by Jenna Rae
Del raised her good shoulder. “Spill.”
Phan rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Kaylee had a physical a few weeks ago.”
Del leaned forward, alarmed. “She okay? Something wrong? Is she sick? Why haven’t you said anything?”
“No, she’s fine. Perfectly, perfectly healthy.” Phan sighed heavily. “She’s five-two, one-oh-nine.”
“Oh.”
Now Del understood. Phan was freaked out because his daughter was exactly the same height and weight as Leslie Thorne. Del wanted to say something about how Kaylee wasn’t in their bad guy’s target age range or neighborhood. Phan and his ex-wife both lived in the Sunset District. She wanted to remind him that lots of girls and women were that size and were not targets. But it all rang false in her head. If she had a kid Kaylee’s age, she’d be afraid for that kid every day. Working the job was bad enough. Coming across a victim with the same stats as your only child had to feel like a punch to the throat. There was nothing Del could say that wouldn’t either dismiss Phan’s feelings or sound patronizing or both.
“That’s disturbing.” She knew Phan would hate any gesture of comfort. “I can’t imagine how that feels.”
“Yeah.” Phan scrubbed at his scalp, messing up his expensively cut, surfer-boy hair. For the first time Del noticed a few strands of silver. “I know it doesn’t mean anything. I just don’t like it.”
“Yeah, neither do I. Let’s get this clear: anybody lays a hand on your girl, you and I take care of it privately. We don’t leave behind pieces of him big enough to find.”
“Deal.” Phan allowed himself a small smile. “She isn’t even dating yet. I can’t imagine letting her go out with some idiot boy. Or,” he continued, “some idiot girl, for that matter.”
“When she starts dating we’ll follow her. Discreetly.”
“Obviously.” Phan nodded. “Listen, this being Sunday and all, let’s go home.”
“Deal.” Del led the way into the station. “Unless we get snagged.”
“Now you’ve done it.”
“You know what really sucks?” Del eyed her partner.
“I know. I’m doing it, too—waiting for the next victim to show up so we have something to work with.”
“What’s wrong with us, Phan?”
“The job. That’s what’s wrong with us.”
Chapter Twelve
Del spent most of Sunday night poring over the data Mac had sent her, refining her timelines for Ernie White’s movements and expenditures over the last several years. It was clear that no one else had ever gone through the mountains of undifferentiated data. Was there, she wondered, a roomful of data on every single American? Or only those who met certain criteria? If so, what were the criteria? She was drowning in information on the guy, struggling to separate the important from the unimportant. For the first time she was truly aware of how useless information was without some system of screening and organizing. The Feds’ data collection was like fishing with a net wider than the Pacific Ocean. She resolved to choose the fifty most important facts about White and see if that told her anything. It was slow going, and close to dawn she fell asleep with her head on a stack of reports on his travels.
In the morning Del was only too glad to go to work. She walked in to find that the Feds had abandoned the station, leaving behind only displaced furniture and boxes of neatly collated paperwork detailing the fine work of the federal investigators, focused in particular on how carefully they had covered their asses.
Captain Bradley was unable to explain why the Feds had suddenly left Mission Station or whether they’d set up a new base camp in their own building on Golden Gate Avenue. They were, Bradley said, still investigating the kidnappings. When a few officers tried to ask follow-up questions, he offered an exaggerated shrug. “You can’t ask me to explain the Feds.”
Inspector Ralph Davies had been put in charge of finding Leslie Thorne’s killer, and Del didn’t envy him. He was a blowhard and a jerk, but from what she’d seen he was a decently thorough investigator. She watched him blow off steam at a few junior officers. Then he started calling out everyone who’d been part of the original investigative team, which was nearly the whole station. When no one would respond to his taunts, Davies zeroed in on Del, saying that she’d done a half-assed job and he was sick of having to come in and clean up her messes.
