Along Came December

by Jay Allisan

  The first half of 2013 is the usual surveillance. A couple of phone taps that turned up nothing, a couple of stakeouts that did the same. I skim the transcripts of the phone calls that led to the surveillance, disheartened but not surprised when the female callers are described as speaking accented, broken English. Every once in a while one of the women smuggled into the city to work at the Speakeasy will get up the nerve to call for help, but it’s always anonymous, and the trafficking allegations are never confirmed. James always seems to know when the police are coming, and he makes sure the women are coached into saying the right things. We know their paperwork is bullshit and we know they’re giving more than lap dances in the back rooms, but there’s no hard evidence and no one steps forward. James just has them all too scared.

  I think of my conversation with Presley this morning, of what he told me and what he wouldn’t, of the anger in his eyes but also the fear. The desperation. The look of someone with his leg caught in the trap, watching the hunter close in. The look of someone who’ll gnaw his own limb off if it means saving his life.

  Or Robin’s life. Love makes you do stupid things.

  Just ask my dead husband.

  I grab my cell phone and walk out into the hall, shaking my head as if to knock the thought loose. I don’t want to think about that now. I’ll have the next three months to think about it. Today’s not about Max or Maria or even Robin. Today’s about making sure Presley’s okay.

  Because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him too.

  I speed-dial Presley’s cell, and when he doesn’t pick up I leave a message asking him to get back to me. I go back to my desk and try not to overanalyze why he didn’t answer. He always answers my calls.

  At least he did until Robin moved in.

  I click on a file at random, and the screen fills with a bunch of blog posts from 2004. I look at the posts but can’t be bothered to read them. Jealousy burrows beneath my skin like a splinter, petty and sharp and small and mean. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be jealous of Presley’s boyfriend, for Christ’s sake. Yet there it is.

  I catch movement beside me out of the corner of my eye. Paddy’s turned off his computer and is putting on his coat, slowly, like he’s trying not to draw attention.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Gonna go for a smoke.”

  I see the car keys not quite concealed in his hand. I check the clock. It’s after five. “You mean you were going to go to the Speakeasy without me.”

  He shrugs again, his tone mild, his manner nonchalant. “Day’s done, Mordecai. You’re on leave.”

  “If the day’s done then why are you still working?” I look around the office, now conspicuously empty. “Why are Josie and Whale still working?”

  “They went home.”

  “Bullshit. They’re probably following Benny Afternoon again.”

  “If you want a ride home I’ll drive you—”

  “Would you quit that? I’m not going home.” I shut down my computer and grab my jacket before heading out the door. Paddy doesn’t move. I stick my head back in the office. “Are we leaving or what?”

  Paddy stands motionless in the center of the office, shoulders sagged and arms limp, like they’re a burden he’s tired of carrying.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” he says. His voice has gone quiet in a way that unnerves me. “I wish you’d go home and get some distance from all this before tomorrow. If you’re set on coming I’m not gonna fight you, but I’d rather you go home. I’ll drive you.”

  He holds my gaze in silence and waits, though we both know it’s a false hope. I look down at my shoes.

  “I can’t go home.” My voice comes out as softly as his. “Tomorrow’s still too far away. I can’t just sit at home and wait. I can’t.”

  Paddy nods, and I know he may not like it, but he understands. He rolls his shoulders and sighs before following me to the stairs.

  “Speakeasy it is,” he says. “But first we’re stopping for burgers. I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starving.”

  WE GRAB dinner at a shabby drive-in a few blocks north of Old Town, then head west to the Speakeasy. Night has descended by the time we arrive, bitterly cold and black as sin. Dozens of people loiter on the sidewalk, having a smoke or sneaking a drink before heading inside. Paddy parks the car in a loading zone and we get out. I keep my eyes on Paddy’s back as he navigates through the masses, grateful for the cover of darkness. Less chance of getting recognized. It also works the other way, which is why I don’t see Scarlett until he’s right in front of me. I stop short.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I give him the once-over and wonder how I missed him in the first place. With his light gray suit and burgundy tie, he sticks out like a sore thumb. He plays it casual, putting his hands in his pockets delicately, like he’s trying not to crease his pants.

