by Alex Kava
Maggie sipped her Scotch, holding it in her mouth and then letting it slide down her throat as she closed her eyes and relished the slow burn. She waited for its heat to warm her and to erase that tension in the back of her neck. She waited for it to fill that hollow gap deep inside her, though she knew it would need to travel to her heart to accomplish that feat. Tonight for some reason the pleasant buzz had simply made her feel a bit light-headed, restless and…and admit it, damn it. Restless and alone. Alone with all those goddamn memories invading her mind and shattering her soul piece by piece.
How could her mother try to take away, to tarnish, the one thing from her childhood that Maggie still held so dear—her father’s love? How could she? Why would she even try? Yes, perhaps she was slow to love and trust, quick to suspect, but that had nothing to do with her father, and everything to do with a mother who had abandoned her for Jack Daniel’s. Maggie had done the only thing a child knew how to do. She had survived, making herself strong. If that meant keeping others at arm’s length, then so be it. It was necessary. It was one of the few things in her life she had control over. If people who cared about her didn’t get that, then maybe it was their problem and not hers.
She reached for the bottle of Scotch, then paused when its neck clinked against the lip of the glass, waiting to make sure her movement and the noise hadn’t disturbed Harvey. An ear twitched, but his head stayed solidly in her lap.
Maggie remembered her mother telling her after her father’s death that he would always be with her. That he would watch over her.
Bullshit! Why even say that?
And yet, she knew she should have found some comfort in the thought that her father was still with them somehow, perhaps watching. But even as a child she remembered wondering that, if her mother truly believed that, why then had she acted the way she had? Why had she brought strange men home with her night after night? That is, until she moved her recreation to hotel rooms. Maggie wasn’t sure what had been worse, listening through the paper-thin walls of their apartment to some stranger fucking her drunk mother or being twelve and spending the nights home all alone.
That which does not destroy us, makes us stronger.
So now she was this tough FBI agent who battled evil on a regular basis. Then why the hell was it still so difficult to deal with her childhood? Why were those memories of her mother’s drunken bouts and suicide attempts still able to demolish her and leave her feeling vulnerable? Leave her feeling like the only way she could examine those memories was through the bottom of a Scotch glass? Why did visions of that twelve-year-old little girl tossing handfuls of dirt onto her father’s shiny casket remind her of how hollow she felt inside?
She thought she had risen above her past long ago. Why did it keep seeping into her present? Why could her mother’s words, her lies, crumble away that solid barrier she had created?
Goddamn it!
Somewhere deep inside, Maggie knew something was broken. She hadn’t ever admitted it to anyone, but she knew. She could feel it. There was a hole, a wound that still bled, an emptiness that could still chill her, stop her in her tracks and send her reaching, searching for more bricks to build up the wall around it. If she could not heal the wound, perhaps she could at least seal it and keep it off-limits from anyone else, maybe even herself.
She knew about the syndromes, the psychology, the inevitable scars from growing up with an alcoholic parent. How a child could be left feeling there was no one to trust. Happiness was as elusive as the fleeting moment of the parent making promises one minute and then breaking them within hours. The child learns not to trust today, because tomorrow his or her world could be turned upside down again. And then there were the lies. Jesus! All the lies. This was just another one. Of course it was.
She sipped her Scotch and watched the moonlight bring shadows to life in her backyard, while the memories, the voices kept coming.
Like mother, like daughter.
No. She was not like her mother. She wasn’t like her at all.
Her cellular phone suddenly began chirping inside her jacket pocket. Only now did she remember she had unplugged her regular phone, in case her mother felt some need to call. Maggie stretched to grab the jacket off a nearby stand without disturbing Harvey, whose eyes were open but whose head was still claiming her lap.
“Maggie O’Dell.”
“Maggie, it’s Julia Racine. Sorry to call so late.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Racine was the last person Maggie wanted to talk to right now.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice uncommonly humbled. “Do you have a few minutes? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, it’s okay.” She petted Harvey, who closed his eyes again. “I haven’t made it to bed yet, partly because my dog’s oversize head has taken up residence in my lap.”
“Lucky guy.”
“Jesus! Racine.”
“Sorry.”
“If that’s what this conversation—”
“No, it’s not. Really, I’m sorry.” Racine hesitated, as if there was something more on the subject she wanted to add before going on. Then she said, “I’m in deep shit with the chief. Senator Brier wants my ass kicked off the force because of those photos Garrison managed to get in the Enquirer.”
“I’m sure things will cool down as soon as we figure out who is responsible for his daughter’s death.”
“I wish it was that easy,” Racine said, only this time there was something different about her voice. Not anger, not frustration. Maybe a bit of fear. “Chief Henderson is seriously pissed. I may lose my badge.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say. As much as she disliked Racine and questioned her competency, she knew this was harsh.
“To make matters worse, that asshole Garrison called me.” The anger returned. “He said he has some photos to show me that might help the case.”
“Why would he suddenly want to help?”
Silence. Maggie knew it. There had to be something in it for Garrison. But what?
