by Chelsea Cain
“What’s your name?” Archie asked.
“Star,” she said.
“Will we know when the camera’s off?”
“You’ll see the red light go out,” she said.
“Okay,” Archie said. He kept his eyes fixed on the camera. “We’ll just play along a little longer.”
She had lifted herself off of him now, but only by centimeters. Her elbows were above her head, her hands holding her dark hair up. He could see the sides of her breasts as they swung while she writhed. The edges of his vision were going black. He tried to think of something else besides the nearly nude girl with her ass in his lap. But he couldn’t avoid it. He saw her in every surface, every angle of her.
“Touch me,” she said.
A trickle of sweat crawled down Archie’s neck. “I’m okay, thanks,” he said.
“Guys don’t just sit there,” she said. “Put your hands on my hips.”
Archie studied the camera. He had no doubt they were being watched. Probably by Cooper. Archie lifted his hands from where he had been gripping the bench and placed them on the curve of Star’s hips. His palms were damp. His fingers grazed the waist of her thong.
“You haven’t done this before, have you?” she asked.
Her shoulder blades seemed to crawl under her skin; her spine undulated. Strands of her loose hair feathered against his face. “Not really,” Archie said.
The camera’s light went off. Archie exhaled and lifted his hands from her body. “It’s off,” he said.
Star climbed off of him and sat down on the bench at his side. She had instantly transformed. The parted lips, the heavy eyelids, the blank expression—all vanished. With a natural expression, her features looked different. She looked younger. She lifted a foot up and started unbuckling a shoe. “My feet are killing me,” she said.
Archie’s groin throbbed.
He looked at his watch. They needed to stay in here long enough to sell it.
“How long does this usually take?” he asked her.
“With someone like you?” she said with a smile. “Not long.”
CHAPTER
5
It was Saturday morning and Archie had retrieved his newspaper and was sitting in his living room reading it over a cup of coffee. Ginger was stretched out on her side on the floor, her foxlike head resting on Archie’s bare foot. Every so often she lifted it and looked at him with her plaintive brown corgi eyes and then, when she wasn’t invited up onto the couch, exhaled loudly and lowered her chin back on his foot.
Richmond’s death was on the inside page of the Metro section. He was described as the owner of a pawnshop and his death by gunshot was characterized as possibly drug-related. The entire incident had warranted one paragraph of coverage. No photo. This was good. Archie leafed through the rest of the paper. The quality of the Herald had gone downhill since Susan had been fired, but he hadn’t gotten around to canceling his subscription. These days, most of the front section was dedicated to the manhunt for Gretchen Lowell. It had been ten weeks since she’d escaped the state mental hospital, and she was probably halfway around the world, but the breathless stories continued at a frantic pace. The Beauty Killer industry was back in full force. The Dead Body Bus Tour. The T-shirts. Salons had started offering Beauty Killer manicures again. At least some people were happy that she was at large. Portland’s cottage industry around the Beauty Killer dropped off considerably when she was locked up. Now they seemed to be making up for lost time. And with Halloween just two days away, it would only get worse.
Archie closed the paper and saw his own photo on the back page of the front section. It was part of a story about the history of the task force. The photo was a younger version of himself—back when he’d first taken over the Beauty Killer Task Force, when he was still married, before the gray in his hair, and the scars that Gretchen Lowell had left on his chest. He had never been handsome. His nose was crooked from a car accident when he was a teenager. His features were just asymmetrical enough to appear off-kilter for no identifiable reason. His eyes were dark and deep-set, so that he never really looked happy even when he was.
Archie felt Ginger lift her head from his foot and he glanced down to see that her triangular ears were upright and angled toward the door. He was putting down the newspaper when he heard the first knock.
It was Susan. She always knocked the same way: two short knocks, with a pause, followed by three short knocks.
“I know you’re in there,” she called through the door.
Ginger stood up and trotted to the door and then stopped and looked expectantly back at Archie.
