“Hey,” she said as soon as he answered. “Thought I’d check in before you guys hit the Pig for the big celebration.”
He asked her to hold on a second, and she heard noise in the background, someone speaking to Maddocks. “Sorry about that,” he said as he came back on. “Just tying up some loose ends in the Harris Park case with Crown counsel here. What did you say?”
“Nothing. Just checking in, saying hi.”
“We’re headed to the Pig for happy hour. Want to join us?”
“Not a snowball’s chance will you find me in drinking hell with Leo and those old guys while they sit all smug and gloating about me being fired.” She paused, feeling irked and yes, sidelined, even if it was her own choice not to go. Those old deadwood detectives had tried to block and oust her from the force during her entire career with MVPD, and in the end, in many ways, they’d won. At least, that’s how Leo and some of the others saw it. Angie couldn’t help saying the words that came next. “You know better than to ask me that.”
“Sorry, Ange. I . . . the only reason I’m going myself is—”
“I know, I know. Your team. Your case. The arrest and charges are your big win. You need to do this. I’m going to catch some Netflix and an early night.”
“How’d the job hunt go today?”
Her mood dipped even further. Once again he was asking about her daily slog to find work. Once again, she had little to report.
“I’m considering that close-protection detail,” she said, stopping at a red light, wipers going.
“That involves months of travel at a time.”
“Yeah.” The light turned green, and she moved forward. “But it might be good to get out of town now and then.”
He was quiet a moment. When he spoke again, the shift in his tone was clear. “It’ll mean putting the wedding plans and house hunting on hold.”
“Just for a while, maybe. At least it’s work, Maddocks, until something better comes up.”
Silence.
“You there?” she said.
“Yeah, listen, Ange, there has got to be something else. There’s no rush, is there? We can go ahead with our plans, move in together. I have a job. I can—”
“You can what? Support me?”
“Of course.”
Frustration burned hot into her chest. It was her worst nightmare in a way, going from complete independence to tying the knot and depending fully on a partner. It undercut everything she’d been striving for her whole adult life. “I need to work, Maddocks,” she said.
“You don’t.”
“Yes. I do.” She turned down her street near the Gorge. “For so many reasons. On so many levels.”
“Just . . . listen, just don’t rush into anything, okay? Just . . . look awhile longer. And talk to me before you make any big decisions. You’re a damn fine investigator—something will come up. We’ll find a way to make this work. Together.”
“Yeah.”
“What about a late dinner or a drink after?”
“I’m beat. Rain check?”
Another silence. She pulled up at her underground parking garage gate and scanned her access card. The gate began to rise.
“We’re spending even less time together now that we’re engaged,” he said. “I’ve hardly seen you since the fishing trip.”
Now that we’re engaged.
Guilt pinged through Angie. She’d been avoiding him, that much was true. On the few occasions they had gotten together over the past three and a half weeks, things had felt progressively strained. Angie believed Maddocks had also been consciously limiting spending time with her. It was as though both of them feared that the more time they spent together at this juncture in their lives, the more strain they’d put on what was looking like an increasingly fragile relationship. Neither wanted to push things to the point of destruction, so avoidance was safer.
“Yeah, well, you’ve been really busy with the Harris Park case and the new unit.” Which was true. “And I really haven’t got much to report on the job front.” Which was making her feel increasingly worthless and frustrated.
“A partnership isn’t supposed to be about reporting, Ange.”
She inhaled deeply and drove into the garage. “I know. I know.”
“How about tomorrow afternoon, Saturday—you busy?”
“I . . . I’ve got an appointment.”
“On Saturday?”
“Yeah, some woman wanting to talk about possible PI work.”
“She’s hiring?”
“Sorta.” Angie cleared her throat and reversed into her parking bay. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. But if she told Maddocks some woman wanted her to work independently on a cold case, he’d remind her that as attractive as working an investigation might sound right now, there was one major problem. She couldn’t do it legally. Not if she wanted her full license. Not if she wanted to open her own firm someday.
