Night Work

by Laurie R. King

  “These women are in a very fragile state, Insp—”

  “Carla, look. I'm not unsympathetic; I'm prepared to keep my voice down; I'm even willing to leave my male partner out of it. But it's going to happen, with or without your help. I have a job to do.”

  “Okay. Let me have your number. I'll ask her to call you.”

  “I'll give her five minutes, and then I'm going to leave this phone and climb in my car. You have my number.”

  A sigh came over the earpiece as the lawyer admitted defeat. “The director's name is Diana Lomax.”

  “A relative?”

  “Cousin. She'll call you.”

  They both hung up at the same time.

  Kate sat reading departmental memos for three and a half minutes before her phone rang.

  “This is Diana Lomax,” said a hoarse voice at the other end. “Carla tells me you want to come to the shelter and interview the residents.”

  “Anyone who was there on Monday night, yes.”

  “Carla said you have the address. Just don't come in a marked police car.”

  “I won't,” Kate assured her, but the phone had already gone dead.

  The building that housed the temporary residence for abused women and their children might have been chosen by the same eye that picked out the Lomax law offices. It, too, was anonymously like its neighbors, in a street busy enough that a few more cars would go unremarked but not so filled with traffic that a stranger would go unnoticed. Its hedges were trimmed back, the walkway had strong lights, the front door was solid and fitted with a sturdy dead bolt lock, and the glass on the ground floor was shatterproof, just in case.

  The woman who opened to Kate's knock was enough like Carla Lomax in stature and the color of her skin and hair that Kate knew it had to be the lawyer's cousin, but whether or not the two women had once resembled each other could no longer be determined, for the face this woman wore was not the one she had been born with. Her nose had been comprehensively flattened and badly reset, a scar bisected her left eyebrow, and the two halves of her lower face were asymmetrical. Long ago something had bashed her face in, breaking her jawbone, knocking out teeth, and leaving her with the rasping voice Kate had heard on the telephone. Put together with her chosen employment as director of a women's shelter, it seemed unlikely that an industrial accident or car crash had been responsible for so brutally rearranging her features.

  Kate put out her hand instead of her badge, and after a brief hesitation, the woman took it. Once inside the door Kate flipped out her identification. Diana Lomax glanced at it, then led Kate toward the back of the house.

  “We had six women in residence on Monday night,” she told Kate without preliminary, speaking over her shoulder. “Four of them are still here. Of the two who left, one went back to her husband, down near Salinas, the other—but of course you know about Emily.”

  The walls of the narrow hallway they had been passing through were broken by four doors, all closed, each with its own hand-lettered sign: CHAPEL and OFFICE on the right two, MEETING ROOM followed by TRAINING on the left. At the back of the house the hall opened up into a light, cheerful room the width of the house, a combination kitchen and dining room that was obviously the center of the shelter. Half a dozen children sat at a table along one wall with homework or crayons, washed in the sweet light of the low, late-afternoon sun, while three women were preparing a meal at the counter space under a window at the back and two adolescent girls laid plates and silverware at another table. Kate's stomach growled at the scents of dinner.

  Diana went over to where the women were working and spoke quietly to a woman chopping tomatoes. The woman looked up at Kate, her face going pinched with a deep-rooted, habitual fear. Diana rested her hand on the woman's arm and said something else. The woman nodded, dried her hands, and followed in Diana's comforting shadow.

  Going back through the central hallway, Diana opened the door marked OFFICE, standing back to encourage her charge to go in, and let Kate bring up the rear. Kate was not surprised to find Carla Lomax already sitting in the room, dressed in a gray-blue suit and looking every inch the lawyer.

  “Crystal,” Diana said, “this is Kate Martinelli. She's with the police department, and she's looking into a death that took place Monday night. It's nothing to do with you, and you don't have to talk with her if you're not comfortable with it, but she would appreciate it if you could help her with a few questions. Kate, this is Crystal Navarro.”

