Snuff

by Simonson, Melissa

  It was an empty threat. Being an asshole wasn’t a crime, but John was sure the people in Washington were hard at work on that one.

  They smiled at each other in frosty silence before following her swinging ponytail through the office door at a considerably calmer pace.

  “What is it you’re looking for?” Jacob said, watching Lisette tear through desk drawers.

  “The name of your security company, for starters.” She flipped through a stack of documents she’d yanked from a drawer, discarding sheet after sheet. The papers fluttered to the floor. “Then video footage from the past four months.”

  Jacob drummed his fingers on the top of his flat-screened computer monitor. “We don’t keep video footage in my desk drawers, honey. We’re hip with the times. It’s recorded digitally.”

  She looked up from beneath a creased blonde eyebrow. “Hey, tell me something.” She flapped a piece of paper. “Why do you have three cell phones? I’d buy one for work, one for personal use, but three?”

  Jacob splayed his arms on the monitor. “What can I say? I’m a popular man.”

  John crossed the room in two strides and took the paper from Lisette’s hand. “I find that hard to believe.”

  She kicked the bottom drawer of the desk. “What’s in here? Why keep it locked? Are you afraid someone’ll dig through your stuff?”

  “I’m not the only one who works in this office, Sergeant Jennings.”

  She crouched to her haunches and looked up at John through her eyelashes. “A likely story, huh? He says he’s not the only fool in and out of this office to cover his ass, because he’s got something illegal in this drawer. He must think we’re as dumb as he is.” She snapped her fingers at Jacob. “Find the key or I’m busting inside.”

  Jacob dug for his key ring and slapped them into her outstretched palm. “Can I bust inside you afterward?”

  “I wouldn’t fuck you with someone else’s vagina. I’ve seen the skanks you hang with. Probably lube yourself up with other men’s cum.” She slid a small silver key into the lock. It opened with a small click.

  Jacob bit into his lower lip. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who sounds so goddamn sexy talking about such filthy shit. The things I’d do to you.”

  “I’ve heard enough about your sexual fantasies to last a lifetime, Mr. Ivashkov,” John said, crouching beside Lisette. “I don’t think you want to test me.”

  “Looks like I’ve got some competition, Sergeant Jennings. I may have to fight him for you.”

  She ignored him, pawing through the contents of the drawer. “What’s this?” She slipped on a pair of latex gloves from her back pocket and lifted out a gun. “Who’s this registered to? You don’t have any firearm permits.”

  “Oh, for the love of fuck.” Jacob threw up his hands. “Seriously? You’re going to jam me up for a fucking pistol you can’t prove belongs to me?”

  She inspected the barrel of the gun. “Serial number’s filed off. Now it’s even worse.”

  John fished a pair of cuffs from his pants. “Hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent. I hope you heed that advice. I’m sick of listening to you.”

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Vaguely I wonder, once she’s left to do God knows what, if whatever she injected me with will harm the baby. How disappointed would Abby be if she knew she’d consented to death, only to have me recaptured?

  Jack will blame himself. Say he shouldn’t have left me, even for a minute.

  Sergeant Lisette will scream obscenities at Aaron and Brett until she runs out of four-letter words and has to invent new ones. She’ll keep looking for me, I know that too.

  And I’ll be stuck here with another girl. We’ll both die of malnutrition, since I’ll refuse to kill her. Unless Bianca changes tack and orders her to kill me when it becomes clear I’m having no part in any of this.

  If I have any smarts I’ll keep our talking—me and whoever is unlucky enough to find herself waking from a drugged stupor beside me—to a minimum. There’s little sense in conversation. I’ve learned my lesson for round two.

  They’re weak plans, but they’re all I’ve got. Them, and the dull ache in the middle of my forehead.

  My sigh of resignation bounces off the white granite walls and ceiling. So does the rubber squeak of my sneakers sliding across the floor, when I let my legs relax into a dried pond of Abby’s blood. If there’s a heaven, she’s in it.

  I just hope she’s not watching.

