by Karis Walsh
Billie finally reached a dilapidated three-story apartment building with a tarpaper covered roof. The landlord had been promising to shingle it properly for six months, and Billie doubted it would get done until the leaks got too bad to ignore. She climbed the stairs two at a time, bypassing her own floor and going directly to the third.
When Merissa had been rhapsodizing about the beautiful new high-rise condos she wanted to build as an urban renewal project, Billie hadn’t bothered to mention that she herself would be homeless if it happened. Merissa hadn’t seemed to realize how many tenants would be evicted if their affordable—meaning dirt-cheap—housing was demolished. Billie was certain Merissa never would have even considered whether Billie would be one of them.
Billie strode down the hall and banged on the door of apartment 3F. She heard shuffling inside, and shoved open the unlocked door before anyone on the other side could throw the bolt and bar her entrance. Four men and two women were scattered on the sofa and around the small dining room table. Two of them reached toward concealed guns, but once they recognized Billie their hands stopped and remained in plain sight.
“Yo, Mitchell, you scared the shit out of me,” Carlyle said. He dropped onto the ugly suede recliner and grabbed his chest. “About gave me a heart attack.”
The other five were about to settle into seats again, but Billie pointed at the door.
“Out,” she ordered. Carlyle was about to join them as they filed out, but she stepped in front of him. “You stay. We need to talk.”
“Uh-oh. You breaking up with me, Billie darling?” He tried to slip into their usual banter. Billie wasn’t going there. She had a jump on the other cops—it would take them time to track the beat-up old car to Carlyle since she was sure it didn’t have a legitimate registration or insurance card handily sitting in the glove compartment. But they’d find him soon enough. She might have a few hours, or they might get lucky and she’d only have minutes. Either way, she wanted to get out of here before anyone from the department showed up.
“Where were you last night?” she asked. “Between five and seven.”
Her seriousness had seeped in at last and Carlyle sat down again with a thump. His suddenly pale face made his slicked-back hair and thin mustache stand out darkly. “I was with Lois, all night. I swear, Billie. Go ahead and ask her, just make sure you do it when her boyfriend isn’t around or she’ll have to cover her ass. We went to McGinty’s for a drink and then back to her place. What’s going on?”
Billie frowned. He looked like he was telling the truth, but she couldn’t be sure. He was a practiced liar and had spent more than a few months behind bars during the five years she’d known him. They were friends in a way, joking when they passed in the hall and sharing a beer now and then, but she couldn’t afford to trust him completely. A man’s life had been taken. Even worse, until Billie knew exactly why Dennis Morgan had been shot there was a chance Merissa was in danger. Billie had just met her, wasn’t even sure she liked her all that much, but she felt a fierce desire to protect her rise inside.
“Are you in trouble, Carlyle? You’d better tell me now, while I can still help you. If you don’t, you’re on your own.”
“Help me with what? I didn’t do anything, Billie, you gotta believe me.” He stood up and shoved his phone toward her. “Call Lois right now. Hang up if a man answers, but call her now and she’ll tell you where I was. I didn’t do whatever it is you think I did.”
Billie pushed the phone away. The detectives would eventually follow this same trail and contact Lois. Billie wasn’t going to bother. His alibi was a known prostitute who would deny being with him to protect herself from her violent pimp. Billie had to either accept what he was saying on faith or not. She wasn’t going to have proof until the metaphorical smoking gun was found either in his possession or someone else’s.
“Where was your car last night?” she asked. She felt defeated as her adrenaline seeped away. No matter what Carlyle said or did, he was going to look guilty to every detective and every cop who’d dealt with him on the street. There wasn’t anything she could do.
“A friend borrowed it. Said some other dude needed it for the night, and he owed this guy a favor. It wasn’t back yet when I went out to look this morning. Is it there now?”
Yes. Being dusted for prints as we speak. Billie kept quiet about that part, though. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Percy. We hang at the Fifty-Five sometimes.”
Billie translated his sentence into I often buy drugs from him at the convenience store at 2455 Sixth Avenue. She didn’t bothering asking some other dude ’s name. The car had likely been through a longer chain of occupants than two last night. She tilted her head when she heard footsteps coming down the hall. A lot of them. Damn, they’d found Carlyle fast.
“Gotta go,” she said. She yanked open the door to the small balcony and checked for officers before she went outside.
“Wait,” Carlyle said. He followed her and tugged on her shirt. “Please, Billie. I didn’t do anything,” he said again. “Help me, please.”
She watched his expression shift. He was scared now, but she thought she saw innocence on his face, too. Confusion. She didn’t trust herself enough to read him well—didn’t trust him altogether—but she believed him somewhere down deep. Otherwise she wouldn’t have risked coming here at all. “I’ll try,” she promised. She had no idea how she’d do it, but she’d try.
“Find Percy. He’ll be scarce once he gets wind of this, but he hangs out near the tracks on Ruston. He might hide around there.”
