by Paul Cleave
“One more thing,” he says. “We’ve heard that tonight there’s going to be gatherings of boy-racers around town,” he says, and everybody groans. “It means the streets are going to be clogged. It means patrol responses may be slow, it means getting from A to B may end up taking longer. It’s estimated there are going to be over two thousand of them,” he says. “Two thousand vehicles deliberately being a pain in the ass, making some kind of point only adolescents are likely to get. For the love of God, don’t shoot them,” he says, and nobody is sure if he’s joking. “Just keep it in mind,” he says, “and allow for it.”
Then everybody is on the move again. Some of them pat me on the shoulder and the rest nod toward me as they head for the door. I stand up and approach the wall of death and look at the photos.
Stevens stares at me for a few seconds, then comes over. I’m expecting the warning, the don’t mess up warning, followed by the you shouldn’t be here warning.
“How’s it going, Theo?” he asks, and puts out his hand. I reach for it a little hesitantly, as if he’s going to pull it away and all the offers that have been made. I shake it. “Listen, I appreciate your help yesterday.”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“You were the only sane one out there, and I’ve heard if you hadn’t taken some control all of my detectives might have made the front-page news and be scouring the back pages for new jobs. That’s why you’re getting this chance. You earned it. But it’s a short leash. A very short one. Listen, I know I acted like a bastard ten minutes ago, but at least everybody is on your side now. If I’d stood up there and said what a privilege it was to have you back, they’d all have hated you because it’d have made it sound like they needed your help. This way they feel bad about how I treated you, and it’ll help them warm up to you.”
I’m not so sure it’s worked the way he thought it would, but I get his point.
“Plus what you came up with, if you’re right, it could be a good lead. Carl really thinks you can help,” he says, then nods at Carl who has come over to stand next to me. “People keep telling me you’re a loose cannon, but my way of thinking suggests maybe that’s exactly what we need, huh?” he says, and claps his hands together. “I mean, Jesus, this nutcase is a loose cannon, right? Time we fight fire with fire.”
“I appreciate the. . compliment, I guess.”
“Well we’re not paying you to waste time doing that,” he says, still smiling, “we’re paying you to help catch this son of a bitch. Good luck,” he adds, leaving me confused about what he really thinks of me. Then he turns toward Schroder. “A word?” he says, and Schroder follows him out of the room. I walk over to the window and stare out at the view, shielding my eyes from the sun. Still blue skies in every direction, but the south can’t be seen from this angle. At ground level people are walking about, some with purpose, some aimlessly, some heading to the parks that make up the Garden City. They’re pushing strollers and throwing Frisbees in what are the dying sunny days before winter.
I move over to the wall when Schroder comes back in.
“Was it bad?”
“Was what bad?” he asks.
“The warning Stevens gave you about me.”
“Like he said, you’re on a short leash.”
“Yeah? What else did he say?”
“He said nobody would file a complaint if I had to shoot you.”
I’m not sure if he’s joking and don’t ask in case he’s not. “So what’s my assignment? You want me to follow up with the stab wounds?”
“I’m on it. I want you to run with this,” he says, and he hands me a folder.
I open it up. Inside is a rap sheet belonging to a woman named Ariel Chancellor-a photograph of a twenty-two-year-old woman-who is now twenty-five according to the date of birth-stares back at me. She looks like she hasn’t eaten anything thicker than a potato chip since her teens. Her face is hollow and pale, her blond hair straight and lifeless, the ends of it frayed. She’s frowning at the photographer, the sense that if you could see her hand maybe she’d be giving the finger too. There are pictures of her fingerprints and a brief bio. She’s been arrested on drug possession and shoplifting. I look from the photo up to Schroder who, aside from the makeup and long hair, has a similar look on his face as the girl.
“Looks like a friendly girl,” I say. “She’s who was in Hayward’s car last night?”
“According to the fingerprints on his belt and in the car, yes. It’s your lead, Tate.”
There is no mention of prostitution in the file because the only crime in prostitution is the failure to declare your income. Whether you’re being shot in the line of duty or faking an orgasm for cash, Inland Revenue wants their share. There’s a last known address, which hopefully is still current.
“Jesus,” I say, “if she was in the car with him and she’s a prostitute, then Brad Hayward picking her up may have nothing to do with his death. It’s not like the other victims were picking up prostitutes.”
“It’s a lead,” Schroder reminds me, “likely a dead end, but it’s yours to follow.”
“And the stab wounds?” I ask.
“Look, I’m meeting the medical examiner down in the morgue in. .” he glances at his watch, “just over an hour. You’re welcome to meet me down there if you’re done in time. Until then, go and talk to this woman. Get her statement. Every line of inquiry needs to be wrapped up, Tate. That part of the job hasn’t changed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
We head downstairs together, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, either to save power like we’re all supposed to be doing all over the world to save on resources, or for the exercise. We get to the bottom. Schroder goes out a door to the parking lot and I head into the foyer and down the front steps to the street. There’s a crowd of reporters forming a semicircle, and in the center of it is Superintendent Stevens, shaved head gleaming in the sunlight. He has the attention of everybody there, except for Jonas Jones, who breaks away from the group. I don’t hang around for the speech and the questioning. Jones follows me. I figure I could try and lose him, but a man of his abilities will already know where I’m parked.