  My eyes flutter closed. It’s a minute before I realize my hand has crept up to my belly, under the Los Angeles Marathon shirt I stole from Jack’s pajama drawer.

  I never really wanted the baby until now. I suppose all kinds of things occur to people right before they die. I may not live long enough to have it and find out if it’s got my eyes.

  Suddenly it feels like I’ve never told Jack how much I love him. I’ve said the words, but they seem like such empty gestures now, like I’d only gone through blocking on the stage of Life without feeling the emotions in the scenes.

  I couldn’t not feel them now if I tried.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  John stood alone behind the one-way glass, watching as Lisette unlocked Jacob’s cuffs and slid into the seat across from him.

  She leaned both elbows on the table and twirled a pen in one hand. “So, your official statement, just to be clear, is you’re holding that gun for a friend.”

  Jacob massaged his reddened wrists. “I’ve told you, I’m not the only person in and out of that office. I’m sure you’ll watch the surveillance footage to find out for yourself.”

  Lisette propped an arm on the back of her chair, swinging one leg over the other. “I’m sure you were smart enough not do anything outright illegal on those tapes. Your uncle had to have taught you better.” She swept her hair behind her shoulder. “You want to tell me this story about Caroline McKay? I heard it from other sources, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

  Jacob blew out a long breath and tilted his head back. “For the love of God, I was never convicted. Nobody can access those records, and I’m not legally obligated to disclose what happened.”

  “Jacob.” She opened a folder and pulled documents out. “I don’t need to read sealed records to know you had something to do with this. I’m not in the same league as Einstein out there, but shit. I know everyone thinks cops are dicks, but you wouldn’t have been arrested for this fucked-up gang-rape if you hadn’t been involved. Even watching and doing nothing is a crime.”

  He clenched his jaw at the same time his shoulders squared. “What does Caroline McKay have to do with Bianca? I know she’s who you’re after. How I got involved in any of this is beyond me.”

  John was sure plenty of things were beyond him, and he would have liked to say so, but not now. Not when Lisette had lost her usual abrasiveness in what he assumed was a strategic move to earn Jacob’s trust.

  And Jacob had certainly noticed the soft edges in her voice.

  “A lot of Caroline’s injuries look an awful lot the ones Bianca left on her victims.” She pushed a photo toward him, which he ignored. “One of the girls had extensive knife trauma to her genitals. Caroline had damage like that, too. I don’t know, maybe you coached Bianca. Watched it from that little room my witness describes being above the one she was kept in. She heard two people having sex above her.”

  “Doesn’t mean it was me.”

  “Will Bianca tell us that when we find her? That it wasn’t you? I know she doesn’t have the most stable mind, but an animal is never as dangerous as when they’re backed into a corner. She’ll finger you. They always do. She’ll probably do it to get back at you for rejecting her.”

  Jacob pushed back from the table’s edge, an arch in his left brow. “I have no idea what she’d say. We’re not close. I’d like to call my lawyer now.”

  “Jacob.” She snapped the file closed and tossed it on the empty seat beside her. “Your attorney can’t get you out of everyt
hing. Warrants have been served and signed. It’ll make you look a whole lot worse if you know where my witness is and didn’t help. She’ll die. That’s facilitation. On top of orchestrating a torture porn slash snuff blog? You’ll be dead to rights, genius out there will make sure of it. I hope you didn’t touch anything in that place Brooke’s stashed. If your prints are there it’ll look really bad. What’ll be worse is when AT&T gets back to us with the GPS tracking on the nights of the disposals. ME estimates the girls were dumped soon after one was killed. Bodies were always warm when we found them. You told Agent Maxwell you were home in bed each night we found another set of girls. I’m hoping your GPS proves that.”

  Jacob’s flat affect didn’t falter, but his head cocked to one side as he considered her. The way he stared made John wonder what sort of expression Lisette was wearing.

  “I could really use your help. You’re my last-ditch, ass-fucked effort.”

