Interference

by Danielle Girard

  Anywhere else, she might have walked out to the car by herself. As they crossed into the hallway, she was reminded how different his world was. Along one wall were doors, on the other, a single dingy window that looked onto a patch of dirt in front of the building where maybe, once, there had been grass. The air was cold and the hallway dark but for a single bulb behind glass that was blackened with dust but miraculously unbroken. He led her down the corridor and into another hallway where the light hadn’t been so lucky. Slowly, the light behind them faded away until the light pollution from the city’s surrounding buildings and a few early stars cast shadows in the darkness. She stayed close to him as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A door opened behind her and she turned back to look. Nothing there. She stumbled to catch up as they came around the corner. He dropped her hand and pushed her.

  She squinted in the darkness. His expression startled her. “What is it?”

  Glass crashed. A grunt. Then he was no longer beside her.

  She screamed and reached out, but he wasn’t there. She called his name. She huddled against the wall and fumbled in her purse for her phone. His hands were tight on her shoulders. No, not his hands. These hands gripped too tight. He twisted and she fought to break free. He launched her forward as she caught sight of a dark brown, angry eyes. Familiar eyes. “What—”

  The black flashed brown as he threw her from his grip. She reached out, hand caught in her purse strap. The stairs rushed toward her. Cement closed in. An explosion and blackness.

  Chapter 2

  It was almost nine p.m. when Sex Crimes Inspector Jamie Vail snatched the phone off her desk. She caught it before the Dr. Dre ringtone could play all the way through. Every time it rang, she reminded herself to ask her son to change it to “Brave” or maybe “Roar.” Something empowering, and by a woman. Something that might make a victim feel a little stronger. Something more acceptable for a thirty-nine-year-old sex crimes inspector. “Vail,” she said.

  “It’s Maxi.”

  Maxi Thomas was the trauma nurse Jamie worked with most often at San Francisco General Hospital. For almost fifteen years, the two of them had worked side by side on some of Jamie’s worst rape cases. When Maxi called, it only meant one thing. “We’ve got another one.” Jamie grabbed her blazer off the back of the chair. She glanced at the paperwork scattered across her desk that she’d promised herself she’d clear today. “Where?”

  “Sixteen years old. Came into General about seven-forty. Her parents just arrived. I’ve talked to them, but they haven’t let me near her yet. Doctors are doing everything to protect the evidence. It should be intact.”

  Intact meant that no one had washed the girl’s body yet. Probably because her condition wasn’t stable enough. “Who brought her to the hospital?” Jamie asked.

  “Don’t know. Maybe a Good Samaritan who didn’t want to stick around. Or maybe the perp dropped her off.”

  That would be a first. “I’m on my way.”

  “I should warn you,” Maxi said, and Jamie recognized the tone.

  Jamie forced herself to keep moving. “It’s bad?”

  “She’s unconscious. Coma. They’re not sure she’ll make it.”

  “Drugged?” Jamie asked.

  “Head injury.”

  “We looking for a beater?”

  “Don’t think so,” Maxi said. “Looks like it might have been a fall. A little bruising on the wrists, so maybe a struggle.”

  “Are we sure it’s a sex crime?” Jamie asked.

  “The admitting doctor noted fluids. Tests came back positive for lycopodium.”

  Lycopodium was one of the powder-like substances used by condom manufacturers to keep the rolled-up latex from sticking to itself. “Which indicates she had sex,” Jamie said.

  “Safe sex, no less,” Maxi added.

  There was obviously more to the story. “But—”

  Maxi sighed. “But according to her parents, she’s a virgin.”

  “And, of course, every sixteen-year old tells her parents about her sex life. What did the doctor find?”

  “There are signs of trauma,” Maxi added. “Some tearing, bruises.”

  “Could indicate assault but could mean it was her first time,” Jamie said.

  “Right.”

  It was Jamie’s turn to sigh. “But the parents want us to treat it as a possible assault.”

  “They do,” Maxi confirmed. “And these are some particularly opinionated parents. With some serious pull.”

  Jamie pushed through her department’s door and headed for the stairwell. Since she’d stopped smoking, the stairs were her best ally in the never-ending war with her size six pants. If she could afford a new wardrobe of size eights, it would be enough to surrender. “What kind of pull?” Jamie asked.

  “The attending got a call from the mayor, requesting tightened security.”

  “The mayor’s office called?”

  “Not the office, Jamie. The mayor. No press, no outsiders. He also spoke to the head of security. All the video surveillance has already been sent to you guys. They think they caught the guy on film.”

  “Well, that’s good news.” Jamie jogged down the stairs. “Who are the parents?”

  “Gavin and Sondra Borden.”

  “I should know them?”

  “If you read the society papers you would. Her grandfather was the first black attorney in San Francisco. Gavin Borden joined the family practice. They have two daughters. Charlotte, our victim, is a junior at City Academy.”

  Jamie’s heart skipped a beat. City Academy. “That’s where Zephenaya goes, right?”

  “Yeah.” Her son was at City Academy on a scholarship. “I’ve never heard the name though, and Z’s a freshman, so junior girls are out of his league.”

