Along Came December

by Jay Allisan

  I walk slowly through the trees toward the north parking lot. Benny’s right. Paddy doesn’t hate me. He just doesn’t care.

  I DROP Benny off at the Pen and circle back to my cathedral. He’s promised to call once he hears from his contact about the autopsy, but that’ll be hours. In the meantime I’ll listen to the recording Benny emailed me and stare at my notes some more.

  The church is big and empty. I walk loudly to fill it with sound. I open Benny’s email on my computer and turn up the volume. I listen to the recording twice, writing down the relevant information and taping it to the wall.

  The woman with the labradoodle was indeed who found the body. She’d let the dog off-leash in the drained lake and he’d sniffed it out. The body in the pipe was a young woman, found in the nude and cut up pretty horribly, judging by the halting, emotional description the witness provided. I can’t tell from the statement or the questions why Paddy was there. The recording provides no clear link between the girl in the pipe and the Speakeasy investigation.

  When I’m done gleaning details I play the recording one more time. I’m just listening to Paddy’s voice. I wonder if I’ll ever hear it again. I wonder what I would have done a week ago, in court, if I’d known what I would lose. I wonder if killing the man who killed my husband is worth what it’s cost me.

  Hard to say, since the bastard’s still alive.

  I could use a drink, but I’m out of alcohol. I’m out of everything. I get some water, take a lap around the living room, then return to my bedroom to study my notes.

  I pick up the sticky note labeled BENNY and shift it from finger to finger. Benny is a wild card. Every name on the wall can be tied to the Speakeasy, except for his. James has connections all over Briar Rose. I’m sure he’s got plenty in the media. But Benny? I doubt it. Benny’s working with me.

  At least I hope he is.

  I stick Benny’s name back on the wall, in front of Sonny’s. Benny was chosen before Sonny was killed, chosen by someone who had his phone number. I should have gotten his contact list before leaving him at the Pen. I’ll get it when he calls about the autopsy.

  That leaves two names unaccounted for at the top of the list, or rather one name and one role. James and the killer. The killer and James. They’re not the same person, I’d stake my badge on that. Or I would if I still had a badge. But that doesn’t mean James isn’t calling the shots. Tugging the strings. Playing games. He’s taken out his own trash for years, and there’s no way three of his employees turn up dead unless he wants them to. Dead bodies invite a lot of attention, and when you’re as deep in the underworld as James is, you’d better have a damn good reason to go chumming the waters. For some reason he wants this, all of this. The obvious question is why.

  I skim my information again. It’s a mess of unanswered questions. There’s still no ID on the girl who drowned in the harbor, and now there’s the girl in the pipe. They’ve got that much in common. The girl in the pipe was found naked, and so was Anton Czechkov. Whether that means anything is anyone’s guess.

  And then there’s the outliers. Presley and Robin. Involved with Sonny, involved with James, involved with each other. I know Presley’s keeping a secret.

  Time to go find him.

  I DRIVE east through downtown. The Speakeasy is west, behind me, and that’s where I want to keep it. Good thing the club’s not my only lead. Robin’s got a day job, and wherever Robin is, Presley’s not far behind.

  The Orchard is a class act, with valets and porters and armed security. It takes a keycard to access the elevators and the stairwells, and it takes a reservation to obtain a keycard. I figure my best bet is just to ask for Robin at the front desk.

  The glass doors slide open automatically, admitting me to the lobby. The atmosphere is hushed. Elevator music plays softly in the background. Men in ties and women in heels loiter on leather couches, sipping coffee. Courtesy newspapers are splayed out on a low bench, and on principle I ignore them. Or I try to. A headline catches my eye.

  WINTERS FORGIVES MORDECAI FOR COURTROOM ASSAULT

  I snatch up the paper. A photo of Carl takes up half the front page. He’s sitting in a hospital bed, his eyes blackened, his nose in a splint. The caption says he’s recovering and describes him as serene. The article fills the page below the photo, and I read it quickly, my blood churning to a boil. He forgives me for trying to strangle him. He says it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know what I was doing. Just like he didn’t know what he was doing when he killed those girls. When he strapped a bomb to Maria. When he let Max die.

