Ricci fills me in on the ride. The young woman kicked out her addict boyfriend a week ago. He came back for his things ... and took what didn't belong to him, raping and strangling her. Or that's the story given by her roommate, who spotted the ex fleeing the scene. The victim herself insists it was a random home invasion.
As I listen to the story, I try not to think of Diana. I still send her a text, reminding her that she's supposed to order takeout for lunch and not leave my apartment.
I know the rules, Casey, she replies, and I mentally hear her add, I'm not a child. As an apology, I tap back a note that I'll grab her a chai latte on my way home.
We arrive at the hospital and take the stairs to the room, which is being guarded by an officer I don't recognize. He whispers to Ricci, "You aren't supposed to take anyone else in there. Doctor's orders."
"Constable Wiley, this is Detective Duncan," Ricci says.
I shake his hand. He stares a little too long and then covers it with a laugh that's a little too loud as he says, "Guess the force doesn't have height restrictions anymore, huh?"
"They haven't in years," Ricci says. "That would be discrimination against gender and race."
He slides me a look, as if expecting a pat on the head. He's referring to the fact that I'm also half Asian--my mother was Chinese and Filipino.
"Is Ms. Lang...?" I wave toward the room.
"Uh, right," Ricci says, and grabs the door for me. As we walk through, he whispers, "Thank you for doing this. I really appreciate it. Maybe we can grab a drink after shift?"
I really hope you're not hitting on me in the hospital room of a rape survivor, I think, but only murmur something noncommittal. Then I tug back the curtain around the bed and--
It looks like Diana.
It isn't, of course, but that's the first thing I think. I see a blond woman wearing pink barrettes that, for a moment, look like pink-tipped hair. Her face is purple and yellow and swollen. A ring of bruises circles her throat. She wears a cast on one arm, has one leg raised, not unlike me twelve years ago.
I imagine Diana here, in a hospital bed, like me and like this girl, beaten and left for dead, and I realize I can't keep ignoring Graham. I owe it to Diana to make sure she never ends up like this.
Then I push that aside, and I see this girl. Only this girl. Our eyes meet, and there are traces of defiance in hers, but only traces, as she clings to that, as if refusing to turn in her ex is her choice. As if he doesn't have her so terrified she can't see any other option.
I move to her bedside, lean over, and whisper, "Let's make sure he never does this again," and she starts to cry.
I bang on Graham's hotel room door.
"Casey," Graham says as he opens it, grinning like I've brought his favourite takeout. "I was hoping you'd find me. Come on in."
As I enter, I put my back to him. That's my way of saying he doesn't scare me. Only once I sit on the couch do I face him. Graham Berry. Forty years old. Looks like he should be the spokesmodel for some high-end law firm, all white teeth and perfect hair and chiselled jaw. I can still hear Diana's excited whisper. "Oh my God, Case. You have to meet him. He's gorgeous, and he's brilliant, and he's charming, and he asked me out. Can you believe it?"
I wanted to, because Diana deserved some good in her life, having gone through a string of abusive losers since high school. Except she was right--it was hard to believe a guy as outwardly perfect as Graham Berry was madly in love with Diana. That's cruel, isn't it? But there's a dating hierarchy, and though you can move up or down a notch or two, when you're attracting the attention of someone a half-dozen rungs up? You need to ask yourself why.
In Diana's case, the answer is that Graham sees the same thing her loser exes had--her deep vulnerability and eagerness to please. Like my parents, Diana's set a higher standard of expectation than she could reach. Unlike mine, hers vented their displeasure in more than words, and she'd spent her childhood convinced she deserved every beating she got. That made her the perfect target for Graham's particular brand of sadism.
"You look good, Case," he says, those white teeth glimmering.
"Knock it off. We both know I'm not your type."
"Mmm, not so sure about that." He walks over and sits on the coffee table, right in front of me, so close our knees brush. "How about a deal? You give me a night, and I'll go home happy. I'll let you bring the handcuffs. We can arm-wrestle for who wears them."
"If I ever got you in handcuffs, Graham, I don't think you'd like where it ends up. I want you to leave Diana alone."
