The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1)

by Loreth Anne White

  “He have a uniform, a logo, this ordinary guy?”

  “Just jeans, a dark jacket.”

  Kjel went into the kitchen and opened cupboards one after the other while Leo spoke. All empty. He looked under the sink for a garbage bin. Cleaned out. He opened the fridge—just an open box of baking soda and stains. He closed the door and started to move the fridge from out of its pocket between the cabinets.

  “What’re you doing?” Leo said.

  “People stick contact numbers, appointments, notes up on the fridge. At my house stuff always falls down between the sides of the fridge and the counters, or sometimes it goes underneath. Give me a hand here.” They shoved the fridge out while the landlord watched with mild interest.

  A comb nestled in the thick layer of dust and grime beneath the fridge along with a scattering of old peanuts, a paper clip, and other unidentifiable bits of food. Plus a once-white, stained business card. Kjel fished the card out of the dust.

  Dr. Jon Jacques. Cosmetic Dentistry.

  “Bingo,” he whispered, wagging the card in Leo’s face. “I think we might have found us the dentist who fixed up Hocking’s nice new pearly whites.” He wagged the card in Leo’s face. “Follow the money, I always says. Bet she didn’t pay him in cash.”

  Finding nothing else, Kjel and Leo left a contact card with the rental manager and rode down in the elevator. As they walked into the lobby, they saw a woman outside the glass entrance doors, pressing a button on the door panel.

  Kjel cursed. “It’s her. That reporter.”

  They exited the doors, and she glanced up sharply, then swallowed. She was ghost-pale, eyes like deep black holes. She looked a mess.

  “Merry Winston,” Kjel said, eyeing her carefully.

  She scanned the street, fear raw in her features. Something quickened in him. He moved to the intercom panel and saw that Faith Hocking’s name was displayed in the box. “You come to visit Faith often, then?” he said.

  “Was it her?” she said, voice hoarse. “Was it Faith who was found in the Gorge?”

  Kjel exchanged a fast glance with Leo. “What made you think this?” Leo said.

  “Just tell me.” She was shaking now.

  Kjel frowned, suspicion darkening inside him. “What brought you here to Faith Hocking’s address at this point in time?”

  “Just … following a lead.”

  “And where’d you get this lead?” he said. “’Cause it ain’t from the scanner this time, is it, Winston?”

  Silence. Kjel edged closer to her, towering his height over her. She took a step back. Leo watched. “Who told you about Faith Hocking? How’d you know wheres to find her? Who’s giving you all this information?”

  “I’m a good reporter, okay? I do the legwork.”

  “Obstruction of justice is a serious offense. If we find—”

  “Then arrest me. Charge me.” She shot an involuntary glance back at the panel.

  “You’re not going to find any Faith Hocking here, Winston,” Leo said. “She’s gone. Her stuff has been cleared out.”

  Paling further, she took another step back. “I don’t believe you.”

  Leo shrugged.

  “Who cleared out her things?” she said.

  “Oh, your source leave that bit out, then?” Kjel said.

  She glowered at him, then spun around and hurried down the sidewalk. She climbed into a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle parked under a leafless cherry tree several yards down the road. They watched as the Beetle engine coughed to life. Winston pulled out into the street, turned right at the intersection, and disappeared.

  “How in the hell did she get that?” Kjel said, staring after her. “We just learned Hocking’s ID ourselves this morning, and about this apartment right now—but Winston knew exactly whats she was looking for on that intercom panel.”

  “Fucked if I know,” Leo said.

  Kjel frowned, thinking. “What you say we call this in, and then we go visit us a dentist?”

  CHAPTER 27

  Lara paced behind the drawn sheers of her living room. She felt like she was going to throw up. Gracie was dead—the Cemetery Girl. And now Faith wasn’t answering her phone. She should’ve listened to Gracie when she’d said two weeks ago that she felt she was being followed, that some guy had been lurking in the shadows outside her house one night, watching her window. Gracie had thought this same guy might have gotten onto her bus Saturday before last and off at her same stop. She’d thought that he could be one of them. And now, outside, across a street plastered with wet oak leaves, a black Lexus with tinted windows was parked under the gnarled branches. It had been there since dawn, engine running intermittently, probably to keep the occupant warm. Lara was certain that she’d seen the same Lexus outside the church last Thursday when she’d walked down the street to catch the bus after choir.

