by R. H. Herron
“Who?” He looked honestly confused.
“Do you have her?”
“What? Have who? What’s going on?”
Laurie knew him. She’d worked with him for how many years? He didn’t know or have Harper—she could see it from the bewilderment in his eyes. The link was Kevin Leeds. He was their only link. It had to be CapB. They’d done all of this.
But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. The switch had flipped in her head, and heat filled her with a silty rush, a tide she couldn’t hold back. Even if Dixon didn’t know anything, someone did, maybe someone he knew. She poked her finger into his chest and felt the give of muscle. No bulletproof vest. He was turkey bacon, a fake pig. She lowered her voice to the growl she’d used on the street on bad days. “If you have her, or if you know where she is and you’re not telling me, I’ll kill you.” She meant the words that came out thick and guttural.
He raised his palms and backed up farther. “What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? With me?”
In her peripheral vision, she saw the clerk reach for his phone.
Laurie panted a hot breath. She wanted to hit Dixon. She needed to. Her fingers curled into fists. She protected her thumbs.
And Dixon saw her do it. He’d always been a better cop than she had. He kept his hands up, the universal I-don’t-want-trouble signal. “I swear, Laurie, I only want to help. Let me know how I can help you.”
The switch in her head flipped back.
Laurie was physically and verbally threatening a security guard in an ill-fitting uniform in a liquor store that smelled like piss and spilled beer. The clerk had probably already dialed 911.
Fuck.
She grabbed the bottle and ran.
THIRTY-THREE
LAURIE HAD BEEN right about the parking lot—when she pulled up, there were already more than thirty other cars pulled onto the gravel. Someone had brought a long folding table, and it was covered with bottles, mostly tequila, Ramsay’s favorite.
She parked and tried to calm her breathing. Her face still felt hot, and her limbs were weak.
She could do this. Someone here knew something.
A roar went up when she got out of her car. “All hail the chief’s wife!” yelled Linus, a sergeant who’d been demoted for sleeping with a parking tech and lying about it.
She took a red Solo cup from Mark Colson. “Thanks.” The sip of scotch burned, boiling its way down her throat.
Colson stepped nearer, his boots crunching against the gravel. “How’s Omid?”
“Okay.”
“I’m going by in the morning to check on him. Anything I can bring?”
Shit, Laurie hadn’t even thought about the department visiting. They’d sent another bouquet of flowers, but no one had come by during the day, probably because they thought he was still in the ICU. They’d start coming by tomorrow for sure. “Mark, he’s forgotten everything that happened leading up to the first heart attack.”
Colson frowned. “Everything? You sure?”
“Jojo. Leeds. The murder. Harper Cunningham. And we want it to stay like that. For now, anyway. He can’t be stressed out again. He has to heal.” Knowing that his own department was full of pedophiles and possibly a killer/kidnapper wouldn’t help.
“I’ll pass it on to everyone. Should we wait on visits until we get the all-clear from you?”
“Can you? That would be great.” That was what she should have done when she was in dispatch this afternoon, sent an all-department memo: Don’t talk to my husband, any of you, and this goes double for you pieces of shit who fucked Harper Cunningham.
Pieces of shit.
She’d never thought of them like that before.
Heinz Tollis had crocheted a baby blanket for Jojo when she was born. Laurie’d been astonished. He’d compared his crocheting to Rosey Grier’s needlepoint, saying that it kept him calm. Sherm Naumann ran the model-airplane club of San Bernal and spent most of his weekends teaching low-income kids how to build and paint and fly the planes. Yarwood, of course, was a pain in the ass, but he coached Little League and had never missed his team’s games, trading time with other cops and paying them back relatively uncomplainingly.
Laurie would have sworn they were men who wouldn’t sleep with a child, who would fight for justice for the victimized.
“You okay?” Colson’s face creased with concern. “How’s our girl?”