  He forgives me.

  That fucking bastard.

  Carl says he’s sorry for the pain he’s caused, and that he hopes he’ll get the help he needs. He hopes I’ll get help too. He says we’ve both suffered enough.

  I tear the paper to shreds and throw the scraps in the garbage can. If I had a match I’d light it on fire.

  I take a deep breath, long and slow. I blow it out. The people on the couches are looking at me. I ignore them and march up to reception. The young woman behind the desk gives me a smile that slowly draws tight, finally disappearing altogether. She recognizes me. Her eyes flick to the pot-bellied security guard working the lobby, and I wonder if she thinks I’m going to strangle her, too.

  She greets me uncertainly, trying again with the smile. “Welcome to the Orchard Hotel. How may I help you?”

  I get her name off her shirt and try to make my voice light and pleasant. “Hello, Ingrid. I’m looking for a friend of mine who’s employed here in the hospitality department, and I’m hoping you can help me get in touch with him. His name is Robin. Is he working today?”

  Ingrid smiles apologetically. “I’m very sorry, but I can’t give out personal information about our guests or employees. Perhaps you could arrange to meet him outside the workplace?”

  “I’m not sure his phone is working,” I lie. “I haven’t been able to get ahold of him, and it’s a very urgent matter. Is he here? Could you track him down for me?”

  “I’m very sorry,” Ingrid says again. “I’m afraid that’s against company policy. I can only interrupt our staff for a family emergency, and…”

  Something crackles down my spine. I force a smile. “And?”

  She takes a small step back. “And you don’t…”

  She trails off. I finish for her. “Don’t have any family?”

  A blush creeps across Ingrid’s face. She wrings her hands. “I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “He’s a friend,” I say slowly. “And it’s important.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

  “Well, when’s his break? I’ll wait.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t disclose—”

  “Just ask him to come down and meet me. Who’s it going to hurt if you tell him I’m here and he comes down? I won’t hurt him, if that’s what you’re worried about. We can talk right here in front of everyone.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Just call him, okay? Just pick up your phone and—”

  “Please, I really can’t—”

  I slam my hand on the counter. “Goddammit, Ingrid, would you just make a fucking phone call already? What’s the big fucking deal?!”

  Ingrid gapes at me, her cheeks high scarlet, and I feel the presence behind me even before the security guard grips my arm. He escorts me to the exit, his voice an out-of-state drawl. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “I’d like a reservation,” I say, just as the doors slide open and he throws me out onto the street. He hitches up his belt and rests his hand on his gun.

  “Try the Rancho Motel,” he says flatly. “If I see you here again I’ll call the police.”

  He waits for me to go away. I walk backward until I reach the corner, then flip him the bird and disappear. I sulk all the way back to my car, wishing I’d coughed up the four hundred bucks for a reservation in the first place.

  I SIT in my car and text Presley aga
in, a little less politely than before. He should have answered by now, if only to tell me to go to hell. He can’t pack up and leave while I’m in a holding cell and expect me to let things go at that. The least he could do is let me know he’s okay.

  I don’t think he’s okay. I think he’s gotten himself in deep, and I’m trying not to dwell on it because it’s freaking me out. I’ve got a sinking feeling in my gut and a stirring of panic in my chest like this is too big for me. Like there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  Like my husband’s running out onto the bridge and I’m just fucking watching.

  I close my eyes, clenching and unclenching my fists. I imagine my breath blowing up lung cells like little balloons, then slowly, slowly, I let them deflate. Lather, rinse, repeat. Repeat until the panic is smothered and I’m okay to drive. I don’t know where I’m going, but moving makes me feel better.