  Lara dialed Faith’s cell again, got voicemail again.

  “Faith, it’s me. Just … call, okay?”

  She paced, then made another call, this one to Eva. Relief gushed into her chest when the call picked up.

  “Eva, it’s Lara. I …” She felt silly suddenly. “It’s just … Gracie and that horrible news. And now I can’t reach Faith. Have you heard from her?”

  “She’s probably just not checking her phone.” Eva sounded curt, as though she was in a hurry.

  “She always answers her cell—she’s never without it.” Lara opened the sheers slightly with the back of her hand as she spoke. The Lexus was still there. “Gracie said she might have been stalked, and there’s someone outside my apartment right now—maybe it’s one of them.”

  “Why would it be?”

  “Have you seen anything … weird?”

  “No. Look, it’s probably fine. Whatever you do, don’t go talking to the cops or there’ll be shit. They could kill you if you talk, remember? It was part of the deal—no talk. Ever. And don’t call them, either. They call you.”

  “Maybe Gracie did talk,” Lara whispered. “Maybe—” Lara stilled as a dark-blue sedan drew up right outside her window. The car doors opened. Lara quickly killed her call, her hand tightening around her phone.

  A tall, dark-haired guy and a woman with a long red ponytail got out. Black coats. They came up her path, and she heard their footsteps coming up the stairs.

  They knocked. Loud.

  Lara hesitated, fear swamping her.

  They knocked again. Louder. She went to the peephole.

  “Who is it?” she called, peering through at their faces.

  “Metro Victoria police,” came the man’s deep voice. “Detectives Maddocks and Pallorino. We’d like to speak to you about Gracie Drummond.”

  Lara swallowed, hesitated, then opened the door a crack. She eyed them through the security chain. “You got some ID or something?” She had no idea what to look for or any way of telling what ID was genuine, but she figured she should ask.

  They both showed badges.

  “Are you Lara Pennington?” said the female cop.

  It was then that Lara recognized the woman’s face from the newspaper. A bad taste filled her mouth. “I don’t know how you could have let Gracie’s mother find out like that,” Lara said. “Letting Gracie’s name get out all over the news.”

  “Can we come in, Lara?” the female cop said, her face showing no reaction.

  Lara unhooked the security chain, opened the door. She showed the detectives into her humble living room, which was furnished with old secondhand sofas over which she’d draped sarongs that came from Bali.

  Lara seated herself on the edge of a chair. The female cop took the sofa. The male detective remained standing, surveying her apartment—the drawn sheers, the empty bottle of tequila—and it made her uncomfortable, even more edgy.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Lara,” said the woman. “I understand that you and Gracie were very good friends.”

  Lara said nothing. A ringing started inside her skull.

  They asked her all sorts of que
stions, and it just blurred. Mostly she declined to reply for fear of saying the wrong thing.

  “Did Gracie spend the night here on Tuesday?”

  “No.”

  “On her calendar she’d marked last Tuesday, and several Tuesdays previous, with the names Lara P., B.C., and Amanda R. Who is Amanda R.?”

  The ringing inside her head grew louder. She really was going to throw up. “I … I’d cover for Gracie sometimes. She’d go out.”

  “Where did she go? Why always a Tuesday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her eyeballs kinda wanted to roll back inside her head. She pressed her shaking hands down hard on her knees. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “A close friend like Gracie? She didn’t tell you?”

  Lara looked down at her toes. She focused on the chipped polish, telling herself she needed a pedicure, anything to stop the noise in her head.

  “What do the initials J.R. and B.C. stand for?”

  She glanced up sharply, then regretted her slip. “I don’t know,” she lied.