Their girl? The department’s girl? Heat flashed up Laurie’s neck. What if those guys had looked at Jojo the same way they’d looked at Harper? Not important right now. Take a breath.
“You’re lead on the Harper Cunningham case, right? How’s that going?” Tell him what you know. He should know.
He gave a sigh and took a sip of his drink. “Not good. Parents seem mostly legit, the mom is losing her shit and the stepdad seems honestly upset. But he has a prior for underage sex, did you know that?”
“No, what?” Andy Cunningham had a prior? Fuck.
“Not too big a deal. He was twenty-five and she was seventeen—her parents pushed the charge, not the girl. Tracked her down, and she confirmed it was consensual.”
Relief trickled through Laurie. “He’s a good guy. We’ve known him for a long time. You should have seen him yesterday.” She reached up and put her thumb against the deep ravine that ran between Colson’s eyebrows. “You didn’t have this years ago.”
He smiled self-consciously. “Twenty pounds and twenty years later.”
Laurie suddenly remembered the way his mouth had fit hers. Their bodies had never really worked out—the sex had been awkward, banging limbs and knees—but the kissing had always been nice. And he’d always been one of those good exes. They’d parted friends and stayed friends.
“You okay, L?” The crease on Mark’s face grew even more pronounced. “Dumb question. I know you’re not.” He turned to the side and drew her into a one-armed hug. “Fucking fuck. Am I right?”
“Fucking fuck,” she agreed.
“We’ll find her. We’re doing everything we can.”
The words fell from her mouth. “No you’re not.”
“Laurie!”
She spread out her hands. “You’re here. Drinking.” And what if—what if he were another one of the guys who knew Harper?
“Dude. I just spent seventeen hours on shift.”
“I once did twenty-six straight on a 261.” It wasn’t a competition. She was being a dick—she knew it and couldn’t stop.
Colson opened his mouth to speak. His brows drew in. Then he snapped his mouth closed and spun on his heel. He held out his cup toward the rookie who was pouring.
Laurie’s shoulders slumped as she stood alone. He deserved a goddamned break—of course he did.
The smell of lighter fluid filled the air as Linus tried to start a small hibachi. Laurie inhaled sharply, the acidic tang stinging her lungs. Tall eucalyptus swayed on the edges of the lot, and the moon winked on and off through the fingers of fog rolling in.
Sarah Knight came up and hugged her. “Hey, you. How are you doing?”
Laurie’s eyes burned. “Okay.”
Sarah arched an eyebrow. She wore a black Raiders T-shirt and black sweats. “Really?”
It was the hand Sarah placed on Laurie’s shoulder that let the words come. “I’m a wreck.”
Sarah rubbed her back and clinked plastic cups with her. “Drink up, my friend.”
“I’m sorry my daughter broke into your jail.”
“Good. She told you.”
“She said you were going to if she didn’t.”
Sarah shrugged. “Eh. I didn’t actually know what to do, so it’s nice she took care of that for me.”
“How did she get through?”
“Dumb luck. We had a spitter in the sally port the very second
she chose to let herself in. Otherwise there’s always one of us in the control room, you know that.”
“That girl.”
“She’s something. How is she?”
Laurie took another taste of the fiery scotch. Not normally her drink of choice, but she could see how it grew on people. “Hanging in there.” Her throat tightened again.
“Leeds has a lawyer fighting to get the bail amount.”
The idea of the man being out, on the street again, in her town, made Laurie grind her teeth. If Leeds were with someone else at his house, if that person had killed Zach and still had Harper, then they had to hold Leeds until he talked. “I assumed he would.” But what if Jojo was right, that Kevin Leeds didn’t do anything, if the person that had Harper was a cop . . . ?
“Hell of a thing,” said Sarah. “Anything on the missing girl? I mean, I know you haven’t been at work, and if you don’t want to talk about it . . .”
“Mark Colson’s running lead on that one. I know that her parents are panicked. We all are.”