  I drive aimlessly for a bit, cruising past the Speakeasy, the hotel, and my cathedral in turn, trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense. Dead body at the lake this afternoon. Paddy at the lake this afternoon. Presley at the Speakeasy yesterday. Presley promising me he’d stay away from the Speakeasy. Robin drugged. Sonny drugged. Sonny on drugs. Fancy, cross-bred super drugs. Czechkov shot. No drugs. Benny getting texts. Two numbers, two disposable phones. Benny getting a phone call. Dead body at the lake. Presley at the Speakeasy. Presley keeping secrets.

  I blow out a sigh. Nothing I can do about Presley keeping secrets. Nothing I can do to answer a lot of questions. God, I wish I was still a cop. There’s so much information I don’t have that’s one simple computer login away.

  I hit the brakes, and the minivan behind me hits the horn. I wave the van past, then pull a u-turn. I need police resources, so that’s what I’m going to get.

  42

  AFTER A quick stop at home I head for Old Town. My car’s a familiar sight around the precinct, so I leave it at a safe distance and go the rest of the way on foot. The wind is sharp and wet with winter, but I’m grateful. Winter means I can pull up my hood and hide my face behind a scarf, and it means evening comes early. I check the time. The day shift’s already gone, and most detectives will clock out in the next half hour. I’ll wait until the precinct empties, then find myself a computer.

  Still no message from Presley.

  I stand in a bus shelter across from the precinct and watch the parking garage. Dixon’s beat up old wagon leaves first, then Josie’s red Civic and Whale’s tiny hybrid. I stamp my feet to warm them up. I need to wait until Paddy leaves, since it’s his login information I’ll be borrowing.

  An hour later his Jeep rolls past the gate. I sprint across the road and circle to the rear of the precinct, looking up at my ingress. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.

  Old Town is old. It’s the city’s original police station and a historical landmark. The building’s been well-maintained over the decades, but the fire escape hasn’t seen use in years. Tonight it looks brittle and dangerous.

  I slap my hands together to get some blood flowing. It’s my only choice. Entry through the front door means confronting the desk sergeant, and entry through the parking garage takes a passkey. Climbing up the fire escape and entering via the roof just means picking the lock on the door.

  The problem is getting to the fire escape. The bottom rung is suspended ten feet off the ground and the alley lacks a convenient dumpster. I need a boost.

  I go get my car and park it beneath the fire escape. My car’s a convertible so I can’t stand on the roof, but I clamber onto the hood and strain for the bottom rung. I’m still about a foot short. I take a deep breath, pray I don’t slip and snap my neck, and then I jump.

  I catch the bottom rung. I grab the second, then the third. I don’t look down until I’m safe on the precinct’s roof. There aren’t any security cameras up here, but that’ll change once I’m inside. At least they’re not monitored in real time.

  I kneel in front of the door and take my lock picks from my glove. The tumblers are cold and stubborn, but eventually the lock yields and I’m in. I go down the stairs to the fourth floor and crack the door open. It’s quiet. The lights are on, but that’s not unusual. I slip out of the stairwell and hurry to my former office. I keep my hood and scarf on to hide my face.

  The office door is open, as always. Just as I’m about to step through the doorway I freeze, pressing flat against the wall instead. Someone’s inside. I hear typing, and the crunching of chips, and I realize I didn’t count my replacement when I watched my team leave. Scarlett’s still here, goddammit. The little kiss-ass sure picked a lousy night to bank time.

  The typing stops, and I curse under my breath. I hear a chair slide across the floor and footsteps coming toward me, and I head back to the stairwell, walking fast. Scarlett spots me.

  “Hey! Hey, wait up.”

  I duck into the stairwell and climb the steps. Scarlett follows. “Hey, wait a second! Who are you? What are you doing up here?”

  He’s getting too close for comfort. I pick up the pace, taking the stairs two at a time. That gets him excited. “Stop! Hey, stop!”

  I burst onto the seventh floor and run for the offices on the building’s north face. I can get back onto the fire escape from there, as long as someone was thoughtful enough to leave their door unlocked.

