“Then you do that. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
Kjel and Leo exited Dr. Jacques’s practice through the waiting area, the doc’s patients ogling them with brazen curiosity.
As they walked out into the street and rain, Kjel said, “That guy gives me the jeebies.”
“But it looks like we got our dentist,” Leo said. “And an ex-meth-head ho sure as hell can’t pay cash for an apartment as well as afford the likes of Dr. Jon Jacques—not unless she’s turning some seriously upmarket tricks.”
“A pimp coulda footed the bill—had her cleaned up. Put her out to work the cost off. I mean, from that more recent photo at Harbor House, Hocking actually cleaned up pretty darn good.”
Leo glanced up at him and cocked a brow. “Johns paying big bucks to put their dicks into that fanged Medusa mouth? Now there’s a thought.”
As they reached their vehicle, Kjel beeped the lock and said, “Well, we ain’t gonna gets us a warrant for Dr. Comb-over’s financial and billing records without some probable grounds.”
“Then we find grounds.” Leo opened the passenger door. “Because someone paid for those teeth, and I bet my ass Jacques knows who.”
By the time Angie and Maddocks arrived at the Oak Bay Country Club, the afternoon was darkening—the hours ticking down to the shortest day of the year—and the white indoor tennis domes glowed with light like alien space pods in the winter gloom.
“They’re not going to spill member details without a warrant,” Angie said as they entered the big glass doors. The reception area was tiled, and soft piped music was punctuated by the rhythmic thwock of tennis balls meeting taut rackets. A statuesque, bronzed blonde working the reception desk looked up and smiled with a perfectly straight row of whitened teeth. Angie guessed her tan came courtesy of the club’s tanning beds.
While Maddocks went up to ask Miss Sweden about John Jacks, Angie gravitated to the sound of the balls.
“Hey.” She smiled, greeting a coach who was coming out of one of the court enclosures with a group of young teens. He looked to be in his late thirties with the ripped body of a tanned Adonis, designer sports duds, brown hair streaked surfer blond. She checked out the nametag on his shirt. “Serge Radikoff. Good to meet you—I hear you coach Rick Butler.”
He ran his eyes up and down the length of her and smiled, the directness of his gaze brazen. She’d guessed right. Serge was a ladies’ man. “He’s very talented, one of my special ones.” His accent was Eastern European.
“I hear that he’s your protégé, that you’re sponsoring him.”
He wiped his face with the end of the white towel hooked around his neck, drank from his water bottle. “Rick has talent. He’s going places with his game, and he’d never afford this place and my lessons otherwise.”
Angie took a few steps up to the fence and watched some young guys taking turns with the ball machine. “So you’d make a name for yourself with Rick. And John Jacks—” She turned to face him. “You coach him, too?”
Radikoff was silent for a beat, just the hollow thwocks of the balls. One slammed into the fence right near her face, and she tensed with the surprise.
“I’m the club coach,” he said, caution entering in his eyes. “I’m paid to teach whoever wants lessons.” Another pause. “Who wants to know?”
“Angie Pallorino,” she said, deepening her smile and extending her hand. “Metro Victoria police. I hear Jacks played with Butler.”
He glanced quickly over his shoulder. “What is this about?”
“Jacks dated Butler’s ex-girlfriend, Gracie Drummond. Gracie was murdered, and we’re trying to figure out her movements in the weeks preceding her death.”
He stared, and his jaw opened. “Not … not the Cemetery Girl, the one in the news?”
She held his gaze. “Drummond used to come here to watch Butler practice. It’s how she met Jacks, I understand.”
“What has this got to do with me?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maddocks approaching. “Where can I find Jacks?” she said.
His features shuttered instantly. “If you’ll excuse me—I’m not permitted to fraternize with members or club guests. Nor talk about them, as per my contract.” He snagged his kit bag and rackets off a bench and strode off. She watched him go. Nice legs. Very nice legs. And ass.
Maddocks came to her side and followed her gaze. She glanced up at him, and those indigo-blue eyes held hers. A strange, palpable energy rolled off him in waves.