  Maxi chuckled.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Jamie reached the station’s main floor, out of breath. Panting from the trip down the stairs. That was pathetic. She emerged into the hallway. Nodded to one of the crime scene techs she knew and a patrol officer who had helped her make an arrest a few weeks back. She caught the eye of an A.D.A. she didn’t want to talk to and ducked her head.

  She was about to cross through the department’s rear doors when her phone buzzed on her hip. She pulled it from the holster. “Vich,” she said. “You get a call from the lab? S.F. General sent over some surveillance footage.”

  Vich was the nickname given to Alexander Kovalevich when he’d been in the police academy thirty years ago. A Boston transfer, Vich had joined SFPD sex crimes about four months before. After the fallout from her divorce, Jamie had largely worked alone. Mostly because she was too surly for anyone to stand. At least until Vich.

  “I got it all right,” he confirmed.

  “I’m heading over to the hospital to try to get the parents to agree to a rape kit.”

  “You need to see this first,” he told her.

  Jamie groaned, thinking about climbing the stairs again. Swearing off the elevator had been plain stupid.

  “We got the perp dropping her off,” Vich said. “I’m in the lab with Blanchard.” With his Boston accent, he pronounced Sydney’s last name “Blanchud.”

  At least the lab was only one flight away instead of three. She tried to do it without panting. Only partially successful, she found Vich leaning against a table. Behind him, the lab’s fuming chamber was humming. It looked like they were trying to pull fingerprints off of a broken wine glass. At the other end of the table sat the evidence drying cabinet not currently in use.

  Sydney Blanchard stood over the shoulder of a lab tech who was frantically typing on a keyboard. “There,” she said, and the tech froze the image on the computer screen.

  It was a grainy shot of a man holding a woman in his arms. The victim’s feet were closest to the camera, making it hard to tell much abou
t her. Jamie studied his face, the way his head was turned. Something about his stance was familiar. She scanned her memory for the suspects she’d interviewed over the years. Hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand by now. “We can’t I.D. him from that,” Jamie said.

  “Can you enhance it?” Sydney asked the tech.

  The tech was already running commands. Slowly, the image crystallized. The screen went black. “It will reload and hopefully be something we can use.”

  The image built one tiny layer of pixels every few seconds. Jamie resisted the urge to sit down. The ping of a text message.

  DA wld b grt for Z. Not nearly as homogenous as CA. +C’s a grt town. A frsh start.

  Leave it to Tony to send a text in all sorts of shorthand and type out the word “homogenous.” No way he was taking Zephenaya when he moved to Cincinnati for the new teaching job. She didn’t care if Davidson Academy was a better school or more diverse. Staying with her was best for her son. And best for her. She tried not to think too hard on whether she was confusing the two things.

  On the computer screen, the top of the photo had appeared. In it was the dark sky in the background and the shape of cars in the parking lot. “We don’t get a shot of his car?”

  Sydney shook her head. “The camera only picks him up a few steps before this. Right here is the only time he actually looks in the direction of the camera.”

  Her phone buzzed again. U know this = wht he needs.

  Tony wasn’t wrong about that. Something was going on with Z. He’d been caught smoking, was suspended for cheating on a biology test. Not to mention that City Academy was determining whether he would receive a scholarship for his sophomore year.

  Sending him off to Ohio was too extreme.

  On the screen, the suspect was revealed in thin lines, top to bottom. First, the very top of his head formed. His hair was cut short. Next was a prominent forehead then the furrow in his brow. The screen froze, the clock icon spinning. “It’s thinking,” the tech said.

  “Wish it would think a little faster,” Vich said.

  The phone buzzed again, reminding Jamie that she hadn’t answered Tony’s texts. Certainly, she couldn’t afford to send Z to City Academy without the scholarship. But he was her child. She couldn’t send him away. She hated the idea that Tony was moving to Ohio and breaking up their family, as untraditional as it was. Tony was like her brother. She hated the idea that he wouldn’t be close. Losing her son was unthinkable.

  The layers began building again. Slowly, the suspect’s hooded eyes were unveiled followed by his wide nose. It was his full lips and the angular jaw line that gave it away. Jamie grabbed hold of the table.

  Vich touched her arm, but she couldn’t pull her gaze from the image.

  “I’ll put it through face recognition software to see if I can find a match against the database,” the tech said.

  Jamie cleared her throat to get the words to come out. “You don’t need to do that.”

  The tech spun in his chair. “You know him?”

  “His name is Michael Delman,” she said.

  “Delman,” Vich repeated, putting it together.

  “Right. The man who dropped off our victim is my son’s biological father.”

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  About the Author

  Danielle Girard is the author of nine novels, including Chasing Darkness and Savage Art, as well as The Rookie Club series. Her books have won the Barry Award and the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, and two of her titles have been optioned for movies.

  A graduate of Cornell University, Danielle received her MFA at Queens University in Charlotte, North Carolina. She, her husband, and their two children split their time between San Francisco and the Northern Rockies.