by Gregory Ashe
“Kitchen is that way,” Dulac said, pointing her toward the back of the station.
“Make a few pots, Mrs. Maines,” Somers called after her.
She waved and smiled, missing both front teeth, and cradled the carafe against her belly like it was a baby before plunging into the maelstrom.
“What’s so important that you had to drag me in here?”
“Drag your ass out of the snow, you mean?” Dulac rifled papers on his desk. “Drag your ass out of a fistfight that probably would have left you in traction?”
“What the hell? I could take Kelly.”
Dulac made a noise in his throat.
“I could.”
“Look, Somers, a year ago, sure. Five years, ago—ten—definitely.”
Somers folded his arms. “I’m too old? Is that what you’re saying? I’m too old to take an asshole like Kelly.”
“You’ve got experience. Think of it that way. You’re so wise. And you’re lucky, too, that you’ve got a young guy like me around to help with the heavy lifting.”
“I could fucking take Kelly. I could definitely fucking take you.”
Dulac let the papers settle back to the desk. He looked up, his expression so frank and open and endearing, all those freckles and all that creamy skin, that Somers wanted to pound it into the desk. Dulac waited just a little too long and then nodded. “Right. Of course.” Then he cleared his throat. “Sir.”
“Don’t do that, Gray.”
“What?”
“You’re the one that’s got a string of eighteen-year-olds calling him sir and officer and asking him to bend them over his knee and turn their asses red.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping. That’s a dirty habit.”
“It’s not eavesdropping when you play a call on speakerphone and then, just in case I missed anything, recite the conversation to me over lunch.”
“Hey, that kid was really creative. I thought you’d appreciate it. I thought maybe you and Hazard would want to try something other than missionary for once in your ancient lives. Like, that part when he was talking about the swing and the handcuffs and how he wanted me to—”
“No, please. Hearing it once was already too much. My point is that your perception is totally skewed. You screw these club boys, just one after the other like you’re taking them off the shelf, and then you think that’s the whole world. But eighteen—or twenty-six, or however fucking old you are—that’s just the tip of the iceberg, ok?”
“Uh huh.” Dulac was studying a sheaf of papers. “Look, I’m sorry I made you feel bad.”
“You did not make me feel bad.”
“I wasn’t trying to age-shame you.”
“I’m not embarrassed of my—I’m not old, Dulac. For God’s sake.”
“Right, man. Totally.” Dulac held his fist out.
“No. Fuck that. I’m not old. Thirty-four—”
“Almost thirty-five.”
Somers’s face was on fire. “Thirty-four is not old. And why the hell am I even arguing with you about it? It doesn’t matter what you think. I could take Kelly. I could take you. And at least I’m not the one bringing home kids fresh out of high school and then turning them out on the street again before the sheets are cold.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Dulac said, slapping the papers into Somers’s chest. “I’m polite, dude. I’m a fucking gentleman.”
“Uh huh. Do they get to put on their underwear before they’re standing on the curb, or do they have to wait?”
“Bro, you are totally out of line. I’m, like, kind of hurt.” The big, dark eyes had a sheen. “You’re like my role model, ok? I want what you and Emery have. Honest, I do.”
“Well, you’re not going to get it by banging every club boy that grinds up on you. You really liked that one guy, Barry, right? I mean, why don’t you ask him out again? We could double.”
“Oh. Um.” Gray’s eyes dropped to the desk. He rolled a pencil back and forth.
“What?”
“This is awkward.”
“What? Did you bang his brother too or something?”
“No, like. I want what you and Emery have, but, like, I don’t want it now. I mean, I’m totally cool with you guys. I mean, I’m not ageist or anything like that. I think it’s awesome that you guys rub Bengay all over each other and complain about having a bad back and maybe like, rabbit fuck once every ten years or something. That’s really sweet. But, you know, I’m still young. And hot. And I want—”
“Go away.”
“Dude, I’m trying to tell you—”
“Dulac, walk your ass away and find me a fucking Danish or something and give me ten minutes to remember why I shouldn’t shoot your ass in the middle of the station.”
“Grumpy.” Dulac checked his watch and then smiled patiently. “Past your bedtime; I forgot you guys are in bed by nine—”
“That was one fucking weekend, and I told you—” Somers swallowed the scream. “Danish. Or donut. Or something. Right now.”
Something in his face or voice must have convinced Dulac, because the younger detective backed away.
“Coffee, too,” Somers snapped.
Dulac raised his hands in surrender.
“Now!”
Dulac ran.
As Somers dropped into his seat and started to read, he wondered if he was spending too much time around Hazard.
The report, several pages thick, had the seal of Wroxall College at the top and, just below it, the address for the campus security office. Somers vaguely recalled meeting the head of security a few months before, who had seemed solidly competent. Somers and Dulac had been working more and more on campus-related issues, at Cravens’s command, and Somers was wondering what was serious enough that campus security had to bounce it to his desk in such an official-looking report, instead of somebody from the rent-a-cops shooting an email about the smell of weed in a dorm or stolen hood ornaments.
