Along Came December

by Jay Allisan

  The empty cathedral screams silence in my head, and I feel like I’m going to cry. No one’s going to talk to me. I’m not on this case. I’m not even a cop. If I’ve got any sense I’ll come up with twenty grand, pay my fine, and get the hell out of Briar Rose. If I was really sensible I’d dig out my gun and skip the rest.

  Max would be so disappointed.

  I close my eyes against the rush of tears. Max is dead. Max can’t be disappointed because Max is dead, and it’s not fair that I have to keep living in his shadow. He doesn’t get to haunt me, not when he left me here alone. I hate him for that. I hate him.

  I love him, and I miss him so much I’m going to die.

  I crawl into bed fully dressed, leaving the bedroom light burning to keep the darkness away. Tomorrow I’ll call Benny and see what he knows about the murders. Tomorrow I’ll ask Presley to meet me someplace James won’t find us. Tomorrow I’ll remember why I’ve stuck around this long.

  Tonight I’ll sleep with my hands under the pillow so I don’t reach for my gun.

  THE OFFICES of the Buried Pen have the low, heavy hum of a beehive. The lighting is bad, the floors are cracked, and papers are stacked high enough to quarantine the cubicles. I have to stand in order to see Benny on the other side of his desk. Not that there’s anyplace to sit.

  “I’ll just be a second,” he says again, pounding his keyboard in earnest. “You can wait in the lobby if you want.”

  “Forget it,” I mutter. “You should’ve seen the looks I got when I walked in the door. I’ll be hiding down here when you’re ready.”

  I sit on the concrete with my back against the desk. The flimsy metal shakes with Benny’s vigorous keystrokes.

  “It’s nothing personal,” he says. He takes a loud sip from his coffee cup. “You’re just news is all.”

  “Bad news.”

  “Yeah, sometimes. I think mostly people feel sorry for you.” Benny peers over the top of his desk. “Hey, any chance you could give me a couple quotes? My editor’s got a bounty on your head, and whoever gets you to talk about your attack on Carl Winters gets to cover his next court appearance.”

  My jaw tightens. “Don’t remind me about Carl’s next court appearance. And I’m not interested in any more interviews.”

  “Just thought I’d ask.” He gives the keyboard a few last satisfactory thumps and gets up from his chair. “Okay, done. Just let me get the hard copy to Layla and then we can leave.”

  I follow him to the central printer. “What’s this article about?”

  “Aliens,” Benny says. I stare at him and he shrugs. “Hey, we’re a tabloid.”

  “Why’s a tabloid interested in covering real news at all?”

  “Whatever sells the papers. Plus my editor’s real old school and she wants to turn the paper legit. She’s a—”

  “Did you get the interview?”

  The voice is clipped and lightly accented. I turn to see a Hispanic woman with her hands on her hips, scrutinizing me and clearly unimpressed with what she sees. She’s nearly half a foot shorter than me, even in heels, but she has her chin raised and the distinct air of someone used to getting her way. I open my mouth to tell her where to shove it, but Benny’s quick to intervene.

  “Layla, this is Shirley Mordecai,” he says brightly. She glares at him and he wilts. “But you already knew that. Mordecai, this is my editor, Layla Hernandez.” When neither of us move he holds out his article. “I was just coming to give you this.”

  Layla ignores the paper and looks at me. “Is she here to talk?”

  “Work in progress,” Benny says. “But I’ve got the—”

  “On my desk. And do not forget what you promised me, Benny Afternoon.”

  She spins on her heel and struts away.

  “It’s all under control!” Benny calls after her. “Don’t worry!”

  He lets out a deep breath and plasters a smile on his face. “Well, that was my editor. We’d better disappear before she comes back. I’ll meet you outside, okay? And if I’m not there in three minutes it’s because she cornered me and ate my soul.”

  OUTSIDE IS cold and slushy, so we drive down to a local coffee shop for something warm and a bite to eat. Benny runs his hands over my dashboard reverently.