Billie nodded before pulling away from him and swinging her legs over the balcony ledge. She jumped across the five-foot gap between balconies and repeated the process until she reached the one outside the end of the third floor hallway. If any tenants saw her, none raised an alarm. They were accustomed to minding their own business around here, even if someone was using their balcony as a thoroughfare. She pressed against the wall and out of sight in case anyone looked down the hall and out the sliding glass door, and then she carefully eased over the edge and swung forward to drop to the second floor balcony. She jimmied open the locked door and went to her apartment where she sat for fifteen minutes while she listened to the creaks and footfalls coming from upstairs. Then silence. She went over to the window and peered around the curtain as Carlyle was escorted to a waiting squad car.
She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, surprised she didn’t see any residual emotion from the day. She looked as calm and unruffled as she had this morning, but she felt the turmoil inside. She’d do what she promised and check Carlyle’s story. And if she found out he was behind the murder? That he was the one who’d put Merissa’s life in danger and forced her to endure the horror of watching her friend die? She’d lock him away herself and toss the key into Puget Sound.
Chapter Five
Billie wanted nothing more than to climb on Ranger and go cantering through the park until she was worn-out and free of the emotions of the day, but she resolutely pushed open the precinct door and went inside. Abby had assigned her to Merissa, and Billie had to get her charge safely home and settled—away from police stations and interview rooms—before she’d feel she’d accomplished her mission. The memories of trauma, as well as Carlyle’s obvious and warranted fear, clung to Billie like a film of sweat.
As soon as she saw Merissa, though, her own discomfort and tension were pushed aside by the desire to do whatever it took to make Merissa feel better. She was sitting in the same plastic chair Billie had found her in earlier. Billie had only been gone a little over an hour, but Merissa seemed to have imploded since then. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her beautiful dark blond hair was limp. She sat with her eyes closed. After a night of being questioned and told what to do and where to go, she had an air of passivity around her. Billie was fairly sure this wasn’t Merissa’s regular state of being. She’d only talked to Meris
sa for a short time today, but she had seen stubbornness and passion in her. Now, exhaustion had kicked in, and she was merely waiting for her next instructions.
Billie felt different, too, but she was confident no one would notice. Her heart still felt wobbly after sneaking down the alley and into Carlyle’s apartment. The action itself was nothing new to her and was part of her routine work as a cop. Today had felt nothing like a routine, though. She was still operating under the effects of nightmares and beyond the scope of her legitimate job. And Merissa…Billie had expected to be shaken by spending a morning with a crime victim, but Merissa had spread tendrils more deeply into Billie than had been anticipated. Frightening, arousing, electrifying tendrils.
Billie looked away from Merissa with an effort, and checked with the detective to make sure Merissa was free to go home. She walked quietly over to her chair, determined to hold herself together for another hour.
“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked.
“More than anything.” Merissa remained still for another moment before she opened her eyes and stood with a groan.
“Do you use these chairs to force confessions out of people?”
“Works every time,” Billie said with a smile. “Are you ready to tell me your darkest secrets?”
Merissa looked directly at her, and Billie saw a flash of what must be her normal demeanor. She briefly imagined meeting her in a bar and exchanging similar banter. She’d be happy to leave with someone like Merissa for a night or two of passion. If they had met as strangers.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Merissa said, stepping a little closer and lowering her voice to a soft breath of a whisper. She seemed to remind herself of the situation she was in, because her eyes widened slightly and she leaned away from Billie.
“Then this should be an interesting car ride,” Billie said, with a short laugh she hoped sounded casual and relaxed. She had just caught a quick glimpse of breezy confidence in Merissa, and then it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. She put her hand on Merissa’s back as they walked outside. The touch was meant for support, but Billie felt the same well of conflicting emotions she had felt in the alley earlier. She felt sorry for Merissa and felt an obligation to take care of her because it was her duty today. She had negative emotions toward her as well. Merissa was pretty and distraught and obviously out of her element in the seedier side of downtown Tacoma, and Billie knew Carlyle—guilty or not—wouldn’t stand a chance if a jury watched Merissa’s tears flow and saw one of her slender and expressive fingers point him out in a courtroom. Billie had even taken a risk by blurring the line between cop and friend—something she rarely did—because of Merissa.
Despite everything flooding through Billie, she wanted to keep her hand on Merissa’s back. Rub away the tension she felt there and let her hand ruffle Merissa’s hair back to life. Instead, she pulled her hand away and opened the car door for Merissa. She was good at helping trauma victims because she let herself get close to them and feel their pain. She had to remind herself where the boundaries were and keep a professional distance from Merissa.
She got in the car, her right arm only inches from Merissa’s. The best way to create space between them was to bring up Merissa’s urban renewal project again. The thought of being homeless ought to be the cold shower Billie needed right now.
“What exactly does Morgan Consulting do?” she asked. She started the car and realized she wasn’t sure where Merissa lived. “And I’m taking you home, but I don’t know where your home is.”
Merissa shrugged. “Sometimes I’m not sure, either. But I live in Gig Harbor.”