  The female cop studied her in silence, then exchanged a quick look with the male detective. He moistened his lips, walked slowly to the window, parted the drapes, and looked out into the street. Lara wondered if the Lexus was still there. The female cop consulted her notebook. “And what about John Jacks?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Do you know where Gracie went instead of to choir practice last Thursday?”

  “No.”

  “You were at that practice?”

  She nodded.

  The detective leaned forward. “Are you certain that you don’t know a John Jacks? Because Gracie has been seeing him for a while, according to her mother. He drives a small, black BMW. Does that jog your memory? Maybe he gave her a lot of really nice, expensive gifts, or he bought her a pair of Francesco Milano boots, for example?” The cop paused. “Gracie Drummond was wearing those boots when she was attacked, Lara. They’re at the forensics lab with her clothing.”

  “Oh God … I … I …” Tears spilled suddenly down her face, and she couldn’t stop them.

  “Talk to me, Lara. What can you tell me about John Jacks?”

  “I … uh … It’s—it was—more like an informal thing he had with Gracie.”

  “Where will we find him?”

  “I don’t know where he lives.”

  “He’s a member of the Oak Bay Country Club. Isn’t that where Gracie met him? While she was watching Rick Butler play tennis, before Rick broke up with her?”

  Lara wiped her face with her sleeve. “I think so. Rick would know more.”

  “Why are you keeping information from the police? Who are you trying to protect?”

  The ringing in her brain grew so loud that she felt dizzy. She was going to faint. The cop’s voice sounded very far away, and Lara couldn’t hear what she was saying any longer.

  “Lara, Lara, look at me. Whoever did this to Gracie is still out there, and as long as he is, he could hurt someone else. We need to find him, and fast, and withholding information from the police is going to put lives in danger. If you have any information—”

  “I don’t, okay? I just don’t!”

  The woman nodded and tucked her notebook into her leather sling bag. “We’ll be going through Gracie’s emails, social media accounts, contact lists, phone records, so we’ll be wanting to talk to you again if something comes up.” She handed Lara her card. “In the meanwhile, if you do think of something, anything that could be relevant, no matter how small, please call me. Anytime.” She paused again. “It would be better than having us bring you down to the station if we do find electronic trace that proves you know something.”

  As they were leaving, the woman cop turned suddenly and said, “Oh, one more question, Lara. Do you perhaps know Faith Hocking?”

  Lara reached for the back of a chair. She swallowed. “No.”

  Both detectives eyed her.

  “You’ve never met her?” the female detective said.

  “No—I don’t know anyone named Faith.”

  “Right,” she said quietly. “Call us if you think of anything.”

  “She’s lying,” Angie said to Maddocks as they reached his Impala.

  “Yeah, and terrified, but why? About what?”

  Angie glanced back at the window. She could see Lara Pennington’s shadow behind the sheers. The young woman was watching them.

  “Let’s see what the others give us and what Drummond’s electronic devices yield,” Angie said, opening the passenger door. “We’ll bring Pennington in for formal questioning later—it’ll be more productive if we have something we can use as leverage.”

  Angie seated herself inside the vehicle. While Maddocks led Jack-O along the grass verge for a bathroom break, she watched Lara Pennington’s silhouette moving back and forth behind the drawn sheers. The teen really was scared shitless. Rolling possibilities through her brain, Angie turned her attention to the other side of the road. A gleaming black Lexus, recent model, tinted windows, slowly pulled off.

