by Tami Hoag
“Profiling is a tool for hunting serial criminals,” Savard said. “You’re not dealing with a serial criminal. You’re not dealing with a criminal at all.”
“The Fallon family might beg to differ, two of them being dead inside a week,” Kovac said. “Anyway, as I was leaving his house, I remembered you, Lieutenant.”
“With regards to?”
“At the funeral, I forgot to ask if you’d looked up that case file. Fallon’s investigation into the Curtis-Ogden thing.”
“Are you now going to try to tell me Ogden was Andy’s secret gay lover, and that he’s a potential serial killer? You’re losing me, Sergeant.”
“I’m just trying to take in all the facts so I have as clear a picture as possible. I learned a long time ago, if an investigator gets tunnel vision on one aspect of a case, he runs the risk of missing crucial pieces of the puzzle. How can you know where everything fits if you can’t see the big picture? So, did you look it up?”
She looked past the living room to her office, wanting to go in there and shut the door behind her. “No. I didn’t have a chance.”
Kovac moved into her line of vision again. “Could we sit down? You look like you need to, Lieutenant. No offense.”
“Asking you to sit down would imply I don’t mind you staying for an indefinite period of time,” Savard pointed out. “I do mind.”
He shrugged off the insult. “Then you sit. I’ll stand. You look a little rocky.”
For the—what?—third time that day, he put his hands on her, and she allowed it. He guided her by the shoulders to the Windsor settee along the wall. She felt as small as a child, and fragile, and ineffectual. She could have just told him to leave, but there was that part of her that didn’t want him to. Anger and frustration and shame coiled inside her with needs she rarely acknowledged having.
“You know, I looked for it at Andy’s place,” Kovac said. “I looked in his office there for a duplicate file on the Curtis-Ogden thing. I wanted to see what he was investigating, what his take on things might be, see if he’d been threatened, anything like that, anything that could give me some idea of his life, his state of mind. But there was no file, and his computer was gone. An IBM ThinkPad. You know anything about that? Did he leave it in his office downtown?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe he left it in his car. Maybe he’d lost it. Maybe it’s in the shop. Maybe it had been stolen.”
“Maybe it was stolen by someone who didn’t want something in it to be seen by someone like me.” He picked up a small carved Santa figurine from the hall table and studied it.
Savard sighed. “I’ll check the file in the morning. Is that all, Sergeant?”
“No.”
He set the figurine aside and came toward her, leaning down. He tipped her chin up and looked in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
I’m feeling my pulse in my throat. I’m feeling light-headed. I’m feeling vulnerable. God, there was that word again.
“I’m fine. I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed.”
He traced a forefinger slowly in front of her eyes, the same as he had done in her office that morning. Across and back. Up and down. His left hand still cupped her chin.
“No offense, LT,” he said softly, “but for a beautiful woman, you look like hell.”
Savard arched a brow. “Gee, why would I take offense at that?”
He didn’t answer her. He was looking at the rug burn, taking in the lines of her face . . . still touching her chin. . . . His gaze lingered on her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat.
“You are, you know,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”
She turned her face away, the air shuddering from her lungs. “You should go now, Sergeant.”
“I should,” he admitted. “Before you see to it I get suspended for paying you a compliment. But I want one thing first.”
Scraping together what was left of her strength, Savard managed to put on the imperious mask that was her everyday game face. It didn’t make Kovac back off an inch.
“Call me Sam,” he said, one corner of his mouth crooking upward. “Just to hear how it sounds.”
I can’t want this, she thought, fear tightening in a knot in her stomach. I can’t want him. I can’t need him.
“You should go now . . . Sergeant Kovac.”
He did nothing for a moment, and she held her breath and tried without success to read his mind. Finally, his hand dropped away from her face. He stepped back and straightened.
“Call me,” he said. “If you come up with anything from that case file.”
She rose to her feet, feeling unsteady, and banded her arms across her chest. Kovac paused at the door.
“Goodnight . . . Amanda.” He shrugged, the slight smile still pulling at his lips. “What’s another suspension to an old horse like me?”
Cold air rushed into the hall as he let himself out. Savard locked the door behind him and leaned against it, thinking of the warmth of his fingers against her skin. Tears stung her eyes.
She climbed the stairs slowly. The table lamp was already on in her bedroom, and would remain on all night. She changed into a nightgown and crawled into bed, took a drink from the glass on the nightstand, and washed down a sleeping pill. Then she lay down carefully on her left side, hugging the spare pillow to her, and waited for sleep, eyes wide open, feeling so alone it was an ache in the very center of her being.
Goodnight . . . Sam. . . .
23
CHAPTER
LISKA WISHED IT was all a nightmare. All of it: that her informant was a transvestite in a coma, that she’d spent half the night freezing to the bone in a filthy alley, that Speed’s car was in her drive and he was in the house, waiting.
She parked at the curb, trying to remember the snow emergency rules, fatalistically certain her car would be mowed down by a city snowplow and she would be fined, to add insult to injury. Screw it, she thought, climbing out of the car and trudging to the front door. At least she’d collect insurance and get a new vehicle. A used Chevette, perhaps, considering where her career would be headed in the near future.