“What about Saturday dinner?” she said.
“You’ve forgotten. I have dinner plans with Flint tomorrow. Then I fly out early Sunday morning. I’m going to be out of town until Monday evening for that law enforcement seminar on the mainland.”
“Oh shit, yes, I did forget. Do . . . d’you want me to take you to the airport on Sunday?” Angie killed the Mini Cooper’s engine and felt an odd, sinking resignation leaching into her belly. She knew what she was doing—what they were both doing—but she couldn’t shift gears and get off this one-way track they seemed to be on now.
Maddocks seemed unable to shift gears, either, because his tone was cool and crisp as he said, “No. I’m sorted for the airport. I’ll call you when I get there.”
The phone clicked.
CHAPTER 10
Maddocks killed his call with Angie, a dark mood settling in his gut as he pushed open the door and entered the newly renovated iMIT section. The unit was buzzing, everyone excited about the arrest of the so-called Harris Park Rapist, a serial sexual offender who’d graduated to murder. Mustering his enthusiasm for his team, Maddocks threw a victory punch into the air. “Crown is charging him on all counts!” Cheers erupted.
“First round of drinks on me at the Pig tonight,” he declared as he made his way through the bullpen of metal desks toward his glassed-in office.
But as he passed Harvey Leo’s desk, the old detective said in a loud stage mutter, “Funny how Pallorino is still managing to undercut the MVPD in the news, though. You’d think she just saved the entire city by discovering that skeleton in the moss by the way those reporters are covering that story. They’re using it to drag up all the old crap about police brutality and how she overkilled the Baptist in a fit of rage and all that. Moves the dialogue completely away from what really matters—the fact we have shut down another serial killer. Without killing him first.”
Maddocks stilled in his tracks. He turned to face the old cop.
Silence fell as the men’s gazes locked. Tension swelled in the room. Rain ticked against the windows. A heating vent made cracking noises, and the smell of the new carpet became noticeable.
“You say something, Detective Leo?”
Leo folded his arms across his large chest and leaned back in his chair behind his desk cluttered with overstuffed files. “I’m just noting what the media is still saying about us city cops. Pallorino continues to taint us all with her brush. Doesn’t help that she’s your significant other, sir, because, respectfully, whatever you do as boss of the iMIT now, she’s hanging there like a negative stone around our collective neck. If she goes crossing paths with cases that belong squarely on law enforcement books, the next thing the newspapers are going to be saying is that she’s getting personal information from the inside. Just noting we gotta keep those personal affiliations separate.”
Pressure torqued rocket-tight in Maddocks’s chest. “You’re right, Leo,” he said very quietly. “Personal feelings—like long-held animosity, jealousy—you need to let it go because it can cloud judgment, make an officer do and say ve
ry stupid things. Things that beg to have him kicked off this unit.” Maddocks faced the crowd in the room.
“Let me make one thing crystal clear. To all of you. Whatever happens in this unit, whatever is discussed in this unit, it stays right here.” He jabbed his index finger onto Leo’s desk, his jaw tight, anger simmering beneath his skin. “Nothing, and I mean nothing, is said to the press or to anyone who is even vaguely affiliated to the media. You don’t talk to your spouses about ongoing investigations; you don’t talk to your girlfriends or boyfriends; you don’t talk to your kids or your grandparents. You talk to no one.” He turned and met the eyes of each and every person in the section.
“That goes for me, too. Do you all understand this? I don’t divulge sensitive information to my partner, and neither do you. If anyone—anyone—has a problem with this or with me or with my relationship with Pallorino, speak up now.”
He waited.
Silence met him. Some members shuffled in their seats. Someone cleared his throat.
