Along Came December

by Jay Allisan

  Paddy claps me on the back, hard enough to knock me forward a step. “Come on. Let’s go in and grab some coffee.”

  I try Presley one more time, and when I get his voicemail again I shove the phone in my pocket and swallow my worries. So he went to the Speakeasy after promising me he wouldn’t. So I haven’t heard from him in hours. That doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure he’s okay.

  He has to be okay.

  Scarlett’s already disappeared inside the precinct, and Paddy and I follow him in. His footsteps echo in the stairwell ahead of us, then vanish as the lobby door opens and shuts.

  “Hey, listen,” Paddy says, once the stairwell’s gone silent. “This photo thing. What you said about the media attention… I’m not sure I’m buying it.”

  I stop on the landing in front of the lobby door. “What do you mean? Why send a photo like that to a reporter if you don’t want attention?”

  “I’m with you on wanting attention. I’m just not sure it’s media attention this guy wants.” He pauses on the step below me, and when I don’t say anything he continues. “This Benny kid’s a tabloid hack, right? He’s a nobody, never reported real news in his life. Why send the photo to him instead of a real reporter? Why not send it to a bunch of reporters if all he wants is coverage? I’m just saying it’s a little fishy.”

  “So what do you think?”

  Paddy rubs a hand over his jaw, hesitating.

  “Just tell me,” I say.

  “I know it’s been a nightmare for you,” he says quietly. “All this media shit leading up to the trial. There’ve been reporters coming at you right and left, but how many of ‘em do you know by name? How many of ‘em got past the department, past me, without getting thrown out on their ass?”

  Just one. “Benny.”

  “And who’s the first reporter to show up at the crime scene yesterday, the one with a photo from the murderer?”

  “Benny.”

  “You see where I’m going with this?”

  I have an inkling, and it’s put the chill back in my blood. “Lay it out for me,” I say.

  “So on the one side we got Benny, who’s been following you around and is somehow connected to the murderer. On the other side we got Presley and Robin, who live with you, and are tied up in whatever’s going down at the Speakeasy, which is connected to Sonny, who’s connected to the murderer.”

  “You think I have something to do with this?”

  “No,” he says. “But I think maybe it’s got something to do with you. I’m looking at the dots, and you’re connected from both sides. Maybe it’s not media attention the killer wants. Maybe it’s police attention. Maybe it’s your attention.”

  I lean against the stairwell wall, processing. Paddy watches me.

  “My name’s been in the news a lot,” I say at last. “My name and my photo. If the killer wants publicity I’m a solid bet.”

  Paddy nods dubiously. “Could be.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Paddy, would you just spit it out already?”

  “I think somebody’s got their eye on you,” he says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but people in this city have strong feelings about you, whether good or bad. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody fixated on a public figure and imagined some kind of personal relationship. ‘Cause between Presley and Robin and Benny, this feels a little personal. Not to mention those two assholes down at the Speakeasy. James and Cheyanne. They were fucking with you, Mordecai. Like they were baiting you.”

  “And Cheyanne wasn’t baiting you?” I retort, but it’s a poor deflect. He’s not wrong. I may not be at my best right now, but I still know better than to chalk up all the ties to my personal life as coincidence, unorthodox as my personal life may be.

  I take my passcard from my pocket and press it against the reader. The lobby door beeps and unlocks. I pull it open. “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying be careful. If some whacko out there really has got your number, he’s not gonna go away just because you stop working the case. Watch your back, okay? And if something happens I wanna know about it.”

  Paddy takes the door and holds it open while we walk through. We’re quiet on the way up to the office.

  PADDY LEAVES his coat in the office and heads down the hall to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I sit at my desk with my phone in my hands, willing it to ring. I’ve called Presley six times today and left him as many text messages. Robin doesn’t have a cell, so I’ve got no other way of reaching him. Assuming they’re together. Assuming they’re okay.