  “Why do you think I’m here? I’m a detective on this case, aren’t I?”

  Paddy, who’d gotten ahead of me, turns around and comes back, halting in his tracks when he sees Scarlett.

  “Aw, fuck. What’s he doing here?”

  Scarlett’s face darkens, and inside his pockets his hands ball into fists.

  “I’m here to contribute to the investigation,” he says, his voice strained with control. “If we’re going to be partners—”

  “You’re not my goddamn partner,” Paddy snaps. “Get the fuck out of here and go home.”

  Scarlett just walks past him and into the club, shoulders back, hands still in his pockets. The back of his collar is damp with sweat. Despite the posture and the suit there’s an air about him like he’s trying not to be noticed.

  “Come on,” I say to Paddy as I turn toward the door. “We’d better not leave him in there alone.”

  Paddy mutters under his breath but follows me into the Speakeasy. Security doesn’t acknowledge us, but I’m not stupid. There’s no doubt in my mind James knows we’re here.

  It’s almost as dark inside as out, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. The center of the floor has been cleared, presumably for dancing, though no one’s using it yet. The stage is empty. There’s no sign of white and blue hair. Cheyanne’s probably still backstage, turning herself into Tequila Mockingbird. I realize I never heard back from Presley and pray he and Robin stayed home. I don’t know what I’ll do if they’re here tonight.

  I search the room for Scarlett and spot him easily. He’s standing like a dope in front of the bar, right in everyone’s way. His hands are out of his pockets, and he twists them convulsively. His face glistens with perspiration.

  I make my way over to him, aware of Paddy on my heels. Scarlett swallows but doesn’t say anything to us. I stand right in front of him until he looks at me.

  “Is there something you’d like to tell us?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer I say, “You know somebody down here, don’t you?”

  “No,” he says hotly, but he’s breathing fast, and he keeps fidgeting with the ring and pinky fingers on his left hand. I notice how they don’t straighten all the way.

  “Go wait outside,” I tell him.

  He scowls. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “Damn right you do,” Paddy says, his eyes narrowing. “Get outta here. Go home.”

  Scarlett glares at him defiantly. “You’re not the boss of me! I’m a detective too. We’re equals.”

  Paddy grabs him by the elbow and yanks him close. “Now you listen and listen good, you fucking moron. You’re nobody’s equal. You’re scum at the bottom of the food chain. You’re gonna leave right this second, or I’m gonna put my foot so far up your ass you’ll never walk again. Now beat it.”

  Scarlett jerks his arm free and pushes past me, looking like he’s about to boil over. Paddy watches him climb the steps to the exit, then glances at me. “You know something?”

  I flex my fingers. “Just a feeling.”

  The room is filling with young women i
n tight dresses. Servers in bowties and low-slung pants make the rounds with drinks and glow-in-the-dark accessories. The lighting at the base of the stage turns on, and I realize it’s almost showtime. I head for the stage entrance and pull the curtain aside. Paddy follows me behind the scenes.

  Tonight’s performers are almost exclusively men, but there are a handful of girls tightening their garters and stuffing their bras. I spot Cheyanne immediately. The blue in her hair reminds me of James, as does her icy smile.

  “Well, well,” she says, folding her arms and boosting her already plentiful chest. “Look what the law dragged in. You don’t belong here,” she says to Paddy. “At least not tonight.”

  “Seems to me Ladies’ Night is the perfect time to score,” he replies evenly.

  “And what exactly are you after?” Paddy’s trying real hard to look at her face and I’m trying not to roll my eyes.

  “I know it’s not your usual request, but we’re hoping you could tell us a story,” I say. “Maybe the one about Sonny Carpenter and how he winds up dead in an alley.”

  She puts one hand on her hip. “And what would I know about that?”