I reach my car half a block away and somebody has backed into it, the front left headlight is busted and there’s glass on the ground and no note left behind. I sweep the glass into the curb with my foot. Traffic is backed up from traffic light to traffic light, people flocking to start the workday.
“Let me guess,” I say, turning toward Jonas, “you woke up this morning knowing somebody was going to damage my car?”
“That’s funny, Detective. Do I have that right? You’re a detective inspector again?”
“You tell me.”
“I can help you, Detective. We can help each other. I have a gift, and you’re wasting time by denying that.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I tell him. “Twice in a morning. You must be desperate.”
“Don’t dismiss me, Theodore. I can help. There is an opportunity here for us both to do some good.”
“And you’ll write a book about it?”
“You would get some credit. And paid, of course, and looking at your car I can tell getting paid isn’t something you’re used to.”
“No, thanks,” I tell him.
“I can help you, Theodore.”
“Yeah? Then why don’t you help me and tell me what the stab wounds mean?”
“Why don’t you help me, and tell me about the case? Whether you think I’m a fake or not, we can help each other. I know how people think. You must at least know that’s true.”
“Then you must know what I’m thinking right now,” I tell him, and I pull away, leaving him to stare at my car for a few seconds before he turns back the way we walked.
The day is still warming up. I take my jacket off at the first set of lights I stop at. My body clock is a little out of whack from daylight savings-for some reason every year daylight savings feels like we’re jumping forward or backward six hours ins
tead of just the one. I stop off at a café and grab another coffee, figuring I can afford it now, figuring if I don’t take a few minutes to do this I’ll end up falling over in a gutter. I get the feeling I’m going to need two cups an hour just to stay alert through the day. I sit at a table and watch the city through the window, people passing by, cars doing the same thing, and everything looks normal and now, right now in this moment, Christchurch is the city it used to be.
The clouds from the south creep over the top of the café and start to cover the city. Somebody toots at another car and there’s an exchange of hand gestures and obscenities. A teenager in a hoodie walks past the window and sees me looking out. He takes the time to inhale a big wad of snot and spits it at me. It hits the window and slides down slowly, mostly green but with a bit of blood in there too, and he carries on looking angry at the footpath ahead of him. A man in the café behind me calls the waitress a whore and tells her coffee should be cheaper before storming out, and Christchurch is back.
I finish my coffee and drive to Ariel Chancellor’s house. It’s the kind of neighborhood I’d certainly never want to live in, with houses looking near collapse and gardens that have been eaten alive by bacteria. The street has potholes every thirty feet. The sidewalks are cracked and broken from pushed up tree roots. I park outside Ariel’s house safe in the knowledge nobody will think I’m a cop because of my car, safe in the knowledge my car isn’t worth stealing. The house is in rough condition, with a tarpaulin over part of the roof. I walk up the pathway to the front door, where paint is peeling off the walls and resting in flaky puddles on the porch. I knock, half expecting my hand to disappear, that the door will be full of rot and held together only by termites.
A woman answers, squinting at the bright light and holding her hand up to her face. Her skin is pale and there are cold sores around the sides of her mouth. It takes me a few seconds to come to the conclusion that it’s Ariel because this version is different from the photograph. She’s older and thinner and looks as though six hours ago she may have been strung out on whatever it is that made those needle holes in her arm. She’s holding onto a glass half full of golden fluid and ice cubes. She has dyed her hair black and it’s about half the length it was before, coming down to the top of her neck.
I hold up my badge. “Ariel Chancellor?”
I can see in her features that once, before life crushed her, Ariel Chancellor was an extremely attractive girl.
Her voice sounds like a cigarette butt is jammed down her throat. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Tate,” I say, introducing myself, and it’s good to say those words again and not be lying about it.
Her eyes snap into focus. “You don’t look like a cop,” she says, hooking her hair over her ears.
“No?”
“No. Cops wear cheap suits. Your suit is worse than cheap.”
“You recognize this man?” I ask, holding up a photo of Brad Hayward.
“No,” she answers, without even looking at it. She starts to close the door, and I put my hand out and stop her.
“You want to reconsider?”
“Not really, no. You want to get the hell off my porch?”
“Your fingerprints were found in his car.”
“My fingerprints have a way of getting found in lots of cars,” she says. “He say I took something from him? If so, he’s a liar. You can’t trust men who pay for sex.”
“So he was one of your clients.”
“If that’s the label you want to give them, sure.”
“He was murdered last night.”
“And what, I’m supposed to care? You think your buddy there would give a shit if I showed up dead in an alleyway?”
“He had a wife and two kids.”