  Kate wondered if the director spoke to all the residents as if they were rather slow children, or if Crystal was simply a bit stupid. Perhaps she'd better keep her own words basic, just in case.

  “Hello, Crystal, good to meet you. Sorry to interrupt your dinner. This'll only take a few minutes.”

  Crystal did not respond, except to hunch her head more deeply between her shoulders.

  “Let's sit down,” Kate suggested. Crystal looked less like a threatened turtle when she was seated, but her thin hands began twisting each other, over and over.

  “There was a meeting here Monday night, Crystal. A group therapy session, do you remember?” The woman nodded. “Do you know what time it ended?”

  Crystal shot a glance at Diana Lomax, then at Carla, to see if this might be a trick question. When neither of them reacted, she sat up a little straighter and said, addressing her hands, “'Bout nine.” The words were said with a strong Southern twang.

  “Do you remember who was here?”

  Again the nervous consultation, and again she spoke to her twisting fingers, frowning slightly. “There was about ten of us, I think. Me and Tina, Joanne, Emily, Carmelita, and Sunny. Then there was you two.” Her gaze came up to touch on the Lomax cousins. “And Roz, of course. And I think Phoebe might've been here, but I'm not sure. And wasn't there someone else? Oh, right, Nikki was here for a while and then she had to go.”

  Without drawing attention to the notebook in her hands, Kate made surreptitious note of the names while asking the next question; she would ask Diana about them later.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Just stuff, you know? I told 'em about looking for a job—I'm a dental assistant, or I used to be, once 'pon a time. And the others talked about this 'n that. Like, Tina's boy was acting up in school, and somepin' he said to her sounded just like it might've come out of his daddy's mouth and she was all in a bother, thinkin' that he was gonna come out like his daddy, and she didn't know if she wanted to shoot herself or shoot him. And then somebody said somepin' about just tyin' him up with duck tape and everbody laughed and joked for a while. You know, about them Ladies who're goin' around duck-tapin' naked guys to phone poles and stuff?” Kate nodded to indicate that she knew who the Ladies were, and that the joke was getting a bit tired. “Well, anyway. And then Emily talked a whole bunch—I remember that, 'cause it was the first time she'd said more'n two words. And Joanne. She was having problems with her ADC checks.”

  “What did Emily talk about?”

  “Her husband. He sounds a real shit house, pardon my French, but she said she was thinkin' about giving him another chance. Stupid, really stupid.”

  “Was it?”

  “Oh, God.” Crystal went so far as to raise her eyes to Kate for a moment. “I mean, look. One thing we know here are men. Talk about denial—she figured he was gonna change, just because she'd moved out for a couple of weeks. Men like that never change. They just wait.”

  It was a voice of experience speaking, and Kate had seen enough domestic violence, had in her uniform days separated enough bloody, screaming couples, not to argue with her assessment of the Larsen situation. As Carla Lomax had said, James Larsen would have gotten his wife back, and he would have put her in the hospital, if not the morgue.

  “So you finished around nine. Did everyone leave then?”

  “Oh, no. Nikki, like I said, she was gone, and Carla. And yeah, Phoebe must've been here, 'cause I remember she left with Carla. But the rest of us had a cuppa tea in th
e kitchen and made the kids' lunches for the next day. Roz was around, with somebody who came in at the end—I didn't know her. That Roz,” she said wistfully, “she's really somepin', isn't she? Has a knack for makin' you feel good about yourself. Like you're bigger'n you really are. Important, almost. But anyway, then that woman left and Roz came back in and sat in the meeting room with Emily. They were still there when I went off to bed.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Maybe ten-thirty? I had a bath and I was in bed before eleven, so yeah, 'bout ten-thirty.”

  “You said Roz came back in. She had left for a while then, with this woman?” The Lomax cousins stirred simultaneously, the inevitable response to that question from the police, but Crystal did not see any import in it, and after a moment's consideration, she answered.