  THE BAPTIST

  He sees the cops outside Lara’s place. Excitement crackles through him as he recognizes Detective Angie Pallorino with her long red hair. But it’s not Detective Kjel Holgersen that she’s with. It’s some other guy, a little older, jet-black hair. This one’s got swagger. The thrill deepens as it strikes him—this game truly is on. Real. Up close and personal. But it also means he will have to act faster with Lara now, if they’re already questioning her. Thoughts of Lara Pennington fill his brain—plump-pussied Lara, bigger-breasted-than-Gracie Lara. Nice rounded-dimpled-butt Lara. He moistens his lips with his tongue, and he grows hard with anticipation. Because after Lara comes Eva—eager-beaver-wetter Eva. But along with the heat in his groin, along with the faster breathing and the galloping of his heart, comes a whisper of trepidation. He doesn’t want to get caught. No sirree, never get caught, Johnny. No-no, Tommy. He’s going to finish this job with these girls. And then there will always be more girls. Bad girls. The world would always be full, full, full with bad, bad girls. Other places. Faraway places. Over the seas and far away. He’ll just have to be more cautious, smarter, now that they’ve come to Lara.

  And Peter said unto them, Repent ye, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ unto the remission of your sins; and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Dr. Jacques is with a patient,” the receptionist said, eyeing the badges that Leo and Kjel held out to her.

  “We can wait—have a few questions for the doc.”

  She glanced up and met Kjel’s eyes. Conservative dresser, he noted. Good haircut. Understated makeup. Expensive-looking designer frames.

  “I’m sorry, but his schedule is fully booked today,” she said. “And he already has a waiting room full of patients, as you can see.”

  “Like I said, we can wait.” Kjel turned and made a show of taking in the rather plush-looking waiting area. “So if you wants two cops here all day, that’s okay by me.” He began to squeeze himself into a narrow space on a sofa between two well-heeled women, who rapidly moved apart to accommodate him, like he had lice or something.

  The receptionist hurriedly pushed her chair back. “Just give me a minute.” She scurried into the back and returned a few seconds later. “Dr. Jacques can spare you exactly ten minutes,” she said curtly. “This way, please.”

  She showed them into an office behind the reception area. Big, gleaming desk and shelves. Fancy art on the walls. Framed photos on a chest of drawers. Kjel picked one frame up. The photo was of a man with a thinning blond comb-over that had been sprayed fiercely into place. With him was a slender, dark-haired woman in a very low-cut wedding gown. She looked half the man’s age. A shoo-in for a Victoria’s Secret catalogue if he ever did see one, what with her pouty, collagen-filled lips and cat-slanted eyes. He set down the
frame and snagged up another—this one displaying a photo of a young man, maybe in his early twenties. Also blond. Comb-over’s son, he guessed. “I’m figuring child of a first marriage, and this here is the second wife,” he said, showing the photos to Leo. “This woman doesn’t look much older than the kid.”

  “Third marriage,” came a voice behind them.

  They swung around, Kjel still clutching the framed photos.

  “Dr. Jon Jacques,” Comb-over said, declining to offer his hand. He instead inserted his hands into his pants pockets and remained standing in the doorway. “What can I do for you, detectives?”

  “Faith Hocking, she was a patient of yours?” Kjel said, setting the frames carefully back on top of the chest of drawers.

  “I have many patients. I don’t recall all their names.”

  Leo took the flyer from his pocket, showed it to Dr. Comb-over. “This woman,” Leo said.

  The dentist declined to look at the image. Instead, he met the eyes of Leo, then Kjel, and said, “Why don’t you get to the point, gentlemen? I’m a busy man.”

  “Just want to know if you fixed her teeth, and who paid for it,” Leo said.

  Dr. Jacques lowered his gaze momentarily to the flyer, his features unreadable, then he checked his watch. “Look, forgive my irritation, but you of all people, detectives, should know that I cannot discuss patients, nor give out financial information. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  But Kjel and Leo remained unmoving. “She’s a homicide victim, Doc. Anything you can tell us would aid in the investigation.”

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. But—”

  “This woman,” Kjel said, taking two fast steps toward the doc, who, up close, smelled of cologne, “came off the streets with a meth-mouth, and you know it. You don’t forget a mouth like that. Just tell us who paid yous for the nice pearly whites, Doc, and we’ll be out of your … uh, hair?”

  The doc flashed a quick and feral smile with his own straight, pearly whites while his eyes turned flat and cold. “Like I said, patient information is confidential.”

  “Maybe we’ll just come back with a warrant.”