“Good. Because we’re all professionals here. We know how to keep work separate. I trust you. You’re going to trust me. And the minute I don’t”—he pointed to the door—“there’s the exit. I’ve got a dozen other highly qualified MVPD members banging on that door to be let in here, to be part of this new and elite team. But Inspector Flint and I picked you. I vouched for every one of you, because I believe you each have what it takes, a unique skill to contribute to major incident investigations. Prove me wrong, I pull you. No warning. No second chance. Understand?”
No one moved.
He turned to the old detective. “Your skill, Leo, given your very long history with the force, is required for a new sub unit I’m initiating. There’s an incident room being set up one door down as we speak. Get out. Go wait for me there.”
Leo’s clear blue eyes flickered. His brow furrowed, confusion showing on his rugged face.
“Move it. Now.”
Leo unfolded his arms, picked up his notebook and pen off the table, came slowly to his feet, and made his way through the desks. All eyes followed him.
“Holgersen,” Maddocks said, jerking his head toward his office. “A word?”
Holgersen followed Maddocks into the glass office. Maddocks shut the door, trying not to look at the framed photo of Angie on his desk. She was running again in considering that bodyguard job. He knew it. She knew it. But he didn’t know what to do about it or even when to stop trying. A quote from an old poster he once had pinned up on his bedroom wall as a kid entered his brain.
If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours . . . That was the part he got stuck on. He wondered if Angie would actually come back to him if she took that job away from home. And whether he should maybe just let it be.
“I’ve got something new for you,” he told Holgersen. “I’m starting a cold case unit. Unsolved homicides and suspicious missing persons incidents. This will be a small subsection under the iMIT umbrella. There’s new money for it, and it’s a direction the new police board wants. There’s also been considerable political pressure for an increase in our closure rates. Reopening some of these old cases and applying new forensic technology, plus using new computerized databases and social media, could go a long way to addressing those rates. You’ll have a dedicated cold case tip line operational within the next few days, along with social media accounts and support staff. And you’ll have access to additional resources and personnel as you need them. You’ll bring your requests to me.” He paused.
Holgersen started shuffling foot to foot, his brown eyes darting around the room like a junkie jonesing for a fix. “How big is this unit—how many on the team?”
“Two detectives. To start. You and Harvey Leo.”
Holgersen’s gaze snapped to Maddocks. “What the fuck—you kidding me?”
Maddocks held his gaze.
“Oh no. No fucking way. I . . . Jeezus, is that why you brought him onto iMIT? To stick him on some lost cause sub unit? We was all wondering what in the hell when you named him. What about me then, huh? What’s your beef with me, boss?” He ferreted into his pocket and pulled out his pack of nicotine gum. He struggled to free a tablet as he started shuffling again.
“This unit has potential, Holgersen. Your goal will be to prioritize the MVPD backlog of unsolved cases and earmark those that have a higher solve rate probability. Like triage. You then focus on those cases with the most potential, get some results we can take to brass. Depending on how you run with it, this sub unit can be your baby. We’re talking career advancement here.”
Holgersen managed to liberate his gum from the packaging. He popped the green tablet into his mouth, began chewing furiously as he shook his head. “Nope. I’s not working solo with Harvey-ass Leo. No way, José.”
Maddocks glanced through the window at his officers behind their desks, and he lowered his voice. “Yes, you are. And I want you to watch Detective Leo,” he said. “Like a hawk.”
Holgersen stilled and met his boss’s eyes. “So . . . what d’ya mean? I’m, like, spying on Harvey Leo? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Just watch him for me. Watch how he handles and prioritizes cases.”
Holgersen frowned. “I don’t follow.”
Maddocks reached for his door. “Let’s go. I’ll get you set up so you can start Monday. Leo is already waiting.” He began to open the door.
But Holgersen balked. “Oh man, Jeezus fuck, boss,” he whispered. “You can’t be serious?”
“Dead serious.”
He cursed again, scuffed his boot, and looked down at the floor as he considered this. “Keeper of lost causes,” he muttered. “Cold cases and fucking Harvey Leo.” Holgersen looked up. “So you gonna tell me what’s the deal with Leo? What exactly am I looking for?”
