The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

  She shook her head. “If he had, there’d have been evidence.”

  “Not if he’d worn a condom.”

  “If I’d been molested, I would have known. And if I had even a smidgeon of doubt, I’d be insisting on the rape kit myself.”

  “Would you feel more comfortable discussing this with a female officer?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss!” Rubbing her temples, she closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath, grateful for the restored ability to do so. Her gratitude extended to the pills that were finally beginning to take effect, dulling her aches and pains and sanding the sharp edges off her jitteriness.

  She opened her eyes to find the detective watching her. “I apologize, Detective Fahey. I don’t mean to take my frustration out on you.”

  He patted her hand. “In light of all that’s happened, I think you’re handling things remarkably well.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way to me.”

  “I deal with a lot of crime victims, and I can assure you that, under the circumstances, you’re doing great. Is it possible your abductor was homosexual?”

  “If he was it wasn’t obvious. Maybe he was determined to deliver me in good condition simply because he believed I was Sparrow’s wife. He brought me sufficient changes of clothing, all the toiletries I’d need, and was clearly concerned about keeping my asthma under control. Despite his threats to hurt me if I offered any resistance, he never actually did. Of course, I always tried not to give him a reason.”

  Fahey reached over one long-fingered hand and lightly touched the bruises circling one wrist. “In the face of these bruises, how can you say he never hurt you?”

  “I did this to myself, trying to escape the handcuffs.”

  “Well, fear not. We’ll catch the son-of-a-bitch.”

  * * * * *

  Chase was nearly to the freeway when a patrol car pulled in behind him. The uniformed officer tailed him for the next several blocks and, in the rearview mirror, Chase could see him speaking into a hand mike. He unlocked his cell phone and speed dialed a number.

  Travis Barker answered on the second ring. “Talk to me.”

  “In the next few days, you’ll get a package in the mail. I’d appreciate you keeping it somewhere safe.”

  “Will do.”

  “That alibi we discussed? Looks like I'm going to need it.”

  “Fuck. I’ll let Mad Dog and Roach know.”

  Chase lightly touched the tips of his fingers to the bruise on his temple. “One more thing. You and I were drinking last night and we got into a physical altercation. When I went down, I banged my left temple on a rock.”

  “I remember the incident well.”

  A second patrol car turned a corner, joining the first. As both their lights started flashing, Travis asked, “Where are you now?”

  “San Fernando Valley, about to be arrested.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Feeling awkward and conspicuous, Larissa followed Detective Fahey through the police station, trying to ignore all the curious glances cast her way. Her left eye and lower lip felt enormous. Her feet squished in her shoes, her yoga pants were still damp around the crotch, waist, and hem, and she didn’t even try to imagine how bad she must look.

  Ramos was already there. “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “Much, thank you.”

  Fahey invited her to take the seat across from his own desk. A flat-screen monitor idled between them, a stack of files piled high beside it. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Suddenly aware of the hollow ache in her stomach, she nodded.

  Ten minutes later, a uniformed officer delivered a paper bag full of fast food. Fahey and Ramos gobbled their burgers between phone calls and filling out paperwork. Despite her hunger, Larissa barely managed to choke hers down. Encountering food for the first time since last night, her stomach grumbled in protest.

  She didn’t see how the two detectives could get anything done with all the confusion and noise. People constantly moved about the large room, talking, swearing, occasionally shouting, the fax machine and photocopier hummed almost without pause, and the telephones rang incessantly.

  The Novocain was starting to wear off and her sutured lip was beginning to smart like hell. Despite the pain pills, her eye started to throb dully as a growing multitude of various other aches and pains competed for attention. As soon as she got home, she was going to take a long, hot bath, crawl into bed, and not emerge for days.

  The two detectives didn’t seem to be paying her much attention, which seemed strange. Although they’d already questioned her at the crime scene, shouldn’t they now be taking her formal statement? When Fahey received a phone call, he abruptly left to attend to who-knew-what.