  I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and breathe all the way to my toes. A cup of coffee would do me wonders. I tuck my phone away and make for the door. Before I get there Scarlett steps into the room.

  He starts to close the door, and I move without thinking. I run forward, reaching for the door while planting my foot in its path. I throw my shoulder against the heavy wood and the door wrenches out of Scarlett’s grasp, slamming into the wall with a bang. I slump against the door, my chest heaving. Scarlett stands there, struck dumb, his outstretched hand still curled in the shape of the doorknob.

  “The door stays open,” I tell him, sucking in air. “Always.”

  “I just wanted to talk to you in—”

  “The door stays open.”

  I peer out into the hallway, looking toward the kitchen. Paddy’s already halfway to the office, moving fast.

  “It’s okay,” I call. “It was just the door.”

  He slows to a stop, and I give him a weak smile before ducking back into the office. Old Town’s brick construction and solid wood doors effectively soundproof the building, and ever since Carl I can’t be in this room with the door shut. Keeping it open means sound can travel. Keeping it open means the bullet holes face the wall.

  “The door stays open,” I say to Scarlett for good measure, though by the look on his face I think he’s figured it out.

  He’s cleaned himself up a bit, washed the blood off his face and ditched his ruined jacket, but he still looks like he had a headlong collision with a bag of rocks. If it wasn’t his own damn fault I’d almost feel sorry for him. As it is I’m still annoyed. I fold my arms. “What do you want?”

  His face goes pink beneath the bruises. “I, uh, I wanted to apologize. For what I said yesterday.”

  I wait. He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s just… you know, we never talked, after…”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Shirley—”

  “Don’t call me that,” I warn.

  “If we’re going to be working together—”

  “We’re not working together,” I snap. “You’re my replacement while I’m on leave. You weren’t supposed to be here until I was gone, but you had to go and fuck that up too, just like you fucked up with Carl.”

  Scarlett gapes at me. “You can’t blame me for—”

  “Damn right I can. You couldn’t even do your fucking job—”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do now!” Scarlett shouts. “I’m just trying to do my job! Do you think it’s been easy for me since what happened? Do you think I want to be here, with your team, working with people who hate my guts? They all think I’m an asshole just because—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Because you slept with me,” he spits. “You slept with me, but everyone thinks I’m the bad guy just because Max—”

  I hit him on his swollen cheek, hard. He stumbles back.

  “You don’t get to talk about Max,” I say. “Not ever.”

  I shove him out of my way and storm toward the stairwell.

  INTERROGATION IS on three, so I go down one flight of stairs and pace the hallway until I feel better, or at least less pissed. These days they amount to the same thing.

  I enter the viewing room, where Josie and Whale are relaxing while Benny stews on the other side of the one-way mirror. He’s slumped in his chair, arms
crossed and lower lip stuck out. His short black hair is mussed and his glasses keep slipping down his round face. He turns his head and I see they’re bent.

  I glance at Josie, who’s leaned against the wall, finishing her coffee. She follows my line of sight to Benny and rolls her eyes. “He tried to run away and he fell.”

  “He fell.”

  Josie puts a hand over her heart. “I swear upon my oath as an officer I did not mishandle him in any way, not even when he called me names. Ask Whale.”

  Whale’s sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, one long leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent. He nods in affirmation. “He fell. Slipped on a piece of paper in the newsroom. I don’t imagine athletics are his strong suit.”

  Josie trades her empty coffee mug for a file folder and motions to Whale. He peels himself off the floor and the two of them head into the interrogation room. The door’s hardly closed when it opens again and Paddy comes in, Dixon right behind him. Paddy hands me a cup of coffee and I gulp the whole thing down.

  Dixon gives me a cursory glance but doesn’t ask why I’m still here. He lays a hand on my shoulder briefly, then turns toward the door as it opens again.