  Jacob pressed his lips together, avoiding her gaze while rubbing the back of his neck.

  She heaved a sigh and buried her face in one hand for a moment. “You know—no, forget it.” She collected the files, shaking her head, long hair streaming a blonde river down the ribbed fabric of her tank top.

  A wrinkle spliced between Jacob’s dark brows. “What?”

  She waved her hand. “What I think doesn’t matter, since I’m not Head Bitch in Charge.”

  The crease deepened, and he leaned forward. “Tell me. I care what you think.”

  “I can’t. I’m going to call your attorney and tell him to get his ass down here. Knowing you, you’ll incriminate yourself the longer I’m in here, and the Lieutenant will have my ass for not calling him the second you asked.”

  His fingers curled around her skinny wrist when she’d been about to stand, but she didn’t wrench away. “What is it?”

  He passed up a perfectly good opportunity to mention what he’d like to do to her ass, the voice said in mock wonder. It’s amazing.

  She let a thick silence settle before she spoke. “It’s just…for as many insults and bitchy words I’ve had for you, I’ve never thought you were capable of something like this.” She shook the flimsy folder. “I guess I always thought you’d be above this sort of stuff. That maybe you just have this cocky, egotistical demeanor as a defense mechanism. Growing up with the Ivashkov name had to have been like dragging around a ball and chain. I figured you were a man-whore because that’s all you’ve ever known, growing up with a father who always had a few mistresses. I thought because your mother died when you barely hit highschool, you’d be more inclined to protect women, not hurt them. I mean, your other charges had to do with escorts, and we all know they’re asking for it half the time. I never really knew why you hired call girls, since it’s not like you need to pay women to sleep with you. But,” she stood, slipping the fallen strap of her wife beater back into place, “I was fucking dead wrong, wasn’t I?”

  His lips parted when the thick tip of his tongue ran between them. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but I’m not that guy. You know me.”

  John realized his head was throbbing because his eyes had gone narrower with each second Jacob’s fingers spent on Lisette’s hand. He smoothed the skin between his brows and pressed his knuckles into his lips.

  She nodded as she stood, but she let his hand linger on hers. “I hope you’re not.”

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  When she returns, she’s alone.

  She pauses at the mouth of the staircase, wearing the same empty smile of one hundred percent genuine synthetic happiness. Her hair rustles around her shoulders as she skips down the steps.

  She jumps the last one.

  “I’ve been thinking about your predicament.” Those spiked heels click, one careful foot in front of the other, before she takes a seat back on the overturned bucket and lets her purse thud to the floor. “We have a lot in common.”

  I cross my legs and sit up straighter. “I know,” I say, even though we don’t.

  “We both can’t stop feeling sorry for ourselves.” She ticks it off on a finger. “We’re both baby birds with broken wings.”

  Well I don’t know about that, but I nod.

  She rolls her head in a slow circle until it cracks. “Isn’t it fucked-up how I was just dying to be her? Dead and buried?”

  “Who?”

  She rambles like she can’t hear me, staring somewhere several feet above my head. “But there’s a whole world out there that gets off on being depressed and broken. So maybe it’s for the best. Don’t you think?”

  “What’s for the best?”

  Her nostrils flare, eyes flashing like she’s irritated I’m not keeping up. “That I’m here. Living.” She turns her wrists over and studies the bracelets of lumpy scar tissue. “I tried more than once. So many times.” She smiles like she’s reliving some pleasant memory, and tugs at the hem of her high-necked blouse. “I almost hung myself. Almost being the operative word. The thing about living in a psych ward is, they don’t even knock. Just bust right into your room. They cut me down so quickly. I’d barely stepped off the chair.”

  Words jumble in my throat. I fight to disentangle them, inching a little closer. “You need help. You’re not crazy, but you need to talk to someone. Before you can feel better.”

  “Is that what you did after the Toby Years?” I can hear her capitalize the words through her mock-clinical tone. “Talk about it with some nice therapist who hung on your every word, taking notes?”

  “No. But maybe I should have.”

