Along Came December

by Jay Allisan

  I shrugged and folded my arms across my chest. Tish frowned at me from across the table. I could see Paddy through the conference room window, looking back at me and holding an ice pack to his jaw. He’d taken a solid haymaker from Rivera before we got him down. Josie and Whale had the bastard in an interrogation room downstairs, and Dixon was running damage control with Shapiro. It was just me and Tish and four white walls. If I’d had the choice I would have walked.

  “Why were you at the bar in the first place?” Tish asked.

  “We were on the job.”

  “And the comment about Max?”

  “Out of fucking nowhere.”

  Tish’s eyes settled on my cheek, swollen and tender from where Rivera hit me too. Her lips pursed. “Maybe you should take some time off.”

  “No.”

  “Honey—”

  “Quit calling me that. I’m not a child.”

  “I know there’s been a lot of waiting for the trial—”

  “Seventeen months. That’s how long Carl’s been breathing while Max is dead. Eighteen months by the time he sets foot in court.”

  “I understand you were disappointed when the jury fell through—”

  “I wasn’t disappointed. I was angry. I still am.”

  “Starting fights is not the way to handle anger.”

  I smacked the table. “It was a reaction, Tish! I didn’t know what he was going to say to me! I didn’t go in there planning to hit someone.”

  “Mordecai, these would be difficult circumstances for anyone, but someone in your position comes across a lot of ignorance, and people will feel entitled to share their opinions with you now more than ever. You need to learn to shut them out.”

  “I’m not going to let some jackass insult him and just walk away, badge or no badge.”

  “Honey, you do that again and it will be no badge before you know it.”

  I shrugged again and glared at her in silence. Tish asked, “Can you tell me why the trial is so important to you?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “What is Carl’s trial going to do for you? What’s it going to change?”

  I didn’t answer. Tish asked, “What are you hoping to gain from the trial?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “Yes,” she said gravely. “I do. Let’s say the jury finds Carl guilty and he’s sentenced to death. How does that benefit you?”

  “It’s what he deserves,” I said. “It’s justice.”

  “But how does it benefit you?”

  “Goddammit Tish, I don’t know what you’re saying!”

  Tish rose from her chair and circled the table, taking the seat beside me. I refused to look at her. She spoke softly.

  “Mordecai, what happens to Carl doesn’t change things for you. It doesn’t bring Max back. You’ve become so fixated on the trial, and I’m concerned that you’re using it as an excuse to vindicate your emotions, rather than dealing with them. What happens when Carl is dead? What do you do then? And what happens if he’s found not guilty?”

  “Then I’ll kill him myself.”

  “That would make you feel better?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if it doesn’t? What then? Where does it stop?”

  “I’ll feel better when he’s dead,” I muttered. “It’s what he deserves. That’s justice.”

  “Some people might call that revenge.”

  “Are we done?”

  Tish sighed. I saw her hand extend toward me and jerked away from her. The hand retreated.

  “For now. But I’d like you to think about stepping back from work, and I’d like you to start coming in again, in preparation for the trial.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Make time. You’re not in a good place right now, and we only have a few weeks to get you there. Be in my office first thing tomorrow. I’ll have your refill.”

  She left. I didn’t move.

  “Don’t bother,” I said to the empty room. “I’ve still got the last one in my sock drawer.”

  Shirley, he whispered, then he exploded.

  He exploded.

  He exploded.

  I screamed.

  I FLEW upright, pushing away the touch on my arms. “Don’t. Don’t. I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t sound fine, Mordecai. You sounded really scared.”

  “I’m fine, Presley. It was just a dream.”

  I pushed sweaty hair out of my face and fumbled for the bedside lamp. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working all—oh my God. Oh my God.”

  He turned away from me but I pulled him back into the light. The left side of his face was red and purple, his eye swollen shut. His good eye wouldn’t look at me.

  “Fuck, Presley, what happened?”

  He shrugged, then winced. “Just a bad night is all.”

  “Who did this to you?” He shook his head. I traced the bruised edge of his jaw, my fingers light as air. They trembled. “Who did this to you, Presley?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Tell me.”

  He lifted his head, tears shining in the dim glow. “What are you going to do, Mordecai? Are you going to walk into that part of town with your gun in one hand and your badge in the other and demand justice? It doesn’t work like that. This doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “Well, it does. It matters a lot.”

  He sighed, low and deep. “You don’t have to worry anymore,” he said quietly. “I’m out. Tonight was the last.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. I curled my arm around him and rubbed his back. “I’m glad, Presley. I’m really glad.”

  “I have to ask you a favor,” he whispered.

  “Whatever you need.”

  “It’s a big one.”

  “Just ask, kid.”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  I went perfectly still. He sought out my hand.

  “We’ve been seeing each other for a couple months now. He’s really great, Mordecai. He’s from Mexico, and he’s got the cutest accent, and these big brown eyes and a smile like… sorry. I’m gushing. He’s been staying in some low income housing near the red light district, and the people that weren’t happy with me tonight know about him. I’m worried that they’ll…”

  He sat up, his face horribly distorted but his expression so young and earnest. “Could he stay here? Please? Would it be all right?”