  Scarlett slinks in, his head ducked low. Dixon sees the bruising anyway and goes to him, taking his jaw and turning his face to get a better look. His expression is calm but his eyes are blazing. Scarlett’s ears go red under the attention.

  Dixon lets him go and steps aside without a word. Scarlett hurries to the one-way mirror, standing as far from me as he can get. Dixon activates the interrogation room’s microphone and puts himself dead center in front of the mirror. Laughter comes over the speakers.

  Whale looms like a specter in the corner of the room. Josie sits on the table to Benny’s right. She’s five-foot two on a good day, and she hates looking up during interviews. She crosses her legs and leans back on her hands, shaking her head with a smile.

  “You must have one hell of a boss, Benny,” she says, “because if I was an editor over at the Pen and one of my reporters started tweeting tomorrow’s headline, I’d can your ass faster than you could come up with a clever hashtag. But you’re not a real reporter, are you? You’re just a tabloid shmuck.”

  Josie takes a photo from her folder and slaps it in front of him. “Here’s what I’d like to know. How does a tabloid shmuck get his hands on a picture like this?”

  Benny looks away.

  “I’ll ask you again, Benny. Where’d you get the photo?”

  Benny taps his foot against the floor but keeps his mouth shut.

  Josie laughs. “Hey, no worries. You don’t have to tell me. We’ve got a warrant, so we’ll get what we need with or without you. I just thought that if you cooperated we’d try to help you out too, but it’s all the same to me if you’d rather go to jail.”

  Benny goes very still, his eyes widening. Josie leans forward.

  “We know you didn’t take this photo, Benny, and we’ve got a pretty good idea who did. If you keep their identity a secret, you’ll be going down for obstruction of justice and conspiracy. That’ll cost you a year in prison and a whole lot of dough.”

  Benny’s head snaps up, sending his glasses sliding down his nose. “I’m not a criminal!” he protests. “You can’t put me in jail!”

  “Sure we can,” Josie says sweetly. “If you conceal the identity of a murderer.”

  Benny’s glasses clatter to the table. He picks them up with a trembling hand, and it’s three tries before he gets them on again. He stares at the photo like he’s never seen it before. “But—but I… that doesn’t… the murderer took that photo?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “But if he… to me… what does…” Benny buries his face in his arms. “Ohmygodimgoingtodie.”

  Whale moves from his corner and lays a hand on Benny’s shoulder. Benny just about jumps out of his skin. Whale smiles in reassurance.

  “We can protect you,” he says. “We’ll find the murderer, and we’ll find him fast if you give us a name.”

  “I don’t have a name!” Benny wails. “I don’t know who that photo was from! It just showed up on my phone, and then I got a message that told me to get down to the library! I don’t know anything, I swear!”

  He’s shaking, hyperventilating. Whale pats his arm.

  “It’s going to be okay, Benny. What else did the message say?”

  “It—it said that guy’s death wasn’t a suicide, and it told me his name and job.” He looks at Whale like Whale’s all there is between him and a fifteen-story fall. “I thought I was just lucky! I didn’t think… what if he’s one of those crazies who gets off on stringing the cops along? Oh my God, what if he’s a serial killer, and this is just the beginning? What if he’s using me to tell his story and then he kills me too?! I’m like the cherry on top of a bloody murder sundae!”

  Benny rips off his glasses and digs his fists into his eyes. Josie slides off the table, just a hint of exasperation in her face. “Benny…”

  “You’re right,” he whispers. “I’m not even a real reporter. I’d better tell my parents I love them while I still have the chance.”

  “You’re not going to die, Benny,” Josie says. “We’re going to protect you, remember?”

  “But what am I supposed to—”

  “Your job. You do your job. Just cover the story as you see fit, but any information you receive, you bring to us, got it?”

  Benny glances up hopefully. “You’ll really protect me? I’m not going to die?”

  Josie grins and hands him his glasses. “No way. Like we’d let anything happen to a promising young journalist like you.”

