by Alex Gates
“Now listen to me.” Riley leaned forward. The muscles packing his shoulders made his neck disappear. “You’ll eat your lunch. Go back to the station. And sit on your thumb and spun around a couple times until you go home. Then tomorrow you’re gonna come in and find a brand-new case to work on.” He grinned. “Then next week, next month, next year when you wake up without a slit throat or bullet in your brain, you’re gonna crawl over to my desk and kiss my fucking ass, you got it?”
Falconi stopped me before I stormed out of the booth. His smile had faded long before we got in the car, and I didn’t recognize the shade in his voice. “London, listen to us. You’ve gotta drop this case.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Getting dunked in the river wasn’t warning enough?” Riley asked. “What’s it take to scare you? Some asshole with a meat cleaver aiming for your tit?”
I ignored the implication. “You think that wreck is going to scare me off the case? It just means that I’m on the right track. I’m close, and they’re more scared than me.”
“She’s gonna die, isn’t she?” Riley pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as the waiter approached. “Jesus Christ.”
The waiter pointed to the sign over the door. “Sorry, bud. No smoking.”
“So call the cops.” Riley snorted a stream of white smoke from his nose. “Bring us three bacon cheeseburgers with fries.”
“Two burgers.” I corrected him. “I’ll just have fries.”
The waiter nodded, coughing as he bitched his way to the kitchen.
“Still not doing meat?” Falconi asked. “Not even bacon?”
“Especially not bacon,” I said.
“Why the hell not?”
Because bacon smelled too much like sizzling human flesh. “What’s happening with Emily’s case? Give me something. Anything. I need a new angle. If we can find her murderers, I can use them to get me to Reissing.”
“Nothing is happening with the case.” Falconi ditched his coffee for a Coke and downed half of it before looking up. “London. Nothing.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means you’re not the only one with a lot of shit to sort out,” Riley said. “Official word is that it was a prostitution meet gone bad. Johns didn’t want to pay, shot her after the deed was done.”
I laughed, the sound caught in my throat. “Since when do johns wear ski-masks? For Christ’s sake, you know that’s not true. Those men were sent to torture and kill that girl.”
“Emily and Amber were living in the motel, turning tricks for a free room.” Falconi shrugged. “That’s just the way it was.”
“I’m not arguing about their pasts or the trouble they were in,” I said. “These girls have been used and abused their entire lives. But that doesn’t give these assholes free ride to hurt them.”
“According to the ME, she wasn’t hurt. Perps used condoms. No DNA. Inconclusive rape kit.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“She was high as a kite, London. Probably didn’t even know what was happening.”
Falconi rubbed his face. “Some mercy in the world then.”
“You can’t believe this story,” I said. “God, tell me you don’t believe it.”
Both were quiet. Falconi answered first, unable to meet my gaze. “I got kids, London. Young kids. A wife staying at home taking care of them.”
“So?”
“So? I need my goddamned job.” His words edged a little harder. “And I need my life.”
I eyed Riley. He shrugged. “Wife has primary custody. They can screw with that bitch all they want, but I gotta think of my boys.”
Unbelievable. “Don’t you think I’m being threatened too? I’ve gotta worry about James. These bastards are following me. Following him. They’re surveilling an FBI agent, don’t you see how fucking deep this goes?”
“And that’s why it has to stop,” Riley said. “It’s bigger than all of us.”
“You can’t just stop a murder investigation. Who would cover it up? It’s too big, too complicated.”
Falconi waited while the food was placed before us. The fries looked good, but the greasy scent of the meat turned my stomach. The waiter returned to the kitchen before he spoke. “It’s already done. Someone wants the case closed.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Riley grabbed his burger and took a bite. “He says he doesn’t know. I’m not that paranoid.”
It was Falconi’s turn to get pissed. “Goddamn it, I was the one who lost the coin flip. It was my ass searching the motel’s dumpster. I dug around in hip deep garbage, full of condoms and needles, looking for that gun.” Falconi swore, abandoning his meal. He offered me his burger then shrugged as I avoided looking at the rare, bloody meat. “I held the murder weapon. I remember it. The grip was busted. Had a scratch over the entire side. One long gash with a bunch of other dings and scuffs because the owner was an idiot and didn’t know how to store it properly.”
“So?” I asked.
“So, yesterday, I went back to evidence to write my report?” He held Riley’s stare. “The gun in evidence ain’t the same gun.”
Riley spoke with his mouth full. “You’re as loony as her.”
“I saw it,” Falconi said. “It’s not the same gun. Someone swapped it. Someone was inside the evidence room. Someone covered it up, and I’m out of this case. I can’t afford the risk to my family, not for…”
I stiffened. “Not for who?”
He didn’t apologize. I didn’t expect him to. “Some teenage drug-addicted whores who are probably working with Grayson House, turning tricks to score more drugs.”
“I can’t believe you.”
Riley sighed. “London, is this case really worth your life? Worth putting James in harm’s way? These aren’t innocent kids plucked off the street and forced into marriage here. These are troubled, drug-addicted kids with criminal records.”
“And that makes them worthless?”
“That makes this even more dangerous.”
