The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1)

by Loreth Anne White

  Angie stopped dead in her tracks and tensed, bracing for another assault—verbal or otherwise.

  Drummond came forward. “Gracie left me a Christmas gift. I found it under her bed.” The woman paused, overtly struggling to marshal her emotions. Clearing her throat, she held the box out to Angie.

  “I want you to have it. Gracie would want you to have it. For everything you did for her. And for Faith. And all those other girls.”

  Angie stared at her.

  “Please, take it.”

  Carefully, Angie took the box from Lorna Drummond. She opened it. Inside was what looked like an ornately carved cream-colored jewelry box. Angie looked up.

  “Open it,” Lorna Drummond said, her eyes swimming with moisture.

  Angie lifted the box lid. A tiny dancer in a pink tutu popped up and started to wobble in a pirouette as lullaby music tinkled—made by a revolving cylinder with a set of pins that plinked at a comb of metal tines to create the sound.

  “It’s an antique,” Drummond said. “I used to have a similar one when I was a little girl. My father gave it to me. He died that year, and not long after, the jewelry box was lost in a house fire. I often spoke to Gracie about that box and how it was the last thing I had of my dad. I was with Gracie when I saw this one in the antique store on Government Street a few months ago. I … I was moved by it, and she saw. She must have returned and bought it—” Her voice choked. She fiddled in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose. “She’d … hidden it … under her bed. Waiting for Christmas.”

  Which would never come for Gracie Drummond.

  We all lie.

  We all guard secrets—sometimes terrible ones—a side to us so dark, so shameful, that we quickly avert our own eyes from the shadow we might glimpse in the mirror.

  Instead we lock our dark halves deep in the basement of our souls. And on the surface of our lives, we work industriously to shape the public story of our selves …

  Angie stared at the halting dancer. The music slowed to a plink then a plunk, then died. She swallowed, unable at that moment to look up and meet Lorna Drummond’s eyes for fear of what she’d reveal in her own.

  “I can’t take it, Mrs. Drummond.” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “I just can’t.”

  Lorna Drummond touched Angie’s hand. “Please. I can’t keep it, either. I want … I want you to have it. To remember her, and all girls like her.” She fell silent. Angie glanced up.

  Tears sheened down the woman’s face. “Keep doing what you do, Detective,” she whispered. “People like you … it’s all we have between what is good and right, and what is wrong.” A pause as she struggled to go on. “Thank you for finding him, for stopping him before he could hurt anyone else.”

  And she turned and was gone. Out the doors into the rainy dark.

  Angie stared after her, unable to move, the box with the little dancer in her hands.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22

  “Angie? Is that you?”

  A rush of conflicting emotions flooded Angie’s chest as she seated herself in front of her mother’s rocker. Her dad’s words filled her mind …

  My Miriam came back to life, Angie. You brought her back to me. And I … I don’t know if you can ever understand love like I have for her, but she … she’s my everything. She’s my world. And seeing her become whole again … I just let it be. I let her believe …

  Her mom reached out, touched Angie’s hand, her skin cool. “It’s so good to see you, Ange.”

  “I brought you something, Mom.”

  “A Christmas present? What is it?” she said with glee and a childlike clasp of her hands.

  Angie smiled, her old love for her mother warring with the new information, the secrets revealed, her complicated feelings around it all. She still felt a lingering need for this woman to be her mother, and she also felt a new hole in her heart knowing that her biological mom was still out there. Dead or alive. Unknown. An unsolved mystery.

  “Sort of a present,” she said. “It’s something special to me, from a very special young woman—I thought you might like to look after it for me and enjoy it for a while.”

  Angie could not keep the jewelry box in her apartment—that little dancer in a pink tutu. It was too close to her little girl in pink who lived deep inside her mind. And giving the box to her mom felt right. It met a need in Angie to share something of herself—her work, her life—with her adoptive mother, who could no longer understand things with a simple telling. Angie hoped this symbol, this gesture, might fill that role somehow. Mothers and daughters. And the tricky love they shared.