“He wants something from me,” Racine admitted, going from fear to anger to embarrassment.
“He wants something like what? Sorry, Racine, but you’re not getting off that easy. What does he want?”
“He wants photos.”
“What photos could he possibly want from you?”
“No, he wants to take photos of me.” Racine let the anger slip out.
“Oh, Jesus!” Maggie couldn’t believe it. No wonder Racine sounded like an emotional wreck. “And why would he think that’s possible?”
“Cut the crap, O’Dell. You know why he thinks it’s possible.”
So the rumors were true. The stories about Racine exchanging favors weren’t just crude locker-room talk.
“Does he realize we could already have him arrested for obstructing a police investigation?”
“I told him.”
“And?”
“He laughed.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. I’ll talk to Cunningham. You talk to Henderson. Let’s bring him in.”
“I’m in enough trouble, O’Dell. If Garrison is bluffing—”
“If Garrison’s as arrogant as I think he is, and he does have something, then we’ll just convince him it’s in his best interests to share that information.”
“And just how do we convince him?”
“I’m gonna give Cunningham a call. You talk to Henderson and call me back. Let’s bring this asshole in.”
Maggie hung up the phone, put the Scotch aside and felt a renewed energy. Gently she nudged Harvey awake. Suddenly, she found herself grateful for bastards like Garrison.
CHAPTER 58
WEDNESDAY
November 27
Washington, D.C.
Ben Garrison pretended to keep his cool while he sat and waited in the middle of the twelfth precinct, handcuffed to a fucking chair. Officers shoved their way around him,
ignoring him. A stoned, toothless hooker kept smiling at him from across the room. She even winked at him once, uncrossed her legs and gave him a Sharon Stone view of her merchandise. He wasn’t impressed.
His wrists itched under the too-tight handcuffs. The chair’s wobbly legs drove him nuts, and he shoved it back against the wall, drawing scowls from the two bastards who brought him in. He still couldn’t believe Racine would do this. Who would have thought she had it in her? Oddly, it only made him want to fuck her all the more.
He returned from Boston to find two of the District’s finest waiting for him at his apartment. At first, he thought Mrs. Fowler was having him evicted, especially if she smelled the fumigator crap he had left for the cockroaches to enjoy. And if the little bastards had escaped into the rest of the building, the poor old woman probably would have a coronary. But, no, it wasn’t Mrs. Fowler. It was Racine. What a surprise. The little cunt had a game plan all of her own. And part of it, obviously, was to make him wait.
Well, he refused to let her ruin his lucky streak, especially after he had just spent the morning blowing away Britt Harwood with yet another Garrison exclusive. Ben smiled. Not much Racine could do about the photos that would be in this evening’s Boston Globe.
Hell, he had done what he wanted with the prints, so, no, he didn’t mind sharing them with Racine. He had planned to, anyway. She couldn’t blame a guy for wanting a little treat in return.
“They’re ready for you, Garrison,” one of the thick-necked Neanderthals in blue said as he undid one handcuff to release Ben from the chair, then quickly snapped it onto his wrist again. When Ben stood, the guy grabbed his elbow and led him down the hall.
The room was small, with no windows and several pockmarks in the bare walls, some small enough to be bullet holes, a couple of large ones that looked like someone had tried to put a fist or head through the plaster. The room smelled like burnt toast and sweaty gym socks. The officer sat him down in one of the chairs that surrounded the table. Then he did his little weaving trick again with the handcuffs and the steel folding chair.
Ben wanted to point out that if he really wanted, he could fold up the chair and simply take it with him, maybe even knocking some heads with it on his way out. But now probably wasn’t a good time to be a smart-ass, so he sat quietly, expecting to be in for another wait.
Surprisingly, Racine came in within minutes, stopping to consult the Neanderthal at the door before she even acknowledged Ben’s presence. She was followed in by an attractive dark-haired woman in an official-looking navy suit. He thought he recognized her. Surely, he’d remember. What a treat! Two police babes.
Racine looked pretty good, too. If she wanted to look butch, she would need to try harder. Although he had to admit her spiky blond hair looked like she had just gotten out of the shower, and she had no fashion sense. Today she had on blue jeans and a sweater that he wished was tighter. But with no jacket—thank goodness—it was still a rush seeing her in the leather shoulder holster with the butt of her Glock tucked nicely under her left breast. Yes, indeed, he could already feel the effect. Poor Racine. She probably thought hauling him in here would be some sort of punishment.
The Neanderthal brought in Ben’s duffel bag and set it on the table. Then he left, closing the door behind him. Racine pulled out a chair and put up one foot, trying to look tough. The other woman leaned against the wall, crossed her arms and began examining Ben.
“So, Garrison, glad we could finally arrange that little meeting you wanted,” Racine said. “This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell with the FBI. Thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if we made this a threesome.”
“Sorry, Racine. If this is your idea of intimidation then you’re gonna be really disappointed when I tell you you’re giving me an incredible hard-on.”
She didn’t blush, not even slightly. Maybe Detective Racine was tougher than Officer Racine.