“I don’t care.” I spoke it again, louder. “I don’t care. These kids need help, and someone should have the balls to do what’s right. These people are abusing their positions to destroy the lives of the ones who need the most help.”
“Why?” Riley groaned. “Why them, London? Why are you going to put yourself in the cross-hairs for them when everyone else—the law, their families, their friends—gave up on them?”
“Because people gave up on me!” I escaped from the booth, avoiding the meat, the imagined blood, the familiar and terrifying smell. “I’ve been left for dead before. I’ve been in that same spot—alone and suffering and waiting until it was my turn to bleed out for someone’s amusement. I know what it feels like to have to survive alone, to have to escape from someone’s perverted torture because no one else could help. I’ve been them before.”
The memories didn’t clear—the ones I longed to forget and the moments bathed in the blood of the girls I couldn’t save.
“I’ve been alone before,” I said. “And because of that? I won’t stop until I know they’re all safe.”
20
“You really want to challenge me?
I’ll enjoy this.”
-Him
Don’t do it.
James’s words echoed in my head.
I sipped my coffee and stared at the juvenile courthouse from my cozy, sun-warmed patch. The afternoon was waning. The late hearings concluded.
And Judge Edgar Reissing would be returning to his chambers to finish his paperwork and leave for the day.
Don’t do it.
James was right about a lot of things—cases, criminals, coincidences.
Me.
He knew too much about me. What I had been through. What I’d experienced. Why helping these girls wasn’t about finding justice for them. It helped me to understand and overcome all the evils that had forever scarred me.
But this
?
He was wrong about this.
The official story was fixed. The baby—dead. The mother—dead. The fake mother—hospitalized.
And Grayson House?
Announcing a new construction project. Adding yet another wing of dormitories to house more of the youth who needed extra help.
So, what harm came from confronting the man who made it all happen? The one who faced every innocent victim and felt no remorse as triggers were pulled and matches lit.
Don’t do it.
I had to talk to him. Had to face him one last time before casting the nightmare of the case into the dark and drunken nights I’d spend worrying about the fate of those forgotten.
Did he regret it? Would he continue to abuse the girls? How could he sleep at night knowing his own infant daughter had taken her last breath?
Only one way to find out.
Don’t do it.
James knew me.
He also knew I’d never listen to that sort of suggestion.
I pitched the coffee cup and zipped my jacket, edging through the crowd of eager law students and paralegals skipping out as early as they could on a Friday night. I offered my credentials to security and hurried from their checkpoint to the official offices and chambers. Reissing’s receptionist bundled her belongings as I rapped on the door. Her frustrated scowl turned smile as she recognized me.
“Oh, Detective…” She danced from one leg to another. “Can it wait until Monday? Taking the kids to Conneaut Lake this weekend. Gotta leave before traffic becomes a nightmare.”
“I just want to talk to the big guy,” I said. “Doubt it’ll take long.”
She winked and swung her purse over her shoulder. “Good. Then I’m gone. Tell him to lock up.”
If I had it my way, I’d lock him up myself.
I gave His Honor the honor of a knock and not my foot through his door. He didn’t react when I entered, only removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
He’d aged ten years since the party.
His voice wavered, weary and drawn, scraped from his lungs. “I thought you might come.”
Good. “Thought it was time we talked.”
“I have no time for anything now, London.”
“I don’t care.”
I didn’t sit, but he rose, padding across the office to remove his robes. The motion was slow. Deliberate.
Maybe he realized his hypocrisy.
Maybe he regretted his sins.
“I’m giving you a chance.” I didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t blink. “I have nothing on you. No witnesses. No warrants. I’ll find the evidence eventually. But, as you know…there’s a lot of forces at work protecting you. I wonder if it’s worth it?”
Probably not.
He adjusted his robe onto the hook with a solemn hand, stroking the material. No sense getting sanctimonious now. It wouldn’t fool anyone.
“I’m giving you a chance,” I said again. “An opportunity to confess. Do what’s right and accept the consequences. If I figured it out, others will too. And soon.”
A nod? Or just a tremble?
At least he knew I wasn’t bluffing.
“You have a gambling problem—lots of money to waste and absolutely no luck. But that doesn’t matter to you. You’ve got a source. A security nest egg. Do your job—do it a little too thoroughly—and you’d have plenty of cash to feed your own addiction.” I smirked. “It’s actually pretty ingenious. You take the kids with no opportunity, future, or protection, and you offer them a chance to recover in a facility which promises rehabilitation.” I tilted my head. “Do you get more money for the pretty girls?”
He turned away. Bingo.
“That’s it, isn’t it? All those pretty girls, cast into a prison with no escape, no oversight, no one to save them. Maybe they act willingly—receiving favors and drugs and leniency for use of their bodies. Or maybe they’re unwilling. Maybe that’s what men like you enjoy. Forcing yourself onto a girl who wants to say no but has no choice but to surrender. Makes you feel powerful, but it’s so much more than just strength with a body under you. It’s the rush. One word, and the girl is taken from her nice, minimum security rehab program and is thrust into a more wild and unforgiving, harsher jail where she’ll definitely get hurt and maimed and reformed. You have complete control over her body, her obedience, even her future.”
