by Stacy Green
“Nothing,” Carmen said.
“You knew she took her clothes off?” Neil turned on his wife.
“I heard her on the phone a few weeks ago.” Carmen looked her husband straight in the eye, her body braced for an argument. “I confronted her, and she explained she made more money there. She said the men never touched her. And her drug tests came back clean. She begged me not to tell you. She knew you would be angry, and you’d want to give her money.” She finally turned back to Erin. “In 2008, when the market crashed, we lost a good chunk of Neil’s retirement. Things are tight. Bonnie didn’t want us helping her.”
Neil shook his head, eyes wet. “You should have told me.”
“I promised her I wouldn’t. She didn’t want you to be disappointed. She wanted to make it on her own.”
“Did she tell you anything else?” Erin asked. “Did she say anything about filming or selling videos online? Or mention anyone she might have been working with?”
“No,” Carmen said firmly. “She didn’t.”
Erin sighed.
“I would tell you,” Carmen insisted. “I want her killer found!”
“Of course,” Beckett said. “What about a Jane?”
Another no. “We told you she didn’t have a lot of friends.”
Neil Archer paced again. “So you still don’t know anything beyond accusing my daughter of using her body to make money?”
The break in his tone told Erin he knew his wife spoke the truth.
“We have one strong lead we are following up on and a couple of other possibilities,” she said. “This case will be solved.”
“We need the name of Bonnie’s abuser.” Beckett swung the conversation back to where they’d started. “I’m not convinced she earned $100,000 making amateur movies of any sort. She may have been blackmailing him, and he decided to take care of her.”
“It wasn’t him. He’s in California,” Neil said flatly.
Erin didn’t believe him, and Beckett’s skeptical expression said he didn’t either. Bonnie’s pig of an abuser probably had nothing to do with her death. She had eyes on a bigger prize. If Sarah had been abused and told Bonnie, the older cousin might have decided to target the man responsible for their abuser going free, especially if the abuser couldn’t be located.
“What about your brother, Simon?” Erin watched Neil’s slouched form turn rigid at the mention of his brother’s name. “Do you think he’d have the financial means to pay Bonnie that kind of money?”
Neil’s teeth clacked together. “You’d have to ask him.”
She and Beckett promised to keep the Archers updated, but neither parent looked confident.
“What if all three blackmailed Simon, or Bonnie’s abuser, or both?” Erin said as soon as the couple left. “I don’t think they had anything to do with Bonnie’s murder, but they lied when they said Bonnie’s abuser lives in California.”
“I thought the same thing,” Beckett said. “Let’s see if Clark can get a warrant for their financial information.”
“No chance in hell,” Erin said. “They’re the grieving parents, and we’ve got nothing but gut instinct. The judge will rage on about invasion of privacy.”
Sergeant Clark stormed out of his office. “I called Channel 4. They confirmed they have a story. Of course, the vultures won’t reveal their sources.” His hard gaze travelled around the sea of cubicles and straining ears. “But I will find out who did it. And their ass will be on a silver platter on my fucking desk.”
“Can you get them to sit on it for a day or so?” Beckett asked. “Promise them some kind of exclusive, an interview with one of us.”
Clark shook his head. “I tried. They’re running it on the nine o’clock news.”
They watched the news from the small break room at the CID. The three of them plus Fowler and the assistant chief, a surly woman who always looked as though she’d been sucking on sour lemons, surrounded the twenty-two-inch television like it might sprout unicorns. Clark passed the time answering his phone and fielding mini-crises, while Beckett made guy-centric small talk with Fowler. Who the hell cared about the Wizard’s chances for a good season?
Erin’s stomach soured. She wished she’d grabbed the Tums out of the medicine cabinet this morning. Someone here likely had a pack, but she’d have to leave her post, and as soon as she did, the news would go from a top story about a skirmish in Afghanistan to the D.C. murders.
The silver-haired lead anchor, his pancake makeup as firm as his voice, announced the top local story: “The Princess and the Ripper.”
