In Dark Places

by Michael Prescott

  "Okay."

  "If you're so sure Brand is innocent, why were you afraid I'd be seeing him again?"

  "In my line of work, you learn never to trust anybody one hundred percent. That may be why my wife left me. Lack of trust. It's that whole stupid intuition thing."

  "Intuition?"

  "My ex was always going on about that. How I didn't have any. Intuition, that is. How I think everything through in a straight line, A to B to C. No imagination. No feel for people or situations. That's what she said. What the hell, she was right."

  "Do you think so?"

  "Probably. Hell, I took the detective exam twice. Didn't pass. My opinion was that it was goddamned affirmative action. When you're a white male, it's not enough to score well. You've got to ace the test. But Cindy, my ex, said a detective needs to be intuitive, and I'm not."

  "And you think she's right?"

  "She could be. To be honest, I don't even know what she's talking about. Intuitionwhat the hell is that, anyway? It's just another word for guessing. Police work shouldn't be guesswork."

  "Intuition involves more than"

  He waved her off and picked up the rubber ball again. "Yeah, yeah, I know. That's your thing, right? Look at a patient and just kind of sense what makes him tick. It's all head games."

  "It's not a game."

  "It's voodoo. Sorry, but that's how it looks to me."

  "If you looked deeper, you might change your opinion."

  "Changing my opinion isn't a real common occurrence with me."

  Robin believed him. She said nothing.

  "I've been around a while," Wolper went on, "and I know what's real and what isn't. The job you do amp; it's moonshine to me. I deal with facts, not feelings. If you can't touch it, smell it, taste it, what good is it? Getting a handle on feelings amp; it's like trying to grab a fistful of air."

  She tried a smile. "At least nobody can accuse you of being one of those touchy-feely New Age guys."

  "Yeah, that's one thing I've never been called."

  "What would you like to be called? How would you like to be thought of?"

  "Practical. A realist. I take things as they are."

  "That approach works for you? You're comfortable with it?"

  "I'm comfortable."

  "Then why are you squeezing that ball?"

  He looked at it as if surprised to see it in his grasp. "This thing? It's just a workout for my hand. Keeps the fingers strong amp;" He smiled. "Okay, that's a snow job. It's a way to release tension. Better than going out and getting drunk."

  "Or going to the dogfights."

  "That, too."

  "You can't be happy that a sergeant in your station house is breaking the law, even if it is on his own time."

  "I'm not happy. I just accept it. It's something Brand has to dofor now. It's a fact, and I'm a realist, like I said."

  "It's realistic to let one of your men engage in self-destructive behavior?"

  "Self-destructive." He snorted. "You sound like a documentary on PBS. The man is just blowing off steam."

  "By watching two animals tear each other up?"

  "Wouldn't be my choice. Makes me sick, to be truthful. But if that's what he needs to get through the day, I'm not blowing the whistle on him."

  "How'd you even know he was going there?"

  "There aren't too many secrets in the department."

  "That's pretty vague."

  "You want specifics? All right. A house in Watts was raided a month ago for dogfights, and Brand was picked up along with the rest of the crowd. He called me, and I got the charges dropped. He told me he'd been going there a lot. He also told me he was going to stop."

  "He lied."

  "He weakened. Anyway, I'd heard that the fights had started up again in a new house, same neighborhood. When Brand didn't show up for work today, I had a feeling he would be there."

  "Then why don't you get the fights shut down again?"

  "It's out of my territory."

  "That's not an answer."

  "We have a thousand homicides a year in this city. You want me to focus on animal abuse? We've got our resources tapped out just trying to save human lives. Besides, if you shut those scum down, they'll just start up again in a week or a month. It's the way it is."

  "Realism," Robin said tonelessly.

  Wolper shrugged. "Welcome to LA."

  They had finished their burgers, and they were all out of conversation. Both seemed to sense it.

  "So," Wolper said, "four p.m. tomorrow, your office?"

