Dark Streets, Cold Suburbs

by Aimee Hix

  I pulled up the pictures and found that most weren’t well-focused and several were downright blurry. Most were taken at night in low-light and seemed like the phone had been held at waist-level.

  “It looks like he didn’t want anyone to know he was taking these pictures,” Jan said.

  “These are fairly worthless. I can’t tell really anything about the people in most of these at this resolution.”

  I opened one up full screen. The blurriness was worse but at least I had a better idea of the subject. I pulled back a foot from the table to bring it further into context.

  “They’re fighters. Shirtless, two men in the middle of a space with a line of people behind them. I can see the hand wrap on one of the fighters.”

  Jan squinted at the computer then got up and took a step back. “Why would he be taking a picture of that?”

  I rolled in and opened up the next photo in the sequence. Similar imaging, the fighters were in slightly different positions but it was obvious it was the same pair. I had an idea but wanted to see if I could find confirmation in one of the other pictures. I pulled the next several up in quick succession, scanning for the suspected activity until

  I found one that, while it couldn’t be used as legal evidence, was good enough for me to share my theory with Jan.

  “If I’m right about the underground fight club, it’s proof. It seems Damian was a budding blackmailer.” I pointed to the screen. “And this looks like there might be a side of illegal gambling.”

  Jan leaned forward, looking at the area I was circling with my finger. “If you say so.”

  I nodded. “The pieces are there that make it make sense—the steroid use, the coroner’s statement of healing bruises under the skin and the microfractures on Damian’s hands and face, these pictures of the fighters. If I go through them from first to last, they change a little from one to the next. He was likely using the rapid shot function, holding down the button, which adds to the poor quality of the images, because the subjects are moving quickly.”

  I went back to the first image and put my finger on the screen next to where I wanted her to look. “Watch as I click through all of them. These two figures to the left of the fighters.”

  I cycled through the pictures again. If you paid attention to the people in the background, like a stop-action movie, you could see something changing hands.

  “It’s something changing hands, probably,” Jan said. “It doesn’t prove anything though.”

  “It doesn’t. Not exactly. It’s proof that something was going on that Damian was documenting. Why was he documenting it and hiding that he was doing it? Plus, he’s perfectly positioned to record those two people and not the fighters. Do you go to a legitimate sporting event and take crappy pictures of the players in order to frame the picture around other spectators?”

  “It’s a direction to go in. I’ll need more.”

  “You’ve got his contact list. Run them for priors.”

  She stared at me, her hard-ass cop look. “Thanks for the advice. Good thing I’ve got such a crack investigator to learn from.”

  “No more caffeine for you. You’re getting cranky.”

  She scrubbed at her face. “I am. This is good stuff, kid. I may not totally buy your theory but I keep forgetting that you have the luxury of choosing a theory to chase.”

  “Isn’t that why you ask for my help sometimes? I mean, as you point out, I don’t have the experience like other people you could loop in.”

  She turned to go to the stairs. “You’re a fresh set of eyes with good instincts. You just need to remember, getting married to one line of inquiry can lead you down the wrong path. You’ve got one theory about Damian’s death that comes from some blurry photos and the remarks of a disturbed teen boy we can’t interview. Keep your eyes open, kid.”

  And she left. That was gratitude for you.

  Her remark about getting married to a theory got me second-guessing myself. She was right, of course. It was better to keep an open mind and let the evidence fall where it did. Pushing a theory meant you tried to find a way to fit the evidence into that theory. Worse, you went looking to fit your theory. It was one way innocent people ended up railroaded for a crime they didn’t commit.

  I eased away from Fargo’s warm puppy body and she snuffled. I really didn’t want to wake her up and have her harass me to go outside. It was still cold and damp out. The weather people had been predicting an early, hot spring but it was still winter and snow, even a blizzard, was a possibility. As damp and misty as it had been, a snow storm would roar in with heavy, wet snow, snapping tree limbs and dragging down power lines. An ice storm was even more likely and would wreak even more havoc. I beseeched the universe that no children were performing the time-honored bring-on-the-snow traditions of flushing ice cubes and wearing pajamas backwards. I had too much to do. Cops and PIs did not get snow days.

