Devoted

by Tess Oliver

  "Well, we wanted to make this as convenient for Detective Tennyson as possible." Dr. Renfrew smiles primly my direction. "Are you enjoying your stay at the beach? I understand you're in a little house right on the water."

  "Yes, Detective Maddox—" The man you have banished temporarily from my life, I want to add but don't. "His uncle has a cozy little place in Sunset Cove. It's been very nice. Definitely a hundred steps up from the rehab facility."

  Clark clears his throat. "Well, I'll let you all get to business. I've arranged for an Uber driver to pick you up here in four hours and take you back to the beach house." Doctors are controlling my life and the one in the charge of my rehabilitation has not given me permission to drive yet.

  "Four hours," I say, not hiding my dismay. "Wow, I could just about recite my entire life story in four hours. Good thing there are baked goods." I walk to the pastry box and pluck out a lemon Danish. I pick up one of the napkins and give it a good shake before placing it under the pastry. "Like Captain Clark says, let's get down to business."

  Clark is so anxious to leave he doesn't even grab a pastry for the road.

  "Anyone else want one before I close the box?" I ask.

  "No, thank you," Dr Renfrew says. Mr. Winter is more of a head shaker.

  He picks up two chairs that I can only assume the motel has provided and positions them near his chair under the air conditioner. He also picks up one of the napkins to blot his forehead. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm from Colorado. I'm not used to the heat here in California. I wasn't expecting this motel room situation." There's just enough bitterness in his tone to assure me he did a nice bit of complaining when Clark showed him the room.

  "Why don't you take off your coat?" I say. "I see no need for so much formality. Besides, I won't tell anyone." I wink.

  Dr. Renfrew has fallen noticeably silent, but I can feel her watching me as I take a seat. It seems she's doing her psychiatry thing and assessing me before we get into the nitty gritty stuff. Most of which will stay tucked tightly in my head.

  Mr. Winter takes my advice and removes his coat. His shirt is stuck to him. He wipes his forehead again. I grow more convinced with each passing minute that he will make sure our sessions are short and that we wrap this up fast. I'm feeling probably a little too at ease, feeling a little too much as if I have the upper hand, as I casually munch my pastry. And I'm right.

  Mr. Winter, feeling somewhat revived by shedding his coat, sits back against the chair. "Detective Tennyson," he pauses. "Since we'll be engaged in long conversations, may I call you Angie? I don't mind if you call me Winter."

  "Sure, Winter." I take special care to say his name. He's using my first name but I'm stuck with the surname. It feels like a control tactic but I let it go.

  "Great." He wipes his head again. "Angie, I specialize in helping people who have been held captive by a cult. Particularly people who were subjected to narcotics and mind control drugs."

  The lemon pastry catches in my throat. I hold up a finger. "Just a second." I walk to the table knowing they are exchanging expert glances as they watch me toss the rest of the pastry on the table and pick up a bottle of water. Rather than drink it, what I really want to do is pour it over my head to cool the rage. I gulp some back to take away the dryness in my throat and return to the chair.

  "With all due respect, Mr. Winter, I don't know why they sent you to question me. I was never in a cult or kidnapped or controlled by narcotics. I know the last one is a big stretch on the truth but I don't give a fuck. I'm too mad.

  Winter reaches back to the coat he hung on his chair and pulls out a small tape recorder. "Do you mind if we tape everything? It's easier than writing it all down."

  "If it gets us out of here faster, tape away."

  I can feel proper Dr. Renfrew growing quiet like stone, taking it all in, most likely already categorizing me as uncooperative and snarky. Or maybe doctors don't use snarky. Snide possibly.

  Winter pushes the button on his early century tape recorder. Looks like one of the first ones made after cassette tapes went out of style. "Angie, I think we can both agree that you just spent time in the hospital and a rehab facility dealing with severe withdrawals from a highly addictive drug, a narcotic, according to the doctors familiar with your case."

  I nod. He motions to the tape recorder.