  Her mother frowned in confusion. “But it is from Angie?”

  “Her name was Gracie.”

  She opened it. The music tinkled, the little dancer wobbling in her pirouette. Tears filled her mother’s eyes. She clasped her hands together again, both a child and a woman confused in her own memories.

  Angie took her leave from her mother, feeling hollow.

  “Merry Christmas,” the orderly said on her way out.

  She nodded. Yeah. “Merry Christmas.”

  At least she understood her own emotions around Christmastime now, Angie thought, stepping out into the cold night.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24

  They were holding a service for Merry Winston on a promontory that jutted out into the sea between two bays. It was a place where Winston apparently used to go sometimes, to just sit and watch the water.

  On her way to the service, Angie pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. She sat in her vehicle a moment, looking at the shell of a house, the vessel of so many memories. True ones. False ones. Lies. Love misguided and misunderstood. Inhaling deeply, she got out of the car and took a big wicker basket from the backseat.

  Wind tugged at her hair and coat as she set the basket at the front door.

  She was about to leave when the door swung open.

  “Angie?”

  “Dad. Hey.” She dug her hands deep into her coat pockets. He looked old. He was wearing baggy jeans and his oversize comfy sweater with the leather patches on the elbows. Seeing him big and familiar was yet another emotional punch to her gut.

  “I … uh …” Angie looked up at the sky as if gravity might hold it all in or show her answers. Everything felt so goddamn close to the surface right now. “I brought you a small turkey and fixings and stuff.” She jerked her chin to the basket. “I … know you’re going to visit Mom this evening. The orderlies told me. They said some families like to bring a festive meal to the center, share.” She swallowed, that old picture of them all in front of a Christmas tree shimmering into her mind, along with a fresh sense of betrayal.

  “Come with me tonight, Angie,” he said.

  Her mouth tightened, and she shook her head. “I can’t. Not now … not yet.”

  He looked at her long and hard. “We didn’t mean harm.”

  She nodded, stuffed her hands deeper into her coat pockets. “I know.”

  “We loved you … we still love you.”

  She nodded again. Cold wind whipped hair across her face. “I need to go.”

  “Work again.”

  “A funeral service. For a friend.”

  “Merry Christmas, Angie.”

  “Yeah. Take care, Dad.”

  The knoll that jutted out into the sea was full with ancient history, long gold grasses, a totem pole that stood silent sentinel. A bald eagle perched atop the pole, feathers ruffling in salt wind as it peered down at the tiny gathering of people below. Angie stood among them, alone and a little to the side.

  “Leaves should not wither and die in early spring,” said the pastor from the United Church as Merry Winston’s ashes were scattered to the wind, blowing toward the pale, wintery horizon. “Winter should not come before its time …”

  Pastor Markus from Harbor House was here. So was Winston’s street friend, Nina, and a few other ragged-looking women, rubbing noses and shivering in the cold. But no Holgersen. No Leo. No on
e else from the MVPD. And at this poignant moment, Angie felt a kinship with this motley group—she too was a fringe dweller of sorts right now. Left out in the cold. Lonely.

  “… for there is no answer to death, especially premature death, but to live vigorously and beautifully …”

  Angie turned and made her way along the little grassy path up toward the parking lot.

  A figure waited there. Tall. Black coat. Blue-black hair ruffling like those eagle feathers in the salt wind.

  Maddocks.

  Angie stalled, gathered herself, and went up to him.

  His complexion was bloodless, the hollows under his eyes and cheekbones dark.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said as she neared. His voice was stern, angry almost. Frustrated, maybe. “You haven’t answered or returned any of my calls. Why?”

  “I’m giving you space. I—”

  “Don’t shit me, Angie. I don’t need space, and you know it.”

  “How’s Ginny?”

  “Ginny’s fine, and don’t change the subject.”

  “Sabrina?”

  “Angie—”

  “I saw you with her, Maddocks, at the hospital.”

  “She’s Ginny’s mother—she always will be.”