Archie tightened the belt around his terry-cloth robe, got to his feet, and followed Ginger to the door.
He hadn’t planned on letting Susan in. He was going to stand his ground, and explain that it was Saturday morning and no one had been disemboweled or beheaded and he wasn’t working. But she had a way of circumventing the best of his intentions.
She pushed past him and headed for the kitchen. She was wearing a silver skirt that looked like it was made from tinfoil, black tights, black Converse sneakers, and a red hooded sweatshirt, unzipped, over a black tank top. Ginger, whom Susan sometimes walked, pranced along at her feet, panting happily. “Do you have any coffee?” Susan asked.
Archie closed the door behind her. Susan was already getting a mug out of the cupboard. “Help yourself,” he said.
Susan’s clothes smelled like cigarettes. Archie had noticed it the moment he’d opened the door. Susan smoking cigarettes this early in the morning was never a good indicator.
He watched as she poured herself the last cup of coffee from the pot and then stooped down to pat Ginger on the head.
“Happy birthday,” she said in Archie’s direction. “I forgot your present.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Archie said.
Susan straightened up and looked at him. She held the mug between her hands and blew on the coffee. Her eyes were red and her mascara was smeared. She looked like she’d slept in her makeup. “Leo’s not answering his phone,” she said. “We had an argument last night. He left. This morning I went by his place. He didn’t answer the buzzer. And I fucking leaned on it,” she added. “If he’d been home, he would have answered.”
Archie wanted to ask what the argument was about, but he didn’t. “Do you have a key?” he asked.
She glanced away. “No.”
Archie took a deep breath. He didn’t want to overreact. It was true that Leo might be in danger, but it was also true that Leo had his demons. Before Leo and Susan had started seeing each other, Leo had been linked with every exotic dancer and party girl in town. He was at clubs every night. He was not given to monogamy. For all Archie knew, Leo had spent last night with Star. Archie searched for a kind way to phrase it: “He stays out sometimes, right? Maybe he found somewhere else to crash.”
“We had a fight,” Susan said. “Outside the club. He would have called. To make up.” She gave Archie a meaningful look. “Trust me,” she said.
Archie checked his watch. It wasn’t even ten A.M. The way Leo had been drinking last night, he was probably hungover. “Give him time,” Archie said to himself as much as Susan.
Susan twisted a piece of black hair around her finger. “I have a bad feeling,” she said. Her eyes darted toward the floor. “Has he said anything?” She glanced up. “I mean, about me?”
Archie struggled to grasp the situation. No one had ever accused him of being savvy about relationships, but it was beginning to dawn on him that he had misunderstood. Susan wasn’t worried that Leo was dead. “You’re afraid he’s going to break up with you,” Archie said slowly.
“He’s so distracted,” Susan said. “Something’s going on with him, isn’t it? I’m concerned about him. I know he’s DE—”
Archie lifted his hand to cut her off. “Shh,” he said. He looked at the bedroom. The bedroom door was open. He didn’t hear any movement. Rachel was probably stil
l asleep.
Susan’s brow furrowed. “What?” she said. She peered toward the back of the apartment. “Is Henry here?”
“No.”
“Who is it?”
Archie scratched the back of his neck. “I have a guest.”
She looked at him, still not getting it.
“A female guest,” said Archie.
Susan’s eyes widened with alarm. “The stripper?” she said.
“No,” Archie said, incredulous.
Susan took a tiny step back. “You’re dating someone?” she asked. He could see her trying to hide her distress, her mouth getting small. “How long have you been dating someone?”
“Not long,” Archie said. “When was the last time you saw Leo?”
“You said you didn’t want to date anyone,” she said.
They both knew what she meant. He had said he didn’t want to date her. Rachel was different. He couldn’t have sex with Susan and not feel something. Rachel didn’t want anything from him. At least nothing emotionally.