"Oh, I know, but Diana doesn't really want me to leave her alone. It's a game we play. You've never understood that."
"If you hurt her--"
"I never hurt her. Not against her will, anyway. You've got me all wrong, Casey. You always have. I love Diana, and if our relationship is a little unconventional, well, that isn't a crime."
He smiles. I know exactly what that smile means--that if I'm wired and trying to entrap him, I'll catch nothing. He's so damned careful.
"I want you out of town," I say.
"Mmm, you make a very sexy sheriff, Casey. Shall we set a time, then? High noon or pistols at twenty paces?"
"It's well past noon. Let's say six. Or..." I open my bag, take out a file folder, and drop it beside him on the coffee table.
He opens it. And he stops smiling.
"Britnee Spencer. Sister of a boy you coached in basketball two years ago. You went over to give him some private lessons and ended up giving her some, too. In a whole different kind of sport."
"Who told you--?"
"I'm a detective, remember? She was fifteen. That makes it stat rape, and I have what I need to see charges pressed. The evidence is in there. Keep it. I have copies."
"This is bullshit," he says. "She told me she was eighteen."
"You can explain that to the police. Six o'clock, Graham. Better pack fast."
As I drive, I grip the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking. I haven't threatened Graham with that file before because it's 50 percent bullshit. When Diana left Graham, one of the reasons was that she suspected he'd fooled around with Britnee. I'd contacted Britnee ... who'd told me to go to hell. If I did take the case to the police, she'd deny everything.
When my phone rings, I look down to see Private Caller, and I'm sure it's Graham calling my bluff. I steel myself and hit Answer on my Bluetooth.
"Detective Duncan? It's Stefan." A pause. "Stefan Ricci?" His voice rises, as if he's uncertain of his own name.
"Yes?"
"I want to talk more about the, uh, victim interview. You brought her right around, and I..." A strained chuckle. "I have no idea how to do that. I mentioned drinks earlier, and I didn't get a chance to ask again, so I'm asking now. I just finished my shift. Can I take you out? To talk about, uh, your interview techniques."
I stifle a sigh. You seem like a sweet kid, Ricci. Really you do. And I'd be more than happy to discuss interview techniques with you. But that's not what you're asking, is it?
"I need to meet a friend for dinner," I say, which is technically true.
"Oh, okay. Maybe after? Or--"
"How about coffee tomorrow? At the Grounds."
It's the shop right beside the station, which means this will be business only, and his voice drops as he says, "Uh, I guess so?"
"Totally up to you. If you want to, just pop by my desk."
I sign off and turn on CBC, hoping to distract myself. It's midway through a story about one woman's hike across Alaska, and as I listen, I imagine myself doing that, and I'm swept away by a feeling that is so normal for others and so rare for me--that little thing called daydreaming.
I pull into the station's underground lot and park my Honda. It's the first car I bought, almost a decade ago, and it was well used when I got it. The guys in the department prod me to buy something newer, safer, with air bags and ABS brakes. It's not like I can't afford it. My parents left me with a seven-figure bank account. But the car r
uns. When it doesn't, I'll replace it.
I get about five steps when I realize someone's watching me from the shadows. I don't see him. Don't even hear him. I just know he's there.
I stop mid-stride and take a long, slow survey of my surroundings. On the return sweep, I spot an arm poking from behind a van. Then, slowly, the arm withdraws, the figure vanishing entirely.
I walk toward the van until I can see him through the window. The image is blurry, but I can tell it's a guy. Late twenties. Short, curly dark hair. Looks Italian. Also looks familiar.
"Ricci?" I say.
He drops from sight as if ducking.
"Hey!" I say. "If that's you, Ricci, this really isn't the way to get my--"
I hear a scuffle and realize, three seconds too late, that he didn't just duck--he bolted. I jog after him, but when I get to the exit, there's no sign of anyone. I shake my head and continue up to the station.
FIVE
At seven, I call Graham's hotel, and I'm told he checked out early. That's a good sign, but I still don't dare spend the night with Kurt. I really need a break, though, and Diana's going stir-crazy enough in my apartment that she agrees to a drink at Kurt's bar.