  “Nice car,” he says. He strokes the leather bench seat, fiddles with the vent, rolls the window up and down. He reaches over to wiggle the gearshift and I slap his hand away.

  “It’s a ’76, right?” he asks.

  “’55.”

  “Mustang?”

  “Cadillac.”

  “Right. I like the black.”

  “It’s actually dark blue,” I say, and when Benny sighs I crack a smile. “I’m kidding. It’s black.”

  The coffee shop is dimly lit and there’s an electric fire crackling in the hearth. The flames are a pale imitation of the real thing, but the heat is genuine enough. Benny claims a pair of couches near the fireplace while I grab us drinks and sandwiches. He’s got a stack of notebooks beside him by the time I hand him his lunch.

  “Why did your editor think I was there to talk?” I ask. “You just interviewed me yesterday.”

  Benny peels the crust off his sandwich and takes a bite. “I haven’t told her about that yet. I thought I’d surprise her with the finished article.”

  “Is that what you promised her?”

  Benny’s face goes pink. “Remember what I said about a bounty? I kind of told her you’d agreed to give us the exclusive on Carl so she’d let me cover the Speakeasy investigation.”

  “So you lied.”

  “Mmm, it was more like calculated optimism.”

  I wrap my hands around my coffee and give him a cool look. “What happens if I head over to the Chronicle and sell my story to the highest bidder?”

  Benny blinks at me owlishly. “That would be very mean.” He breaks into a grin. “Especially since you want something from me, too. Or did I bring all my research for nothing?”

  I turn to my lunch, letting him bask in his parry. He’s not wrong. He’s got information I want and access to more, and it’s nice to have some company. His exuberance makes it hard to wallow, even if I’ve got good reason to. Even if Presley hasn’t texted me back. I slip my phone from my pocket and check again. Still no reply to my request to meet me.

  “So what do you want to know?” Benny asks.

  “What will you give me?”

  He considers that. “Obviously I can’t reveal any sources, but I’ve really only got the one and I don’t know who it is anyway, so that’s kind of a moot point. Everything else is yours.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “That’s very generous.”

  Benny beams. “I’m just a giving kind of guy.” He throws his arm across the back of the couch. “Well, fire away, Mordecai. What don’t you know yet?”

  “Who’s the girl they pulled out of the harbor?”

  “Still no ID on her. She was drugged, though. Roofied. The ME thinks she was conscious when the killer dumped her in the water, but she couldn’t get back out.” Benny’s mouth tightens and he looks down. “She was probably still alive when I got the text.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

  He shrugs. “It’s not your fault. Nothing I could have done anyway.”

  “Was she a dancer at the Speakeasy?”

  “Yeah. Supposedly she was 21, but the autopsy put her at around 16. James claimed he’d never met her before. His assistant Cheyanne does the hiring.”

  “Who told you all this?”

  “I’ve got a contact in the medical examiner’s office, a guy my sister used to date. And I went to the strip club and talked to James.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. “That’s a bad idea, Benny. You should stay away from him.”

  “Once was enough,” he agrees. “Both figuratively and literally. I got enough information from the text about Czechkov that I didn’t have to go down there again.”

  “Tell me about him.”

&
nbsp; “He worked as security for James, but he wasn’t the guy you’d see at the door. Not the front door, at least. Here, I got a picture with his message.”

  I move his notebooks to the floor and sit beside him, waiting as he scrolls through his cell phone. He shows me the image. “He was found like this in his apartment. Naked and, uh, stiff, and I’m not talking about rigor mortis. Plus look what’s on his cheek.”

  I peer at the red smudge. “You’re kidding. Is that a lipstick print?”

  “I think so. He’s got some on his mouth, too.”

  “Looks like his evening didn’t turn out as planned. I don’t suppose the killer gave you Czechkov’s sexual preference?”

  “Uh, no. Definitely not.”

  “Odds are he was straight. Odds are his lipstick-wearing date, and his killer, was a woman.”