But half a page into the report, Somers’s breath turned solid in his chest. He finished it and read it again. The facts were simple: Sunday afternoon—that afternoon—three young women had come into the campus security office and reported being sexually assaulted by the same young man. After taking statements, campus security had sent over the report, which consisted of the typed statements from the women, photographs of the victims, and what looked like an internet profile photo of the alleged culprit: a young man with a mop of curly hair, the tips of his hair frosted a chemical orange. Dennis Tonda. The assaults had taken place, according to the girls, under a similar set of circumstances. After meeting Tonda online, the women had been enticed into inviting Tonda to their apartments when they were alone. Tonda had come with alcohol. All three of the girls reported feeling drugged and claimed that Tonda had altered the alcohol with something else. They had come forward only after they saw each other’s posts on Tonda’s timeline and connected independently, sharing their stories.
“Shitty, right?” Dulac set down a styrofoam cup of coffee and a slab of Danish the size of Somers’s head. “Somebody ought to drug that asshole and fuck him a few times, see how he likes it.”
Grabbing the Danish and taking a bite, Somers turned on his computer.
“I already tried,” Dulac said. “No local address for Tonda. Either it’s a fake name, or he’s not from the area.”
“And he’s not at Wroxall, right?” Somers took another bite of the Danish—cherry, and quite good—and chased it with coffee. “Otherwise campus security would have been tripping over themselves to give us everything they had.”
“Must be nice,” Dulac said, his eyes fixed on Somers as Somers hit the Danish again. “You get to that point in life when you just don’t care anymore. You just let yourself go.” He sighed. “I fucking dream about carbs, man.”
Somers stopped. He stared at Dulac. Then, chewing slowly and deliberately, he finished the bite of Danish he was working on and shoved the rest of
it away. “Did you read the statements these women gave?”
“I read all of it, dude. I stopped by this afternoon.” Dulac shrugged, but a blush worked its way behind his freckles. “I got bored.”
“Oh yeah? Nothing to do in town but bone college boys and work?”
“They’re not all college boys.”
“Name the last one who wasn’t.”
“Ricky. Or Robby. Or—” Dulac’s face screwed up with effort. “Maybe it was Riley. I don’t know, but he was cute.”
“They’re all cute.”
“And he wasn’t in college. He was working. I think.”
“How old was he?”
“Did you see that the girls—”
“No way, you little weasel. How old was he?”
“I mean, I made sure he was legal.”
“He was eighteen.”
“I think he had an early birthday. He might have been nineteen.”
“You’re basically a predator. You realize that, right? Maybe I should have Foley stationed at the high school to make sure you stay away.”
“Dude!”
“Eighteen,” Somers tapped the report, “eighteen, and seventeen.”
“That’s shitty, dude. Don’t compare me to him.”
“I’m not comparing you. I’m saying the girls were all legal, but barely. Freshmen at college. I’m saying this guy is giving alcohol to girls not old enough to buy a beer, getting them drunk, possibly drugging them on top of it, and then raping them. That’s some serious, messed up shit.”
“So how do we catch him?” Dulac’s hand was sneaking toward the Danish. “Go by campus tomorrow? Talk to those girls? Start trying to get any details they can offer about this asshole?”
“Carbs,” Somers said.
Dulac’s hand froze, an inch away from the remaining Danish. “You know what, dude? Cheat day. I’m calling my fucking cheat day right now.”
“That’s mine,” Somers said, slapping Dulac’s hand away. “Now, sit down, open up a browser, and show me how you lure all those eighteen-year-old boys into your web.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DECEMBER 17
MONDAY
10:07 AM
HAZARD BROKE DOWN ANOTHER BOX and carried it to the landing, where he had a growing pile. Moving into the office for his private investigation agency had actually been a fairly straightforward affair. Once Hazard had learned that Somers had rented the place without asking him, and once Hazard had learned that Somers would dump his dumb ass if he didn’t really get serious about opening the agency, everything had been pretty clear.
Divorce, not dump, a little voice in his brain reminded. Somers had said divorce, not dump. And then Somers had said the M word. The fucking M word.
Right now, the suite of rooms above an empty storefront on Market Street didn’t look like much, but it did look better. Some of Hazard’s efforts were paying off. The large, front room, where Somers kept talking about hiring an assistant and having him handle the administrative side of things, currently sported several tubular chairs, a fern that slumped against the cracked front window, and a painting that Somers had hung, crookedly, of the Grand Rivere. Hazard’s office held his desk, a beautifully crafted piece that Somers had stolen, literally, from his parents, and a pair of chairs. Over the last few weeks, Hazard had been moving various professional books—both ones that he had owned as a police officer and, now, ones that he had acquired as part of his new career—from home to office. Hence, the cardboard box.
Hazard crossed the room, adjusted the painting so that it was level, and went to his private office. He powered up the laptop Somers had picked out, dropped into the chair Somers had wanted him to have, and navigated the advertising website where Somers had dropped an obscene amount of money and told Hazard, when the fight about how much to spend had escalated, something to the effect of: It’s already fucking spent, so you can either use it or not.