At least he had the courage to face me, but now he acted weak. Now he pretended to be frail. He crossed before me, shaking as he gripped the chair and sat.
“When did it start?” I asked. “You’re not the type of man who gets off on pedophilia, so it wasn’t at first. No. You waited. You watched. And day after day, year after year, you were tempted by those who had tasted the fruit you planted in that prison. Those other men took their pleasure from beautiful, young flesh. And so you thought…” I hated myself for understanding. “What’s the harm in one?”
His head fell to his hands.
The sick son of a bitch did have a conscience.
“But you picked wrong, didn’t you? Emily Casco. One of the youngest there, I bet. Fifteen? Hardly developed and so damn ignorant of sex that she didn’t even know you had gotten her pregnant.”
He shook his head. I wouldn’t let him savor the memory.
“No. By the time she found out, it was too late. Did you threaten her, or was that the job of the man pimping her? Not that it matters. She and Amber Reynolds escaped. And it was a problem. Must have panicked everyone. But the girls weren’t talking. Hell, Amber still won’t speak a word of what happened at Grayson House. So, it was fine.” I paused. “Until I found out.”
I stepped in front of him, voice hardening. “I found her. I found the baby. And that was the proof they’d need to have it all crash down. But without the mother, no one would know who the baby belonged to. That’s when Amber made the mistake. She overestimated you. Feared you so much she exposed herself and Emily. The baby was thrust into the spotlight, and she became more of a problem than the girls. That’s why you tried to kill them all.” I frowned. “Amber’s still alive—barely. Emily was raped before she was killed—that’s seems exceptionally cruel, don’t you think? And the baby…” My fists tightened. “The more I think about it, the more I realize sick perverts like you only care about innocence so you can ruin it. I think Hope is dead, and it’s all because of you.”
He didn’t deny it, but he refused to speak, staring at me with tear-stained cheeks.
“So, I’m giving you a chance. It won’t save your soul, nothing will. And it won’t get you out of jail, though a good flip on the other bastards who abused the girls might reduce your sentence.” I leaned down, hand on his shoulder. “Just confess. You can stop this charade. You can end it now. I came to your birthday celebration. I saw the respect and admiration so many people have for you. Be the man everyone thinks you are—the man you want to be.”
“I…” His voice choked. “I…”
“You can still save the other girls trapped in that nightmare. So many innocent girls, victimized and abused and raped by men who don’t care. But you care, don’t you? You know it’s wrong. You were confused. Mixed up in something beyond what you thought it’d be. A couple kids, a couple bucks. It was still a good facility that helped most of them. You didn’t know what was really happening until it was too late, and by then you’d taken that money because you had to. Because the gambling debts piled up, and you didn’t have a choice.”
I took a breath, staring into his eyes.
“You have a choice now. You can do the right thing. Please, Judge Reissing—Edgar. Help me to help them, and we can stop all this abuse together.”
His breathing lengthened. The tears dried. A look of revelation hardened his features. He didn’t smile, but I wouldn’t have expected guilt, shame, and hatred to lift his spirits. He met my gaze and spoke, his voice more determined than I’d ever heard it.
“I fear them more than I fear a jail cell.”
He reached
quickly, faster than I thought he could move. The gun released from my holster. I twisted, but I was too slow.
Far too slow.
Judge Reissing pushed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.
And instantly, he was dead.
21
“They know you’re in trouble, London.
So why hasn’t anyone come to save you?”
-Him
Wet Naps didn’t clean bloodstains.
And they did nothing to clear the dusting of crimson trapped under fingernails. I hated that. I’d always forget to scrub there until I washed my hands later. The water would tint pink, and it’d all come rushing back.
The acrid scent of the gun.
The blast of brain, tissue, and bone.
The thud of lifeless bodies striking the floor.
I once thought death meant silence. That wasn’t it at all. Death was a pained wheeze and a glug of fluid. Ugly. Vile.
Utterly and completely insane.
I had no idea what had just happened in Reissing’s chamber, and neither did the rest of the city.
Part of me believed that was why I sat in the interview room, offered the same can of Coke and sugar cookie given to the other victims and perps.
But I knew the truth. Judge Reissing wasn’t supposed to die. Now justice had a reason to be blind—the story was compromised, the real criminals exposed.
That meant trouble.
That meant they’d question me.
I waited in the interview room, scrubbing my nails with the Wet-Nap until the skin underneath burned red and irritated. I swore I could still feel the blood. See it. Imagine it. But the door opened, and I pitched the debris into the garbage can before anyone asked just how much blood had spilled on me.
Too much.
Assistant Chief Esposto entered silently, holding the door for a plump, well-tended woman with a clipboard, pantsuit, and bun—the hallmark of Internal Affairs. Great. I’d take another suicide over a meet and greet with the Gotcha Squad. They’d already made my life miserable for the last three months over an unauthorized and reckless pursuit. Apparently preventing a ten-year-old from becoming a child bride meant crossing Ts, dotting Is, and waiting for backup instead of stopping a would-be rape.