  I take the cell phone from Benny’s hands and zoom in on the picture, scrutinizing the pale corpse. “No visible cuts or bruises. No signs of restraint. His attacker was probably smaller than him, which, granted, would be most people. Hence the gun. Can I see the text message?”

  Benny pulls it up and I read quickly. It’s short and unremarkable, only identifying Czechkov and giving his home address. I hand the phone back. “Do you know if he was drugged?”

  “He wasn’t, which is weird given his size. If the killer was smaller than him wouldn’t he, or she, want to even the odds a little before busting out the gun?”

  “It’s what I would do, especially if I’d done it before. Something changed here. The killer deviated from her methods.”

  “There’s another deviation with Czechkov’s murder. The messages were from a different number than the first two.”

  “Did you tell the police? Did they trace it?”

  “Yeah. Both numbers were traced to disposable cells. It’s a dead end.”

  I sip long and hard on my coffee. “Who has your phone number? Is it on the newspaper’s website or on a business card?”

  Benny laughs, but it’s nervous. “I don’t have any business cards. I’ve been a real reporter for, like, a week. I don’t think it’s on our website. It might have been on my Facebook page for a while, but it’s not anymore.”

  He puts his phone on the table and stares at it. “You think the killer is someone I gave my number to? Someone I know?”

  “I don’t know, Benny. I’m just trying to piece together your involvement in this story. It seems strange that someone would pluck you from obscurity and gift-wrap a murder investigation for you. No offense.”

  “None taken. I kind of miss the tabloid stuff, to be honest. Now every time my phone goes off I—”

  His phone rings, and Benny flinches so hard he nearly falls off the couch. He reaches a shaking hand for his cell, then lets out a sigh when he sees the caller ID.

  “It’s Layla,” he says. “Thank God.”

  He answers the call, listening raptly. I try to eavesdrop but can’t make out the conversation. He starts nodding, trying to pack up his bag with one hand. I help him out and he points to my jacket, gesturing toward the door.

  “Okay. Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll call—” He lets the phone fall away from his ear. “She hung up.”

  “What is it?” I ask urgently. “What’s happening?”

  “Oh, you know. Just another body.”

  41

  BENNY DIRECTS me to the park downtown, specifically the lake. I drive fast.

  “Your editor called,” I say. “You didn’t get a message from the killer. That means it’s not connected.”

  I’m looking for corroboration, reassurance it won’t be Presley beneath a yellow tarp. Benny’s not paying attention.

  “Benny?”

  “Huh?”

  “How would your editor know about the body, and why is she calling you?”

  “Because I’m on the crime beat now,” he says, gritty like he’s a cowboy. He juts his chin. “Because I’m the best.”

  “You’ve got hot chocolate on your face.”

  “Oh, whoops.”

  There’s a perimeter set up by the time we reach the lake, cordoning off the western arm. The lake is man-made, and it’s drained during the winter. Investigators are gathered down below on the dry crust.

  I park my car at the edge of the lot and eye the police tape. Benny’s already thrown open his door and is trying to disentangle his bag from the seat belt. He yanks it free and scrambles out of the car. He starts to shut his door but pauses, looking at me questioningly. “Well?”

  “I can’t go down there.”

  “Sure you can. Just stay behind the tape.”

  “What if my team is here?”

  “Why would they be? They’ve already got a case. Now come on.”

  I get out of the car and pull my hood up to hide my face. Benny’s right about my team, but the park is in Old Town jurisdiction and that makes me nervous. Even so, the scene’s sucking me in like a bad habit.

  We slip into the crowd of spectators and work our way to the front. Benny has his cell phone out, making an audio recording of what he sees. I just look around.

  Judging by all the investigators, analysts, and media personnel present, I’d guess the lake has been a crime scene for close to an hour. I know from previous experience that the cluster of people conceals a wide-mouthed pipe that drains to the river. That must be where the body is.

  “Man, I can’t see anything,” Benny complains. He’s standing on tiptoe, straining to catch a glimpse of what’s happening down below. He turns to the woman beside him. “Excuse me, ma’am. Benny Afternoon, with the Buried Pen. Can you tell me anything about what’s going on here?”