Erin froze. The men’s eyes shifted to her, but she didn’t acknowledge them. Blood pulsed through her so fast her forehead throbbed.
Red—real name Camille Torrence, no doubt a stage name—stood somberly in front of the yellow tape at Virginia Walton’s home. Savvy camerawork framed the scene perfectly, capturing just to the outer edge of the lot, where the naked trees and morose sky provided an appropriate backdrop. Torrence’s bright blue coat stood out as the only splash of color, sucking in the viewer’s focus.
“Is a modern day Jack the Ripper terrorizing Washington, D.C.?” Torrence spoke with importance but also with the gossipy air of a friend desperate to deliver the juicy goods. “And is a rookie homicide investigator, known as the Princess, capable of catching him before he kills again?”
Erin’s grip on her plastic water bottle tightened until water spouted out.
Torrence blew through the description of both murders, barely acknowledging the women’s names, and then moved on to the messages, describing those in detail. She didn’t mention the killer being a woman, so Jane remained secure—but for how long?
The rest of Torrence’s four-minute story focused on Erin, detailing her time as a sex crimes investigator and her move to homicide while subtly hinting her family name played into her promotion.
“Prior to the Ripper case, Prince worked just two homicides. Concerned citizens are demanding to know why she’s the lead investigator on such a volatile case.”
Cut to a shot of Beckett and Erin standing by their cars, Beckett confessing his fear and confusion about the case. But the shot and seeds of doubt already planted by Torrence made it look like he’d chastised Erin.
“We can only hope the police are able to work together to find this killer before yet another innocent woman is brutally murdered.”
Back to the lead anchor, who lamented the tragic killing and the politics of police work, indicating Calvin Prince must have lined someone’s pockets for Erin to have such a major role.
She’d heard enough. She hit the OFF button and slammed down the remote before turning to face the gathering peanut gallery—other investigators, two of the uniforms at the scene that night, and more who had no other reason to be there. Shift change, she realized. Nice excuse.
“Who leaked the information about the murders?” Her hoarse voice cracked in the effort to hold back tears. She would not cry in front of these people.
“They don’t have all the information,” Clark looked sideways at the uniforms. “You people are supposed to be out on the street, not here. Beat it.”
He waited until the crowd cleared, leaving only Beckett, Fowler, himself, the glowering assistant chief, and Erin. “It could be any number of people,” Clark said. “Only those of us in this room plus Mitchell know about the name. But the crime scene people, the uniforms, someone from the M.E.’s office—they have the access to the other information. Trying to find out who leaked it is a waste of time and resources.”
“Neither of which you have, Investigator Prince.” Assistant Chief O’Rourke’s husky voice came down like a gavel. “With this information out, your reputation is at stake. At the very least.”
“I earned my promotion.” Erin kept her voice even.
“Right now, that doesn’t matter,” O’Rourke said. “Perception is what matters to the people who decide whether or not you have a job. After this, if another woman dies, you’ll be first in
line for the fallout. The chief and the mayor will see you as a public relations threat to the department.”
“Are you kidding me?” Erin said. “No offense, ma’am, but you of all people know how difficult it still is for a woman in this job.”
“That’s why I’m giving you this warning. The whispers about your family connections, however unfounded they may be, are now public. Am I to understand you’ve postulated this killer may be a woman inspired by the theory that Jack the Ripper was a female?”
Erin’s jaw throbbed from clenching. “I think it’s a possibility we have to consider. The name ‘Jane the Ripper’ has been signed at both scenes.”
“Which could all be a distraction,” O’Rourke said. “Do you have any women on the suspect list? A female who had issues with both Bonnie Archer and Virginia Walton?”
“The only woman connected to both of them is Sarah Archer, Bonnie’s cousin,” Erin said. “She’s devastated, and she has alibis for both murders.”
“She’s also the daughter of a prominent member of the Republican Governors Association,” O’Rourke said. “But we do have another suspect—a male suspect, correct?”
