That simple look, even more than the growing circumstantial evidence, convinced Winter he was right; that it was Gigi who had been assaulted. Not by Jason Ayers, or Gus Woodson, or some stranger, but by Lenny Gruse. Even in her defiance, Winter suspected he could pry the truth from Gigi right now. It was one thing to protect her sister, it was another to deny she had been raped.
But Winter couldn’t do it. Rape was the most heinous act in all the heinous acts, a violation as evil as murder. Winter knew exactly what he would have done if Gruse had raped his sister or his daughter, Winter would have killed him without hesitation.
This wasn’t the way to talk to a victim about being raped, throwing it in her face to get her to give up the sister who had protected her.
Winter pulled Ryder aside, his voice low. “We can’t waste any more time on her. Are you convinced?”
“Enough for now.”
“Melanie has Gigi’s passport, but the Toronto flight reservation might be a smokescreen.”
“You think she’s going to fly someplace else?”
“Or make us believe she is. She could drive, but might not want to take the risk we’d spot her car. That leaves the bus and the train.”
“I’ll get uniforms to the stations.”
“You should get to the airport, just in case. I’ll take the train station. Get O’Dowd to the bus station. Get dispatch on the uniforms, Logan can handle the rigmarole with security at the airport.”
Ryder jerked his head toward Gigi. “What about her?”
“Get a uniform, no, a detective in an unmarked car, to meet you at the airport and hand her over. Take her phone.” Winter glanced over at Gigi, she was putting on a good front, but whatever courage she’d drawn on was leaking out her pores. “Go easy on her.”
Ryder seemed about to object. Winter shook his head, adamant. Ryder said, “Okay.”
Winter remembered the pasty photo of Gigi on the passport. “Melanie might not look herself. We need to get them a photo of Gigi too.”
“No problem,” said Ryder. He pulled out his phone and in one smooth motion snapped a photo of Gigi.
Winter was halfway out the door when Ryder said, “You got to get a smart phone.”
Melanie wandered over to the newsstand at the train station, picked up a few magazines. She gave the prepaid cell phones a glance, better not buy one here. Melanie missed her phone. She’d smashed it after leaving Gigi’s, tossing it in the trashcan of a drive through McDonalds. She didn’t want to go through all this trouble only to have the cops track her phone.
So no way to see if she was in the news. The cops might not have anything about Lenny; it could still be all about the Jason story, or even about Gus Woodson. Still better to get away. She could explain everything, the trip, even the passport—she’d say she picked up the wrong luggage at Gigi’s.
Gigi would back her up. The worst that could happen was that the cops would find out the truth about the assault. But as far as Melanie knew, she was the only person who knew that Lenny had assaulted Gigi. Loser as he was, she couldn’t see Lenny bragging about that.
So they had nothing.
At times like this, Winter was doubly glad for his bolt on turbo. He hit the siren, ran five straight lights, and was on the bypass road in six minutes. He trusted Ryder would mobilize the troops, but didn’t trust that a uniform, even with photos, would spot Melanie, the woman a chameleon.
Winter got it up to ninety for a minute or two, had to jam on the brakes for a jerk in the left lane going the speed limit, and pushed it again once past. Not weaving through traffic, just bearing down on anyone in the left lane, flicking his high beams.
He screeched off the bypass at Union, six blocks to the train tracks, although he was still three miles from the station, tucked away in the oldest part of the city, far from the highway.
His phone rang. He’d finally learned to answer with one hand. Without looking at the screen he yelled, “What?”
“It’s Cindy. Ryder said you are on the way to the train station. The next train is in four minutes.”
“Where to?”
“A local to Springfield.”
Melanie wouldn’t take a train to Springfield, it wasn’t far enough away. “What’s after that?”
“Albany in ten minutes. That one goes to Canada. A local to Boston, also in ten minutes. Then an express to Chicago, the Lake Shore Limited, although it does stop along the way. That’s in—twelve minutes now. Boston in fifteen minutes, an express. One more after that this hour, to New York. Eighteen minutes.”