  "Yes." I make a point of talking to the recorder.

  "Let's start from the beginning," he continues. "According to Captain Clark you volunteered for this assignment. Were there certain aspects of it that intrigued you?" I've sat in court rooms enough to recognize a leading question. Cult expert, my ass. This guy is either from the Drug Enforcement Agency or Internal Affairs.

  "I think you'll have to make yourself clearer. What do you mean about certain aspects?" I counter. New beads of sweat. He wipes his forehead.

  He pauses to think of the right phrase. "I'm sure by the time you volunteered for the assignment you knew vaguely that Lace Underground was a club focused on drugs and sex. Was that of particular interest?"

  I glance at Renfrew to see if she's as stunned as me. She's wearing her psych poker face.

  "I'm a detective who specializes in drug crimes. Sex crimes generally go hand in hand with them. So I wouldn't call it a particular interest. I'd call it part of my job. Two men were murdered and a young woman was found dead in a dumpster. The three victims seemed connected to Lace Underground. I went undercover to make sure no more bodies showed up."

  Winter picks up a file folder that's sitting under the chair. He opens it and scans the papers inside. "You started your assignment by posing as a homeless girl, a nineteen-year-old who was down on her luck. Tawny Smith. Is that right?"

  "Yes." His question pushes my mind back to the stunning information Silvana uncovered about Kane. Homeless women. His monster of a dad preyed on them. They were his victims. Kane gave money and food and shelter to them. And drugs, I remind myself before I give him a saint's crown.

  "Angie," Winter's voice pierces my silent revelation.

  "Miss Tennyson, did you hear the question?" Dr. Renfrew asks.

  "No, I'm sorry." She seems to make a mental note, something about interviewee is highly distractible, no doubt.

  Winter straightens some. "Did you have any form of addiction before you started the undercover assignment?"

  I blink at him a few seconds, trying to decide whether I actually heard the fucking question. My money is now on Internal Affairs. "Do three cups of coffee and a donut a day count as an addiction?"

  His lips draw out in a thin line. It seems he's not into my form of humor. "Alcohol and drugs, either prescribed or illegal were not a problem?"

  "No," I say firmly. No wonder four hours have been scheduled for this sideshow. It already feels like a week has passed and we haven't even gotten to my time underground.

  "Let's jump ahead." Apparently he's feeling the same slow motion time pass as me. "How did a highly skilled detective manage to get herself drugged, kidnapped and taken to an underground complex?" It's firm in my head now. Winter was sent by IA and the good doctor is there more as a witness to make sure I don't come back at him with any harassment claims. The weeks of withdrawal have left me still somewhat paranoid but I'm certain this is no conspiracy formulating in my head.

  "You jumped ahead. Now let's jump back. In case you missed it, although that's hard to accept because you read it right from your little info packet." I flick my chin toward the folder in his hands. "I was undercover. I was no longer a highly skilled detective. I was a runaway with a tragic past trying to survive. Left my gun and badge behind and everything. They clashed with the young girl braids in my hair."

  I'm pushing all his buttons, but I have to hand it to him, other than the occasional shift of his posture and the disgusting sweat stains forming in his arm pits, he's staying calm. Did Clark fucking know who these experts were? There are only two possible answers. I decide to stick with no. I refuse to think Clark would do anything this shitty
without warning me.

  "How did you manage to get yourself into such a seemingly hopeless predicament? How did you become Freestone's prisoner?"

  "Do you mean how did Tawny Smith, the innocent street kid, fall for the old trick of delicious food, a warm shower and clean clothes? Actually, I think my answer is in my counter-question."

  His nostrils flare. It seems I've pushed the last button. "Let's get something straight, Detective Tennyson, your department was left with an enormous medical bill along with the ridiculous budget needed to send another detective in after you, since you didn't seem inclined to leave."