“And if he had walked into that nightclub?” he said.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, “ever raise that again.” She strode rapidly for the exit, her pulse suddenly racing. An odd mix of defensive anger and something akin to shame churned through her. She hated that he knew about that side of her, that he judged her, that he’d brought it up again within a work context. More so, she hated that she actually cared what he thought, and what that might mean.
It wasn’t until she was outside and waiting in the rain at his vehicle in the dark that he came out. She was drenched by the time he reached and unlocked the car. She didn’t say a word as she got in. He let her sit there, engine running, heater blasting, while he took his little mongrel on a walk down the curb. When he returned, he took his sweet time giving the animal water from a bowl he’d fished out of the back of the Impala.
“And what did you get from Miss Sweden?” she demanded as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Crickets. And you from Tennis Boy?”
She tightened her jaw, looked out the window as he pulled into the street. “John Jacks is a member of the club, as we suspected. Serge Radikoff coaches him. Once he found out I was a cop, he clammed up. We’ll get more when we interview Rick Butler.”
Instead of taking the road that would lead them back to the station, Maddocks turned left, and at the same time he groped behind him for something on the rear seat, his eyes fixed on the wet road ahead.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“Can you reach that for me?”
“Reach what?”
“The blanket behind my seat. Drape it over Jack-O. Temps are dropping, and he doesn’t handle cold with his shaved fur. And since the second op on his leg, I think his immune system is down.”
She frowned at him, then reached into the back for the blanket. As she covered the dog, it growled and snapped at her. Angie jerked her hand back. “Stupid little mutt. He tried to bite me.”
A smile curved Maddocks’s lips.
“What? You think that’s funny?”
“Maybe he senses you don’t like him.”
“I don’t. What’s there to like?”
He cast her a sideways glance.
“No, tell me, really, why do you like this animal?” she said.
“Truth?”
“Yeah, truth.”
“Because he makes me feel good. He makes me feel like I made a difference in his life.” He shrugged, turned another corner, stopped at the lights, looked at her. “Which is more than you get from this job sometimes.”
Her own earlier conversation with her father filtered into her mind.
I put bad guys away. And I’m good at it, Dad. Damn good. I make a difference.
Do you?
Yeah, I do. Sometimes. Yes. I do …
Angie’s thoughts turned to Tiffy, and how she’d failed the child. To Hash, and how she might have failed him, too, and how much she missed him. She thought of the anguish and accusation she’d witnessed in Lorna Drummond’s eyes, the wailing sound that came from her throat as she’d slid down to the floor. The weight of it all was suddenly heavy on Angie’s shoulders.
“Where are we going?” she asked again, more quietly.
“To drop Jack-O off—Buziak is springing for pizza tonight while we debrief, and I finally found another sitter, one of the old guys at the marina who’ll take him at least until this case winds down a bit.”
“Marina?”
“West Bay. I live on an old
schooner there. Trying to renovate it. Without much luck, I might add. Every time I fix something, a new problem comes up. It’ll be easier when the weather warms again—I hope.”
“So, you sail?”
He gave a soft snort. “It was always a retirement dream of ours, for after Ginn left home—me and the wife on a boat. Sailing up the coast, stopping at whatever little inlet took our fancy. Kayaking, fishing.” He was silent for a few blocks. “Then our marriage fell apart. This job can be hell on a relationship.”
Curiosity won the better of Angie. “You separated?”
“Going through a real messy divorce. Maybe that’s another reason the dog is growing on me—dogs don’t quit on you.” He fell silent again, and Angie felt as though she’d just glimpsed a very personal, private part of this cop. Too personal. She didn’t want to know more. She didn’t want to care, to feel the things she was beginning to feel, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking the next question.
“Why do you still wear the wedding band?”
“For Ginn. I put it on before we went out for brunch Sunday. To show her … I don’t know, to show her that I was still trying to make it work. She blames me for breaking up the family.” He gave a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Sometimes I think a shrink would have a field day with me trying to salvage things that I know are irreparably broken—that old boat, that retirement dream, that old notion of family I once had.”