  “I’m thinking a little something, given your common interest in roofies.”

  Cheyanne grins, her smile pearlescent. “I see. How is Robin, by the way?”

  She laughs when I don’t answer. My fingers curl into a fist and I picture myself knocking her out with one punch, but Paddy shifts his weight beside me, a friendly reminder not to lose my shit. My slow exhale hisses between my teeth.

  “Where were you yesterday between one and three PM?” Paddy asks.

  “Right here.” Cheyanne puts the tip of her finger inside her mouth and sucks coyly, glancing up at Paddy through her lashes. “I had a private client and, well, it ran a little long. He loves this thing I do where I—”

  “Save it,” I interrupt, as Paddy looks away. “Unless you want it on record.”

  Cheyanne sucks on her finger, smirking at me.

  “We can bring you in right now,” I tell her. “It’s illegal to serve alcohol in a strip club.”

  She laughs. “With tits like these, you think I’m serving anything? I’m an entertainer, baby, not a waitress. Serving’s for flat chicks like you.”

  I give her a wry smile. “So you didn’t mix anyone a drink last night.”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t slip anything into a drink someone else made up.”

  “Nada.”

  “We’ve got a witness who says you did.”

  “Me? Or maybe someone who looked like me?”

  “How do you know Robin?”

  Cheyanne shrugs, letting her boobs bounce. “Just see him around, you know? Him and his boyfriend. Now there’s a fine piece of ass. If he wasn’t such a homo I’d love to—”

  “Shut up.”

  She blinks big hazel eyes at me innocently. “What? Nothing wrong with homo. I’m half ’n half myself. Or maybe you’re like me and you’re just jealous he’s not into you, although I hear the two of you are pretty close.” She twists her fingers together. “Like this.”

  I take a step toward her, and she steps toward me too. Her voice sinks into a purr. “All just hearsay, of course. Just like that rumor about someone who looks like me serving something naughty to a minor. At least I think he’s a minor. I’ve never asked him for ID.” She cocks her head. “Maybe you’d like to? Ask Robin for ID?”

  She flashes me a feline grin, satisfied she’s caught her canary. I’ve no doubt she did exactly what Robin said, but given his intoxication last night, he’s not an especially credible witness. Add that to his legal status and there’s no way he’d ever press charges. It might as well not have happened.

  I hold eye contact with Cheyanne for what could be days. In her heels she’s as tall as me, which makes her too tall to be the woman Josie and Whale saw with Benny last night. She’s smart, no question. And she’s way out in front. There’s a pit in my stomach that says Presley’s right to be scared.

  “You got the name of that private client?” Paddy asks, breaking the spell. He’s standing inches behind me, and now he steps between us, burly arms folded. “We’ll wanna verify your story.”

  Cheyanne licks a stripe up her finger and flicks her tongue against her nail. She winks. “I don’t kiss and tell. But let’s just say you’d know him if you saw him.”

  She reaches into her bra and pulls out a tube of lip gloss. She applies a slick layer and purses her lips. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a show to put on. You’re welcome to stay, of course. I think you’d like it.”

  “Pass,” Paddy grumbles, but she’s looking at me. She tucks the gloss away and sidles in close, walking her fingers up my arm.

  “Next time leave the badge at home,” she whispers, “but bring the cuffs. You might find me more cooperative with the right incentive.”

  “Maybe in another life,” I say, stepping out of her reach. “After someone puts a bullet in my head.”

  Cheyanne just smiles and saunters toward her curtain.

  WE’RE ALMOST to the exit when I hear a delicate cough behind us. I turn to see James, looking just as dashing as last night but with a lavender tie. He frowns. “Detectives. We have a problem.”

  “Not tonight we don’t,” I say. “We’re just on our way out.”

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand me. If you would kindly come this way?”

  Paddy and I exchange a glance but do as he says. He leads us to a private office near the base of the stage and pauses before the closed door. “I’m certain this wasn’t your fault, but he claims to be with you.”