“Media’s on it, did you see?”
Laurie nodded. She’d seen the vans outside the station, but she’d exited by the side door. White girl hurt, another one missing, black guy dead, infamous black superstar athlete at the middle of all of it—it was on the front page of every local paper now, and by tomorrow it would hit the major media channels. Total strangers would know about the rape, and at some point, Jojo would be outed as the victim. It was only going to get worse. “Yeah. I’ve got to keep Jojo away from all that somehow.”
Sarah touched her shoulder lightly. “I can’t imagine.”
“I don’t think I can do this, Sarah.” The words felt torn from her throat. Over Sarah’s shoulder Laurie saw Ben Bradcoe pull up in his Lexus. He’d been on the list. Laurie’d seen his dick on a sixteen-year-old’s phone. He’d be easier to talk to if she reached him before he got out of his car. She shuffled her feet, trying to get her legs to follow her commands.
Sarah grabbed her hand. “You can do this. You’ll get through it. They’ll figure it out. You’re going to be okay. So are Omid and Jojo—”
“Yeah, well, what if they’re not? What if I do something wrong and screw it all up and we don’t get Harper back and never find out who—I wish I could tell what we—” Laurie swallowed the rest, shoving the words back down her throat along with the clog of emotion that threatened to rise. She wanted to show Sarah the photos, the texts. But that would put Sarah in the position of having to work with the men when not much was known, when they didn’t know anything yet. . . . Except that they’re wrong. They’re criminals. “I have to talk to Bradcoe.” She gestured with her chin to the Lexus.
“Honey, you’ve got us. You’ve got me.”
Every fiber in Laurie’s body was so tense that she thought strings might start to break, like on an overtightened guitar. “Thank you.”
Sarah raised her chin in greeting to Will Yarwood. “What’s up, Will?”
“Laurie!” Yarwood reached for a hug with his cocky chest thrust forward, but Laurie ducked away from his skinny arms. She wouldn’t let this man touch her, ever.
“Be right back,” she muttered.
She had to get to Bradcoe before he stepped into the light of the fire pit.
THIRTY-FOUR
THE GRAVEL CRUNCHED under her feet as she approached Bradcoe’s car. Almost six foot five, he was in the process of unfolding himself from it. He was blond and sweet and had apparently been a Mormon before falling in love with his wife, a Catholic woman named Lee who loved her religion more than he loved his. “Oh, my God, Laurie. Come here.” He wrapped her in a hug, Laurie’s nose hitting the middle of his chest. For one second, Laurie forgot what she’d been going to say and let herself be embraced.
Then she yanked herself backward, her breath coming fast.
Bradcoe tugged at his Cal sweatshirt. “We’re going to make it right. Somehow. That murderer can’t get away with doing that to our Jojo.”
Laurie had let him hug her. Jesus Christ. “Let’s get in your car.”
“What?”
“In your car. Before anyone comes over.”
He frowned but opened the door for her. “Laurie, if you need to cry, you don’t have to hide.”
Fuck him.
Inside the car he turned to her with a concerned expression, his blond eyebrows pulled together. He flipped on the overhead light, and Laurie knew exactly why—in about thirty seconds, a whisper would run through the parking-lot crowd. If they were in his car together in the dark? Guaranteed they were sleeping together. With the light on, they were just having a friendly chat. Probably.
“You slept with Harper Cunningham.”
Bradcoe’s jaw dropped, and he didn’t recover well. He stammered, “W-who?”
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I don’t know what—”
Without thinking Laurie kicked her foot up into the glove box. It broke open with the force and swung down, displaying his off-duty weapon. For one second the idea of picking it up and pointing it at him crossed her mind. Just to see what he did.
But she didn’t actually want to get arrested for brandishing, so she kicked it again to jam the glove box closed.
“Laurie . . .”
“There’s no excuse. There is nothing you can say to make this right.”
His face darkened. “What is it you think you know?”