“If you see it, you’ll know it.”
“You messing with me, sir?”
Maddocks gave a rueful smile. “If I had something to give you, I would. Get my drift?”
Holgersen angled his head. “Fishing expedition? You suspect something but have no proof?”
Maddocks said nothing.
“Is internal behind this? Am I working for internal affairs or some shit without my knowing it? Because—”
“You get weekends, Holgersen, a regular workweek, for the most part.”
“I don’t like weekends.”
“You’ll learn.”
CHAPTER 11
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17
Angie pulled up at the gates in front of the home on Harling Point.
The residence was one of those clean-lined, modern affairs with lots of glass and spiked plants posing as rather hostile-looking landscaping. The early twilight added to the bleak and brooding atmosphere. Intrigue rustled through her as she powered down her window and reached for an intercom button set into one of the stone pillars flanking the gates.
Finding Internet references to Jilly Monaghan had been child’s play—Angie had realized almost immediately why the woman’s name had seemed familiar. She was a retired justice of the BC Supreme Court, and plenty had been written about her.
Justice Monaghan had been notoriously brazen and outspoken throughout her long career. A media scandal had erupted when Justice Monaghan had been brought before the federal Canadian Judicial Council for misconduct after “mistakenly” referring to a complainant as “the accused” several times during a domestic assault trial. Justice Monaghan had also asked the complainant in court why the complainant hadn’t left her husband after she’d realized she was pregnant by him, especially given her husband’s history of her violence toward her. This had sparked speculation that the old justice might be suffering from age-related mental deterioration. But before any action became necessary, Justice Monaghan retired on her seventy-fifth birthday.
Angie depressed the button on the intercom.
“Who is it?” came a female voice.
“Angie Pallorino to see Justice Monaghan.”
&
nbsp; The gates began to slide open. Angie closed her window and drove slowly through the entrance. The gates shut automatically behind her. She parked outside the front door. A stout gray-haired woman opened the door.
Angie exited her car and ducked through the rain.
“I’m Gudrun Reimer,” the woman said, holding out her hand as Angie approached. “I’m Justice Monaghan’s housekeeper.”
Angie was shocked by the power in the older woman’s grip. Rough, dry hands. Brutally short nails—no polish. Her accent was German.
“You’re early,” Gudrun stated.
“By four minutes,” Angie said, consulting her watch.
“The judge will be back in four minutes. She’s punctual if anything. She’s presently taking her constitutional down along the beach. Tide is low right now. Come on through. You can await her on the deck out front if you like or in the living room. If you do want to go outside, leave your shoes and coat on.”
Yes, ma’am, sir.
Angie followed Gudrun from the mudroom into an open-plan and starkly bright home. White walls and cream furnishings were punctuated with dark leather pieces and splashes of violent color in the modern art adorning the walls. Glass ran the length of the building facing the sea. Angie imagined the view across the Juan de Fuca Strait to the snow-capped Olympic Peninsula of Washington State must be spectacular in clear weather.
Gudrun opened the glass slider. Angie stepped onto the deck and went to the railing. The home had been built in three levels. The top deck on which she stood looked down over another deck that housed an infinity pool.
“There she comes now,” Gudrun said from inside the doorway.
Angie looked to where the housekeeper pointed. Far below on the beach, a squat figure bent her head into the wind and rain as she pulled herself forward with walking sticks, a brown coat flapping behind her. The figure reminded Angie of a dung beetle soldiering determinedly forward under a low bruised sky. The old judge was clearly fighting both age and weather in her passage home.
The image of this lone old female figure in the storm against the backdrop of gray ocean tugged at something in Angie. The justice had to be in her early eighties by now. She reached the stairs at the bottom of the property, and Angie faced Gudrun. “That’s a lot of stairs. Doesn’t she need help?”
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