  “I know. You needed to be together. I … don’t want to come between that. I know how you wanted to salvage the dream, the past. I’ve screwed up before, Maddocks, messed with a married man, and it killed his marriage, and I’ve regretted that every moment of my life. It’s … why—”

  “The club?”

  And her sex rules …

  She snorted and turned to look at the sea, the small group of people threading up through the long grasses from the knoll. “Yeah.”

  “Do you always have to go to such extremes?”

  She cast him a sideways glance.

  “I signed my papers, Angie,” he said. A pause. “My divorce is final.”

  Her gaze ticked to his empty ring finger, then up to his face. His eyes bored hot into hers. She swallowed.

  “I want you in my life.”

  “Don’t, Maddocks, not now. I—”

  “When this is all over, when you’re back at work, we let management know that we’re seeing each other, and they can make assignments accordingly. It’s standard. It can be done.”

  Her heart tumbled over itself into a tight ball. Anxiety rippled over her skin, and it came with a dark whisper of promise.

  “I’ve got a lot to work through. There’s still going to be an internal review. Maybe even an inquest. It could take—”

  “Angie.” He placed both his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Look at me. I’m here for you. I owe you my life. You saved Ginny’s life. And I need you there for me. Jack-O, too. He misses you.”

  She smiled in spite of the emotions burning through her.

  “Where is he?”

  “With his sitter. Because we have plans for tonight.”

  She tried to pull back. She was afraid of what she felt for this man—the power of it. “I don’t think—”

  “Come.” He put his arm around her shoulders, turned her, and led her up to his vehicle in the parking lot. “We can leave your car here and pick it up later.”

  He opened the passenger door. She hesitated.

  “Get in, Angie.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. We’re going to do something to honor that. I want to do something to honor the fact you saved my life, Ginny’s life—you put your own life and career on the line. For me. For my daughter. Against all orders. I owe you.”

  He shut the door behind her and went round to the driver’s side.

  As he got into the driver’s seat, she said, “I made an appointment. Police psychologist.” He stilled, met her gaze for a moment. Emotion glistened in his eyes.

  “We’ll work through this, Angie,” he said quietly.

  We.

  Angie held tightly to that word as he pulled out of the parking lot and drove back toward the city.

  CHAPTER 79

  As Maddocks turned onto the road that led around the inner harbor, Angie looked at him and said, “Did you tell the IIO investigators that you ordered me not to come after you?”

  “It sort of didn’t come up.”

  She regarded his profile in silence, and she realized that once again, he was trying to cover for her, protect her. At risk to himself. Her heart swelled painfully. She looked away, out of the window that squiggled with rain.

  “So, you’re busy on the ongoing investigations—the outfall?”

  He hesitated a moment too long, and Angie felt a little clutch in her stomach.

  “Yeah. The team is growing, prosecutors on board. My focus is the barcode girls …”

  “Go on.”

  He cast her a fast glance. “Between you and me.”

  “Christ, Maddocks, who am I going to tell?”

  “There were six of them found on the Amanda Rose. Four of Eastern European origin and two Syrian—we think they were refugees, bought out of some camp and trafficked to the owners of the Amanda Rose. We’re guessing they’re aged between thirteen and seventeen. None of them will talk—been abused, brainwashed. Terrified. All have been tattooed with a barcode.”

  Frustration sparked through Angie. “I should be on that case—sex crimes,” she said quietly.

  “It’ll be there when you return. You’ll be back faster than you think.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Maddocks. I can see the reality of my situation. You owe me more than platitudes.”

  He snorted, turned down Government. “I’m sorry. But I do believe it’s going to work out. You have support, friends.”

  “Doesn’t change the facts of the case … wait, what are we doing here?” He’d pulled up outside the Flying Pig pub and grill.

  “I’m not going in there,” she said.

  “Oh, yes you are.”

  Maddocks held the door open for Angie. Music, boisterous, emanated from inside. She hesitated. “I can’t believe you’re forcing me to do this,” she said.