“Ricky Stout, a student at the literacy school. And a cross-dressing male at the strip club where Bonnie worked.” Erin struggled to remain respectful of the assistant chief. Politics played front and center in nearly every homicide investigation in D.C., and Erin didn’t envy her superior’s job. But tiptoeing around Simon as a suspect infuriated her. “We also believe he may have had contact with Virginia Walton at another club, but we don’t have any tangible proof. Simon Archer is a potential suspect. Bonnie may have been blackmailing him.” She set her jaw and waited for the backlash.
“About that,” Fowler cut in. “I’ve been going over the Moore case, looking for something I missed. And I found it—the Republican Governors Association. Moore’s been donating to them for the past five years, which is really interesting since he’s a registered Democrat and publicly endorsed their last presidential candidate. I talked to their media liaison this afternoon, and she told me Simon Archer procured the donations.” He glanced at Erin and raised a graying eyebrow. “Guess the two of them go all the way back to their days as undergrads. But I can’t find any correspondence between Simon and Ted Moore—no emails, no paper trail other than the donations to the Association. Simon hasn’t returned my call.”
“Are you finished?” O’Rourke’s lips barely moved.
“Nope.” Fowler popped a Hershey into his mouth, clearly enjoying making the suit wait. “Ted Moore moved to California the same year Bonnie Archer was molested. And he returned six months ago, around the same time she started receiving big deposits into her account. And get this—his documentary on the local gangs aired three weeks before Bonnie received her first big deposit.”
Erin’s pulse hammered against her chest. “Neil claimed Bonnie’s abuser moved to California, and he seemed confident he couldn’t have killed her. Being dead’s a pretty good alibi.”
Fowler grunted. “Moore donated to the Governors Association because Simon had something on him.”
“We need to take a closer look at Simon Archer.” Adrenaline pumped through Erin. “If Bonnie blackmailed Moore, she likely blackmailed her uncle as well. Especially if she reconnected with Sarah and found out she’d been abused too. Simon decided he needed to wipe his entire past clean. You think he had Moore killed?”
“Nah,” Fowler said. “His murder reeks of a gang hit. One of the big gangs in Anacostia is known to castrate, and he mentioned them several times in his documentary. But with him dead, Bonnie loses her blackmail income. That could be the catalyst for going after Simon—or she upped his dues.”
“Did Sarah Archer admit to sexual abuse?” O’Rourke’s sharp voice interrupted their exchange.
Erin braced for the argument. “No, but it makes sense, and my gut tells me—”
“Your gut isn’t good enough.” O’Rourke’s nostrils flared like she’d inhaled something rotten. “What about Ricky Stout? Is there a possibility he’s the cross-dresser?”
“The cross-dresser’s a middle-aged white male,” Erin said. “Ricky is a twenty-one-year-old African American.”
“Then see if he knows anything about the cross-dresser,” O’Rourke said. “Don’t do a damn thing with Simon Archer unless you get tangible proof Bonnie blackmailed him. I’m not getting into a political mess unless I absolutely have to. And drop this Jane the Ripper business unless we have something absolutely concrete. If the name breaks to the press, we will never get a handle on it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Erin willed her tears to hold off a few minutes longer.
O’Rourke’s cheeks hollowed further, mouth practically disappearing. “Life’s not fair, Prince. This sucks for you, and it sucks for the department. But it sucks for those women more. Find this guy, and prove that reporter wrong.”
She nodded at Clark and shot a nasty look at Fowler. “If you talk to Simon Archer about this, don’t treat him like a person of interest. Be subtle. And if the press hears we’re looking into him, I’ll shove that entire bag of chocolates up your skinny ass.” Her heels clacked down the hall.
“Erin, I’m sorry,” Beckett said. “This whole thing is bullshit. But you have to try to put it behind you and keep your head in the game.”
She rounded on him, unleashing all the nastiness she had to hold back with O’Rourke. “It’s funny. You’re the one coming out like a rose in all this. Almost like you’re being painted as the hero riding in to save the day. Mr. Bigshot serial killer hunter.”