He was trying to figure out how to begin to explain this when Rachel sauntered into the room. She was in the black tank sundress and sandals that she’d had on when she’d come over late last night, and even without a shower or makeup, she was a knockout. At that moment, Archie wished she was ugly. Rachel was Susan’s physical opposite. Even Archie had not seen that until now, with the two of them in the same room. Where Susan was pale and freckled, Rachel’s skin was a solid golden tan. Where Susan’s figure was boyish, Rachel was curvy. Rachel was blond. Susan was … whatever color she happened to be that week. Rachel’s beauty was obvious. Susan’s was exotic.
Even worse, Rachel was two years younger than Susan. Since Archie had used his age difference with Susan as one of his go-to excuses for why he couldn’t be with her, this made him look like even more of a heel.
Archie fumbled for words. Susan didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on Rachel. Her coffee cup had slipped forward at a perilous angle.
Rachel looked as surprised to see Susan as Susan was to see her. “Hi,” Rachel said.
Ginger glanced back and forth from one woman to the other.
Archie lifted a hand to his head.
“I have to go,” Susan said quickly.
“Susan, wait,” Archie said. He went after her, and she turned around and faced him at the door.
“It’s fine,” she said. “You don’t have to explain. You’re an adult.”
Archie mentally kicked himself. He shouldn’t have let her in. But there was nothing he could say that would undo it. “I’ll see if I can check up on our friend,” he said. Our friend. He hadn’t wanted to say Leo’s name in front of Rachel, but it came off as some weird platitude.
He wanted to tell Susan that she was not the reason why Leo was “distracted.” He wanted to tell her that he would make sure that Leo was safe, and that someone, somewhere, was looking out for him. Archie wanted to tell her, but again, he couldn’t.
Susan’s eyes were green and hard. She handed him her mug. It had a red ring of lipstick on it. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said.
She left, and Archie walked back into the living room and sat down in a chair. He set the lipstick-stained mug on top of the newspaper on the coffee table and looked at it.
Ginger had flopped in front of the door that Susan had just exited through, and was eyeing Archie accusingly. Archie called her, but she refused to come.
“Sorry,” Rachel said.
“It’s okay,” Archie said. “It’s complicated.” He didn’t offer any further explanation. He didn’t talk to Rachel about Susan, or Henry, or his work. They didn’t really talk about anything. She had come into his life suddenly, moving into the apartment a floor below his in the middle of the night. What little he knew about her was fraught with inconsistencies. It intrigued him. But it wasn’t until that moment that he realized this was the very thing that attracted him to her. He could have sex with her because he couldn’t trust her.
“I have to go to class,” Rachel said. “But I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay,” Archie said. He was glad she had to leave but he tried not to show it. He was already thinking about how he could track down Leo.
Rachel seemed to sense that he was distracted and she leaned forward and put her hand on his chest, and kissed him on the mouth. As the heat of their mouths met, her hand slid inside his robe to the sensitive scar tissue over his heart. She dug her fingernails into the delicate skin, and Archie’s breath caught in his throat.
By the time she stood up, they were both breathing heavily.
Rachel wiped the shine of saliva from the corner of her lip. “Do you want anything special for your birthday?” she asked.
The scar on Archie’s chest stung and he felt a buzz of anticipation in his groin. He smiled. “Do you know how to do a lap dance?” he asked.
CHAPTER
6
As far as your average incognito rendezvous went, the Eastbank Esplanade was as good a place as any. Archie stood facing the river, looking across to the west side, where the downtown Portland skyline rose prettily behind the green band of Tom McCall Waterfront Park. The pavement at his feet was new. The only signs of the flood that had wreaked havoc downtown last winter were some spindly saplings and a plaque the city had installed explaining it all to tourists.
On the other side of the river, the verdant west side esplanade was bustling with active Portlanders exercising in every manner imaginable, from roller skates to unicycles. It was the lunch hour and the benches facing the river were hosting the usual array of people eating food-cart quinoa veggie bowls, loitering teenage transients, and schizophrenics feeding seagulls. Kids played in the fountains. Canada geese sunned themselves in the park. October was all Portland saw of fall—a month of clear, high skies, leaves just starting to turn, a fresh coolness to the air. By November all the fountains would be turned off, the leaves would be gone from the trees, and the sky would be low and gray until mid-July.
