Girls In White Dresses: A Detective London McKenna Novel

by Alex Gates

  I gathered my purse and checked my phone. I’d missed two calls. James—but I could text him back. The second call worried me.

  Mom.

  Oh, this was going to be fun.

  I loved her, but Mom was often as intense as a hangover without a shot of aspirin to dull it. I skimmed her three-hundred-word text message. She wasn’t technologically impaired, just socially bewildered. Because the message was important, she not only sent the text but also called, leaving me a voice mail as she narrated the entirety of the message.

  I waited until I was in my rental car before playing the voice mail on speaker phone.

  “London, hiya baby girl. I know you’re busy, and your father said it could wait until the weekend—I’m telling her, Charlie…no, it’s a message, I’m telling her what you said…yes, I’ll mention it…I know, Charlie! Let me finish the message. Go watch your shows, you’re driving me nuts! London, honey, I just wanted you to know that someone mailed you a letter, but it came here. Looks important, but I didn’t open it. I thought maybe it could be something classified. You have classified material at the station right? Not that I would know, you never talk about your work. Sometimes there’s things you can’t tell us about your cases, so I’m not mad…No, Charlie. I’m not mad at you. Well, now I am. Will you let me finish…”

  It wasn’t fair heading to my parents’ house without a dose of liquid courage. Hell, even some antifreeze would have made Baldwin more bearable. Nothing like navigating the tangled, miserable failures that were the insane intersections and illogical roadways of Pittsburgh’s South Hills during rush hour on a Friday.

  My family had never left the South Hills. Generations of McKennas damned themselves to living just outside the city’s shadow. Not because they liked it, but because the roads, construction, and general disarray that was Pittsburgh’s urban sprawl trapped the residents inside the South Hills, unable to escape a nightmarish MC Escher styled traffic pattern.

  In the 1940s, The Van Trapp family escaped Austria by trekking over the Alps. South Park residents couldn’t make it across the five-road intersection to get to the freaking McDonalds.

  My childhood home on Leona Drive looked the same as it always had since I was twelve—an orange brick split-level with a forty-five degree inclined driveway. The retaining wall crumbled, losing a battle against endless waves of crabgrass. Shrubs planted in the front, Mary Garden converted from half a bathtub in the back. Second toilet and shower in the basement. It was the Pittsburgh classic.

  During my kidnapping, I’d longed to see this place again.

  Now?

  Like any other adult returning to their childhood home, I wondered how many minutes were appropriate to visit, if I could make it out without staying for dinner, and if we could avoid scheduling any weekend plans.

  If that didn’t prove that I’d become a normal, well-adjusted person, what else would?

  Vienna was here too. I parked behind my sister’s Tahoe and hoped to God she’d remembered to put her emergency brake on this time—unlike two Christmases ago when we’d decked the halls with her insurance company.

  I hopped the steps to the front door, took a breath, and raised my hand.

  Was I supposed to knock at my parent’s house? It felt weird if I didn’t. I gave a little half-rap and twisted the knob. But the door swung open.

  I looked down.

  “Aunt London!”

  A blur of brunette and braids launched at me. I froze as my four-year-old niece wrapped her arms over my legs and squeezed as hard as she could.

  This was the part of family that I truly dreaded.

  “Clementine, you shouldn’t open the door to strangers,” I said.

  My niece giggled. “But I know you!”

  “Did you check to see if it was me before you opened the door?”

  She nibbled on her fingers, her cheeks puffing in a pout. “Maybe.”

  “Don’t lie, Clem.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t open the door until your mom says it’s okay.” I waited. She pouted. “Say it back, Clem. Don’t ever open the door for strangers.”

  Clementine’s eyes welled up with tears. She slipped out of my grip and sprinted to the kitchen with a wail.

  Fantastic.

  Why could I talk to child victims easier than my own family?