Kurt doesn't seem happy to see me. The looks he keeps shooting me suggest he has something to say and I realize what's coming. The point of having a regular hookup is the "regular" part, and I've been too busy to hold up my end and as nice a guy as he is, he's decided it's time to move on.
"Just a sec," I say to Diana, who's on her second lemon drop. "I'm going to talk to Kurt."
She drains her glass and wordlessly hands it to me. I take it to Kurt.
"Everything okay?" I whisper as I slide onto a bar stool.
He shrugs and makes the lemon drop. Then he says, "If I knew you were coming by, I'd have told you not to."
I force myself to say, "Okay," as casually as I can. "So would you like me to just ... stop coming by, then?"
"Huh?" He searches my face, frowning, and then says, "You think that's a kiss-off? Hell, no." He leans forward, his forearms on the bar, his face coming down to mine. "I'd like to think I'd do that with a little more class."
"Sorry," I make a face. "Rough week. I'm braced for the worst."
"Well, this isn't it."
His fingers hook mine, a discreet bit of physical contact. "When I said I'd have told you not to come by, it's because I got a couple calls earlier. A guy phoned the bar and asked for me by a name I don't use anymore."
From the old days, he meant. Kurt had grown up in the kind of neighbourhood where making a name for yourself almost certainly entailed jail time. He'd dropped out of high school and worked as an enforcer for a local "businessman." After his second stint in prison, he cleaned up his act before a third strike stole his last chance.
"Someone trying to pull you back in?" I ask.
"Dunno. Can't imagine why. I've been out too long, but maybe someone got my name, figured I might be tired of the straight life, looking to make some fast money. I said I don't know anyone who goes by that name anymore. Hour later, I get the same call to my cell. I delivered the same message. That's why I was going to suggest you stay away for a few days. Give me time to sort this. I don't want you getting involved."
"I'm a cop. I can handle it."
"Right. You're a cop ... which is why we've been keeping this on the down-low." He casts a meaningful glance over at a table of detectives in the corner. "You don't need the bullshit of dating an ex-con. I get that."
"Umm, no," I say. "If I'm discreet, it's because I'm always discreet. I save my energy for private displays of affection."
His grin sparks then. "Which I totally appreciate."
"Glad to hear it. However, if you want, I could make an exception right now."
I reach and wrap my hand in his shirt. He grins but shakes his head and jerks his chin toward the back hall. I lead him into the single-occupancy ladies' room and show him how much I've missed him. It doesn't go beyond kissing, though. A quickie in the bathroom isn't our style. Given that he might not want me coming by for a while, though, I consider making an exception. When I tell him this, he chuckles.
"If you're okay dealing with my shit, you can come by any time you like."
He leans into me. I'm sitting on the counter, my legs around him, and he presses closer, murmuring, "No pressure, but ... what are my chances for tomorrow?"
"About fifty-fifty. Diana--"
He cuts me off with a kiss, a deep one that makes me temporarily forget what we're talking about.
"Your friend's having trouble," he says. "She comes first. But if you can get away tomorrow, I promise I'll take your mind off that ... and everything else that's bugging you. I'd like your phone number, though. Again, not pushing, but I should have it in case there's a problem."
I'm about to ask if he lost my number ... and then realize I never gave it to him. We've been seeing each other for six months and I never got around to that. Shit. I pull out my phone. "Give me yours."
"Um, pretty sure I did already. Twice."
The first night I came by, with some guys from work, Kurt left his number on my napkin. I hadn't kept it. I returned a week later, though, and he gave it to me again after I spent the night. At the time, I still hadn't been prepared to save it, and then ... well ...
When I'm slow to answer, he shakes his head and rattles it off. I text him my cell number, work number, and home address. His phone buzzes in his back pocket. When he reads the message, he grins like I've handed him the keys to my apartment, my car, and my safe deposit box.
I see that grin, and I feel a prickle of guilt. I tell myself we keep things casual by mutual agreement. We both have busy, complicated lives. If he doesn't get annoyed when I don't make contact for a week, that only proves he feels the same way I do. Or that he's a sweetheart of a guy who's taking what he can get. What I can give.