Winter tossed the phone on the seat, both hands back on the wheel, too much traffic. Not much time if Melanie was getting on one of those trains.
If she was even at the station.
The departure screen blinked, updating the schedule. Melanie’s train to New York would leave in less than fifteen minutes. She’d skimmed one magazine, on her way to boredom, she thought running from the cops would be more fun.
Maybe it was because she couldn’t see them, they might not even be coming. Well, she could pretend. It was another role, and she was very good at roles. And if the cops were on the way. . .
She clumsily jogged in the skirt over to the ticket counter. Three customers were in line in front of her, an older black woman and a middle aged couple. The man was going on about how he got tickets to some baseball game, the woman fumbling in her purse.
Melanie tapped the man on the shoulder. When he turned she exuded fretfulness. “Excuse me, I don’t know how to read these schedules,” she said, waving her brochure. “Can you tell me the next train to Boston?”
The man looked at Melanie, at the schedule in her hand, and up at the monitor. “It leaves in less than five minutes.”
“Oh, no,” wailed Melanie. “I’ve got to get on that train, my grandmother is sick . . .”
The woman looked up, empathetic. “You can go in front of us, dear.”
“Thank you so much,” said Melanie, giving her a brief smile, but not too much. She was, after all, anxious about her sick grandmother.
The black woman was just finishing up. Melanie jittered from one foot to the next in front of the window. “One ticket to Boston.”
“You’ll have to run, the local is one minute out, six minutes for the express.”
Melanie shoved two twenties at him. “I’m fast.”
The clerk, to his credit, made her change quickly.
Melanie spun her roller bag toward the tracks. Behind her, the woman in the line said, “Good luck!”
Melanie yelled, “Thanks!” Smiling. This was more fun. She still had it.
Winter ran into the station, no uniforms in sight, no Melanie. He peered up at the monitors, trying to match the schedule to what Cindy had told him. The Springfield local had departed. The Albany and Boston local trains were boarding. The Chicago train was delayed. The next two were scheduled to leave in less than ten minutes, so they must be almost to the station. The Albany train was on track one, the Boston local on six, New York on nine, the Boston express on ten.
Winter ran toward the archway leading to the tracks. Track one was to the left, track ten to the right. He’d never be able to cover both ends. He was less worried about Melanie still being in the station, he could circle back. But if she got on the train, he’d have to call Springfield, Albany, god knows how many other stations, explain the situation, convince them to send cops to cover the stations to look for—a person of interest. Not an escaped prisoner, or a felon. Person of interest wasn’t even a legal term.
Melanie could get off the train anywhere and be gone. With her acting skills, Winter doubted she’d be very easy to find. And even she was, then what? He might not even have probable cause for an arrest.
He changed direction, his soft shoes squeaking on the old tile. There was a long line at the ticket counter. Winter cut in front, flashing his badge. “I need to know if a woman,” he fumbled with the tablet, pulled up Melanie’s photo, “recently bought a ticket.”
The clerk looked at the tablet through the scratched plexiglass. “I don’t think so.”
Winter suspected Ryder or Cindy might have sent him the Gigi photo, but he didn’t know how to access it. “She might have looked different. A little—conservative. Mousy.”
“A young woman just bought a ticket to Boston. Big hurry. Track six.”
Melanie settled back in the seat, it was more comfortable than she had expected. Maybe she needed to travel by train more often. She’d taken off the uncomfortable jacket, and in deference to Gigi, had laid it out carefully on top of her luggage, which she’d hoisted onto the overhead rack.
The car was about half full already, passengers working their way down the aisle. The first time Melanie had been to New York, for an audition years ago, she’d played a game, trying to use nothing but her eyes and her body language to pick the passenger who would sit in the empty seat next to her. Not that one, not that one, he’s good looking, him. She’d been successful in both directions, to and from New York.