The Eastbank Esplanade, where Archie stood, was skinnier and less colorful than the west side, and shoehorned between Interstate 5 and a riverbank choked with blackberries. The air tasted like exhaust, and the constant din of traffic blurred all other sound. Even the geese stayed away. But Archie liked it. There were fewer people, and more historical plaques.
Ginger tugged on her leash at a passing cyclist and Archie reeled her in closer to him. She plunked down at his feet and quickly became absorbed by a couple of seagulls paddling by in the river. The water sparkled in the midday sun, and looked deceptively clean and blue. Archie knew better. They pulled a corpse from the Willamette once a week.
“Nice watchdog you have there,” Raul Sanchez said with a grin. He stepped beside Archie and Ginger, who didn’t even look up. Sanchez was a compact man, with thick dark hair and rough-hewn features made rougher by the pockmark scars that peppered his face. Whether the scars were a result of childhood acne or a close encounter with gravel, Archie had never asked. Some people didn’t like to talk about their scars.
“She’s monitoring those dangerous gulls,” Archie said. “And I saw you coming as soon as you crossed the Hawthorne Bridge,” he added. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your FBI windbreaker.”
“You should see my FBI pj’s,” Sanchez said. He started to say something else, then stopped and fiddled with a button on his tan jacket. “Obviously, you know I can’t talk to you about the Beauty Killer thing,” he said.
Sanchez was the FBI liaison on the task force charged with hunting down Gretchen Lowell. Archie heard updates through the grapevine. He read the headlines. He knew she’d supposedly been seen in six countries so far. But there was never any solid evidence. No trail. They had all agreed, back in August, that the best thing for Archie’s mental health was not to be involved. Nothing had changed. Archie had been the one who’d lobbied for Sanchez to take the lead.
“I just want to know when she’s dead,” Archie said.
One
of the gulls squawked and flapped off, flying low above the water.
“Let’s talk about Leo, then,” Sanchez said.
Archie glanced over his shoulder at the interstate behind them. “Somewhere quieter,” he said. The two men headed north, toward the Steel Bridge. Archie had to give Ginger’s leash an extra tug to get her to leave gull duty, but soon she was trotting happily ahead of them. A cyclist pedaled past pulling a small boy in a three-wheeled netted trailer. The boy smiled at Archie. He was probably high on exhaust fumes.
Archie and Sanchez followed the concrete path along the river until it diverged from the interstate and the din of traffic waned. The Willamette gleamed serenely. A nearby sign warned that fish caught in the river might be toxic. “Leo’s not answering his phone,” Archie said.
Sanchez turned his collar up against the chill. “I know,” Sanchez said.
“Everything okay?” Archie asked.
Sanchez stopped walking, so Archie knew it was bad.
“He’s on the island,” Sanchez said. “They took him there last night. We have surveillance outside. I have no idea what’s going on inside.”
“Does he know you’re his contact?” Archie asked.
“If he read the note I sent with the flowers,” Sanchez said. He squinted out across the river. “He’s cut off. We can’t contact him. There’s no way to get a message through.”
If anything happened to Leo, Archie knew that Susan would never forgive him. “You need to extract him,” Archie said.
Sanchez peered at Archie, worry lines creasing his craggy forehead. “This isn’t your problem, friend,” he said. “You’re too close.”
In the distance, Archie could hear the pedestrian alert bells of the Steel Bridge readying to lift. “Are we still talking about Leo?” he asked.
“What do you think we’re talking about?” Sanchez asked carefully.
Archie had worked the Beauty Killer case for thirteen years. She had cost him everything. Gretchen would always be his problem. They could take him off the case, but she would always be his.