Why he took his stress out on her and not Phan or anyone else, Del wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t take it personally. She’d been there herself, blind and behind the eight ball. They’d all been there, stuck with a nightmare of a case. And she knew Davies. He was one of those who wished these were still the good old days, when the whole department was populated with white men who looked and sounded like himself. The federal mandate requiring SFPD to diversify the ranks had long expired, and Davies had been one of those who cheered when it did.
She tuned Davies out when he muttered under his breath that she was incompetent. She and Phan were going over their overlapping to-do lists when Davies called her a bitch. Phan looked to Del for some cue, and she shook her head.
“Is there something I can do for you, Davies? If you need anything for the case, let me know. Until then, we’re working.”
Davies stalked away.
“Nicely handled,” Phan murmured. “He’s losing it.”
“He’ll be back,” Del predicted. “And he’ll up the ante. But I can handle Davies.”
Phan nodded slowly, and they went back to reviewing their notes and task lists.
When Davies stalked up to Del an hour later, the partners were reviewing every piece of information they had on Mikey’s murder.
Davies stood over Del, castigating her for failing to solve Leslie Thorne’s murder. He ranted loudly, winding up by insisting she’d only been promoted to Inspector because she was a dyke and filled a quota.
Del looked up at the red-faced bigot. He was like a child with oppositional defiant disorder: if he could provoke any reaction that made her seem overly emotional or out of control or weak, he would feel victorious. She’d worked with dozens of guys like Davies. They were full-grown but acted like toddlers and would rage and scream when they got frustrated or upset. Davies was a bully. The way he stood over her, raining spittle on her from his lofty vantage, the way his eyes bulged and his arms waved around and his voice boomed over her—he looked like a blond, mostly hairless adolescent chimpanzee. She half-expected the guy to throw scat at her.
From the side she saw Phan lean forward in his chair, clearly resisting the urge to stand up and confront Davies. Phan would read her cue and let her handle Davies unless she seemed to want his help. He had her back. She felt the weight of the other officers’ gazes on her. They seemed to be frozen with shock. Davies was out of line, and they knew it, but they weren’t sure what they were supposed to do. It was up to Del to figure it out. If she lost her cool, they would lose respect for her. If she let Davies bully her, they would lose respect for her. Two decades of experience dealing with fellow officers, some of whom were bullies, had taught Del that only two things worked: calm and humor. She had to model both for the younger officers around her. They would all watch. They would all remember not only how she handled Davies but also how Phan had her back when she did so. This was a performance.
“Well, Davies,” she drawled, her voice steady and cool, her face a mask of calm, “solve the case and maybe you can start to talk shit. Until then—”
There were a few smirks from the peanut gallery, and Davies seemed to grow more enraged. He turned purple. He said she was only a dyke because she was too ugly to get a man.
Del laughed and rolled her eyes. “You’re calling me ugly? Do you own a mirror, Davies?”
This apparently startled everyone. Even Davies was momentarily stopped in his tracks. A couple of onlookers snorted, and Davies sputtered. Del stared up at him, one eyebrow cocked, a smirk twisting her lips.
Davies pushed her shoulder, th
e one she’d spent months rehabbing, and she fought the urge to jump up and punch the jerk. Six or seven guys came closer, watching Del for some cue. She reminded herself that if she lost her cool, there would be a brawl, which outcome would serve no one. She rose slowly, turning to face him fully. She resisted the impulse to get in his face. She kept her voice quiet, her face neutral. Her heart was pounding, and she took a second to make sure her voice would stay cool and low.
“Watch yourself, Davies.”
Phan stood behind her. He’d come around the desks double-time and coiled, but she still ran the show. Now there was a tight circle of brother officers around Del, and she realized they were with her. Everyone watched and waited. If she broke the calm with anger or fear there would be chaos. Del felt like she was a kid in school again and being targeted by the newest bully to swing into town, the one who hadn’t gotten the memo about how the skinny blond girl could kick ass. Only this time around there was a team on her side.