“This case is a federal investigation, Garrison. It could mean—”
“Cut the crap, Racine,” he stopped her, glancing at O’Dell, who stayed put, looking official while she continued to lean against the wall. He knew who the real power broker was, so when he spoke again, he addressed O’Dell. “I know you just want the photos. I always intended to hand them over.”
“Really?” O’Dell said.
“Yeah, really. I have no idea what Racine misunderstood. Probably all that sexual tension from not knowing who or what to fuck this week.”
“Oh, I think you’ll certainly feel fucked, Garrison, when we’re through with you,” Racine said without so much as a blink, playing out her role as the bad cop.
O’Dell, also, remained cool and calm. “You have the photos with you?” she asked, nodding at the duffel bag.
“Sure. And I’m more than willing to show them to you.” He lifted his hands and clanked the handcuffs against the steel chair. “Hell, I’ll give them to you. As soon as all the charges are dropped, of course.”
“Charges?” Racine glanced at O’Dell, then back at him. “Did the boys give you the impression you were under arrest? I’m sure you must have misunderstood, Garrison.”
He wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but instead he smiled and held up his hands again for her to remove the cuffs.
O’Dell reached over and knocked on the door, bringing in the thick-necked cop to unlock the handcuffs. Then he left again, without a word to either woman.
Ben rubbed his wrists, taking his time before he pulled over the bag and began digging through his equipment. He didn’t want them messing with his stuff. He set his camera, lens and collapsible tripod out on the table. Then he removed a couple of T-shirts, a pair of sweatpants and a towel to get the manila envelopes at the bottom. He opened one and spilled its contents on the table: negatives, contact sheet and the prints Harwood’s people had developed and given him copies of. He laid five eight-by-tens on the table, putting them in chronological order for the full effect.
“Jesus!” Racine said. “Where and when was this?”
“Yesterday. Late afternoon. Boston.”
From one of the other envelopes, he pulled out several prints from the Brier girl’s crime scene along with about a dozen from Everett’s rally in the District. One showed Everett with a young blond-haired girl and Ginny Brier, alongside two of the same boys in the Boston photos. He slid them across the table.
“Pretty easy to recognize some of these good Christian boys,” Ben told them. “When I was at the District rally, Saturday night, I heard them talking about some kind of initiation they were planning in Boston Common on Tuesday. I played my hunch that it might be something interesting.”
“Funny how you didn’t mention that to me. You didn’t even mention that you had been at that rally,” Racine said.
“Didn’t seem important at the time.”
“Even though you knew you had photos of the dead girl attending the rally?”
“I took lots of photos over the weekend. Maybe I didn’t know exactly what or who I had shot.”
“Just like you didn’t know that you hadn’t turned over all the film you shot at the crime scene?”
He smiled again and shrugged.
“Was Everett in Boston?” O’Dell asked as she picked up each photo, carefully scrutinized it, then moved on to the next.
“No sign of him, but I heard them talking like maybe he was.” He pointed to Brandon in several of the Boston photos and in the District one. “This one seemed to be in charge. They were all drunk. You can see in one of the photos that they had beer bottles and were spraying the women.”
“I don’t believe this,” Racine said. “Where were the cops?”
“It was a Tuesday afternoon. Who knows? I didn’t see any around.”
“And you just watched?” O’Dell was staring at him now as if she was trying to figure him out.
“No, I took pictures. It’s my job. It’s what I do.”
“They were attacking these girls, and you just stood around and took pictures?”
“When I’m behind the lens, I’m not there as a participant. I’m there to record and capture what’s going on.”
“How could you do nothing?” O’Dell wasn’t going to give it up. He could hear the anger in her voice.
“You don’t get it. If I had put down my camera, you wouldn’t have these fucking photos so you can now go out and charge these motherfuckers.”
“If you had put down your camera and tried to stop them, maybe we wouldn’t need any photos. Maybe those girls wouldn’t have had to go through this.”
“Oh, right. Like this is my fault. Let me tell you, it takes a lot more work and planning to make news happen, Ms. FBI Agent. I record the images. I capture the emotions. I’m not a part of what happens. I’m a part of the instruments. I’m fucking invisible when I’m behind the camera. Look, you’ve got your photos. I’m outta here.”
He grabbed his duffel bag, stuffed his camera and lens inside and started to leave, expecting one of them to stop him. Instead, they were both busy examining the photos. Racine was already jotting down notes.
Fuck them! If they didn’t get it, he didn’t need to explain it. He left, a bit disappointed that even the Neanderthal wasn’t around for him to shove or at least flip off. Guess Racine won this round.
CHAPTER 59
“Do you believe this?” Racine said, standing over the pictures and shaking her head as if she was truly having a tough time believing it. “You think this is what happens to them?”
Without any more of an explanation, Maggie knew Racine was talking about the murdered women: Ginny Brier, the transient they had found under the viaduct and the floater in Raleigh. And now, after talking to Tully, they could add this poor woman whom the Boston PD had just identified as a stockbroker named Maria Leonetti to their list.
