you want. Leave Kenny out of it.”
The sheer coldness in his glare caused a rash of gooseflesh on my arms. “So you know Preacher’s home base is in the worst area of Philadelphia,” he said. “But Sarah’s dead, and she was your best shot at bringing this ring down. Isn’t it time to move on?”
“Are you kidding me?” I nearly slid out of the chair. “I’ve got a lead to Preacher. He’s the one who can get us closer to the big boss. That’s who we need to find.”
Chris’s head jerked back and forth. “You understand you’re walking into something bigger than you imagined right? Preacher and his boss and who knows who else are willing to kill to keep their secret.”
“I don’t care. I’ve got to make someone pay for this.” I couldn’t take the words back. After witnessing Brian Harrison dying at my own hands, I thought I’d never take another life. But the knowledge of children being trafficked for sex right under my own nose brought out the vengeance monster. And how many other kids had been forced to pose naked for the camera just like Aron?
Chris regarded me in silence. Sometimes his face was so easy to read. Other times, like now, he wore a silent mask. I could continue my investigation without him, but I didn’t want to.
He sighed. “I wish I could make you forget that video.”
“Aron wasn’t the only one we saw.” A lump swelled in my throat, followed by the crest of guilt. “He was the only one I could get to.”
Chris reached for my hand. I stilled at his touch, unsure of how to react. “I’m sorry you can’t let this go, but I don’t think you should keep looking into Preacher. I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt.”
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
“Right.” He released my hand and relaxed back into the couch again. He didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself. “So what’s your next move?”
“I need to talk with Preacher about his offer of employment.”
15
I lied to Chris.
I left a message for Preacher, and Chris thought I still waited for his call back. He’d find out the truth eventually, and he’d be upset, and I’d apologize. Then we’d dance again. Sometimes I wondered if I lied to play the game–to see what the consequences would be. There’s no fun if I can’t stay one step ahead and in control.
Shaking in the dark cold, I pulled my scarf tighter around my face and stuffed my hands into my pockets in an effort not to scratch my head. The blond wig and glasses were back, and I stood in front of Ward 8, an honest-to-goodness speakeasy in West Philadelphia. Preacher insisted on buying me dinner, and this place was his suggestion, instantly putting the owners of Ward 8 on my radar.
Decidedly plain, the only sign of popularity surrounding the old, brick building was the line waiting outside of it. I checked my watch. Preacher was unsurprisingly late. A show of authority to which I’d have to make sure I deferred.
A yellow cab stopped. Preacher exited, clad in the same trench coat. His dress shoes tonight looked to be name brand, and the suit pants peeking out from beneath the coat were high quality fabric. He smiled in greeting, and I saw a flash of the boy he still was.
Intellectually, I knew my reaction should be fear. Or at least caution. But my breathing increased as if I were on the treadmill. I suddenly tasted the basil and oregano smell of authentic Italian wafting from Ward 8. Preacher’s trench coat almost glowed against the snow. I steadied myself against the adrenaline, channeling it into the part it was time to play. Twirling a lock of my wig, I shyly smiled back. Preacher approached with confidence, jerking his head at the doorman.
“It’ll be just a minute
, sir.” The doorman spoke directly to Preacher. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you.” Preacher stood at my elbow. “You look very nice, Lily. That blue scarf is pretty with your skin.”
The shock of being addressed as my sister was brief. “Thank you.” I flitted my eyes at him. “You too.”
He seemed to enjoy my apparent shyness. “I bet you didn’t even know this place was here.” He spoke slowly, making sure his words were polished and without any trace of today’s youth.
“I didn’t.” I played up my shock and his ego. “It must take connections to get a reservation.”
Preacher adjusted his purple tie. “It does.”
The doorman motioned for us to follow him. Preacher took my elbow and led me through the door. A hostess wearing an emerald flapper dress with intricate beadwork observed us with what I assumed was faux suspicion. The mix of beads and sequins were a darker green, and they glittered in the soft light. A layer of fringe outlined her collarbone, and I wanted to reach out and touch the material to see if it was as silky as it looked. Her wide, black headband matched her dark, bobbed hair, and she’d mastered the art of smoky eyes, with black eyeliner setting off the bright blue. “Do you have a password?”
“Augury,” Preacher said. I raised my eyebrows. Fancy language for a place named after a popular prohibition-era drink of gangsters. She nodded, and another staff member dressed in plus fours and a matching vest with a tie led us through a corridor with only vintage gas lamps. The narrow, dark corridor made me feel trapped, and I wished Preacher hadn’t pretended to be a gentleman and ushered me in front of him. I focused instead on the slim shoulders of the host as we descended down a felt wallpaper-covered stairwell. We emerged into a tiny, dimly lit bar with mostly full tables. The staff was dressed in 1920s-era clothing, the women’s sequins and beads shining, with the men wearing suspenders and newsboy hats. A gilded chandelier hovered over red leather booths, a golden arch proudly showed off the bar, and the entire room was bathed in vintage wallpaper that was loud enough to warrant an aspirin.