The table lamp was on low and the television was showing an infomercial for Tae-Bo. Billy Blanks offering self-esteem and spiritual enlightenment through kickboxing. Speed and R.J. were asleep, side by side, in the recliner, unmistakably father and son. Their hair even stood up in the same places. R.J. was in Spiderman pajamas with feet. The Cartman hand puppet was tucked under one arm.
Liska stood looking at them, hating the emotions the sight awakened in her. Longing, regret, need. How unfair to be hit with that tonight, on the heels of everything else that had happened. She pressed a hand to her mouth and fought the feelings as if they were demons.
Damn you. She didn’t know if she had spoken the words or just thought them, didn’t know if she was cursing her ex-husband or herself.
Speed cracked an eye open and looked at her, then checked his son. Slowly and carefully, he eased himself from the chair and covered R.J. with a throw from the couch.
“Is it that bad?” he asked softly as he came toward her.
He was asking about the moment, about the way she was looking at him, the way she felt about him being here. But taking a page from his book, Liska chose to interpret the question the way she wanted, and applied it to the case. “My drag queen informant is lying in ICU with a face only Picasso could love. According to two witnesses—one of whom was caught trying to steal valuables off the guy’s body—he was attacked by ninjas with lead pipes.”
“Ninjas don’t use lead pipes. Nunchuks, maybe.”
“Please don’t be cute, Speed. I can’t deal with it right now.”
“I thought you liked me cute. It’s one of my better qualities.”
Liska just looked away.
“Hey, come on. It can’t be all that bad, you’re still standing.”
“It’s worse than bad,” she whispered.
“You want to talk about it?”
> Translation: Do you want to lean on me, confide in me, let me help carry the load?
Yes, but I won’t let myself.
“Nikki,” he murmured, stepping too close. He touched her cheek with a warm hand, slid his fingers back through her short hair, and gathered her to him with his other arm. “You don’t always have to be the tough one.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
A shudder rippled through her as she fought the urge to melt against him, to let him hold her up.
“What’s the worst part of it?” he asked.
Knowing you’ll let me down in the end. Fearing that maybe I’m wrong and you wouldn’t, but I won’t give you the chance to prove it because I’m tired of you hurting me.
She sniffed back tears and said, “Thinking he ended up that way because I wasn’t there in time.”
“The guy’s a snitch, Nik. He got beat up because of that, not because of you.”
“But if I had been there—”
“He would have got it some other time.”
“I don’t know if he’ll live. I don’t know if he’ll want to,” she said. “You should have seen what they did to him, Speed. It was horrible.”
“Don’t do that to yourself, Nikki. You know better.”
A cop learned early on not to allow that kind of emotion. The road to madness was paved with guilt. Kovac had reminded her of the same when she had called him from the scene with news of Ibsen’s assault. Still, it was hard not to place the blame at her own feet. Ibsen had been there waiting for her.
“They must have shattered every bone in his face,” she said. “Broke his arm, his collarbone, ribs, one knee. They assaulted him anally with a pipe.”
“Jesus.”
She took a deep breath and made the confession that lay at the heart of it for her: “And the worst part of it is, I think they were cops.”
Speed went still. She could feel his heart beat beneath her hand. “God, Nikki, what are you into? Looking at other cops . . .”
“I don’t want it to be true,” she said. “I don’t want any part of it. We’re supposed to be the good guys. I don’t want to be the one to prove otherwise.”
The idea was so abhorrent to her, it felt like a virus in her blood, and she shuddered against the intrusion. Speed tightened his arms around her. She allowed it. Because it was the middle of the night, and she felt very alone. Because it would be only for a moment. Because the feel and the smell of him were familiar. Because when he left, she would have to carry all the weight herself.
“I hate it,” she whispered, knowing she meant more than the case. That she hated feeling needy, that she hated always having to be tough, that she hated the contradictions, that she hated the tears that were burning her eyes and the conflicts she felt at being in the arms of her ex-husband.
“Why do you think they were cops?” he asked as softly as a lover whispering endearments.
“That’s why he was meeting me—to talk about a rotten cop.”
“Maybe it was a random hate crime. Drag queens are unpopular in certain circles.”
She pulled away and gave him a look. “Yeah, I believe in that kind of coincidence, and in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.”
She walked away from him to rearrange the blanket over her son, then went to the television and turned it off.
“Is this still about the dead IA guy?” Speed asked.
“Partly.” She almost laughed. “It’s about a closed murder with a convicted killer, and a closed suicide-slash-accident. Strange that someone should be beaten nearly to death over that, don’t you think?”
“Who are you looking at?”
“A uniform. No one you know,” she said, then turned and looked at him with the scrutiny of a cop. He was in his stocking feet, in jeans that hung low on a flat belly, and a T-shirt that showed off an enviable physique. The cop in her resurfaced. “Or maybe you do. You look like you’ve been pumping some iron lately. This guy’s a serious lifter.”
“Does he come to the St. Paul station house to do it?”