What did she mean by her first statement? Merissa was too vulnerable right now, and her inner thoughts—most likely kept private in normal situations—were showing every so often. Billie herself was struggling not to be anything more than a casual shoulder to lean on, so even though she was curious about the hint of resignation in Merissa’s voice, she kept silent as she headed toward the harbor, giving Merissa time to answer her initial question.
“I guess the best definition of what we do is we design urban spaces. We’ll find a run-down neighborhood, or a place where there are lots of foreclosures or vacant buildings, and we’ll draw up a plan for what we’d like to see there. We get quotes from construction companies, and then we get financial backers to invest, buy the property, and pay for the renovations.”
Billie whistled. “You must have some very wealthy clients. How do they make money from this investment?”
Merissa tucked her hair behind her ear. She kept staring forward while they talked, not looking in Billie’s direction. Billie was glad not to have the full force of Merissa’s blue eyes on her. They held more depth and pain than Billie was ready to see. They threatened to draw her in.
“It depends on the concept. Sometimes the area will support stores and restaurants, sometimes condos or homes. Usually a mix of both. The investors make dividends on the various types of leases or a percentage if the property is sold instead.”
Billie noticed that Merissa winced every time she said we . Billie understood the way certain words and memories chafed against the open wound of loss. “What are your plans for the neighborhood you were circling last night?”
Merissa grew a little more animated as she explained her open courtyard design, and Billie secretly thought her vision was an impressive one. Too bad she wouldn’t be able to afford to live there anymore once her apartment building was replaced by the fancy high-rise condo. She sped up and merged onto Highway 16. “Sounds amazing. And much too pricey for the residents who live downtown now. Where are they supposed to go?”
“We haven’t addressed that so far, although I have some ideas,” Merissa admitted. “Like I said, we often buy buildings that aren’t inhabited, so we aren’t always displacing people. And we’re only able to renovate small chunks of the city at a time. There are still plenty of less expensive living options.”
“I suppose.” Billie wanted to drop the subject but she stubbornly kept picking at it. “Your eventual goal, though, is to remake Tacoma into what you consider to be an ideal city.”
Merissa looked at her then, and her words were full of the passion Billie had sensed in her earlier. “Not just what I think is ideal. What a lot of people would consider to be so. A home where neighbors know each other and take care of each other. Not a series of anonymous, walled-off houses and apartments, but a community.”
Billie thought of Carlyle, of the people she lived next to, protected, and sometimes arrested. They were her extended family, whether they were pillars of society or the opposite. “Just because you venture downtown and drive along the streets with your doors locked and your windows rolled up doesn’t mean the existing community isn’t close-knit and friendly.”
“It didn’t seem that way last night,” Merissa said quietly. There was no censure or accusation in her voice, but Billie felt like she’d been slapped. Merissa had seen the worst of the city last night, and no matter what she planned to build there, she hadn’t deserved to have her friend wrenched away right in front of her. And most likely, Dennis had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and hadn’t deserved his death.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Merissa leaned her head against the back rest and closed her eyes as Billie drove over the westbound span of the Narrows Bridge. The twin suspension bridges crossed high over the strait, connecting Tacoma to the Kitsap Peninsula. Billie wasn’t sure if Merissa was nervous of heights or just tired—or just tired of talking to her. She remained still, without talking, until they reached the end of the bridge. Billie didn’t mind the height at all. She loved the views from the bridge, with the steep cliffs rising on either side and the lush greenness of the Point Defiance Park on one side and the less crowded peninsula on the other. Occasionally, when she crossed here, she would spot a seal bobbing in the water or, more rarely, an orca’s fin cutting through the choppy waves. Her first experience as an infor
mal department crisis counselor had occurred up here, when she’d been dispatched to check into a caller’s report of someone about to jump off the bridge. She’d managed to talk him down before anyone else arrived on the scene. She felt her palms grow sweaty as she thought about what might have happened if she’d been a few minutes later, or if she’d been too afraid to walk onto the bridge.
“Take the next exit,” Merissa said, breaking Billie out of her memories. “You’re right, I guess.”
“About what?” Billie asked with a frown as she tried to recapture the thread of their conversation. She was tired herself, more emotionally than physically, and getting caught in the cycle of what-ifs from past experiences was one of the signs she knew to watch for. If she wasn’t careful, she’d spend the night immersed in nightmares. As soon as she dropped Merissa at her house, she’d get to the barn for some equine therapy. Even an hour spent grooming Ranger should be enough to ease her mind back to the present.
“You were right about me being an outsider in places like the Hilltop. I’ve driven on those streets lots of times, but it was different when I was with you. You knew people. You were joking with those guys, and several others waved at you or called out. Turn right at the light and follow this road around the harbor.” Merissa guided them away from the more commercial and increasingly populated areas of Gig Harbor and down a steep hill toward the older part of town. “What you have in Tacoma because you work there is what I want everyone to be able to experience. It’s what I envision, but for more people.”