  “I think so. I think the two of 'em just went outside to talk, in the woman's car maybe. It's sometimes hard to get much privacy here. Which is fine,” she hastened to add, looking at the shelter director. “I like havin' company, and it's sure great for the kids. But if you're wantin' to have a quiet talk with someone, it's best to step outside.”

  Kate nodded her understanding. “How long were they out there?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Half an hour maybe? By the time Roz came back in, all the cups'd been washed and put away. She joked about havin' good timin'.”

  Kate consulted her notes. “So other than Roz and her friend, and Nikki, Carla, and Phoebe” (Phoebe; wasn't that the name of Carla's secretary?), “did anyone else leave the house, even for a little while? Maybe disappear and then come back a while later?”

  “They could've, I guess,” Crystal said doubtfully. “People was comin' and goin'—they always are. Emily I know was in the kitchen till Roz came and got her, and the rest of us were there. Joanne may have gone up to check on her kids—she usually does—but I think I'd've heard if someone went out. But I'm not real sure. Sorry.”

  “Oh no, don't be sorry. That's very helpful.”

  “Was that all you wanted, then? I should go get my kids ready for bed.”

  “Yes, thank you. If you think of anything else, give me a call, here's my card. And—good luck with the job hunt.”

  When Crystal had left, Kate turned to the Lomax cousins. “Do you know who this woman was who came and got Roz?”

  “No,” Diana said, “but it was someone she knew. Roz is— Do you know Roz, Roz Hall?”

  “I do, yes. She told me she'd been here, in fact.”

  “I should have guessed,” Diana said. “Everyone knows Roz. Anyway, this woman stuck her head in the door and Roz spotted her, and told her she'd be out in a bit.”

  “Did you get the impression that this was a prearranged visit, that Roz was expecting her?”

  “No, she was surprised to see her.”

  “Can you tell me about the other women Crystal was talking about?”

  “Tina, Joanne, and Sunny are still here, you can talk with them if you like. Carmelita Rosario is the one who went back to her husband. You know the word marianismo? The woman's half of machismo, submission to the man's superiority. Remove marianismo and the man—but that isn't what you want to know,” she interrupted herself, causing Kate to wonder what it was about this case that seemed to demand that everyone involved make speeches. Perhaps Roz was contagious? Diana went on. “Carmelita went home. Nikki Fletcher was a resident for about five weeks until she found an apartment and moved out last Wednesday. She drops in almost every day, just to stay in touch and to have us tell her that she can do it. Was that all?”

  Kate looked over her notes and came up with another name. “Phoebe?”

  Carla answered this time. “You met Phoebe at my office—Phoebe Weatherman. She's my secretary.”

  “Was she once a resident here?” Kate asked. That might explain the woman's deep respect for security measures.

  “Not this one, but she was in a shelter for a while, yes.”

  “She seems very competent.”

  “Not everyone who ends up in a shelter is from the unemployable dregs, Inspector,” Diana said coldly.

  “I didn't think they were,” Kate told her, unintimidated. “Still, women with marketable skills tend to have more options than those without. And often savings accounts as well.”

  “Some women who come here do need more time than others,” Diana admitted. “We give them training and help them with anything from bus schedules to taxes. And true, others find jobs quickly and move out. But any woman can find herself a victim, Inspector Martinelli. It only takes one bad turn to end up in an ugly place.”

  “Roz Hall,” Kate asked in an abrupt return to the earlier topic. “How often does she come here?”

  “It depends. She used to be here all the time when we first opened up, but since then she's been appointed to a couple of commissions and she can't get free as much. And then she's trying to finish her Ph.D. thesis, and leave a little space for Maj. You know her partner, Maj?”

  “Well enough to have dreams about her tiramisu.”

