Ceremony

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  They left the narrow dorm room.

  “Thoughts?” Bernadette said.

  Kep crinkled his nose as they stopped at the elevators. “I smelled the lampreys in there as well. She works in the lab, so I would expect a certain amount of trimethylamine. I’m afraid that doesn’t provide additional information.” The elevator arrived and they got on. Kep scratched his beard. “Annika seemed quite broken up about Tommy’s death, didn’t she?”

  “For a moment. She was more unsettled about Roundhouse visiting, though.”

  “Surely you’re unconcerned about a visit from Annika’s spiritual advisor.”

  Bernadette set her mouth in a line. “Are you kidding? That was a red flag. Annika says Roundhouse showed up, then told us not to mention it and that Roundhouse would deny being there.” She glanced at Kep. “Why would she do that?”

  “You suggested the reverend was looking for Tommy. Do you believe that Roundhouse intimidated Annika during her visit?”

  “I don’t know, but something doesn’t add up.” The doors opened and they stepped out into the lobby. “And Roundhouse didn’t include a visit to the dorm in her version of events.”

  “We can press the reverend on her whereabouts in our next interview with her.”

  “Or we can get answers now.” Bernadette strode to the front desk.

  The woman behind the counter, glanced up at them. “Signing out?”

  “Not quite,” Bernadette said. “We’ll need to view your security footage from Monday night. We’d like to see if Annika had a visitor.”

  “A visitor?”

  “Her priest from the Anne Askew Chapel.”

  The woman hesitated. “No, I don’t think so. That would be highly unusual.”

  Bernadette nodded. “That’s why we’d like to view the recording.”

  “I’ll—uh—have to see if we can do that,” the woman said, picking up the phone. “Give me a second.”

  Bernadette and Kep took a few steps back from the podium.

  “Anything else concern you?”

  “As I said earlier, she appeared to grieve Mr. Thompson’s death,” Kep said, “and yet I didn’t smell Annika’s tears.”

  “You—you can normally smell people’s tears?”

  “Of course,” Kep said. “I can smell the salt, of course. There are trace amounts of hormones in tears as well. The male tears of many mammals have a protein called ESP1.”

  “Like—like ‘extrasensory perception’?”

  “‘Exocrine secreting peptide,’” Kep said. “It stimulates vomeronasal sensory neurons in female mice, and the hypothesis is that the peptides operate similarly for humans.”

  “Well, that clears it up, Doctor,” Bernadette said. “You can smell this—this ESP1?”

  Kep nodded. “It’s faint, but yes.”

  “And women’s tears? They have an equivalent?”

  “I’m sure the research journals will catch up,” Kep said. “For now, they’ve studied the reactions of men to women’s tears. They haven’t isolated any of the proteins or hormones yet.”

  “But you can tell.”

  “Yes. I can tell, and I couldn’t smell her tears. I don’t believe she was crying.”

  Bernadette shrugged. “Well, so what? Maybe she was dating him because she thought he’d be rich one day. Maybe she liked what he could do in bed. And maybe she thought we wanted to see an emotional reaction so she tried to will herself to cry in front of us. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone has faked grief yet not been responsible for the person’s death.”

  “No,” Kep said, “but it may mean that we shouldn’t trust everything she says.”

  “I don’t trust everything she says.”

  Kep narrowed his eyes. “Are you quite certain about that?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” Kep said evenly, “that you wanted to believe her. That you wanted to believe there’s a conspiracy against her telling the truth.”

  Bernadette snorted a laugh.

  “You do want to believe her,” Kep said softly.

  She crossed her arms. “That doesn’t mean I won’t do my due diligence. The fact that I’m sympathetic makes it more likely that victims and suspects will open themselves up to me.” She pointed at his chest. “A fact that you have already taken advantage of during this investigation.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lightman wanted to talk to me, not you.”

  “That has nothing to do with your sympathetic nature and everything to do with Lightman wanting to bed every woman he meets.”

  Bernadette glanced at the woman at the security desk. She was off the phone.