Beckett’s mustache stretched out like a caterpillar trying to cross the road. “What are you implying?”
“You’re the one to gain by feeding this bitch information. A uniform doesn’t get anywhere except a chance to get in her pants.”
“That’s plenty of motivation for a lot of guys,” Fowler said. “Look, you’re angry and embarrassed. Everyone gets it. But no one in this room believes Torrence.”
Erin still glared at Beckett. “How do I know?”
“Because I’m your partner,” Beckett said. “And I’ve had my name in the papers enough to last a lifetime. But if you want to waste time and energy, go ahead. I’m not going to beg you to believe me.”
“And I’m not going to beg anyone for the chance to prove myself. You said yourself I grew up in a house like Sarah Archer’s. You think I didn’t hear the resentment? Believe me, I’d rather have grown up poor than the way I did.”
Beckett laughed. “Why? Because having money and influence are such bad things? Are having parents who actually want good things for you so bad? My father’s a drunk who looked the other way while my brother suffered terrible abuse. He’s never accepted his role in what happened with Mary Weston. Your dad might have put unfair pressure on you, but so what? At least he taught you about real life. I had to learn on my own. So don’t tell me about how bad you had it growing up. All of your anger about the Prince name is giving the reporter power.”
Erin’s chest ached. “I didn’t want the Prince privilege. I left it as soon as I could.”
“Then stop letting it control you.” Beckett brushed by her. “I’ve got paperwork to do. But feel free to check my cell records. I haven’t talked to any reporters.”
Shame prickled on the back of Erin’s neck and spread to her cheeks. Her throat swelled.
“Hey.” Fowler awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Everyone’s stressed about this case. And we all have a common goal. Forget about the rest of the bullshit, and do the job. And I’ve got a full bag of chocolate if you need it.” He headed for the break room door. “I’ll be wasting my time trying to get people to turn on a gangbanger if you need me.”
Erin and Clark stood silently. She didn’t look him in the eye and focused on the wall.
“Fowler’s right,” Clark said. “And for what it’s worth, I’ve got faith in you. But if you don’t have any in yourself, you’ll never survive in this job.�
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Erin waited until his footsteps faded away and then rushed to the ladies’ room. Tears came fast and furiously, her throat going raw from trying to be quiet. Embarrassment washed over her in hot waves. Beckett hadn’t talked to the reporter. The men were right about her being her own worst enemy. Erin had been that way for as long as she could remember. What used to manifest as self-consciousness about her weight and looks and the ability to appeal to the opposite sex had matured into an adult complex about whether or not everyone she cared about saw her as a failure.
The change started in high school when she got the guts to follow Brad to a party full of people outside of their social circle. For the first time, Erin realized how different her life had been from everyone else’s. And how everyone looked at her differently because of her last name. Once she became aware, she noticed it more and more until she felt completely excluded. Then she rebelled, as her father liked to say. She didn’t go to Georgetown like the other Princes. She didn’t major in business. She did everything people expected her not to do and loved it. Maturity and motherhood soothed much of the anxiety over what people thought of her.
At least, she thought it had. But she’d slipped right back to that stupid party, standing alone against the wall while the girls from the public high school, whose fathers had relatively normal jobs, whispered about whether or not she’d rat them out to the police.
Over twenty years ago, and the emotions from that night still wielded power over her. The humiliation and the frantic desire to crawl inside her skin and hide from their stares, to escape—she relived them all in the ladies’ room until her head ached.
She had to let those sensory memories all go before they destroyed her.
Crying jag over, she ventured to the mirror to see how bad she looked. Her thick waves hung limply from running in and out of the rain all day. She should let her hair grow long enough for a real ponytail instead of a stubby turd-tail attached to the back of her neck. But she didn’t have the patience.
At least her complexion, however pale, remained acceptable. A few wrinkles around her eyes to match the sandbags from lack of sleep. “Ugh. Pull up your panties, and go apologize.”