  Mom sat at the dining room table, sprawled on the bench with her leg under her. She scanned the newspaper for decent coupons, though she had an uncanny knack for clipping the foods I wouldn’t eat. Still, she couldn’t resist setting them aside for me.

  A cop doesn’t make much money, and you need to start taking care of yourself. Charlie, isn’t she looking thin? You look thin, London.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Mom squealed. “Oh, London. There you are!”

  She smooshed her cigarette in the ashtray that had ten years’ worth of gunk layered in the bottom. Mom had quit smoking when we were little, but, once I’d been kidnapped, the vice resurfaced. She’d gotten me back, but the habit stayed.

  “I’m so glad you came over!” She held me at arm’s length for the usual inspection. “You look tired. Charlie, does she look tired to you?”

  Dad slept in his living room chair. Not surprising. He had the ability to fall asleep anywhere. Holding a purse while Mom shopped. Waiting in the car while Mom shopped. Pushing the cart while Mom shopped. He snorted and woke, giving me a lazy wave.

  “Hi, Princess.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Mom puttered over the house, collecting everything she had set aside from me since I last trekked south of the city to visit—a week and a half ago. During that time, she’d found a Groupon for Omaha Steaks (You don’t have to shop, they ship them to your house!), a sweater from college (It was stored with my clothes, can you believe it, I haven’t been your size in thirty-five years!), and a cookie jar she found at Macy’s with a little sparrow on it (I just thought it was cute).

  Mom was sometimes scatterbrained—the type to sign her Secret Santa cards with Love, Mom. But no one could say she wasn’t thoughtful.

  “How’s James?” She gave me another hug. “Tell him to come by for dinner.”

  “He’s out of town.”

  “Doing what?”

  Questions neither of us had clearance to answer. “He couldn’t say.”

  “If you two get married—”

  “Mom!”

  “—They can’t keep sending him on all these secret agent missions, can they?”

  “We’re only dating. And he’s not exactly a secret agent. He’s helping with a case.”

  “You’re not getting any younger, London.” Mom wiped her lipstick smudge off my cheek. “And he’s a good man.”

  “I know.”

  “After all he did to help find you.”

  “There’s more to it than that—”

  “He stayed with you every day for a month after that ordeal.”

  “That was his job.”

  “He did it because it was you. That man’s been in love with you since forever.”

  Or ever since I became the only link he had to the case that had mystified him for years.

  When all his other victims were only found in freezers or with bones severed and meat butchered, a living victim offered James a treasure trove of gory details and insight into a mind no one should have ever understood.

  But James understood him.

  And he understood me.

  And maybe that was the problem.

  “You said you had mail for me?” I switched the subject before Mom grabbed her datebook and started wedding planning once again.

  She nodded, brushing a hand through her hair. She’d tried for a pixie cut a year ago, hated it, and had valiantly attempted to grow it out. But the red dye she used to keep it looking youthful made it brittle. She’d been struggling with chin length curls since Thanksgiving.

  “I’ll find it.” She began leafing through mail and cupboards. “I just had it here a minute a
go…”

  “London!”

  Vienna’s screech made the place feel like home. My older sister skipped the last stair like she always did, but instead of flinging a hair tie at my face and stomping on my toes, she opted to scold instead. Developed a good, stern voice for it too. Probably came from the husband and baby.

  “London.” Vienna crossed her arms and scowled, still looking as vibrant and rosy-cheeked as ever, even at thirty-five. “Can I have a word with you? Please?”

  The tension settled square in my neck, but I managed a nod. “Sure.”

  Vienna had a bad habit of pouting first and apologizing never. She motioned for me to follow with a curled finger—perfectly manicured twice a week thanks to her husband’s salary and an all-day pre-school for Clementine. She might have been wearing a ponytail, but the yoga style was only a ruse. The curls were styled, and the ends trimmed. She dressed for success in any occasion, and she aimed for the jugular in every fight.