  “We can continue this later,” Bernadette said, turning and striding to the counter. Kep followed. “Any update?”

  “Um,” the woman said, “I’m not sure how to tell you this, but it appears that the security footage from Monday night is—well—it’s missing.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Outsider Hotel was a little too modern in its design for Bernadette’s taste, and she had to ask for a room with a tub—it was a forty-dollar upgrade.

  And while the wood, granite, and leather in the hotel room was stark and sterile, the claw-foot tub was heavenly. She felt all her muscles, tense from dealing with Dr. Woodhead, loosen and relax. It was too late to call Sophie, so she found a playlist on the audio system, and soothing spa-like sounds of synthesizers and nature washed over her. She exhaled thoroughly, the release starting at the top of her scalp and skittering through her body to her toes.

  After her bath, she wrapped herself in a robe, brushed her teeth and collapsed on the bed, immediately falling into a heavy slumber.

  She woke as the sun peeked through the opening in the curtains. She grabbed her phone. Not quite six thirty. Her alarm wasn’t about to go off yet, and she could still call Sophie—it was only an hour later in D.C.

  “Mom?” Background noise—Sophie was probably in the car.

  “Hi, Soph. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. On our way to school. Sorry I didn’t call last night.”

  “No problem.” Bernadette’s voice was light, breezy. “Any tests today?”

  “I have a quiz in math.”

  “Did you study?”

  “Over at Olivia’s.”

  Bernadette took a deep breath to stop herself from saying anything negative. “Okay. Tell Dad hi.”

  “Oh—uh, Lisa’s driving me.”

  Oof. Did Bernadette gasp?

  “Is that okay? Dad had an early staff meeting.”

  He promised that he’d take you to school. “No, no, that’s fine.”

  Sophie lowered her voice. “Lisa’s pretty cool, Mom. You really need to give her a chance.”

  Ugh. Like a knife twisting in her gut. “I know, honey. It’s complicated. Listen—I’ll give you a call tonight. Good luck on your quiz.”

  “Thanks.”

  And then she was off the call—no I love you, no hope you catch the bad guys, nothing. Sophie had spent most of the afternoon with a C student, had eaten dinner over at her house, then was being driven to school by Barlow’s new girlfriend.

  Bernadette sprang out of bed and threw on her sweats. Grabbing her card key, her phone, and her earbuds, she went to the workout room on the second floor.

  Ugh. Two elliptical machines, already taken by two middle-aged men who were chatting about marketing strategy, and a treadmill that looked at least a decade old. Some sad-looking free weights. Still, better than nothing.

  Bernadette felt the men’s eyes on her as she got onto the treadmill, heard their conversation falter, but then she cranked up the speed and increased the volume of her workout mix, and soon saw nothing but the red LED display in front of her, the digits moving up steadily.

  Each step on the treadmill shot pain down her leg. She hadn’t looked at her hip, but she was sure the bruise was ugly. The pain reminded her of the futility of chasing Cecilia Carter. She
hadn’t gotten answers to any of her questions, either. Despite resulting in an earlier-than-expected bubble bath, the whole situation bothered Bernadette.

  The men, still talking business, left halfway through her run, and she did fifteen minutes of weights with only the buzz of the fluorescent lights keeping her company.

  She chose the stairs instead of the elevator and bounded up the steps two at a time. Back in her room, her legs were restless. She didn’t feel like a shower yet. Bernadette grabbed her debit card and went down in the elevator, out the revolving door of The Outsider Hotel, and ran through the shoveled sidewalks and the bracing morning chill toward the drugstore on Water Street.

  The store was small, and its selection of unscented soap, deodorant, shampoo, and moisturizer was wanting, but Bernadette found one of each, bought them at one of the self-checkout kiosks, pocketed the receipt, and returned to her room. The short run in the cold—and without a jacket—had woken her up, and she got herself ready with the unscented products.

  The restaurant on the ground floor of The Outsider was an overpriced Italian-inspired bistro with a coffee bar in front. Bernadette entered past a sleepy barista operating an espresso machine, with four people already in line in front of a harried-looking cashier. She looked at the menu but felt uninspired.