  "Let me give you the address."

  "I already know it. I'm a cop, remember?" He smiled. "I find out things about people who interest me."

  Robin pondered that remark as she drove away. It was just barely possible that Lieutenant Wolper was trying to get something going between them, one divorced single parent to another. She wasn't sure how she would feel about that.

  There had been no romance in her life since her marriage ended. She'd known she would have to restart her personal life eventually, but the prospect of enduring first dates and awkward kisses at the door was not appealing.

  Well, no, that was a thin rationalizationa snow job, as Wolper would say. The truth was, she had been scared away from relationships by the failure of her marriage. She'd been afraid of repeating the same mistake.

  In retrospect, her relationship with Dan had probably never had much of a chance. She had married himit was now safe to admit thischiefly because he was the opposite of her father. Yes, Daniel Cameron, the artist, a man who was gentle and sensitive and nonviolent and law-abiding, who would not desert her and leave her crying and alone. But then he had deserted her anyway, emotionally at least. Her efforts at self-protection had failed.

  Robin shook her head. She was aware that in her work she was, in effect, trying to rehabilitate her father. That was obviouscookbook Freud, as someone had once said. But was she trying to rehabilitate Dan, too? To symbolically resuscitate the corpse of their marriage?

  She was probably overthinking things. She hoped so. She didn't want Dan to be controlling her life when he wasn't even part of it any longer.

  Now she was planning to meet a man to discuss a police file on a shooting case. Not exactly an evening of dinner and dancing. And Wolper wasn't exactly the man she'd pictured as her beau. Too stiff, too righteous. He didn't respect what she did. He called it voodoo, moonshine. What he thought of as realism, she viewed as cynicism.

  Not a good match for her. No way.

  "No way," she said aloud, as if to confirm it to herself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Meg woke up at six-thirty and found herself alone in bed. Gabe had gone. Vaguely she remembered the brush of his lips on her cheek when he left. That was at least an hour ago.

  No surprise. He never stuck around after sex. When they did it in the apartment he rented, he would find some excuse to get out as soon as possible. The few times they'd done it in the backseat of his sedan, he'd put the car in gear almost before he zipped up his pants. In and out, that was his style.

  It was okay. She didn't expect him to hang around. It was enough just to have him for a short time each day. Sometimes during lunch break at school, when she would sneak off campus. Sometimes on the weekends, when she made an excuse to get out of the condo for an hour or two. And sometimes in the afternoon, when she claimed she was studying with her classmates or working on the school newspaper and would get a ride home from an older friend.

  The game was dangerous. Her mom would freak if she found out. But the risk was worth it. She had become a whole new person since Gabe came into her life. She wasn't a kid anymore. She was a woman.

  She had met Gabe at an awards dinner three months ago, in February. The dinner was a big shindig in honor of outstanding members of the law-enforcement community, as well as a few civilians who'd made a contribution to the fight against crime. One of those civilians was Dr. Robin Cameron, who'd earned a plaque and a certificate for the first phase
of her research into reducing recidivism. Robin had treated the event as a dreary chore, necessary to cement her good relations with the Sheriff's Department and to make new contacts in the LAPD. She had no interest in prizes or commendations, and she'd fretted over the brief acceptance speech she was expected to give. Public speaking was not one of her strong points.

  Still, she had soldiered through the evening, with Meg seated beside her at the long table on the dais. At some point in the evening Meg had visited the ladies' room. On her way out, she'd met Gabe.

  "You must be very proud of your mother," he'd said. She agreed that she was. "But you'd rather be someplace else?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "I don't blame you. So would I." He'd introduced himself as Gabe, not giving a last name. In his tuxedo, with a white carnation in the pocket, he looked dashing, like a movie star at a premiere, an impression enhanced by the tight, tanned planes of his face and the flash of his white teeth when he smiled.