  I followed her into the den, smiling as Clementine cannonballed Dad and woke him with an unceremonious elbow to his groin. Dad’s breath oofed out, but he didn’t swear.

  “Horsefeathers…” He gasped. A benign word Vienna strictly enforced around her daughter.

  She edged me around the corner. “We need to talk about you and Clem.”

  “What about her?”

  “She was in tears when you came in. What did you say to her?”

  “Never to open the door unless you give her permission.” I held her stare. “You never know who might be waiting on the other side.”

  She couldn’t argue with me, but she’d try. “Let me discipline my own child.”

  “I didn’t discipline. I told her to be careful.”

  “You made her cry.”

  “How?”

  “Clementine is sensitive. Jesus, London. You work with kids. Shouldn’t you know how to act around them?”

  Yeah. Probably. “I’m sorry.”

  “This isn’t the first time.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve been acting weird around her all month. What is it?” Vienna held her arms out. “No hugs. No presents. No nothing. You’re avoiding my daughter.”

  “I am not,” I lied.

  “She’s four years old. What the hell is wrong with you?” Vienna slammed a hand across the doorframe, preventing me from leaving. “London. For real. What’s going on?”

  I gritted my teeth, but against my better judgement and the power of my jaw, the words slipped out.

  “I had a case six weeks ago. A girl about Clem’s age.” I looked up, slow. How much did I want to say? How much would give my sister nightmares? “She was hurt. By a lot of men. Okay? I got her somewhere safe, but she’s just like Clem. Same hair. Same eyes. Same smile. I just…I don’t want to imagine that happening to her.”

  Vienna exhaled. “You’re supposed to be detached from the victims, London. Not your family.”

  “I told you what was wrong. I’ll get over it.”

  “I don’t think you’ll ever get over anything.”

  “What?”

  “Everything gets to you. Every case. Every memory. Everything you see sticks to you like you’re covered in superglue. You can’t pry it off without peeling your own skin. And God knows how little of it he left on you.”

  “Stop.”

  My sister shook her head. “Why did you do this to yourself?”

  “Do what?”

  “Why did you become a cop?” Vienna spat the word. “Do you have any idea what it’s doing to you?”

  “This is my job.”

  “No. It’s your death sentence.”

  I picked at the wallpaper, a fading cream that had yellowed with age. Without both of us in the house, the den became a catchall for everything Mom didn’t want to deal with. Eight packs of paper towels from Costco. Bags of clothes to donate to the family. Amazon boxes piled ten deep.

  But the pictures remained. One of me at my high school graduation. Another month after I’d returned from the ordeal. I smiled in both. Only one looked genuine.

  “You should have gone back into psychology,” Vienna said. “You’d have been happier.”

  She had no idea. “That wasn’t possible.”

  “You used to want to help people. Even when you were little. You planned on becoming a psychologist so you could make people well again.” She took my hand. “There’s still time. You can get out of this job before it kills you. Go back to school. James will support you.”

  “No.”

  “You have a chance to get yourself well again. To keep recovering. But the longer you stay in that dark and terrible world, the less chance you have to survive.”

  “Vienna, you don’t understand.”

  She refused to let me leave. “Then tell me. Talk to me. Like how we used to talk.”

  “Some people can’t be fixed.”

  “I can fix you.”

  “I’m not talking about me.” I gritted my teeth. “I’m talking about psychology. I’m talking about the evil people that exist in this world. They’re monsters. Vile. Cruel. Those people can’t be helped. The only thing that stops them is the law. That’s why I became a detective. So I could help the people who deserve to be helped—not the monsters of the world, but their victims.”

  Mom called from the dining room. That was as good excuse as any. Vienna didn’t follow, and I could breathe easier once she dropped that soul-wrenching stare.

  She never babied me.

  Didn’t have to. She was always right.

  Mom handed me a letter. “A box came with it, but it was addressed to Clementine.”