  Her phone rang in her purse; she took it out; it was Maura. “Good morning, Lieu.”

  “Sorry I didn’t return your call last night.” Maura said. “I was exhausted when I got back to the hotel. Anything to report?”

  “You’ll have the write-up later this morning. We were busy.” Bernadette bit her lip. Part of her wanted to mention following the IT guy with the black tote bags and her near-miss with the van, but acting alone and leaving Woodhead at the restaurant might get her in trouble. She walked to an empty corner by the front of the restaurant and lowered her voice. “We visited the priest from Thompson’s church. Then we visited the lab where Kymer Thompson worked—”

  “Where you detained Cecilia Carter,” Maura said.

  “—and then interviewed Thompson’s girlfriend at her dorm.”

  “Anything forming in your mind?”

  “It’s early yet, but the priest is emerging as a suspect.”

  “A priest?”

  “Don’t worry about the PR blowback, Maura. It’s the Agios Delphi priest. Most people here think it’s a cult. The priest has an alibi from a woman who I think is involved with her romantically. Statement from Thompson’s girlfriend that they were arguing over the drug that killed him. Nothing concrete yet. We’ll keep digging.”

  “I’ll get Curtis to run the priest’s financials and phone records.”

  “Sure.” Bernadette paused. “I’d like to interview Cecilia Carter.”

  “Give me the rundown on what happened last night.”

  After Bernadette explained, Maura clicked her tongue.

  “Oh,” Bernadette said, “you don’t think she’s worth pursuing?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yeah, but you’re clicking your tongue.”

  Maura chuckled. “Is that why you always beat me at poker?”

  “Come on, Lieu—a lady never reveals her secrets.”

  “Since you phrased it so delicately, Bernadette, no, I don’t think this will be a fruitful avenue of inquiry. But if we don’t follow up, we won’t have done due diligence. And I can’t tell you not to go based on my gut. So—prioritize other avenues first, would you?”

  “Sure.”

  “You coming into the office?”

  “As soon as Dr. Woodhead gets here.” Bernadette pulled the phone away from her face to look at the time. Ten minutes after eight. Kep was late. “You haven’t seen him this morning, have you? We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago.”

  Maura tutted. “Watch out you don’t give Dr. Woodhead too much leeway. He’ll take it and ditch you. That’s one of the reasons Martin couldn’t handle being his case analyst.” Maura paused.

  The pause was heavy—Bernadette could feel Maura weighing whether to tell her to watch herself, too.

  Bernadette closed her eyes—she didn’t need reminding that she wouldn’t be getting another chance, that she’d run out of warnings. Her next misstep would be the end of her CSAB career—and she’d never be an agent again. She pictured herself begging for a job with her father’s insurance agency back in Denver. The thought made her stomach turn.

  Maura’s voice snapped Bernadette back to the present. “Everything else okay with Dr. Woodhead?”

  Bernadette felt her cheeks grow hot. “He keeps insisting on calling me ‘Bernie.’”

  Maura sighed. “I know you think that being assigned to Woodhead was some sort of punishment—”

  “It’s fine, Maura.” Bernadette managed a smile. “I know it was my own fault, and I know it could have been worse.”

  “Well, yes, but you have the right skill set for dealing with Dr. Woodhead.” Maura paused. “I’ve been trying to get you assigned to this role for the last year, Bernadette.”

  Bernadette blanched.

  A slight rustling on the other end of the phone. “This morning I got a call from him complaining about you.”

  “Oh, shit, really? I didn’t think—”

  “In all the time Dr. Woodhead has been with CSAB, we’ve gotten complaints after his new case analyst’s first day every time.”

  Bernadette walked over to an empty bar table and leaned her elbow on it. “It’s comforting that I’m not the only one he’s complained about.”

  Maura laughed. “You’re actually the only one he’s complained about. It’s always been the case analyst making the complaint. You really admonished him in front of a suspect?”