“Bitch,” Davies growled. “Fucking bitch can’t do the fucking job.”
“That’s okay, Davies,” Del said in a light tone, turning from him with practiced indifference and breaking up the circle with deliberate casualness. “We don’t hold it against you.”
It was a lame joke but it broke the tension. Phan’s laugh was the loudest. Davies’s face turned to stone, and he stormed away. Del accepted verbal backslapping from her relieved peers. She didn’t thank any of them, nor did any of them pledge undying loyalty. Their actions had spoken louder than words could have done. She was one of them. She wasn’t sure when that happened, or why she hadn’t been aware of it, but she was one of them. She went back to work, knowing that as soon as she normalized things everyone else would get back to work too.
“Nicely done,” Phan murmured after the station’s usual noise and activity had resumed.
“For now.”
Phan tapped the desk with his fingers. “I wasn’t sure how you wanted—”
“I appreciate how you had my back,” Del said. “You let me handle it but you had my back. Perfect.”
Phan nodded, pursing his lips. “Cool.”
Del laughed. “You’re such a surfer boy.”
* * *
That night, she went home to find several messages waiting for her. From Lola, she guessed. Exhausted from the day and painfully aware of the late hour, she ignored them and dropped into bed without bothering to eat or shower or even brush her teeth. She’d been able to maintain her cool with Davies largely because she understood him. She got that he wanted a fight. He didn’t even care who the fight was with or why. She’d felt like that plenty of times. Hell, she felt like that now—she was just too tired to get worked up. Even Phan was starting to get snippy, which wasn’t like him. She decided to get him a coffee in the morning. He’d done that for her plenty of times, and she hadn’t reciprocated. The thought of coffee made her remember she was hungry, but she couldn’t muster the energy to walk all the way downstairs and find something to eat. Besides, her stomach hurt. Hugging her burning belly, Del knew she should take her ulcer medication but couldn’t seem to talk herself into getting out of bed to retrieve it.
She thought of when she and Lola were together. Del would often come home late and find dinner in the fridge for her, a plate covered in foil with a heart drawn on it. Lola had done all sorts of sweet little things like that. Del had long ago gotten used to being taken care of by her girlfriends. She’d been spoiled by lovely, talented, brilliant women who while pursuing their own successful careers cooked for and cleaned up after her and let her do whatever she wanted. Until Janet, of course. Janet had made endless demands and rarely been satisfied by her efforts. Del had thought she’d learned something from that relationship. She had thought she’d learned not to take a good partner for granted. But then loving, thoughtful Lola came along and she took Lola for granted.
Janet had called Lola a housewife and clearly meant it in a derogatory way. Maybe they had fallen more deeply into the hetero-normed marriage roles than they’d meant to. While they’d kept their finances separate, they’d mixed their laundry and dishes and shopping, and Lola had done all of it. Del wondered how she would feel, being relegated to the role of somebody’s helpmate. She’d hate it. Had Lola hated it? Sometimes it seemed like it, but sometimes it seemed like it was the way they both wanted to do things. Lola liked cooking and fiddling around in the house, didn’t she? Baking and all that. Remembering the peach pie Lola had made her, back when they were together, almost tasting it, smelling it.
Daddy’s favorite. She could almost smell the heavy sweetness of peach pie. She could picture him sitting at the table in the diner he took her to sometimes when she was little. She always sat next to him, by the window, Daddy’s back to the corner. The main road that led to the freeway was usually empty of traffic, but the diner’s parking lot was always full. The tables were what Daddy called God-bless-it yellow, and the waitress always wore a red smock.
Del remembered once asking if the smock was God-bless-it red. He laughed, ruffling her curls. She smiled up at him, delighted at having made him laugh. They were eating peach pie, he with coffee and she with milk. She took her first bite and widened her eyes to show him how much she loved it and he laughed again. He gobbled up his piece and they raced to finish first. He won, of course, and then he licked his plate to make her giggle. Now, remembering, Del was surprised to find that she was crying. When was the last time she’d cried over her dad?