  He grinned, and a wicked little twinkle lit those gorgeous deep-blue eyes of his.

  “Force you? I don’t think anyone forces Angie Pallorino to do anything.”

  Angie entered, nerves flitting about her stomach. The place was packed, a live band playing on the small stage area in the far corner.

  Maddocks took her coat. Angie tensed as Leo caught sight of them. Leo’s hand shot straight up into the air. The band stopped. Everyone turned around. He brought his hand down, and the band started another tune as balloons released from the ceiling. Everyone began to sing …

  For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow … and so say all of us! Three cheers for Pallorino!

  The pub erupted into cheers, and Leo came up, slapped her hard between the shoulder blades. “Welcome back, Pallorino!”

  Angie quickly swiped tears from her eyes, embarrassed at showing her emotions like this. “Jesus, Leo, I’m not back. I’m fucking suspended.”

  “Ah, good as back. This round’s on me—what you having?”

  Angie stared at him, stunned. She shot a glance at Maddocks. He was grinning like a stupid Cheshire cat. “Is this your fault?” she snapped at him.

  “This is you on friends, Pallorino,” Maddocks said. He turned to Leo. “Get us a bottle of nice red, will ya?”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  “Yo, man,” said Holgersen as he joined them. “You gots a tribe in blue that’s a rootin’ for yoooo!” He sang the words in an astounding bass, then his face turned serious. “Good to see yous, partner.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Aye—” He held his hands out to his sides and angled his head. “Guilty as charged. But no sex. Still celibate all the ways down the line.”

  “Freak,” muttered Leo as he shoved his way toward Colm McGregor behind the packed bar.

  Barb O’Hagan waved from a booth at the back, qu
ieter end of the pub. Above the booth tables hung streamers of Christmas tinsel. The whole place smelled like beer, and turkey cooking, and boozy Christmas pudding.

  Maddocks escorted Angie through the crowd toward the booth. Seated with O’Hagan was Sunni Padachaya from the lab, coroner Alphonse, and Dundurn and Smith from sex crimes.

  “Hey, lady,” O’Hagan said with a gap-toothed grin. “Pull up a pew.”

  Leo brought the wine and glasses over, and Holgersen scooted in beside Angie with a full mug of beer.

  “So, did you hear the rumor about Fitz?” Leo said.

  “What rumor?” Maddocks said.

  Leo leaned closer. “Have a friend in tech—you know that voice recording Winston made of the deep throat?”

  “Spit it out, Leo,” Holgersen said, lifting his mug and taking a frothy swig.

  “It’s a match to Fitzsimmons.”

  They all stared at him in silence.

  “Fitz?” Holgersen said.

  “Yeah. Unique speech patterns and his little weirdly scratchy voice—they reckon it’s him. Matches what they got on file.”

  “Nothing’s proved yet,” Maddocks said quietly. “Give the guy the benefit of the doubt—innocent until guilty.”

  Leo snorted, sat back, and took a sip of his whiskey. “Never thought I’d hear you supporting him—not after that little set-to the pair of you had outside the incident room door the other day.”

  “Why would Fitz leak information?” said Padachaya.

  “He’s sick in the head, I tell ya—freak,” retorted Leo.

  O’Hagan snorted softly. “He’s been around same length of time as Gunnar. He’s been overlooked for one promotion after another while Gunnar climbed steadily to the top. He’s a bitter little man.”

  “A revenge guy,” Maddocks said with a glance at Angie. “Let’s stay mum on this—wait and see how it plays out, okay?”

  Leo mumbled. “Between you and me,” he said, “that fucker’s got what’s coming to him—sure would explain why he wanted to quash that mayor–ADAG stuff and curry favor with Killion and the new police board.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Probably figured it would unseat Gunnar and get him all the way up into the chief’s chair himself, eh?”

  Maddocks poured Angie a glass of wine. She scanned the rest of the room as she sipped. She caught sight of a dark-haired, hawk-like man in a booth at the opposite corner.