  “Yes. Professor Lightman—but it was for show. It was Kep’s idea.”

  “No, no,” Maura said, “Dr. Woodhead referred to your visit with the priest.”

  “Oh. Well, yeah. He was angering her. We needed her cooperation.”

  “See,” Maura said, “this is what I mean by your unique skill set.”

  “You mean—it’s okay that he complained about me? But Dr. Woodhead has solved almost every murder case put in front of him. Aren’t you worried that I’ll throw him off his game?”

  “No one’s given Dr. Woodhead boundaries before.”

  “He calls me ‘Bernie.’”

  “He called Martin ‘Marty,’ and Martin never said anything until he resigned.” Maura paused. “Are you okay with him?”

  “I’m not going to pretend Dr. Woodhead is easy to work with.”

  “You won’t dump a bottle of red wine over his head, will you?”

  Ugh. It had only been three months since the incident with Barlow at the holiday party, and Bernadette could already tell that would follow her the rest of her career. She attempted a laugh. “It’s not like he left our marriage to shack up with the CSAB training instructor.”

  Maura clicked her tongue. “Don’t bring Lisa into this.”

  An awkward grimace crossed Bernadette’s face. “You know that was a one-time thing, and I’ve gone through enough in the last few months.”

  “We have to hold ourselves to a higher standard,” Maura said evenly. “But I have every confidence you’ll get back to your former level of effectiveness.”

  Bernadette pulled her hair into a ponytail and tried to change the subject. “So what do you and Curtis have going on today?”

  “What?” Maura said.

  “While Dr. Woodhead and I are conducting more interviews? What suspects are you two looking into?”

  “Oh—right. Curtis is already down at District 5 getting started. We’ve got Kymer Thompson’s laptop from his apartment, and we need to go onsite to review his desktop machine. University policy—and I don’t have the time to do the paperwork dance.”

  Bernadette exhaled. “Let’s hope one of his emails or texts sheds some light on why he was killed.”

  “You know,” Maura said, “you don’t seem at all concerned about what Dr. Woo
dhead said about you.”

  I must be doing a better job of hiding my nerves than I thought. “Should I be?”

  “No.”

  Bernadette hesitated. “Will you let me know if that changes?”

  “Yes. Boundaries are a good thing, Bernadette. I’ll see you when you get in.”

  “Thanks, Lieu.” Bernadette ended the call, then turned to face the bistro’s window. The Third Ward was both beautiful and dirty this morning: the snowbanks white and pristine contrasting with the weathered buildings and the sounds of the elevated freeway. The sidewalks were clear; the valets in woolen hats and overcoats were in constant motion to stay warm even though no cars were in sight.

  She walked from the entrance of the restaurant through the lobby, around the fireplace, and out the revolving door. She had only her suit on and nothing to cover her head, and the chill seeped through her trousers to her calves and thighs. The tips of her ears began to tingle.

  To her left, she saw all the way down Chicago Street, past a sushi restaurant, past the parking lot, to the Summerfest grounds. Lake Michigan was on the other side of that, and the elevated freeway hundreds of feet above the frontage road pushed the sound up and made the rush hour seem miles away.

  From around the corner, holding a bag with The Elegant Doughnut printed on the side, came Kep Woodhead. He wore a knit cap pulled low over his ears, a blue track suit, and running shoes. He stared down at the sidewalk, as if making sure he wouldn’t slip.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she called to him, and he jerked his head up.

  “Good,” he said, “you’re awake.”

  “Awake? I’m ready to go. We were supposed to be in the car fifteen minutes ago.” She motioned to the bag of donuts. “Did hearing that Vivian Roundhouse stopped at that donut shop inspire you?”

  “Yes, most definitely.”

  “All right—well, look, you need a shower, right?”

  “I certainly can’t show up at the police district station in my current state of cleanliness,” Kep said, handing her the bag of pastries. “The hotel restaurant didn’t open until seven, so I went for a run. I happened upon the gourmet donut place around the corner while I was cooling down.”

  “There’s a treadmill in the hotel gym.”