  “I’m talking to you. You don’t have an official clipboard, but you’re listening.”

  “I’m not a counselor. I don’t know what you need to feel better. If I could take you apart and put you back together again, I would.”

  “We’re beyond therapy. They don’t have Band-Aids big enough for you and me.” Her wandering blue eyes roll back, lashes fluttering distractedly. “I think I know why she did it now. I never got it then, even when I was riding high on this wave of depression, but…” she weaves the fingers of both hands together, “it’s all floating into place.”

  “You mean the woman who hurt you?”

  She ignores me. “All I know is that I’m addicted to the way it feels when I look at girls like you. It feels better. Until it’s over. But,” she slaps the knees of her dark denim jeans, “I have too much green to feel blue. And money makes the world go round, right?”

  A knot materializes in the pit of my stomach. It feels like foreboding. “How can I help?” I wave a hand around the room, a splash of desperation in my voice. “I want to, but not here. We should go to a hospital.”

  The word hospital triggers an alarm. Her rounded face hardens like I’ve insulted her mother, and the rapid change to her angelic features is startling. Camouflage really is nature’s craftiest trick.

  “You’re not listening. I don’t need help—it won’t work. Never has. That’s my point. You,” she says, staring right through me, like it may not even be me she’s seeing, “you need my help.”

  “Yeah.” I blink the stinging sensation from my eyes. “I need you to let me out of here. I have a boyfriend who loves me and a baby on the way.”

  She nods, swinging her feet back and forth. The heels of her boots screech over the ground, though the noise doesn’t seem to bother her, like it does me. “I’ll set you free.” She leans over to pick up her purse. It takes a while until she finds what she wants. The same black canvas case she searched for inside her car before she injected me.

  That foreboding in my stomach swells, ballooning into a fully-fledged freakout. I close my eyes and count to ten.

  She taps the syringe. “I’m not ready to surrender. I thought I was, but I was wrong. It doesn’t mean I can’t help you surrender, though.”

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  “You almost had me fooled for a minute,” John said, once the door clicked shut behind Lisette.

  She rolled her eyes, swinging into the department’s
dark, deserted hallway. “Men are fucking morons.”

  He’d never really believed that until about five minutes ago. “I guess it’s in our genes.” He trailed her around the desks and cubicles of detectives who’d long ago punched out. “A woman flutters their eyelashes, and suddenly we’re powerless.”

  She shot him a dirty look over her shoulder as she turned the knob of her office door. “I’ve never fluttered my eyelashes in my life.” She tossed the thick wad of files on the desk and flung herself into her swivel chair.

  John didn’t doubt that. “Tell me again that he doesn’t like you, because it sure seemed like he did. I thought his carotid would burst when you let him touch you.”

  “He doesn’t like me.” She snapped up her desk phone and punched in numbers. “Is this Sal Morgan’s secretary? Pardon me, administrative assistant. Well, transfer me.” Her blonde eyes flicked to the clock mounted above the door. “It’s not that late.” A tinny voice snapped on the other line, and Lisette waited, unpolished and impatient fingers drumming, for the monologue to cease. “Tell him this is Sergeant Jennings from Homicide. I have his client, Jacob Ivashkov, in custody, and he needs to get his ass down here unless he wants Jake to spill his guts about a girl named Caroline McKay. McKay. M-C-K-A-Y.”

  She slapped the receiver back on its carriage. “That’ll get him down here in a hurry. Uncle Ivashkov didn’t get it all swept under the rug for nothing. Is Heckles still in an interview room?”

  “I thought it would be best to keep him close by.”

  She closed her eyes for a few beats. “You think Jacob’ll talk?”

  “I think he’ll talk to you.”

  She rolled her head around her shoulders before letting it hang forward, and rubbed her temples with her index fingers. “Hopefully he’ll tell Morgan he wants to waive his right to counsel.” She sighed, her breath fogging the desk’s protective glass covering. “If anything happens to Brooke, I’ll break his fucking neck.”