She was much better actress now. She’d want a seatmate, in case the cops were looking for a single woman. She wanted to be in such deep conversation with some man any conductor would think they were lovers.
Winter was wrong, she was going to Boston. If the ticket buyer had been Melanie. He took the stairs to the train level two at a time.
The conductor was leaning out of the door of the end car on track six. “You have to hurry.”
“I’m a cop,” said Winter, holding up his badge. “Can you hold the train?”
“Trouble?”
“Just need to see if someone is on board.”
“I can give you a minute, two tops, otherwise you’d better have paperwork, or something.”
“I’ll run through the cars,” said Winter.
“Anything I can do?”
“Just keep an eye out for a young woman getting off.”
Winter sprinted to the front car, worked his way back quickly. On the next track the Albany train pulled out, Winter praying Melanie wasn’t on it. The Boston train was almost full, but definitely no Melanie.
He got off, waved to the conductor, and stood there on the platform as the force of flushed air from the train blew musty dirt in his face. The next two tracks were empty. Beyond that a gleaming seven car train, New York, if he remembered right. Winter couldn’t see past it, but the Boston express train would be beyond that, which would be leaving next.
Passengers were hurrying onto the New York train, Winter trying to sort them out. A few women alone, none looked like Melanie. Or Melanie pretending she was Gigi.
He started up the steps so he could get to the other tracks just as he heard “All aboard! Boston express!” That would be track ten. The announcement jerked Winter’s head around. There wasn’t time to go back upstairs.
He jumped down onto the track area, gingerly stepped over the rails, not sure what was electrified, and pulled himself up the other side. Did the same at the next track, his shoes squelching in the grease and muck.
To reach track ten Winter had to get through the New York train or go up and over. A slight rumble in the platform told Winter he wasn’t going to make it in time. Winter caught a glimpse of the passengers in the New York cars looking out at him, their attention drawn by the hubbub, surprised.
Except for one woman, who didn’t seem surprised at all.
Winter plopped down in the seat next to Melanie just as the train started to move. “Buying the Boston ticket, that was pretty slick,” he said.
Melanie took in his greasy pants and dirty hands. “Christ, you’re a mess.” She reached down for her bag, Winter tensing, ready, but all Melanie came out with was a plastic bottle of sanitizer. “I have some makeup remover up top, it will take out the grease, an old trick I learned as a waitress. This will help a little.”
Winter cleaned up his hands as best he could, catching his breath, the train rolling along now. “Thanks.”
“I always thought you’d be trouble. All that bullshit while putting in my air conditioner. The other one, Ryder? He never would have found me.” Melanie looked out the window. Quietly, she asked, “Is Gigi all right?”
“She’s fine. We had to take her in, so she wouldn’t call you. But no handcuffs. We didn’t make a scene, she was in an unmarked car. She’s not under arrest.”
Melanie took off her glasses, Winter glimpsing the real Melanie. “Thanks for that,” she said, sounding sincere. “She—she didn’t do anything.”
For some reason Winter believed her. Not because of her words, but because of what he had seen in Gigi. “I know. She should have come to us.”
Melanie’s eyes flared. “And what would you have done? This isn’t the first time with her. Even with the 911 call, nothing was going to be taken care of.”
“You didn’t help matters, making us look at Jason Ayers.”
“Do you have a sister?”
“I do.”
“What would you have done?”
“That’s not the point.”
Melanie’s anger didn’t seem to be an act. “Fuck you. You’re telling me you would have handled it. So it’s okay for you to do it, but not me. Fucking men.”
“You don’t know me,” said Winter, knowing how lame that sounded. She’d seen right through him. “So it was all for Gigi? Just for her?” It was a cheap shot, but she’d hit him harder than she could possibly know.
Melanie leaned back in the seat, her eyes closed. The train swayed rhythmically. “I don’t know. I really don’t, and that’s the truth. I wish I could say it was, but I’m not Gigi, I’m not that good of a person.”