  I successfully removed myself from the bed without waking my shadow and dared another moment to grab my sweatpants from the floor. I slid out a crack in the door big enough for my body to fit sideways but not enough for the light to fall across her snout. I wasn’t that careful sleeping in the bed with a person. Of course, Seth was capable of sleeping through shelling, so me removing my 130 pounds from a high-tech mattress made of space-age, patent-pending, chemical-whatnot wasn’t even a blip on his radar. That was in Seth’s bed, though. Mine was stuffed with straw, kindling, and cans of pennies. At least, that’s what it felt, and sounded, like. I began to rethink my insomnia problem and wondered if the reason I slept so well when I was with Seth might be the mattress that cost more than a used Ford Focus.

  Thinking of Seth and his mattress and his regular requests to move in brought me back to my conflicted feelings about our future. I had overheard Ben remarking to Aja that if Seth was ghosting me, he would break into the Social Security Administration’s system and have Seth declared dead. I had smiled. His more grownup, and federal offense, version of trying to protect me. It wasn’t as funny, mostly because he was actually capable of it now, as opposed to when at seven he’d declared he was going to “kick the hiney” of a guy spreading rumors about me at school. I had kept a straight face and thanked him but assured him that I would take care of it. Which I had. A tube of engine block epoxy and a scramble through an open sunroom to pop the gas tank access door netted said bully with an un-twistable gas cap and a four-figure mechanic bill to punch a new gas tank access in the trunk. Mess with the bull …

  I armed the new coffeemaker with a pod of Extra Bold and doctored my cup while I waited for the water to warm up. I yawned wide enough that my jaw popped, a souvenir of my previous case, and punched the button to get sixteen ounces of dark, rich, hopefully extra-caffeinated coffee. I pondered if the coffee thing was becoming a problem again when the time between the launch button and the cup being full seemed like the interminable wait between Houston asking Apollo 13’s Odyssey for response and the silence yawning out as a nation held its collective breath. The fact that it felt more important than the historical event confirmed that suspicion.

  When it had finally finished, with its satisfying hiss, I waited another lifetime for it to cool enough to drink. I sat down and pulled up the file I’d started on the Damian Murphy murder. I’d added all the data from the microSIM and the other evidence we’d logged from the car. I kicked myself for not getting pictures of, at least, the hand wraps. Not that a picture would have helped me formulate another theory. Were there other possible explanations? Yes. Did any of them line up quite so nicely? Who knew. But to me, this looked like a computer program did to Ben. I knew it when it made sense. Last time, I’d been too far behind the curve and it had cost me stitches, broken ribs, and sprained body parts. In addition to the new fighting skills, I’d learned how to think better and put the puzzle pieces together faster. I didn’t have a name yet, but the contacts in Damian’s phone were sure to have hi
m or someone who knew him. Jan would unravel that and I’d be proven right.

  That was a matter I had to put to the side, though. Amanda Veitch and her family deserved a resolution. Even though I knew the contents by heart, I opened the file for what felt like, and likely was, the hundredth time and flipped through the statements again.

  I looked down at the blank page. I’d stayed old-school with this case, using notepad and pencil. If someone had told me I was trying to channel my dad or even my days in uniform, I wouldn’t have disagreed. It just felt right, though. Old case, old methods. Too bad feeling right and investigative genius were not one and the same. Jan’s notes didn’t have her questions—merely the answers. They weren’t a training manual for new detectives. They were, as far as I could tell, the same we’d learned in the J academy about what was important when getting the facts at a scene—who, what, where, when, how. The why? That was my job.

  I heard stirring upstairs and checked the time on my phone. The morning was upon me again. Another Extra Bold into the coffeemaker and several scalding sips in my mouth before I went upstairs.