  The woman edges away.

  Benny tries the elderly man beside her. “Excuse me sir, Benny Afternoon with the Buried Pen. Have you been here long? Do you know what happened?”

  The man grumbles unintelligibly and swats at Benny with a cane. Benny moves to the next onlooker, undeterred. “Excuse me, ma’am—”

  I touch his arm. “Over there.”

  He looks where I’m pointing, to a middle-aged woman in running clothes standing right outside the crime scene tape, an enormous labradoodle sitting patiently at her feet. The woman’s speaking with a uniformed officer, and her body language reads like a picture book.

  “She saw something,” I say. “I’d bet she found the body.”

  Benny nods. “Good call. I’ll go eavesdrop.”

  “Don’t get too close,” I warn, but he’s already gone.

  I go in the opposite direction, trying to get a better line of sight into the lake. I don’t see a body tarp or evidence markers on the ground, but a couple high-powered lights are aimed into the pipe. There’s definitely something in there, but I can’t make out any details. The angle is wrong and I’m too far away. I’d have to be right in front of the pipe to get a clear view, right—

  Right where Paddy’s standing.

  I slouch down and pull my hood tighter around my face, even though he’s got his back to me. He shouldn’t be here. Why would he be here? He’d only be here if this body was connected to the Speakeasy deaths, but Benny got a phone call from his editor, not a text from the killer, so it couldn’t be connected. And yet here Paddy is.

  He crouches down, reaching into the pipe with a gloved hand. I can’t see past him so I don’t know what he’s doing, but he stays like that for almost a minute. When he straightens he’s shaking his head.

  He turns around, and I duck behind a tree. I peer out. He’s talking with the other investigators, gesturing at the pipe. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and sticks one in his mouth. I watch him light up, the scent of cigarette smoke in my mind if not my nose.

  I miss it.

  Then Paddy’s walking, heading toward the crime scene tape. Now seems like a good time to get out of here. I look for Benny but don’t see him. Paddy’s getting closer. He’ll see me if I sneak to my car, which I parked in plain sight like an idiot. Goddammit.

  I stay hidden behind
the tree and peek around the trunk at my ex-partner. He’s talking to the woman with the labradoodle, who’s beginning to look calmer. She scratches the dog behind its ears, shifting from side to side. She’s dressed for running, not the weather, and I imagine she’s getting cold. She shifts again, and a smile tugs at my lips when I see Benny standing behind her, his hood up and his back to Paddy. I hope he’s as good a listener as he claims.

  Paddy’s still talking to the woman when Benny edges away. He meanders casually in my direction, his eyes jumping from tree to tree. He cups a hand around his mouth.

  “Pssst! Mordecai. It’s Benny. Where are you?”

  I grab his jacket and pull him behind the tree. “What did you hear?”

  “Between the first cop and Detective O’Reilly, everything, I think.” He shows me his cell phone. “I even recorded it. Want to listen?”

  “Not here.” I give him my car keys. “I need you to go move my car to the north parking lot, okay? I’ll meet you there.”

  “Sure, but why—”

  “Figure it out, Benny.”

  He takes the keys and looks toward Paddy. He bumps his glasses up his nose. “Maybe you should say hi. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “He’s carrying a gun.”

  “Are you always so melodramatic?”

  “Would you please just go move my car?”

  “Fine,” Benny says. “But I think you’re overreacting. You were partners for forever. It’s not like he hates you.”

  I glare at him. He just shrugs and heads for the parking lot, spinning my car keys around his finger and dropping them twice. I watch through the trees as he stands beside my car, frowning at the key ring. It’s a good thirty seconds before he realizes why there’s no key fob and sticks the key into the lock. I roll my eyes.

  I glance at Paddy, who’s jotting in a notebook. Benny starts my car, and Paddy looks up at the sound of the engine. He stares at the car. He knows it’s mine, and for a second I hope he’ll try and stop it, stop me, before I drive away. Instead he turns away and ducks back under the crime scene tape.