Studying the website, Hazard tried to figure out how to use the money that Somers had spent on him. The money Hazard hadn’t earned. The money Hazard didn’t deserve. The money that might be a very poor investment, judging by how well Hazard had done with his last client, who had been abducted and tortured and almost killed. Hazard had seen Mitchell Martin in the Savers just a few weeks before, from a distance, for an instant before Hazard ran away—ran and hid. The young man was still on crutches, and he looked like he’d been partially rubbed out with an eraser.
Flyers. People still looked at flyers, right? The internet hadn’t completely obliterated flyers, had it? Hazard’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He sat there for maybe five minutes. Thinking.
Then he closed the browser tab. Maybe he’d better start with a business card first. That would make sense, right? The business cards he had, the ones he’d bought before he was even really sure he wanted to do this, just said, Emery Hazard, Private Investigator. So Hazard looked at linen cards. Then he looked at squishy cards that turned into sponges when you put them in water. Then he went cheap, the bare bones.
And after maybe fifteen minutes, he closed the tab.
Maybe a website first. Maybe that was most important.
But the problem, the real problem, was that Hazard needed a name for the business. And a logo. He was fairly sure that he needed a logo. Something that would communicate, visually, what his business was going to stand for.
So, he told himself, quit being such a pansy about the whole thing. Quit dancing around it. Quit rearranging the three pieces of furniture, quit watering the fern, quit phoning the landlord about the cracked glass, quit playing with your dick and get down to business.
Ok. A name.
That was easy. Hazard opened a blank document, fingers flying across the keyboard. He considered what he’d written, revised. A little shorter. A little punchier. Perfect. Now he just needed a logo. He pulled up a stock images site and browsed for twenty seconds before he found exactly what he wanted. After buying the image, he pasted it onto the document. There. He was grinning, aware of the flush in his face, the ridiculously exaggerated sense of satisfaction at having accomplished even this much. But at least he had something to show Somers tonight, a mock-up for the flyers and business card and website and, fuck, LLC filing.
His printer hummed and chugged just as a knock came at the office door.
Hazard reached for his gun, the Ruger Blackhawk chambered for .45 Colt, six-cylinder, resting in the top, right-hand drawer.
“Hazard?”
For a moment, Hazard was still reacting, his hand wrapping around the Blackhawk’s checkered rubber grip, his whole world narrowing down to the need to run or shoot or both. Then, by inches, he clawed his way back to control. It had been like this for him—he couldn’t think about it more than that, couldn’t face it head-on yet—since July, when he had walked into the ruined hallways of the Haverford to face Mikey Grames.
He was getting better, he told himself.
Pulse stuttering in his neck, he hid his hand, still holding the gun, in the drawer. He worked moisture into his mouth. “Yeah?”
The doorknob turned; the door opened slowly. Walter Hoffmeister poked his head into the room like he was doing some kind of shtick.
“For fuck’s sake,” Hazard said, releasing the Blackhawk and shutting the drawer with his elbow. “Come in.”
The thing about Hoffmeister, Hazard decided as the man took a seat, was that there was nothing to love. Hoffmeister was an asshole. The whole universe was one big fire hydrant for Hoffmeister to piss on. He was tall, thin, and sallow; he looked like a foam cup yellowing in the sun.
“Aren’t you supposed to have some sort of secretary?” he asked, jerking his thumb at the empty front room.
“What do you want?”
“Kind of fucking stupid for you to be back here, hiding in a closet, with that big room empty out there.”
Hazard leaned back; the chair creaked under his weight.
Hoff
meister crossed his legs, ankle bouncing on his knee. “Place is a fucking dump.”
Hazard’s fingertips curled around the leather armrests.
“You see the front window is cracked?” Hoffmeister whistled. “You’re going to pay a fucking fortune this winter. And next summer? Jesus, you’ll have mosquitos in here the size of poodles.”
For a moment, Hazard visualized a Mack truck, a runaway, coming down Market Street with its brake lines cut. And Hazard and Hoffmeister, both of them, standing there on the curb. And Hazard’s hand on Hoffmeister’s shoulder. Like they were buddies.
And hey, it was an infinite universe. Anything could happen.
“Let’s go outside and get some fresh air,” Hazard said.
“Nah, this stretch of Market smells like fish, you know? Jesus Christ. Did you pick this place? What a fucking mess. How much are you paying? Jesus Christ, if you tell me you’re paying more than, I don’t know, a hundred and fifty bucks a month, you’re getting hosed.”
“A hundred and fifty bucks a month won’t rent you a storage unit.”
“Oh man,” Hoffmeister said, laughing, stretching out now that he’d pissed on everything, hands behind his head. But his ankle was still bouncing on top of his knee. “Oh man, you are getting dicked up the ass. I knew it. But I guess you kind of like that, right?”
“What do you want?”
Instead of answering, Hoffmeister leaned forward, brushing something invisible off the desk. He ran his thumb all the way to the end of the wood. Then, twisting back and forth, he slouched in his seat.
“You ever feel fucked?” Hoffmeister said, the words bursting out. “You ever feel like the whole universe is just out to get you? I mean, you’ve got to understand, right? You were a cop. And now you’re in this shithole. You know what I mean?”
“I know you’re really fucking lousy at asking for help.”