"About Diana," I say as I slide off the counter. "It's an ex who hasn't accepted that he's an ex. He's been quiet for months, but he made contact again yesterday. That's why I had to take off last night. She told me while we were here."
"This guy have a name?" Kurt doesn't actually flex his biceps--he'd never be so trite--but he shifts, muscles bunching, telling me exactly what he has in mind.
"Tempting..." I murmur.
"Just give me a name. He doesn't understand it's over? I can drive home the message."
"I bet you could. And after dealing with this asshole for years, I'd almost pay to watch."
"Oh, you wouldn't have to pay." A devilish grin. "Not in cash, anyway."
"You have no idea how much I'd like that. The problem is that it would only piss him off, and he'd take it out on her. I'm working on another resolution."
"All right. But if you need muscle for the job, you now have my number. Day or night, I'll be there."
I'm back at the table. I expect Diana to comment, but she barely seems to have noticed I left. When I deposit her third lemon drop, she reaches for it as if it's been there all along. After a sip, she says, "Graham called this afternoon. He said he had to fly back early and wouldn't be able to do dinner. Not that I'd agreed to dinner..."
She stares across the room, her eyes unfocused.
"That's good, right?" I say tentatively. "That he left?"
She blinks hard before forcing a humourless laugh. "Yes, sorry. Did that sound like regret? Absolutely not. I was just thinking..." She turns to me. "Is it ever going to end, Casey? He only has to call, and I'm in lockdown again. Do you know what I did today? Checked my life insurance. I wanted to be sure it was paid up so you wouldn't be on the hook if anything happened. Can you believe I even thought that? Me? Miss Happy-Go-Lucky?" Her fingers tighten on the glass. "Not so happy these days. Definitely not so lucky."
"How about a vacation?" I ask. "God knows, I've got a shitload of time banked."
She nods, absently, and I struggle to think of "fun" things to do, but it's like asking a pastry chef to fix a broken carburetor. My idea of a holida
y is the guy behind the bar.
"I keep thinking about this place," she blurts. "And don't laugh, okay? Because I know it sounds crazy, and maybe it just proves how desperate I am. But in my therapy group, there's this woman I have coffee with, and we talk about our escape plans, what we'd do if things got too bad. She has a place she'd go."
"A cabin or something?"
"No, a town. For people who need to disappear. A place where no one can find them."
"Like an underground railway for abuse victims?"
"For anyone in trouble. It's an entire town of people who've disappeared."
I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Di, but that sounds like a classic urban legend. Think about it. An invisible town? In today's world, you're never really off the grid. How would a place like that work? The economy, the security..."
"I'm not saying I believe in it. The point is that it proves how far I've fallen, Case. I can't stop thinking about it. Obsessing over it. Telling myself maybe, just maybe, it could be real."
"It isn't," I say. "Now, if you want to talk real strategies and escape plans, we can do that. But no fantasy bullshit. It's a real problem; it needs a real solution."
SIX
Everything goes fine the next day. Ricci stops by and takes me up on that offer of coffee, and he's all business. I don't mention the parking garage. If it was him, he must have just been trying to work up the nerve to ask for a drink again and changed his mind.
As for Graham, all is silent. I insist on Diana spending another night at my place, but I don't see the need to stay with her.
When I walk into the bar that night, Kurt's washing glasses. He squints against the dim lighting to be sure it's me. Then he smiles, puts down the glass, and has a shot of tequila poured before I reach the bar.
He doesn't say anything. I down the shot and let him pour another. Someone hails him across the room, and he slings the dish towel over his shoulder and walks off, leaving me to take my second shot, slower now, as the burn takes hold.
We barely exchange a dozen words over the next hour. Usually, if I'm here without Diana, we talk. How's work? How's life? Did you see the forecast calls for rain all week? Yep, deep conversation. That's no reflection on Kurt. He's joked that we only have one thing in common: I arrest people and he's been arrested.
Tonight he can tell I'm not in the mood for chatter, and he takes no offence at that, letting me sip my tequila in silence.
City of the Lost Page 3