  “Detective Ramos, would it be possible for me to make a long-distance call?”

  “Sure. Dial nine to get an outside line.”

  Brendon answered his cell phone on the third ring, and she almost broke down at the sound of his “Hello?”

  “Brendon, it’s Larissa.”

  “Oh my god! Honey, where the hell are you? We’ve been worried half to death. Are you all right?” The poor guy sounded on the verge of tears. He was obviously at the salon, for she could hear her coworkers in the background, shouting questions.

  “I’m fine. I’m at a police station in California.”

  “California?”

  She glanced up as Fahey strode back through the door, accompanied by two people. Dressed in a dark gray pantsuit, the woman was only a few years older than Larissa. Raven-black hair shorn mannishly short framed an exotic face whose dusky complexion proclaimed an East-Indian heritage.

  The middle-aged man’s skin gleamed the undiluted blue-black of his African ancestors. He towered over Detective Fahey and, although his waist was trim, an impeccable navy suit strained over massive shoulders and biceps. When his dark gaze locked onto hers, her gut instinctively tightened. Returning her attention to Brendon, she said into the phone, “Sparrow had me kidnapped and brought here.”

  “I knew it! I hope they fry that son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Brian Sparrow’s dead. I killed him.”

  After a moment’s strained silence, he said, “Well, good for you. Honey, are you’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Just a bit shaken up.” What a freaking understatement.

  With a feeling of impending doom, she watched the two newcomers accompany Detective Fahey across the squad room toward her. Fighting down the nausea that threatened to relieve her of the hamburger she’d eaten, she took a deep breath and said into the phone, “Brendon, I have to go now. Will you let everyone know I’m all right?”

  “I will,” he promised, clearly reluctant to hang up. “Call me back when you can talk.”

  As she set the receiver back into its cradle, Detective Fahey made the introductions. “Ms. Santos, this is Special Agent Sengupta, and Special Agent Jarvis. Since your abductor transported you across multiple state lines, the FBI is assuming jurisdiction over the investigation.

  * * * * *

  Larissa sat stiffly in the rear seat of the big, black SUV, trying to ignore the icy, centipedal feet of fear prickling up and down her spine. As Agent Jarvis skillfully maneuvered the vehicle through the heavy traffic, she leaned back against the leather seat and closed her eyes, feigning sleep in an attempt to forestall their questions.

  After nearly an hour’s drive, they arrived at the concrete high-rise that constituted the Los Angeles Federal Building. Flanked by the two agents, she limped through the bustling lobby.

  The elevator disgorged them on a grey-linoleum-tiled corridor stretching the length of the building. In stark contrast to the police station, the floor of Federal Building commanded by the FBI breathed officialdom. From behind closed doors set at regular intervals, only an occasional muted voice or ringing phone relieved the near-silence.

  Once they were ensconced in an interview room, Agent Sengupta took multiple photos, the camera’s flash stabbing Larissa’s ey
es like a knife. Her injuries now documented, Agent Jarvis invited her to take a chair, and seated himself opposite from her. “Before we begin, is there anything we can get you? Water? Coffee? Something to eat?”

  Larissa unstuck her throat enough to manage a “No, thank you.” With a rapidly increasing sense of trepidation, she watched as Sengupta fiddled with a small video camera perched atop a long-legged tripod.

  “We’re going to record your deposition,” Jarvis explained. Once Sengupta had taken a seat next to Jarvis, he stated his name and the date and then Sengupta followed suit. To Larissa, he said, “State your full name for the camera, please.” Once she’d done so, he said, “First of all, please allow me to express our regret for all that you’ve been through. Now, if you’d please give us the details of everything that happened.”

  “Where shall I start?”

  “At the beginning.”