Neither am I, thought Winter. He looked past her out the window, the train picking up speed, the landscape a blur, it could be anything out there. He needed clarity. “I have to know one thing. Are you sure it was Gruse?”
Melanie opened her eyes, looked at Winter, calculating. “One hundred percent.”
Winter nodded, doing his own calculations.
“What now?” asked Melanie.
“Ryder builds a case,” said Winter. “Look for your DNA in Gruse’s car. Get witnesses who saw you arguing. Find Gruse’s DNA at Gigi’s.”
“Ryder. Not you.”
Winter couldn’t hold her eye. “The police.”
“Sounds pretty weak. I could have been in Lenny’s car anytime. Or rubbed up against him in the club.”
“Unless you confess,” said Winter.
“Why?”
“Because—.” There was only one reason why she might. “We could make it ugly for Gigi. Does she have an alibi for the night Gruse was killed?”
“You wouldn’t.” Melanie’s voice turned as hard as the rails. “You can’t.”
Winter wasn’t sure he could either. Ryder wouldn’t hesitate for a second. “I told you, it’s not about what I’d do.”
“Lenny Gruse was a slimy excuse for a human being,” hissed Melanie, her voice filled with venom. “He attacked my sister, one of the nicest people in the world. If it comes to that, I’ll make sure any jury knows what he did, and how he and you cops ruined her life. How you spent more time going after the victim than the man who assaulted her. I’ll tell them he came after me too, that I was just protecting myself, it was self defense.”
“That’s not the truth,” said Winter.
Melanie’s features shifted, a magic transformation. Gone was any vestigial hint of the vixen, the sultry seductress. Her shoulders stooped, her lip trembled, the seat seemed to be swallowing her up. Winter had to resist the urge to put his arm around her, this wounded little girl.
As quickly as the change had come about it was gone. Still the flattened hair, the pasty skin, the boxy clothes. But the Melanie gleam flashed a confident challenge. “Who do you think the jury is going to believe?”
CHAPTER 43
Brooker had listened without interrupting, the story had taken longer than Winter expected. It was because they were no longer working together every day; all the
details had to be filled in, even the wrong turns he had taken, the dead ends.
“You let her go,” said Brooker. It wasn’t a question.
“Ah, you know why. What was I going to do?” Winter paused. “Once I heard about the roofies and the stalker attack in California—Gruse must have done this before. And Melanie, she knew it was Gruse. You know what I would have done if I’d been in her shoes.”
Brooker stared at Winter, nodded once. “Is Ryder going to squeeze the sister?”
“I don’t think so. He’s still pissed I was right, that there was a connection between the assault and Gruse. He’ll just be rubbing it in on himself. And he knows we really have no proof of anything, even if Gigi admits she was the one who was assaulted. If she doesn’t, we don’t even have a reason to look for Gruse’s DNA in her apartment.”
“It doesn’t sound like Melanie’s the type to go into hiding. Easy to find her if you need to.”
“Yeah,” said Winter. “She’ll probably be on a television show in a month.”
Brooker’s nurse, the attractive ebony skinned woman, glided into the room, a mug of coffee for both of them. Winter picked his up, took a taste to be polite. The coffee was black, no sugar. She’d remembered.
He’d forgot her name again. Embarrassed, he said, “Thanks.”
She gave him a little smile, puffed up Brooker’s pillows, and slipped out, leaving a subtle hint of jasmine in her wake.
“Still have your nurse,” said Winter, his voice flat.
Brooker was staring at the door, then he turned back to Winter. “Maybe more than that.”
“As long as she gets you better.”
Brooker leaned forward, lowered his voice. “No matter what happens, I won’t tell her.”
Winter thought about Gigi, having to keep secrets. “Not a good way to live.”
“You got to do what you got to do. Just like we did.” Brooker’s eyes softened, and he took a sip of his coffee. “Fucking decaf.”
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