  They spoke briefly. She told him her name and answered a few other questions that she assumed he asked purely out of politeness. When she returned to the table she didn't mention the encounter to her mom. She wasn't sure why. It wasn't important enough to mention, she decided.

  A few days later she found a message from Gabe in her e-mail in box. He had tracked down her e-mail address, using an Internet service that maintained a searchable database of Web users. He said he'd found her interesting and he wanted to chat with her via e-mail, if that was all right.

  It seemed kind of weird. The guy was way older than she was. In his late thirties, maybe forty. Ancient! On the other hand, there was no harm in answering his e-mail. And at least he wasn't some loser, like the high school guys who were usually interested in her.

  So she had begun a correspondence with Gabe. Topics of discussion were general at first. She talked about the boys at school who tried to impress her with their money or their cars. He talked about the pimps and dealers on the street who devoted their lives to the acquisition of material goods. They agreed that such superficial concerns only warped a person's perspective. What mattered was not what a person owned, but who that person was. Most people didn't understand this. They were shallow. She and Gabe connected on a deeper level.

  After a month he asked if she would meet him for coffee at the Starbucks near her school. She said yes. And she still didn't tell her mom. Gabe was about as old as her father, after all. Her mom was conventional enough to care about stuff like that. Anyway, it was just coffee.

  Then it was a kiss on a side street by Gabe's parked car, then a hectic half hour in the backseat when he stroked her breasts with his long, gentle fingers. A month ago it was a car ride to a studio apartment in the Wilshire district, near the tar pits, where he had unfolded the sofa to make a bed, and she had given herself to him.

  It was her first time, and she wasn't sure she'd been very good at it, but in the weeks since, she had learned. She had let him teach her what men liked.

  They never spoke of the future. She didn't know if there was a future for them. She was satisfied just to give him what he needed

  Footsteps downstairs. "Meg?"

  Her mom had come home.

  Quickly Meg straightened the bedsheets and threw on her clothes. She met her mother coming up the stairs. "'Hey."

  "There you are. You have dinner yet?"

  "Uh, no, not yet." She wondered what had happened to the beer bottle Gabe had taken from the fridge. Was it still in the kitchen? Would her mom see it?

  "It's nearly seven o'clock. You have to be at Jamie's in a half hour, remember?"

  "Right. Sorry. I'll fix dinner now."

  "No, I'll do it."

  Meg didn't want her mom going into the kitchen. "Let me. You look tired."

  "You noticed." Robin blew a stray hair away from her face. "Okay. The Chinese food is on the top shelf of the fridge."

  "You want me to make some for you?"

  "No, I already ate."

  "Four-course meal at a five-star restaurant?"

  "Burger at a coffee shop."

  "Even better."

  Meg hurried down the stairs, into the kitchen. A quick search proved that the beer bottle wasn't there. Gabe must have taken it when he left. He was in law enforcement. He knew better than to leave evidence at a scene.

  But in the trash she found the bottle cap, clearly visible on top of a pile of discarded paper napkins. It was always the little things that got people caught.

  She buried the bottle cap deeper in the garbage, then set to work microwaving dinner. Her hands, she noticed, were shaking. She felt like a criminal, which was wrong, really wrong. She had done nothing to be ashamed of. What was between her and Gabe amp; it was good; it was right. She was protecting Robin, that's all, because Robin couldn't handle it. Robin wouldn't understand.

  No one would understand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "I'll pick you up at ten," Robin said as she cleaned up after Meg's hurried dinner.

  Meg showed her the pouty face she used when she was being treated unfairly. "I can get a ride from Jamie's sister. She's got her license now."

  "Very reassuring. I'll be there at ten."

  "You know, it's bad enough being dropped off by your mother. But being picked up by her"

  "Just think of me as your personal chauffeur. So why a party on a Monday night?"

  "It's not a party. It's a study group for lit class."

  "Sounds very academic."

  "You know me, the junior scholar."

  "Any boys participating in this educational effort?"