  He squeezed my hand harder with every second I was silent. He looked like he might cry. I managed a small smile. “Of course. He’s more than welcome.”

  His eyes fell shut. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “It’s okay, Presley. He’ll be safe here.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him,” Presley said softly. “I was waiting for a good time and then I picked a bad time anyhow. I’m really sorry, Mordecai.”

  “Don’t be. It’s fine.”

  “Don’t say that.” He looked at me with a different kind of urgency. “I hear you, you know. Screaming. Crying in your sleep. It’s not fine. And I know you stopped taking your medication.”

  I looked away. He took my other hand. “Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  I pulled my hands free and folded my arms. Presley squeezed himself in next to me at the head of the bed and rested his head on my shoulder. I twirled Max’s wedding ring.

  “I was forgetting,” I said at last. “I was happy and I was forgetting. I can’t forget. I should never forget.”

  Presley didn’t say anything. He just sat with me until I fell asleep and woke me when I screamed.

  39

  “ROBIN MOVED in a few days after that,” I say. “And then this jackass reporter started following me around, angling for a scoop. You know the rest.”

  I scrounge the last of the M&Ms from the bag and pop them in my mouth. Benny sits
quietly with his notebook in his lap, the pen forgotten on the floor. He reaches for his phone and stops the recording.

  “Thank you,” he says, his voice subdued. He lets out a long breath and pushes his oversized glasses up his nose. “I’ve reviewed your cases, you know. I’ve read every article about you. But I had no idea…”

  “Now you do.”

  “Where are they? Robin and Presley?”

  I get to my feet, looking up at the empty loft. My chest aches. “They’re gone.”

  I gather the takeout cartons and the depleted bag of chocolate, carrying them to the kitchen trash. It’s dark outside. I’ve been talking for hours.

  When I return to the living room Benny’s packing up his bag. He slings it across his shoulder and shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “What are you going to write?” I ask.

  He shrugs helplessly. “I need to think about it for a while. But don’t worry, okay? It’ll help you, I promise.”

  Benny chews the inside of his cheek, then reaches into his bag. He hands me a piece of paper. “Here. I thought maybe you’d be interested in this.”

  The paper is newsprint, an article. I hold it gingerly. “This isn’t about me, is it?”

  “No. It’s about your case.”

  “I don’t have a case.”

  I unfold the paper anyhow and skim the text. Another Speakeasy worker turned up dead, the bald European I last saw looming over Scarlett after Scarlett supposedly walked into a door. I glance up. “When did this happen?”

  “Two days ago,” Benny says. “Five days after you were arraigned. I haven’t heard anything else.”

  “It’s been five days?”

  “Six since the trial. It’s December now.”

  The trial. “Is there… do you know—”

  “I don’t know when the trial’s been rescheduled for,” he says. “But I think it’s going to be a while.”

  I read the newspaper article again, noting the byline with surprise. “You wrote this.”

  “Yeah. I convinced my editor covering this case was my destiny, so now I’ve got the exclusive.”

  He doesn’t sound proud of his accomplishment. I look at him, really look. His eyes are bloodshot and deeply shadowed behind his glasses. His lips are chapped. He’s squeezing his elbows against his sides like he wants to turn small and disappear.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “The police are keeping an eye on you. You’ll be safe.”

  He nods unconvincingly. “I just don’t understand why the killer picked me. I was so excited when I got the first text, but now it’s just freaking me out.”

  “You’ll be okay. Those are good people looking out for you. Trust me.”

  I walk him to the door. He hesitates.

  “Would… would you mind if I got your phone number? So I can follow up on the article, I mean.”

  I give him my number and he punches it into his cell. “Call me if you need something,” I tell him. “My schedule’s wide open.”

  He lets out a big sigh and flashes me a smile. “Will do. Thanks a lot. I’ll, uh, I’ll call you. Probably soon.”

  I watch through the peephole until he drives away. Then I lock the door and go to my room.

  My gun is under the bed. I ignore it. I reach for my cell phone and turn it on for the first time in days. There’s a voicemail from Tish, another from my dad. I delete them without listening. And there’s a single text message, sent two minutes ago from Benny Afternoon. He just wanted to be sure he had the number right.

  I sit on my bed and look at the phone, at all the calls and messages I didn’t miss. I think of the empty loft. He left. Presley took Robin and he left, and if he hasn’t gotten in touch it’s because he doesn’t want to be in touch. I have no business going after him if he wants to be left alone.

  Benny’s article crinkles in my pocket. I get off the bed and grab a coat. I’m going after him anyway.

  THE BOUNCER at the Speakeasy stops me at the door. He speaks quietly into his radio, listens, then steps aside. I brush past him and find a table in the back.

  There are lots of tables in the back. The stage is alive with dancers and the clientele is clustered at the front. A cursory glance tells me all the strippers are women. Maybe I picked the wrong night.

  “Buy you a drink?”

  The stool next to me scrapes as James sits down. He signals a waitress. “A diet cola for my friend here.”