“You’re working out at the station like a common cop?”
“It’s free. I have enough obligations for my paycheck.”
“Can’t imagine what they are,” Liska muttered. “I never see any evidence of it.”
Speed opened his mouth to fire a retort, but Liska held up a hand to fend him off. R.J. was right there. Asleep, but who was to say how deeply or what sounds might penetrate his subconscious. She tried not to fight with Speed in front of the boys. She failed a lot, but she tried.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was out of bounds. The fuse is a little short tonight, you know. What I meant to say was, I know a lot of the cops from both departments lift at that gym on University—Steele’s. I thought you might have seen this guy there.”
He just stood there for a moment, working up his hurt feelings. She could see it in his face. R.J. did the same thing when he felt he’d been wronged. She could see him mentally reliving each slight, each sharp remark in order to reinforce his sense of affront.
“I said I’m sorry,” she reminded him.
“You know, I’m trying here, Nikki,” he said, the wounded martyr. “I’m trying to help when I can with the boys. I told you I’d come up with some cash soon—”
“I know—”
“But you just have to keep at it with the digs, don’t you? Why is that, Nikki? Is it that you really hate me that much? Or is it because maybe you’re afraid you still have feelings for me?”
Bull’s-eye, she thought. “It’s just habit.”
“Break it,” he said softly, his eyes locked on hers. He went to her, lifted a hand, and touched her cheek. “I care about you, Nikki. I’m not afraid to say it, even if you are.”
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers, a soft kiss that lingered but didn’t press for more. Liska’s heart seemed to press up against the base of her throat.
“Be careful, Nikki,” he said as he stepped back.
Of the case or of you? she wanted to ask. Then she thought, Both.
“You make serious enemies when you turn on your own kind.”
“If this guy is what I think he is, he’s not ‘my kind.’ ”
That was how she had to look at it, she thought, as Speed went to the front entry, stepped into his hiking boots, and pulled on his coat. If Ogden was a killer, if he was the kind of animal who could beat a man, rape a man with a piece of pipe, then the fact that he carried a badge was the worst kind of offense.
“What do you have on him? Anything solid?”
She shook her head. “Hunches, feelings. This drag queen was supposed to have something to fill me in. I think the cop’s a juicer. If nothing else, maybe I can give him to the narcs,” she said, giving him a lopsided excuse for a smile as she went to the door.
“If the guy’s doing steroids, his temper will be unpredictable,” he said. “He’s dangerous.”
“That’s not exactly news to me. Anyway, thanks for watching the boys. And thanks for caring.”
“Thanks isn’t what I’m after,” he said, catching her off guard. She barely had time to register the look in his eyes before his arms were around her and his mouth was on hers. Not soft this time. Hot, hungry, demanding. Her lips felt bruised when he pulled away.
He was out the door the next moment. She listened to the slam of a car door, the growl of a motor turning over. Only then did she touch two fingers to her lips.
“I need this like I need the plague,” she muttered.
She put a second throw over R.J., choosing not to disrupt his sleep, left the light on low, and went to bed herself, with no real hopes of sleep or dreams.
The clock was glowing 3:19 when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
The silence on the other end had the quality of a held breath. Or maybe the held breath was hers.
And then came a whisper that raised all the fine hair
s on her arms. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”
24
CHAPTER
THE PHOTOGRAPHS ARE lying on a narrow worktable, a cone of yellow light shining down on them from the desk lamp. The room is otherwise in darkness. The room is silent.
The photographs are in a neat row. Life exploding. Blood spray. Bone splinters. Still life. Lifeless. A study in destruction. A testimony to the fragility of the human body. Abstract. Violent. Sad and pathetic.
Too easily accomplished.
A necessary evil, but still . . . it should have been impossible. The concept should have so gone against the moral grain that execution would simply not have been possible.
Execution.
The word brings a rush of remembered emotions. Regret, loathing, relief, excitement. Fear. Fear of what had been done, of the rush of excitement in that final instant. Fear that something human, something civilized, something vulnerable could be replaced . . . or had been replaced long ago.
But then if that were true, sleep would have come easily instead of not at all.
25
CHAPTER
OBSERVATION: AN AUTOPSY is not a good way to begin the day.
The thought rolled around in Kovac’s head as he settled into his desk chair, a cup of bad coffee in hand. Liska was nowhere to be seen. The office was momentarily quiet. He had managed to slip in more or less unnoticed, and was glad for it. He needed a few minutes to reflect, to regroup. He pulled out Mike Fallon’s death-scene Polaroids and spread them out on top of the paperwork he had been neglecting the last few days.
A nagging unease moved around the edges of his awareness, undefined, barely formed, a shadow. He could have called the case a slam-dunk suicide, and it would have been over, pending the paperwork from the ME. Except for that feeling, and the fact that Neil Fallon was starting to show as many rotten layers as a bad onion.
Kovac let his gaze wash over the pictures almost without focusing, hoping to see something he’d been missing. At the same time, hoping he would see nothing. The idea that Iron Mike had chosen to check himself out was definitely preferable to the alternative.