  “Again?” Nancy asked. I could only nod.

  “Again, what?” Ben asked, his mouth wrapping itself around a spoonful of something healthy and metabolism-friendly. It made my mouth water for the fake food in the bag downstairs. I’d bought it and brought it home, but I wasn’t nearly stupid enough to eat it in front of my mother. She’d heave a sigh, giving me a disappointed look, and I’d find my inbox full of articles about type 2 diabetes and how excess sugar contributed to sleep issues.

  “Just through these cases, Mom. I promise,” I said.

  “Oh, the stupid coffee thing? You know, studies show that four cups a day is actually fine,” Ben said.

  “How many?” Nancy asked me.

  “How are we counting the start of the day? Midnight?”

  “The last time you slept.”

  I put the cup down and closing my eyes, tried to count on my fingers, but swayed and had to lean against the counter for support. I felt a hand wrap around my upper arm and I opened my eyes to find my sneaky father steering me toward a kitchen chair.

  I kept my mouth shut as the mug of Extra Bold was dumped down the drain. I wasn’t stupid and I sure as hell wasn’t suicidal.

  “I’ve got two murders that Jan is counting on me to help her with. She’s … under a lot of pressure on this Damian Murphy one.” I’d almost mentioned the retirement thing. I’d never promised to not tell but I knew she wanted to keep it a secret.

  “Your health is critical, Willa. You’re still not fully recovered from your injuries and—”

  “What your mother is trying to say is please try to be a little more cognizant of the choices you’re making and remember that there are long-term repercussions possible.”

  We all gaped at Dad. It wasn’t that he’d spoken up, as the voice of reason, or that he’d used big words, or even that he’s strung that many words together. He’d done all three of those things before. It was that he’d done it all at the same time. The lectures that sounded like they belonged on C-SPAN were Nancy’s gig. Dad was the indulgent one who snuck downstairs …

  And I knew how to get the heat off me. I hated to waste a good secret, but I needed a door out and Dad was the key.

  “You mean, like sneaking into my candy stash?” I took the coffee cup Nancy had just handed him and took a long, extra hot, swallow. counting down for the info grenade to blow up in his face.

  He nodded, taking his cup back. “Yes, just like that. I confessed to your mother the other day and we both agreed that I needed to set a better example for you. The additional coffeepot for the basement was the wakeup call I needed.”

  Fargo whined at my feet, pawing gently at the cabinet with her special crazy expensive, super healthy food. Et tu, puppy? Et tu?

  I flung open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “Fine. I know when I’m beaten.”

  I twisted off the cap defiantly, devising my exit strategy. There was a coffeemaker and plenty of cabinet space over at Seth’s and the apartment allowed pets, as long as no one knew about them. I could get dressed, pack up my junk food, and be there in under an hour. Maybe an hour. It was coming on bus hour—the time that was even worse than rush hour because once you got caught behind one of them or, god forbid, had to travel through a school zone, you were screwed.

  I left Fargo to eat breakfast and crept down to my lair to shower. A quick rinse—I could wash my hair later—and I was dried and in grownup-ish clothes before Ben had finished thoroughly chewing his last bite of toasted, organic, sprouted grain bread slathered with grass-fed butter and sunflower spread. I hauled my laptop bag and gym bag crammed with workout gear and corn-syrup-laden foodstuffs that didn’t fit anywhere on the food pyramid.

  “Let’s go out, Fargo.”

  She raced to get her leash.

  “Honey, don’t leave angry.”

  Dad just grunted from behind his newspaper. He’d likely run out of words for the day. I hope he hadn’t planned any client meetings. He may not have felt this fell under our previous agreement that he not shanghai me anymore, but I did.

  “I’m not angry, Mom. I’m just tired of not being treated like an adult.”

  “I’ll treat you like an adult when you act like one.” Well, it appeared he wasn’t out of words. Bully for him, growing as a person.

  “Arch!”

  Great, now they were going to get into a fight. I didn’t have time for it anymore.