  The doors are all shut. I twist the first knob and the second without luck, and then Scarlett tackles me like a featherweight linebacker. I hit the floor with a thump. Scarlett straddles me, wrestling my arms behind my back.

  “Don’t move,” he says. “Don’t make it worse. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Get off me, Scarlett.”

  His name has the desired effect. His grip slackens, and I wriggle free and scramble to my feet. I run to the end of the hall and wait behind the corner. When Scarlett skids past I grab him from behind and get my arm around his throat. I squeeze, and he flails for a few seconds before sagging against me in unconsciousness.

  I take him by the arms and drag him to the conference room up ahead. He’s already coming around, but he’s limp as a noodle and doesn’t fight me when I cuff him to the radiator. I strip him of his gun, his phone, and the handcuff key, setting them on a table. I help myself to the computer at the front of the room.

  I’ve just gotten into the system when Scarlett starts fussing.

  “What the—” He jerks on his restraint, the metal banging against the radiator. “Shirley? What the hell did you do to me?”

  I glance up briefly. “Blood choke. You’re fine.”

  “You choked me out? What the hell?”

  “You were chasing me.”

  There’s more banging as Scarlett pats himself down. “Don’t bother,” I tell him. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “This is kidnapping. You’re kidnapping a police officer.”

  “Unlawful imprisonment, actually. I’m also obstructing a police officer, breaking and entering, computer hacking, and I think I left my car in a tow-away zone.”

  The sound of my typing fills the room. Scarlett whispers, “Are you going to hurt me?”

  I stop what I’m doing and look at him. “No, you dumbass. Why would I hurt you?”

  Something flickers in his eyes, and realization hits me like a truck. I think of the notes taped on my bedroom wall, all the questions, all the names.

  I missed one.

  I abandon the computer. Scarlett shies away from me but the cuffs don’t let him get far. I crouch in front of him. “You’re in this.”

  Scarlett tugs on the handcuffs, looking everywhere but at me.

  I lean closer. “Are you dirty?”

  His breathing turns ragged.

  “Does your dad know?”

  “Of course he doesn’t know!”

  The handcuffs clang loudly as Scarlett strains forward, and for a second I think he might try and hurt me. But his eyes are thick with tears and there’s a look on his face I know well. Self-loathing.


  “It’s his fault,” Scarlett mutters. “After I got kicked out of the academy my old man kicked me out too. Said he’d been embarrassed by me enough.”

  “He was up for re-election that year,” I recall.

  “Putting his career before his family, like always,” Scarlett spits.

  “He didn’t get you back into the academy, then.”

  Scarlett swallows.

  “Was it James?”

  Scarlett leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. He nods.

  “Tell me.”

  “He paid someone off. He said he could use a guy like me down the road and I’d hear from him when the time came.”

  “When did he get in touch with you?”

  “A couple months ago. He told me I’d be getting a promotion.”

  “That’s how you made detective and got on with homicide.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you get promoted to detective, transferred to Old Town, and placed with Dixon’s unit just in time for one of James’s employees to be murdered in our jurisdiction,” I say. “That didn’t strike you as suspicious?”

  “Of course it’s suspicious!” Scarlett snaps. “I know he’s using me, but he owns me, Shirley. He’s the reason I have this job, and if I don’t do what he wants he’ll get me fired. I know I’m a screw-up, okay? I know I’m not very good at this. But I want to be good at it.”

  “Taking bribes isn’t a great way to start, Scarlett.”

  “Damn it, aren’t you listening? I’m not being bribed. I’m being blackmailed. Do you remember what I got kicked out of the academy for?”

  “Drugs.” Something clicks in my mind. “Cocaine?”

  Scarlett scowls. “There were allegations—”

  “Don’t bullshit me. Was it cocaine?”

  Scarlett looks away. I give him a little push. “Come on. Like I’m in any position to tell on you.”