  Jarvis’ reassuring demeanor emanated such strength and comfort that she’d have to be cautious not to inadvertently drop her guard. Silently cursing the tremor in her voice, she began. “Two years ago, I woke up to an intruder in my bedroom…”

  The two agents let her tell her story, listening intently and interrupting only occasionally to clarify something. Adhering mostly to the truth while recounting her days of captivity, she omitted perforce only the incident with the state trooper, the seduction of her kidnapper and the subsequent flight through the woods, and this morning’s incident with the gang-bangers.

  Her kidnapper.

  Why hadn’t she asked his name before they’d parted? And if she had, would he have told her?

  When she arrived at the point where he’d delivered her to Sparrow and began recounting the fabricated version of events, a glacial shroud seemed to envelope her. She was lying to federal agents — agents who were merely trying to help her. Blinking back the tears that threatened, she continued to the point where the police had arrived at the estate.

  Jarvis said, “Tell us everything you remember about your abductor. Spare no detail, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem to you.” After she repeated the description she’d given to Detective Fahey, both agents began to question her, interminably going over what she’d already told them.

  Upon a discreet tap, a young male agent with the long pointy nose, weak chin, and protruding ears of a rat opened the door. Directing a meaningful glance at Jarvis and Sengupta, he jerked his head toward the hallway.

  The door closed behind the agents with a depressingly solid thud. Despite her fatigue, nervousness rose through her like fog seeping from the ground. Now what? Painfully aware of the video camera still recording, she tried concentrated on not fidgeting.

  After an interminable amount of time, the two agents rejoined her. Jarvis’ previously sympathetic eyes now regarded her with undue interest and speculation. “After you shot Sparrow, how much time elapsed before you called the police?”

  Ah, crap. It should have occurred to her that the medical examiner would pinpoint the time of Sparrow’s death. “I’m not sure,” she said hesitantly. “I may have fainted. I shot him and, the next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor.”

  Jarvis’ expression was unreadable. “You never mentioned that fact before.”

  “I’d forgotten it until just now.”

  “Anything else you’ve forgotten to mention?” Sengupta demanded.

  Uncertainty sluiced through her like ice water. The agents evidently knew something — something she herself was missing. But what? “I don’t think so.”

  Sengupta now radiated hostility. “There’s no incident you’ve neglected to mention?”

  Incident? What incident? She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. “No.”

  As the agents stared at her, she forced herself to gaze resolutely back at them. A leaden, protracted silence descended over the table like a dark, heavy cloud. Aware that this was a technique used by law enforcement to provoke suspects into filling the silence with nervous chatter — chatter that often served to incriminate them — Larissa obstinately clamped her mouth shut.

  When it became obvious she wasn’t going to oblige them with an outpouring of anxious verbosity, Jarvis said, “The Charleston police have verified your story about what happened there two years ago.” When she maintained her stubborn silence, he added, “You’ll be happy to know there’s an APB out on your abductor’s vehicle.”

  Her heart skipped a beat as adrenaline spiked into her system. She croaked, “I nev—” Clearing her throat, she started again. “I never saw the exterior of his van, so how could you put an APB on it?”

  “We got the description from the young men your abductor assaulted.”

  The thugs had gone to the police? That was a possibility she’d never considered. Willing her face to stay impassive, she prayed the two agents couldn’t hear the hammering of her heart. “What young men?”

  “You really expect us to believe you don’t know?” snapped Sengupta.

  Larissa shook her head as a chill worked its way assiduously up her spine to curl at the base of her neck. She drummed her fingers on the table, caught Jarvis starring at the nervous motion, and withdrew the hand to rest it in her lap.

  Sengupta leveled the black pupils of those canny eyes upon her like twin gun barrels. “The young men who attempted to rescue you this morning.”

  “Now you’ve lost me. There was no rescue attempt.”

  Sengupta leaned across the table toward her. “So you’re telling us that another woman who, coincidentally, perfectly fits your description, was tied up and gagged in the back of a panel truck at around the same time you were? What a remarkable concurrence of events.”