“You sent her a dick pic.”
“Someone else must have done that.”
“From your phone?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“Does your dick have a mess of ugly freckles on one side?”
He paled. “All I know is that she’s a prostitute. That’s literally all I know.”
“She’s a child, not a prostitute. If she’s anything, she’s a sexually exploited minor. Exploited by men like you.”
He shook his head and folded his arms.
“You paid to fuck a child. You did, didn’t you? You know you’ll lose your job over this?” God, why was she pushing him, threatening him? What if he was the one who had Harper? What would he do to protect himself? She reached for the door handle.
He grabbed her elbow. “Laurie.”
“Do not touch me.” She shoved her body weight toward him and twisted so that she was free. She knew the same moves he did.
He held up his hands as if to say he wouldn’t try it again. “If Chief told you this much, he must have told you why we’re doing it this way.”
Her bones turned to immovable steel. She was stuck in place. Chief—What? “Go on.”
Bradcoe rubbed his palms together hard, back and forth. “It’s just that we haven’t gotten that far yet. With what she wants.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Chief said maybe her parents don’t even know. I guess you guys know them? Her parents?”
Pamela and Andy. God, what was going on? Laurie’s head felt like she’d hit it against something. Her thinking went fuzzy. “We know them.”
“So if she’s just threatening a lawsuit but hasn’t even told her parents, then maybe it’s something the department can handle quietly. You know? Without making it front-page news. He’s supposed to get the parents involved this week.”
Omid knew.
He knew?
“Uh-huh. What about the others?”
Bradcoe frowned. “Others? I swear to you, I don’t think anyone else knows. I went to Chief directly.”
He’d skipped all chain of command, then. Well, that’s what she would have done if she were a fucking child predator on a police force. “Ramsay.”
“Huh?”
“Ramsay was sleeping with her.”
She watched him go pale as pieces clicked together. “Oh, shit.”
“That’s why he killed himse
lf.” Laurie would never be able to prove it. But she knew it was true.
“Does he . . . What if he took her?”
“They checked. Doesn’t look like it. Unless he had her someplace else, but his cell records showed he’s been mostly at home or at A’s games.”
Bradcoe rubbed the lower half of his face. “I don’t know what to do.”
He didn’t know where Harper was. She could feel it in her gut. She’d learned to pay attention to that instinct on the street, where listening to a lie was like trying to put the wrong piece into a puzzle. It seemed like it would fit, all the edges looked right, but it just didn’t. She still used her intuition in dispatch—when she called back a 911 hang-up and heard the right words (Oh, sorry, my three-year-old playing with the phone) but still felt that gut kick, she’d announce to the room at large, “He sounded good, but there’s something wrong there.” Nine times out of ten, there was. Her gut was smarter than she was, and she knew by now to trust it.
Bradcoe didn’t know shit except that he was screwed.
“How about you go home. Tell your wife.”
He looked at Laurie blankly. “She’ll leave me.”
Bradcoe had been her friend. Years ago, when she and Jojo had both been incredibly sick with the flu and Omid had had to work a homicide, Bradcoe came over for the day. He held the five-year-old feverish Jojo while Laurie slept, and when he got the flu himself three days later, he just said he’d been looking forward to some time off work.
But she hardened herself against the face that she’d trusted up till now. “You should have thought about that before you slept with a child for money. Better you break it to your wife than she see it on the news. Tell her if Harper doesn’t show up soon, you’re going to be a suspect, too.”
She got out, her heart hurtling painfully inside her chest. He drove away, his lights still off. She headed for the fire.
“What was that about?” Frank Shepherd gave her another red cup, this one with at least three fingers of scotch in it. There were going to be some very drunk cops driving home tonight.
Laurie took a long sip and then gave the cup back. “I have to go check on Omid.” Her vocal cords felt wobbly, and she wasn’t sure if it was the liquor or the heat of her anger.