  "So that is what it's all about? Money? It's always the money. Look, the medical staff at the hospital were very nice, especially the nurses, but frankly, they didn't do much except make sure I didn't scratch my skin off. I could have gotten through this on my own. They made me go to the hospital. And it sure isn't my fault that in our out of control healthcare system hospitals charge five thousand dollars for an aspirin."

  Winter gets up abruptly. I sit back as a precaution. He walks over to the table and gets a bottle of water and offers one to his quiet assistant. She says no. I didn't think she looked like the kind of person to drink from a bottle.

  He guzzles half of it in one shot and returns to the chair looking no less refreshed. He picks up the folder, drops it on his lap and lifts his face. His eyes are a muted gunmetal gray, an unfriendly color. "In a preliminary statement, you said the women you were living with at the makeshift tent city were picked up on a deserted street corner and driven in a windowless van to a warehouse. Who drove the van?"

  "Don't think I ever learned his name. A big guy with tribal tattoos on his arms. Freestone had several loyal bodyguards. I rarely saw the van driver. There was this guy called Rowan. He was pretending to be homeless, living amongst us at the park. He seemed to be the person on the outside choosing the women."

  His ears perk up like a dog's. "Choosing them for what?"

  He's waiting for me to drop some tantalizing, lascivious details but I stunt his anticipation with the plain truth. "He chooses the women who get to attend the party. The ones who get to have a delicious hot meal, a warm shower and their clothes laundered. There was also a parting gift of shampoo and essentials, like soap and toothpaste." It's been several long harrowing months but some of the details are coming back to me. "I couldn't see out of the van, but I think we were somewhere near the coast, somewhere near here. It was a big empty warehouse and the front offices had been transformed into a large room for parties and a massive bathroom."

  "So the women were expected to bathe or shower?" He was very focused on finding out the dirty details.

  "Yes. They were provided with as much shampoo and soap as they wanted. Clean dresses to wear afterward."

  "Did you join the other women?"

  I lean back hoping it will relax me and make me look less defensive. Even though I'm feeling pretty fucking defensive. "I'd been living at the park for several days using the restroom sink to wash. Frankly, the hot shower and soap was heaven."

  "Did Freestone and his bodyguards watch the women shower?"

  I glance over at Dr. Renfrew. Her lips are pursed. She's trying her hardest not to show a reaction or judgment.

  I turn back to Winter. It seems so long ago but my mind wanders back to that first night, the night I entered Lace Underground. It was the same night Kane Freestone saw through my undercover routine when I looked into the one way mirror. I saw his eyes for the first time that night. And he saw me. It was the first time we exchanged glances.

  "Yes," I say quietly. "They weren't in the room with us but I noticed some of the vanities in the bathrooms had one way mirrors."

  "So they watched the women shower?" he asks again.

  "If they were sitting behind the mirrors, then I suppose they were watching. To be honest, I think they were watching because they were looking for women to join Lace Underground."

  He wipes his brow. "I appreciate your cooperation, Angie. It seems we got off to a rocky start. This doesn't have to be aggravating or hard. Just trying to get to the facts so we can help bring down Freestone."

  His new conciliatory tone, like we're buddies now, is grating. I just need to get through a few more hours with him.

  "So after the women showered?" he asks.

  "We were led into a room set up for a party, music, great food, even some decorations."

  "How many women?"

  "Maybe thirty."

  "All from the streets and shelters?"

  "Far as I know, yes."

  "And how many were taken to Lace Underground with you?"

  I shook my head. "Just me."

  His eyes widen. "Just you? I don't understand. Out of all the women at the party, Freestone chose you?"

  A laugh shoots from my mouth. "Why, that is hardly insulting at all. Maybe you could add just a touch more disbelief to your tone."

  His face darkens but it's not anger. "Of course, I didn't mean it that way. You're a very attractive—" He stops, apparently deciding he's stepping into weird territory. "It's just that there were so many women but Freestone only took one with him." He wisely moves on to another line of questions. One that I would prefer to avoid. "Were the women given any drugs or alcohol at the party?"