Angie’s heart beat hard in her chest. So he hadn’t removed the wedding band to make a conquest at the club. He’d just put it back on for his kid, right before he got called to a murder and embroiled in this case.
“This is why you should have let me drive my own vehicle,” she said crisply. “I could have gone back to the station myself while you went and did … whatever personal thing you need to do with that mutt.”
CHAPTER 29
As Maddocks turned onto the road that would lead them down to the harbor, the Mount Saint Agnes institution loomed suddenly into view. Angie tensed and checked her watch. Her mouth turned dry as she fought herself. “Wait!” she said suddenly as they neared the gates. “Turn in here, please.”
Maddocks glanced at her, slowing his Impala as he neared the entrance to the institution with its high walls and big iron gates. “Why?” he said.
“I … there’s someone I promised to visit today. I only need about thirty minutes—you can drop your dog off in the meanwhile, then pick me up after.”
Maddocks shot her another glance and wheeled his vehicle slowly in through the entrance to the Mount Saint Agnes Mental Health Treatment Facility. He drew to a stop under the portico in front of the double doors. Angie hesitated and rubbed her knee, nerves suddenly biting at her. As much as she loved her mom, part of her was afraid to face squarely up to what was happening to her mother’s mind. And she knew this anxiety was in part because she feared the illness was beginning to manifest in her, too. This big concrete building with its stone walls and gates and white-coated orderlies possibly lurked on her own horizon in the not-too-distant future.
“Who’s in there?” Maddocks said, regarding her with an intensity that made her feel naked.
“It’s personal,” she said crisply. She reached for the door. “I’ll be no more than thirty.”
“Take more time if you need it.”
“I won’t.” She opened the door, got out, slammed it shut, and did not look back as she strode toward the entrance.
A nurse showed Angie into a large room where several tables and chairs had been positioned in groups. A few patients occupied some of the chairs, some fidgeting and muttering, others looking totally vacant and alone. An orderly stood by the wall, watching over them. In front of one of the windows a Christmas tree glowed with soft lights.
“She’s over there, by the bay window,” said the nurse, pointing to a bent figure sitting motionless in a cane rocking chair, facing her own reflection in the dark windowpanes. Shock dropped through Angie. Her attention shot to the nurse.
“Why is my mother in here? Why isn’t she in her private room, with all her things?”
“I’m afraid she had a bit of an episode, being left alone for the first time. It happens—the unfamiliarity in a new place, the fear of not knowing where she is, who everyone is. She’s here under observation for a while.” The nurse paused. “Your mother has been heavily medicated, Ms. Pallorino. She’s not terribly lucid, but seeing a familiar family member might help. If she does get upset, however, please just step away quietly and alert the orderly.”
“Who authorized the medication, the dosage?”
“Her doctor, in consultation with her next of kin—her husband was here most of the day.”
Emotion, guilt, slammed into Angie with such blunt force that it stole her breath and she had to concentrate on inhaling. “Thanks.” Slowly, she made her way over to the window. Her mother’s whitening hair looked more pastel orange than the deep strawberry blonde it once was. A white bathrobe draped her bony shoulders, and her mom was devoid of her customary makeup. Her skin looked blotchy, dry, lined. It seemed as if her mom had aged decades in the hours since Angie had last seen her.
“Mom?”
Her mother started rocking in her chair, faster, faster.
Angie pulled up a stool and sat facing her mother. “How are you doing?” She smiled.
Her mom stopped rocking and peered at Angie as if she didn’t recognize her. Her eyes weren’t focused. She wasn’t fully there. “Who are you?” she said, her speech slightly slurred. “Do I know you?”
“It’s Angie.”
“Angie?” Her mother frowned and sat awhile, just staring at Angie. Then a slow, sad smile crumpled her face. “I had a little daughter once—called Angie. Such a beautiful little girl. Such a wonderful child. Then … just like that she was gone.” She began to moan and rock again, her features twisting as if in pain, her hands gripping the armrests tightly. The moan grew louder, the rocking wild.