  Larissa gazed back with an assurance she was far from feeling. “Don’t you think if something like that had happened, I would’ve mentioned it?”

  “Why would they invent such a story?”

  “How would I know? Trying to portray themselves as heroes? Attempting to divert attention from something else? Whatever the reason, they’re lying.”

  Sengupta snapped, “The only one lying is you, so cut the bullshit.”

  Having apparently forgotten that she’d spent the afternoon in a terrifying struggle for survival, Sengupta was sadly deluding herself if she thought she could bully her into a confession. Deliberately shifting her worry to defiance, Larissa arranged her mouth into her best imitation of a mocking smirk. “You know, Agent Sengupta, you’d really be much more effective coming off as sympathetic and commiserating. Agent Jarvis should be playing the role of ‘bad cop’ since he, at least, has the physical size to come off as threatening. Plus, after all that’s happened to me in the past few days, I’m probably feeling vulnerable and intimidated by men in general. Despite the tough-guy act and the butch haircut — which, by the way, would be more effective gelled up into punky spikes — you’re simply too girly to be believable. I seriously doubt you could intimidate a grade-schooler out of his lunch money.”

  Larissa forced herself not to flinch when the woman lunged out of her seat. Jarvis barked, “Sengupta!” halting the agent’s progress halfway across the table. Sengupta reluctantly retook her seat, dark eyes molten.

  A sharp knock broke the gravid silence, and the door opened. The same rodentine agent as before appeared framed in the doorway, his eyes lingering inquisitively upon Sengupta before settling on Jarvis. “The police located a panel truck matching the description of the one your suspect was driving,” he announced, eradicating Larissa’s momentary smug complacency. “They have the driver in custody.”

  Jarvis’ dark face lit up. “Assemble some men for the line-up.”

  Panic thudded in Larissa’s chest and pinched off her breath. “How am I going to pick him out of a line-up when I never saw his face?”

  “You may not have seen his face, but you’ll be able to recognize his body, his walk, his voice.”

  The prescription inhaler she’d gotten at the hospital was in the garbage bag resting at her feet. Sh
e rummaged through the dirty clothes until she found it, and sucked in a lungful of mist. Apparently misunderstanding her apprehension, Jarvis added, “Don’t worry, he’ll be behind one-way glass. He won’t be able to see you.”

  * * * * *

  Larissa had to wait nearly an hour while they brought in their suspect and assembled enough men to fill out the line-up. She was cold again, and had to expend a conscious effort to keep from shivering. Forcing her shoulders back and her head high, she followed the two agents down the corridor, feeling as though they were leading her to the gallows.

  Please don’t let it be him.

  They led her into a small room with a curtained window. Her heart hammered with such force that her chest ached dully with each beat.

  “Are you ready?” Jarvis asked. At her nod, he added, “Remember, he cannot see you.”

  He drew back the curtains and there her kidnapper stood as if he had not a care in the world. The placard hanging on his chest proclaimed him number three of six, but she barely registered the other five men.

  He’d changed out of the gray tee shirt and jeans he’d been wearing earlier, and into a black tee and khakis but, even if he’d been wearing a clown suit, she would have recognized his tall, imposing frame immediately. He was a ruggedly handsome but dangerous-looking man, his face all sharp angles and planes. A silvery scar slashed across one cheekbone, heavy five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, and a large, mottled bruise discolored his temple.

  The bruise surprised her for a moment, until she remembered bashing him with the rock. Had it really been only last night? It seemed ages ago. Although it must have hurt like hell, he’d never uttered one word of complaint.

  She stared at him, committing his face to memory until she realized the two agents were gazing expectantly at her. Tearing her attention from him, she pretended to study the five other men in the line-up.

  While nausea coiled in her stomach like a venomous serpent, she watched as, one by one, the six men stepped forward to say, “Do exactly as you’re told and I won’t hurt you.” Each then turned to walk back and forth across the room, before returning to his place in line.