  "There was champagne," I say lightly. He's waiting for more. "It contained some of the drug, a small dose. I had no idea and drank a glass of champagne. The effects hit me pretty hard."

  He opens the folder. "Is that the drug the women call nectar?"

  I nod and he reminds me of the tape recorder. "Yes, it was a small dose of nectar."

  "We'll talk more about nectar in future sessions. Let's get to your first meeting with Freestone. So what happened as the other women left the party?"

  "Rowan, the guy who picked the women from shelters and tent cities told me to come with him. He led me to a room filled with security equipment, computers, the visible side of the mirrors. Then he went to get Mr. Freestone." My purposeful attempt at leaving out details doesn't escape his notice.

  "You were left on your own in the room? Did you check out any of the security footage or snoop through their computer data? You were, after all, on an undercover assignment."

  I have no choice but to add in details. Otherwise, I look pretty fucking incompetent. "My hands were tied behind my back and I was wearing a blindfold. I was alone only for a few minutes, then someone entered. Freestone entered."

  "What happened next?"

  I glance at the heavy curtains over the window. They are shut. Sunlight is trying its hardest to get past them. "He asked me to drink more champagne."

  "And did you?"

  "I said no at first. He was going to send me out with the other girls. I knew that meant I would never get into Lace Underground. My assignment would be an epic fail so I took some sips."

  "And then what?"

  I'd been so resolute about not telling intimate or embarrassing details but something tells me Winter will know when I'm lying or when I'm withholding. This time I avoid any eye contact with the prim Dr. Renfrew. "He undressed me." The moment I say it, I think about how erotic those few moments were in the security room. It was the champagne I tell myself. But I'm convinced some of my reaction was natural. Freestone knew what he was doing. He seemed to know exactly what I wanted, what I fantasized about. For those months underground, he worked hard to fulfill those fantasies.

  My succinct answer seems to bother Winter. He closes the folder on his lap. "Detective Tennyson, can I be frank?"

  "Jeez, more frank than you have been?"

  "First, I'm not pleased with these motel room arrangements and it's hot as hell. We've got a lot of territory to cover in the coming weeks."

  The words 'coming weeks' lodge in my throat. I don't bother to say them out loud. "This could get old quick, eh?"

  "To say the least. We have a good idea of what went on in Lace Underground. There is Detective Maddox's report. He left big gaps in details surro
unding your captivity in the underground. Intentionally, I assume. An instinctual need to protect you, it seems. But we have information from another source."

  "Another source?"

  "One of the club members was recently arrested for tax evasion along with a few other 'rich man' crimes. He faces some significant time in prison."

  "Rich man's prison," I interject.

  "Yes but he's agreed to cooperate in the case against Freestone for a reduced sentence. He's given investigators copious details about the secret club, the women, the drugs. Enough salacious stuff to put Freestone away for a long time."

  "But you don't have Freestone." I can hear the tease in my voice but I can't stop it. I don't think they'll ever catch him. Kane is always one step ahead of everyone else. It shouldn't make me secretly happy but it does. I just need to make sure I don't show it to sweaty Mr. Winter.

  "Not yet. Anyhow, that is not my department. I'm here to find out everything that happened to you and all the information you uncovered during your assignment. And Dr. Renfrew agrees with me that telling the story will also help you."

  "Not sure how much help it'll be for me. Seems you know the answers to everything already."

  "But we need to hear it from you."

  "Yeah, I got that. Ask away."

  He finishes the last sips of water in his bottle and sets it on the faded carpet beneath his chair. Winter looks straight at me. "Our cooperating witness mentioned that in the last few months Freestone was keeping one of the new women for his own pleasure. A woman with red hair."

  My body stiffens. I'm silent as I wait for him to continue.

  "Was that you, Angie? Did Mr. Freestone keep you prisoner for his own pleasure."

  "No," I say at first but then explain. "I mean, yes, I was the woman with red hair. But I wasn't his prisoner. Willing captive. I was his willing captive."