  “Really?” I didn’t recognize the writing on the envelope. Hand-written. Sloppy. “There’s no return address.”

  “Oh. Huh. Who’s it from?”

  I exhaled. “I don’t know, Mom. There’s no return address.”

  The envelope ripped as I opened it. Glitter poured out.

  “Oh, that’s probably from your Aunt Eliza.” Mom scurried to the cabinet to grab the dust-buster. “She’s always stuffing letters with confetti.”

  I stared at the dust on my hand.

  This wasn’t confetti. It rubbed into my finger. Stuck.

  I flinched as a larger piece of jagged, clear glass imbedded in my skin.

  “What the hell…” I held the envelope over the table and unwrapped the letter. More glass dust fell out, coating the table with a glittery shine.

  The letter was scrawled in an uneven cursive.

  I will execute great vengeance.

  Then they will know that I am the LORD, when I lay my vengeance upon them.

  Ezekiel 25:17

  Mom read the note over my shoulder. “What in the world does that mean? Aunt Eliza isn’t religious…”

  Oh, no.

  “Mom, you said there was a box that came with this. Where is it?”

  “It was a teddy bear. For Clementine—”

  Mom paled as the first screams echoed through the house.

  First Clementine’s.

  Then the agonized terror of her mother.

  20

  Are you angry with me?

  I love it when you’re angry.

  -Him

  Clementine needed ten stitches in her hand, three in her finger, and a dozen in her wrist.

  Mom ordered a sedative.

  Vienna nearly got arrested for assaulting the doctor.

  Dad parked in the emergency lane and fought with the hospital over the ticket.

  And I had nothing to do.

  Nothing I could have done.

  I collected the evidence. Helped with the report. Simmered with an unconscionable rage too dangerous to wield with a regulation weapon strapped to my hip.

  Fortunately, I knew the responding officer. Pete Bradly was a twenty-year veteran on the force, and though he dyed away all the wisdom peppering his hair, he retained some perspective. He bought me a cup of coffee and forced me to drink every drop before I made an
y mistakes.

  “Doesn’t matter who you think did it,” he said. “Keep a level head.”

  Pete carefully bagged the offending teddy bear as evidence. Had to be careful. It didn’t seem dangerous, not until Clementine had hugged it, it not until the glass the Goodmans had stuffed inside poked out of the thin material.

  Clementine was lucky that she hadn’t been more badly hurt.

  But she was damn unlucky to be my niece, bleeding because of this madness.

  Pete kept me away from the family, forcing me to drink my coffee and cool down in the hospital cafeteria. The plastic chair wobbled against an uneven linoleum floor, checkered black and white and stained with old food.

  I wasn’t doing anyone any good sitting around, waiting to check my niece out of the hospital.

  Someone had targeted her.

  Because of me.

  Because I was getting too close.

  Because they’d do a hell of a lot worse if their secret finally came out.

  Adamski called. Probably at Pete’s bidding. He spoke quick.

  “Want me to come down there?” he asked.

  I picked at the loose bit of rubber sealing the end of the table. It ripped clean off. “Get me my search warrant.”

  “Give the bear and the envelope to forensics. We’ll try to find something we can tie to Goodman.”

  “It was them. It’s retaliation.”

  “You’ve pissed off a lot of people in your short career,” he warned. “The more good work you do, the more enemies you make.”

  “But only they are evil enough to target my four-year-old niece.”

  “Go home. Get some rest.”

  “And do what? My car. My family. What’s next?”

  “They’ll make a mistake, London. And you have to be of sound enough mind to find it. Go get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. Tell Officer Bradly to drop off the evidence. You don’t touch it. Got it?”

  “This isn’t over.”

  Adamski sighed. “No. I’m afraid it’s just getting started.”

  I hung up. Pete patted my shoulder and took the bear, stuffing the pictures of my niece’s cuts into the bag.

  And Adamski wanted me to go home?

  To sleep?

  No.

  That wasn’t happening.