  "Boys? Yuck. Seriously, no Y-chromosome types are allowed. It's a strictly double-X affair."

  "You might want to rephrase that."

  "What I'm saying is, it's a girl fest. Who knows, there might even be pillow fights."

  "So you, uh, you're still not seeing anybody?"

  "I guess you'd know if I were."

  "It wouldn't kill you to be sociable with some of the boys in your class."

  "I'm not interested in them. They're all so immature. They're just, you know, kids."

  You're a kid, too, Robin thought, but she said nothing.

  "Hey," Meg added with a glance at the clock, "we'd better take off, or I'll be late."

  "I just need to close the windows so I can set the alarm."

  "Why bother? It's a five-minute ride. Ten-minute round trip."

  "Ten minutes is long enough for someone to break in." Someone like Brand.

  Meg shook her head. "Wow. You weren't like this in Santa Barbara. You spend way too much time around criminals. It's making you crazy."

  "Thanks for the diagnosis."

  They set the alarm, locked up, and descended to the condo building's underground garage. Meg stopped short when she saw the Saab. "Oh, my God. Were you in an accident?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

  "I forgot." This excuse, lame was it was, happened to be true. With everything else that had taken place today, the damage to the car had slipped her mind.

  "You forgot? What happened to it?"

  "Vandals," Robin lied. "They broke the windows while I was at work."

  "You mean they did this in the parking lot behind your building?"

  "Afraid so."

  Meg pondered the damage before reaching a decision. "I can't be seen in this car. It's a wreck."

  "Think of it as retro."

  "Mom, seriously amp;"

  Robin wanted to ask Meg if she was really that worried about what her friends would think, but of course she knew the answer. Friends were your whole world when you were in high school.

  "I'll park behind a tree," she said. "They'll never even see me."

  "You swear?"

  "Cross my heart and hope to never eat pizza again."

  Tentatively Meg got into the car, treating it as if it were a giant bear trap poised to spring shut. Robin slid behind the wheel.

  "You're go
ing to get this fixed, right?" Meg pressed.

  "No, I was planning to leave it this way. Gives the car some character, don't you think?"

  Meg stared at her, aghast, then relaxed a little. "Oh, you're joking."

  Robin started the engine. "What gave it away?"

  "You must've been pissed when you saw the damage."

  "Don't say pissed."

  "Ticked off. Riled. Irked."

  "That's better."

  They pulled onto the street, heading north to Wilshire. The sun was lowering. Sunset was at seven-forty-five, twenty minutes from now.

  "When did you start going all Miss Manners on me?" Meg asked.

  "I've always been Miss Manners. Miss Manners is my alter ego."

  "Right."

  "Have you ever seen me eat with the wrong fork?"

  "I've seen you eat takeout straight from the container with a plastic spork. I don't picture Miss Manners doing that."

  "She does it. Just not in public." Robin turned right on Wilshire, blending into a smooth stream of traffic.

  "So amp; did you see Justin Gray today?" Meg asked.

  Robin frowned. The question had come out of nowhere. "Why ask about him?"

  "Just curious."

  "He's coming tomorrow. You know that. Tuesdays and Thursdays."

  "Right, right." Meg looked out the window at the strip malls and fast-food joints. "It's weird."

  "What is?"

  "The stuff he did."

  "Murdering girls? I'd say that qualifies as more than weird."

  "The way he did it. Kidnapping them at random. And he didn't rape them or anything."

  Robin wondered where Meg had picked up that detail. She had never been interested in following the news. "True."

  "So if he didn't have anything personal against them, and he wasn't in it for sex, why'd he do it at all?"

  "What's with this sudden interest in Justin Gray?"

  "I was just wondering if you had any, you know, theory about it. Unless you're not up for the Grand Guignol stuff right now."

  "I'm up for it, I guess. It's not Grand Guignol, anyway. It's sort of Freudian. Or Jungian. I don't know. Symbolic."

  "I'm going to regret asking, aren't I?"