  James opens the door and Paddy and I swear simultaneously. Scarlett’s cowering in a folding chair, a hulking bald European standing guard behind him. Judging by his face, Scarlett didn’t leave like he was supposed to.

  “Mr. Scarlett?” says James. “Would you care to tell your companions what happened?”

  Scarlett’s gray suit is dirty and wrinkled, his jacket spotted with blood. He stares down at his shoes and mumbles, “Walked into a door.”

  James gives me a cool look. “I think it’s best you take your man and go.”

  Paddy hauls Scarlett to his feet and drags him toward the door. I follow. I can feel James’s eyes on me but don’t look back.

  We weave quickly through the crowd until we’re outside, Paddy still gripping Scarlett by the arm. Scarlett might be making faces, but it’s hard to tell with the black eye and swollen lip. His nose has seen better days, too.

  I open the back door of our car. “Get in,” I growl. Paddy lets Scarlett go and he shrinks away like he expects to get hit again. I’m a little tempted to slam his head on the frame as he ducks into the vehicle.

  Old Town’s parking garage is deserted when we pull in. Paddy cuts the engine and we sit in silence, dread bleeding off of Scarlett until he’s quivering. Paddy turns in his seat and grabs Scarlett by the tie, jerking him forward until they’re nose to nose.

  “You stupid little shit,” he growls, and Paddy’s growl is much better than mine. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  Scarlett makes a gagging noise but Paddy doesn’t loosen his grip. He waits until Scarlett turns a fitting shade of red before shoving him back against his seat. Scarlett claws at his tie, choking for air.

  “Just…trying…to help,” he gasps. “Thought one of the dancers might have—”

  “No, you didn’t think,” I snap. “You just wanted to be a hero. Who did you talk to?”

  “He, uh, he didn’t give me his name, and we were only talking for a few minutes before—”

  “Scarlett!”

  “Jeez, sorry. White male, early 20s, uh, shaved head and lots of tattoos.”

  Anger rips through my chest and I have to get out of the car. I dig out my phone and call Presley, but there’s still no response. I try again. No answer.

  “Christ,” I mutter. My hands are shaking. “Why the hell won’t anyone do what they’re told?”


  I dial a third time, but my phone rings before I finish. My heart sinks when call display tells me it’s Whale and not Presley.

  “We just wanted to give you a heads up,” he says. “Josie and I are bringing in the reporter.”

  I push a hand through my hair and try to refocus. “Good. Great. What’ve we got on him?”

  “We’ve got enough for a conversation. Dixon got warrant for his phone.”

  “For the photo? It’s on Twitter.”

  “The photo’s been taken down, but that’s not what’s significant. One of the computer techs did an analysis, and the embedded data indicates Benny didn’t take the photo at all, but that it was sent to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “911 received the anonymous phone call shortly after three, and officers weren’t on scene until nearly 3:15. The timestamp on the photo is from 2:48, before anyone was aware of the murder. Well,” Whale amends, “almost anyone.”

  The photo was taken from a rooftop. The photo wasn’t taken by Benny. “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “That means Benny’s source, the person who took the photo, is most likely—”

  “Sonny’s killer.”

  5

  I SHARE the news.

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Paddy says.

  Scarlett scowls, his swollen face distorting even more. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. A murderer leaving evidence on purpose? No way.”

  Paddy glares at him. “Then who took the photo, boy detective? You think there was somebody else on that roof? Somebody who got close enough to get a photo without the killer noticing? ‘Cause if I caught someone taking pictures of my kill, they’d be the next one over the ledge.”

  “The photo is deliberate,” I say. “For whatever reason the killer wants media attention. As for a murderer leaving evidence…”

  “Called a signature,” Paddy finishes. “Maybe you heard of it.”

  “Yeah,” Scarlett says, “for serial… oh.”

  I get a hollow feeling in my chest and my fingers itch toward my phone. I dial Presley again. Nothing. The parking garage feels like it’s getting colder.