  “Make it a scotch on the rocks,” I say. James lifts an eyebrow. I shrug. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  The waitress looks to James, who nods graciously. “Give the lady what she wants.”

  She returns with a scotch for me and a soda for James. He waves her away. I stare pointedly at his beverage and he smiles.

  “It’s a sign of poor judgment,” he says, “mixing business with pleasure.”

  He wipes condensation from his glass and raises it to his lips. He drinks slowly, taking my measure from the corner of his eye. He sets the glass down and turns to me. “Though you haven’t got much in the way of business these days.”

  “Then I must be here for the pleasure.”

  I swirl the contents of my glass and wonder if it’s spiked. James reads me like a book and takes the drink from my hand. “Scotch and ice, Detective Mordecai. That’s all it is.”

  He takes a long sip, then fits the scotch neatly between my fingers. I drain the rest in one go and push the tumbler away.

  “I’m not a detective,” I say. “Not anymore.”

  James leans close, his eyes dark and sleek against the pale moon of his face. His lips curl. “Aren’t you?”

  The crowd at the front of the room erupts into cheers. The dancers leave the stage, and the lighting drops to a sensuous glow. Slow, rhythmic drumming echoes like a heartbeat, and the crowd swells against the platform, swaying in time. The drums stop, and the stage goes perfectly black. Then a long, melancholy note rises from the silence, and the darkness bleeds away into shadows. A single figure stands poised at the center of the world. The head lifts. The eyes smolder.

  The drums begin again.

  Presley unfurls like a night blossom, his dark clothing giving way to the vibrancy of his tattoos. Shadows cut across his face and cast his features in high relief. Long fingers trail over his own skin, working deftly at what little he still wears. The room throbs with drums and anticipation. I look away.

  “He’s really something,” James says softly. “They love him. Men, women, gay, straight. He draws them in like moths to flame, tempting them with his fire until they can’t help but reach out and touch, and then he flickers out.”

  James taps his fingers with the primal rhythm, his gaze appreciative but detached. “It’s never enough to satisfy. That’s what keeps them coming back. He burns so bright it consumes them.”

  “It’s just an act,” I say. “He’s just putting on a show.”

  James chuckles. “A show? This is not a show. This is a game, and he plays it very well.” His eyes slide to me. “You’d know it better than most.”

  The drumming stops, and the performance is over. James finishes his soda. “Shall I have him fetched for you?”

  He lifts a hand above his head and snaps his fingers, and even in the cluttered din the message is received. Cheyanne appears beside him and winks at me.

  I stand and slip into my jacket. I smile at Cheyanne. “No need. I’m just on my way out.”

  I leave money on the table to cover my drink. James gives it back to me.

  “Allow me,” he says.

  I smooth the bill, adding another piece of paper before stuffing it into the empty tumbler.

  “I can take care of myself,” I answer.

  James takes in the curl of newsprint with a smile. I finish buttoning my coat and extend my hand. “A pleasure.”

  His grip is firm and cool. “Perhaps rather some unfinished business.”

  I’m halfway to the exit when he calls, “And Shirley?”

  I turn.
His smile curves wickedly. “Play nice.”

  40

  I DRIVE straight home and bolt the door behind me, flipping on every light in the cathedral on my way to my room. I boot up my computer and access the newspaper’s online archives, going back to the first mention of Sonny Carpenter’s death. I print it off and jot down the unpublished details on the back of the sheet. I print off the rest of the articles about the Speakeasy murders, though I don’t have any information to add to them. I tape them to my wall in chronological order.

  I pull up Benny’s Twitter feed and scroll through the posts. Nothing about Sonny I don’t already know. He posted two messages about the girl found drowned at the pier. No photographs. No mention of her identity.

  Benny’s last post is about the bouncer killed two days ago. Anton Czechkov was found dead in his apartment, shot once in the back of the head. If Benny got a photo from his tipster, the image isn’t online. I print off the Twitter feed and tape that to the wall too.

  I write COCAINE on a sticky note and put it under Sonny’s column. I add SUPER PURE and TRAFFICKING? beneath it in parentheses. I write JAMES on another note and BENNY on a third, sticking them at the top of the paper tree. I put a note labeled KILLER next to them. I add notes with Presley and Robin’s names to Sonny’s column. Sonny came for Robin two weeks before he was murdered. I write down what Presley told me about the incident and tape it at the start of the timeline. I step back to take a look.

  Three weeks ago Sonny comes for Robin, taking both him and Presley to James. Eight days ago Sonny falls off a roof after being drugged with rohypnol. That same night I find Robin doped to the gills by his friendly neighborhood bartender. I write CHEYANNE on a sticky note and put it on the wall. One day after Sonny dies the Hispanic girl is pulled out of the harbor, and five days after that Anton gets a bullet in his head. Meanwhile Benny’s getting the play-by-play and James is just business as usual.

  I squint at the papers, searching for the undercurrent. The truth is I’m missing too much information. I was on the case for a day, and everything after Sonny’s death is news to me. What I’ve got might not even be accurate. I know how the police spin statements during an investigation. I can’t rely on these watered-down accounts. I need someone to talk to me.