  “This is my point. Everyone’s been acting like I’m the only one who was affected by what happened, but you’re all worse than I am. Fargo’s in crazy killer dog training, you two are installing a panic room and fighting all the time, people are monitoring my food intake and caffeine consumption. For god’s sake, he sent me on a fake stakeout.”

  “You needed the learning experience.”

  “Arch, stop.”

  “I did need the learning experience and you could have chosen to send me on a real stakeout. Instead you made a decision to go behind my back, involving the whole family, and lied to me.”

  He slammed the paper down. “You were almost killed.”

  I dropped the bags on the floor, narrowly missing Fargo’s snout. She yelped and ran out of the room, laying down in the foyer.

  “I wasn’t almost killed. I got the shit beaten out of me and I handled it. I healed. I learned I needed more training and went off to get it. I went to a therapist. I dealt with it like a grownup. You didn’t. None of you. And I’m done being the only one handling it. Call me when you get your shit together and want to discuss this like grownups.”

  I picked up my bags, Nancy staring after me, and stomped out. Damn that had felt good. I had a nice rebellious buzz going when I grabbed the leash from Ben.

  I pointed at him. “That shit from yesterday, Captain Superior. We’re not done with that. Not by miles.”

  I slung my bags in the truck, belatedly worrying that I might have already damaged my laptop, and snapped my fingers for Fargo to get up into the cab. Another after-the-fact thought settled into my brain that I needed a place to park a rambunctious giant puppy and changed my destination from the substation to Adam and Theo’s. A quick text confirming that they’d puppy-sit and I roared off, righteous indignation, or indigestion from an overnight of dumping crap cardboard substitute food and dark roast coffee down my gullet, burning in my chest. It felt good. I tossed back some antacid just in case.

  Chapter

  21

  The apartment felt stale. I cracked open the windows in the bedroom and, like always when I was alone, I checked the arsenal we kept around the place. Partly because I felt exposed in the apartment building, people all around but none in my space, none I knew or trusted. I didn’t feel as safe as I did at home. And that was the reason I had to get out. I needed to not be choking in the c
ocoon anymore. I needed to not feel safe all the time.

  I started a pot of coffee with a satisfaction that was unseemly, took off my jacket, and sat down at the dining room table with my laptop. I had notes to transcribe and a lot of alone time to fill.

  I worked for an hour and then took a break. Three cups of coffee insisted. Bladder appeased, I grabbed the bag of clothes I’d packed and dumped them on the bed, sorting through for workout clothes. I found a few of the appropriate articles of clothing and pieced together a reasonable facsimile of my usual garb, augmenting with stuff I’d left at Seth’s. I vowed to not pack angry again. Or I just needed to move in once and for all.

  I sat on the floor in front of Michael’s now empty room and tied my shoes. I hated seeing it empty. I knew I needed to get over this feeling that people were trying to erase him. I just wanted a little more time I knew I was never getting.

  I needed to move my body, get some of the caffeine jitters and all of the maudlin feeling sorry for myself out of my system. I would have taken Fargo out but she was with Theo getting to taste all the food he made for the videos. Lucky bitch. Dojo it was.

  Adam’s eyes were on me so I twisted a little more to the left and I couldn’t see him in my peripheral vision anymore. He probably wasn’t angry about getting cuffed yesterday. And even if he had been, that wasn’t my fault. I punched Bob harder on his flat nose. He looked like the manufacturer had made the mold from a 1940s comic book villain who’d had a nose transplant from a Persian cat. I whirled around.

  “Dude, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realize the stupid uniforms were going to waste their time on people who were obviously not kidnapping a girl.”

  He tossed a pair of Muay Thai gloves at me. I pulled on the weighted gloves, biting down a groan. I saw Adam glance over like he was changing his mind. Being a badass meant you paid the bill when it came due. I’d slacked and now I had to grit my teeth and fight through the pain. Literally and figuratively. A lesson it would be nice if you only had to learn once.