  In a flash Benny’s on his feet and pulling Josie off hers in a hug. “Oh, thank God,” he breathes. “I think I love you. I swear I will never call you a fascist bureaucrat ever again.”

  Josie tweaks an eyebrow and he sets her down, stepping back with his hands raised. Whale gets the door. “Let’s show our tech guy your phone, and then we can get you out of here. We’ll send you home with an officer for protection.”

  Benny breathes a sigh of relief and follows him down the hall toward the stairs. Josie joins us in the viewing room. “I swear that kid is—what in the name of the good Lord happened to you?!” She goggles at Scarlett, who averts his eyes and shoves his hands into his pockets.

  “That kid is a dead end,” Paddy says sourly. “He’s a grade-A doofus being spoon-fed his information, and he doesn’t even have the smarts to keep it to himself. Putting that shit up on Twitter. What an idiot.”

  “Maybe that’s why the killer picked him,” Josie counters. “Young, dumb, and inexperienced. Why wait for the story to hit tomorrow’s papers when you can get instant coverage on Twitter? That’s Benny’s specialty, as it turns out. Tweeting everything that crosses his mind.” She rolls her eyes.

  “I don’t like it,” Paddy says. “You can’t run an investigation with some moron spilling insider details. We should put a lid on him until—”

  “But if tweeting’s what the killer wants and he stops—”

  The door bursts open and Whale’s there, breathing heavy like he ran all the way back.”

  “Benny got a text,” he pants. “There’s another body. Another Speakeasy worker is dead.”

  The words hit me square in the chest and I stagger backward, stumbling against the wall. The others are already scrambling, but I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe. Paddy looks like he’s saying something to me but Dixon waves him on ahead. The room empties, and then it’s just me and Dixon.

  Dixon puts his hand on my back and walks me slowly to the office. He slips into his coat and hands me mine. I get my arms through the sleeves but can’t manage the buttons the way my hands are shaking. Dixon does it for me, his expression somber.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  6

  DIXON DRIVES toward the docks. The ride is long and neither of us say a word. I dial Presle
y’s number again and again but there’s still no reply. I breathe through my nose, slow and deep. My heart’s pounding in my chest like a call to war.

  The others beat us there, and when I see their red and blues flashing in the night all I can do is pray. Don’t let it be Presley. Please God, don’t let it be Presley.

  My hand fumbles twice on the door handle before I get it open. I’ve just gotten out of the car when Paddy comes running across the lot. I freeze.

  “It’s not him,” he calls. “It’s not Presley, or Robin.”

  All my air leaves me in a rush, and Paddy catches me right before my knees hit the ground. He crouches next to me, his voice low, his arm heavy across my back. I just sit on the curb and cry with relief.

  Footsteps crunch across the gravel. I rub my face with my sleeve as Dixon kneels in front of me.

  “Your leave begins now,” he says, not unkindly. “Give me your gun.”

  I pull it off my belt and he takes it, tucking it inside his jacket. “Paddy will bring you home. Don’t forget you have therapy in the morning.”

  Dixon makes his way down to the waterfront. Paddy gives me a couple minutes before pulling me to my feet. We walk in silence to his car and begin the drive back downtown.

  “Who was it?” I ask finally. My voice is flat and listless.

  “It was a girl,” he says. “I didn’t recognize her from the club. Hispanic, late teens to early 20s, hair short like yours except brown. Harbor patrol found her in the water just beyond the north pier, right where it said she would be.”

  “Where what said?”

  “Benny’s text. No name or photo this time, just the location. We called harbor patrol en route and they found her right away.”

  “We’d better get a trace on that number,” I say. I wince. “You. You’d better get a trace on that number.”

  “Already working on it.”

  There’s a heavy knot in the pit of my stomach, but it lessens a little when I see lights on in the cathedral. I’m out of the car before it stops, tossing Paddy a hurried goodbye.