“Pretty pathetic,” she croaked. “You’re forty-four goddamn years old, and you’re crying over your daddy?”
Despite her tiredness, she woke early in the morning and went for a long run. She needed the exercise, that was for sure, but she also needed to clear her head. Davies might have another testosterone flash, and she needed to figure out a strategy. She pushed herself one step at a time in hopes she would find her stride, but after a mere three miles, she was struggling to move her body past the twin walls of gut pain and ennui. She slowed to a walk and trudged home to get ready for work. It would likely be another long, frustrating day, but she needed to get to the station and start dealing with it. By seven she was at her desk and checking email. By eight Phan was checking his and they were planning the day.
Davies had given each team a handful of suspects to run down, and Del was also focused on Teager, her original suspect, despite his having an alibi for one of the incidents. She spent the day working with Phan to build profiles and dossiers on each of their assigned suspects and going a bit further with her not-so-golden boy, running down Teager’s former teachers and co-workers on the phone. No friends that she could find, no former girlfriends. The guy was a ghost. No one she reached remembered him. No one had any real impressions of him.
“Is he a nice guy?” Yes. They all agreed on that one, however halfheartedly.
“Is he funny? Smart? Creepy?” To these more specific questions their answers were invariably vague and noncommittal.
He’s invisible, she thought. Totally invisible. Like Sofia Gonzalez had said of the man who peeped at her and laughed, covering his mouth with his hand when she fell down. Donette Williams’ Boo Radley, invisible and strange at the same time. It wasn’t until the end of the day that Del finally finished tracking down Teager’s mother’s friends and co-workers. Momma Teager been dead for several months, but Del figured surely her friends and acquaintances had opinions about her son. Del left messages for everyone she could find who was connected to the mother and decided to pack it in for the day. As she stood, she remembered her earlier thought that maybe Teager’s mother’s dying had triggered his crime wave. Funny, she thought, both of the suspects Davies gave us have lost their mothers within the last five years. Both to cancer. White’s and Teager’s mothers died within months of each other, both from well-documented causes. What if the only thing holding back scores of bad guys was their mothers? Neither of the men Davies had assigned her and Phan was a viable suspect. They both had solid, verifiable and v
erified alibis. Neither followed the patterns of behavior they were looking for. Davies had kept her and Phan busy all day with worthless nonsense. Shaking aside the thought, Del reminded herself she’d been given this scutwork because Davies hated her.
She and Phan walked out together, going over what they’d done over the course of the day.
“Davies kept his distance,” Phan noted.
“Kept us busy with nonviable suspects.”
“Yeah.” Phan shrugged. “But they both showed up in your perv database. At least we can cross them off the list.”
“True.” Del nodded absently. “See you tomorrow.”
She drove home thinking about Mikey. She had at some point stopped tracking how many days it had been since his death, and she felt strangely guilty about that. There was every possibility she would never solve his murder. She gripped the steering wheel, wondering about the kid. Had he learned to drive? Maybe not. Had he ever been on an airplane? Had he ever gone to Disneyland? How small was his world before it was taken away from him? He was just as invisible as Ronald Teager, just as invisible as the kidnapper, whoever he was. She’d read once that the worst thing you can do to people is render them invisible. She wondered if this was true. Had she rendered Lola invisible? Had she rendered herself invisible?
She turned onto 18th Street and saw Lola sitting on her front steps. Smiling hesitantly, she parked and found Lola standing a few feet away.
“How’s it going?” she asked, realizing she probably should have returned Lola’s calls.
Lola stared at her with an unreadable expression. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to you, and I’m just going to jump in, okay?”
Del nodded. “Do you want to come in?”
Lola shook her head. “When we met I was a mess. I was just starting my adult life, really belatedly. I was scared and insecure, I thought I could never make it on my own. Never open my heart again. And if I did, I might once again choose someone who thought less of me and would probably hurt me.”