  At that both Lomax cousins laughed. Diana said, “How many potluck dinners have been planned just because of Maj's desserts? God knows how either of them are going to have time for their baby. But they'll manage. Especially Roz. She always does—though I don't know where that woman gets her energy.” Kate smiled, having wondered the same thing herself. “Anyway, some weeks Roz is only here two or three times, sometimes half a dozen. She does come regularly on Mondays and Thursdays for the group sessions, but other than that, it's whenever we need her. Or if she happens to be nearby, she'll stop in for a few minutes, have a cup of coffee, see how things are going.”

  “Fine. Can we see one of the other residents now? Tina?”

  “She'll be with her kids. How about Sunny?”

  “Sunny will do.”

  But Kate learned nothing from any of the other three residents, nothing but the details of life as a woman struggling not to be a victim. Joanne was gay and her abuser a woman, but the language of violence was the same for all, and by the time she finished her interviews, Kate felt the need for a strong drink. Instead she dropped her notebook into her pocket and rubbed her face.

  “Don't you just despair sometimes?” she asked, more a rhetorical musing than a question, but Diana eyed her from her broken face, and then she nodded.

  “All the time, Inspector Martinelli. All the time.”

  Kate drove the department unmarked car through streets thick with freeway-bound traffic to the Hall of Justice. As the light faded outside and the honks and squeals of frustrated commuters drew to its peak, she typed up the report of the interviews, found them every bit as unsatisfying as she had thought at the time, and went looking for Al Hawkin. Sometimes it helped to toss around ideas. This time it didn't. They went home, to try for a fresh view of things in the morning.

  Things in the morning began with the news that the Ladies had struck again overnight, in another park, this time with a middle-aged drunk who was giving his girlfriend hell for some imagined infraction involving their neighbor. He had slapped her, hard; she had set out for a friend's house a few blocks away with him on her heels, shouting and threatening. When she got to the friend's house, she realized gratefully that he had dropped off her trail. In the morning it was found that he had dropped out of the world for a few hours.

  Taser, again; duct tape, again, against a splintery tree this time rather than a frigid metal light post. And they had added a twist: the note was attached to his bare buttocks with Superglue. The emergency room told him the glue should wear off in a few weeks. Before they scrubbed the paper portion off him, the police had photographed the note in situ. It read:

  BE NICE. OR ELSE.

  —the Ladies

  When Kate reached her desk, she found a note saying that James Larsen's car had been found, parked on a street in the Mission and stripped down to its chassis. She rounded up Hawkin and they went out to look at it. The old Chevy sedan hadn't been much to look at to begin with, and i
t had sat on the street for four days; no one had seen who left it; there were no keys and a million prints, most of which no doubt belonged to the kids who had liberated the car's radio, battery, and the rest. They arranged to have it towed off for closer examination, on the stray chance that Larsen had been transporting drugs in the trunk or had himself made his final journey inside it, and spent a few fruitless hours asking questions in the neighborhood, but it was a community of blind people when it came to seeing who had driven up and abandoned the car there with its doors unlocked.

  They then set off on the entertaining task of trying to trace the cuffs that had been used to restrain Larsen. The number of shops selling that particular brand of regulation police handcuffs in San Francisco was astonishing, even to Kate, who thought she had seen it all. In each of the shops she ended up going through the same ritual, fending off the shopkeeper and customers who found the idea of an actual live, badge-wielding cop on the premises too titillating for words. She was only grateful that she wasn't wearing a uniform, or she might never have been allowed to escape without putting half the city in cuffs, for their own entertainment.

  Aside from the car and the cuffs, the investigation had become simple slog, contacting those of Larsen's family and acquaintances whom they had not reached earlier and going back over the phone bills and financial records. The preliminary lab report came through during the afternoon, telling them that Larsen's last meal had been two or three hours before his death and had probably been a fast-food bacon-cheeseburger and fries. There was no trace of drugs on his clothes, in his blood, or in his history. Emily Larsen showed no signs of making a run for it, no one else in sight had any particular reason to kill him, and there had been no whiff of connections to shady business deals, outright crime, sleeping with someone's wife, or any of the other customary reasons for knocking someone off.