Angie leaned forward and covered one of her mother’s hands, slowing the motion.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m here.”
“The angels brought her back. They did. She didn’t belong there. They returned her.”
“Who? Who are you talking about, Mom?”
“Angie.”
A dank sense of dread trickled into Angie. “Where didn’t Angie belong?” she said.
“Heaven. In Italy. With God. They made a mistake. She wasn’t ready to go with God. So they brought her back.” A sad, wistful smile crossed her mother’s face, and she stopped rocking. “Christmas Eve. That’s when she was returned. I was singing at the cathedral … such a beautiful cathedral. It was ordained.” Her mother closed her eyes and started to hum a hymn that was strangely familiar to Angie, yet she couldn’t quite place it. That cold chill of dread crawled deeper.
“Which cathedral are you talking about, Mom?”
“It was snowing out,” she said softly, “when they brought her back. Like a babe in a manger in a box, she was.”
“Mom. Look at me. Please.”
Her mother opened her eyes, and confusion chased through them as she struggled to focus on Angie. “Who are you? I … I know you …”
Angie smiled gently, yet her pulse was hammering hard and her skin turning slick with sweat. Confusion chased through her own brain—some sixth sense warning her that there was more to her mother’s words than the ramblings of a cross-wired mind. “I know you too,” she said, squeezing her hands. “But remind me who you are again?” she said, testing.
Her mother sat awhile, thinking. “I’m Angie’s mother. I have a beautiful little girl.”
Emotion burned fierce into Angie’s eyes. “Yeah. You do.”
“Do you know her?”
“I do.”
This pleased her mother, and she seemed to drift, her features going serene as she shut her eyes and started to sing the words to the hymn in a soft mezzo-soprano.
“Ave Maria … Gratia plena, Dominus tecum …”
>
Angie swallowed, a strange chill of horror icing into her bones at the sound.
Her mother began rocking again, slowly, slowly. “Benedicta tu in mulieribus …”
“Mom?”
“Et benedictus, fructus ventris tui, Jesus …”
“Mom!”
“Sancta Maria, sancta Maria, Maria …”
Panic lashed through Angie. She had to get out of here. Stat. A woman’s voice filled her head. She was screaming … in some foreign language, yet the words seemed to make sense …
Uciekaj, uciekaj! … Run, run! … Wskakuj do srodka, szybko! … Get inside … Siedz cicho! … Stay quiet!
“I … I’ll be back,” Angie said, lurching to her feet and eyeballing the exit door across the room. “I’ll come visit again as soon as I can. It’ll be better next time, I’m sure.” Angie bent down and kissed her mom quickly on the cheek. She hurried for the door, heart slamming. What the fuck?
Maddocks sat waiting in the Mount Saint Agnes parking lot for Pallorino, engine turning to keep warm.
The passenger door swung open suddenly, and Pallorino entered with a blast of cold. She slammed the door shut and rubbed the knees of her jeans. “Thanks for waiting,” she said, looking dead ahead.
“Jesus, you spooked me.” He laughed. “I didn’t see you coming—thought you’d exit out of those other doors.”
She buckled up, still avoiding his eyes.
“All okay?”
She rubbed her mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, fine.” She turned to him, her game face on. “Dropped the dog off?” she said.
He studied her. And she met his measuring gaze, unblinkingly, almost defiant. Something unspoken surged between them. Then he said, “Yeah, I dropped him off.” And he engaged gears.
As he drove back to the station, he said quietly, “Got an update from Buziak while I was waiting. Leo and Holgersen found Hocking’s apartment—it’s been cleaned out.”
“What do you mean, cleaned out?”
“Apparently Hocking called and gave notice eleven days ago. Moving van came and took all her stuff.”
“So she was alive eleven days ago?”
“Or someone else claiming to be her called to cancel her lease. Holgersen and Leo also located the guy they believe to be her dentist.” He shot her a glance. “Guess what his name is?”
The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Page 19