“And they’re better off without him.” She lets go of the door, conceding she’s going to have to talk to me. She reaches into her pocket for a packet of cigarettes.
“You’re wrong about that,” I tell her.
“Am I? You have a crystal ball? He could have turned into a bad father, a drunk, somebody who’d hit his kids.”
“Please. He was killed in front of his children,” I tell her, which is close enough to the truth.
She lights one of the cigarettes. She holds the packet in my direction and I shake my head. “They’re better off without him,” she says. “They just don’t know it.”
“You may be right,” I say, doubting that she is.
“I am right. I’m good at reading men, Detective, it’s what I do.”
“At least help them get some closure and talk to me.”
She looks up at the sky and squints against the glary light, staring up for about five seconds as if that’s where the answers are. “It’s going to rain,” she says. “Business is always slow when it rains.” She looks back at me. “Fifty bucks,” she says. “Give me fifty bucks and I’ll talk to you.”
“I don’t have fifty bucks,” remembering the guy at the hotel yesterday morning with his baseball bat.
She looks out at my car. “No, I don’t suppose you do,” she says.
“But if you like, I can arrest you, throw you in a cell for a few hours, and let you sober up a bit. Now that I can do for free.”
“I suppose you could,” she says, and takes a sip at her drink. “Fine, you may as well come in.” She rattles the ice in her glass and holds it up to eye level. “Fix you a drink?”
“It’s too early.”
“No, it’s not that, I can tell,” she says, smirking at me. “Remember what I said about reading men? I can see it in your eyes. You’re battling a demon.”
“Maybe it’s too early for you too,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “It’s always happy hour somewhere,” she says, and I can’t imagine the last time she spent an hour being truly happy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Caleb Cole can barely move. His chest aches when he lifts his arms, the joints in his elbows and shoulders feel like they’re on fire. He massages his fingers deep into his neck just so he can start looking around. He might have been better off sleeping in the car, but he didn’t want to be away from Stanton in case he tried something. He’s had-he looks at his watch-shit, ninety minutes’ sleep. He can’t believe that’s all. Ninety minutes and the baby is crying. Somehow she has managed to pull the tape off her mouth and it’s dangling on her chin.
He’s cold. The slaughterhouse is the kind of building that would only get above fifty degrees if on fire. He hates it here. He has to wait until tonight to finish what he had wanted to finish last night, but he can’t face spending the entire day here.
He puts his hands on his hips and stretches out his back. He limps for the first few paces until the feeling comes back into his legs. This was supposed to be over by now.
“Quiet down,” he says to Octavia, but she doesn’t-instead she just gets louder. He unclips her from her seat and picks her up in both hands and holds her out. He could shake her, he supposes. It’d probably work. And how the fuck are the other two kids still asleep? He guesses they must be used to the noise like people living near airports. He bounces Octavia up and down a little and pulls the rest of the tape away and her crying quiets a little, but not enough to stop annoying him.
“Hungry?”
Her crying turns into a series of hiccups, and then she stares blankly at him before nodding. “Yes,” she says, her mouth holding on to the y much longer before snapping out the other letters like a gunshot, so it sounds like yyyyyyyyyyyyyes.
“I’ll get you some food.”
“Yyyyyyyyyes.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Yyyyyyyyyes.”
“Do you know any other words?”
“Cat,” she says.
“Cat,” he repeats. “That’s really useful.”
The doctor is watching him. He’s straining against the plastic ties, but stops struggling when he sees Caleb watching him. Caleb opens up the bag of suppli
es and finds another jar of baby food. Both of the other girls are awake. He frees Katy and gives the food to her.
“Feed her,” he says, nodding toward the baby.
Instead of feeding her, Katy runs over to her father and wraps her arms around him. She starts to cry, and Stanton starts to cry too. Stanton muffles something around the duct tape. The words are indistinguishable but the tone makes the message clear. He’s telling her everything is going to be okay. He’s telling her not to worry. Caleb takes a step toward them, ready to grab the girl by the collar and drag her away but decides to give them their moment. After all, the amount of nice moments in these people’s futures is very limited. He lets them have this one-but after thirty seconds, when it looks like they may never part, he changes his mind.
“Come on,” he says, and Katy doesn’t let go. “Come on,” he repeats, “or you’re all going to go hungry.”
Katy lets go. She sniffs back some tears and wipes her jacket sleeve over her face. “Okay,” she says, and she puts out her hand for the food.
She takes Octavia out of the seat and sets her between her legs and wraps her arms around her the same way she did her father, then puts her back into the seat and opens the jar. Spoonful after spoonful Octavia races it down. While she’s eating, Caleb tears open a packet of cereal. He eats a handful, looking at the container of milk and wondering if he should add some to his mouthful. He moves on to the loaf of bread instead. Katy finishes up, then hands Octavia a plastic cup of water. She drinks from it while staring at her sister. There is baby food all over her face and she’s probably filled her diaper back up and he can’t face doing anything about it either.
