They drove back to the station in silence. Marlowe could tell Spence itched to rehash their argument. Spence never could keep his opinions to himself—one of the things Marlowe liked about him. He never had to wonder what Spence thought, or where he stood with him. Right now, however, as for this subject, enough already.
They arrived at the station and walked right into a shit storm.
“What’s going on?” asked Spence.
“Media got wind of the symbols, the Greek ones. The suicide angle, too. McCann is going nuts in there,” said Detective Vines, keeping one eye on the lieutenant’s office in case he made a sudden appearance.
When the lieutenant’s door flew open, Vines became engrossed in paperwork.
“Gentry, Murray. Get your asses in here,” yelled McCann from his office doorway.
Vines appeared ready to crawl under his desk.
They entered and took their seats while the lieutenant slammed around the room. “Goddammit. Have you heard? The media is broadcasting the translations of those Greek words. And worse, they’re reporting on the suicide angle. This is a goddamned disaster.”
“Someone is feeding the media scraps, a few morsels at a time. Upping the price with each serving, I’m betting,” said Spence. “They got onto the coins and cross last week.”
“We still have the flowers. And we withheld information on Nikki Baker and Matthew Young. There’s plenty still unknown to the public for use with suspects,” said Marlowe.
“Plus weed out the crackpots claiming they’re Seraphim,” said Spence.
“You don’t get it, either of you. Every shrink, hospital, and clinic in the state is crawling up my ass. Can you imagine the PR nightmare for us if a crazy kills someone because they quit getting treatment, or stopped their meds because they feared someone there might be the Seraphim?” said the lieutenant.
“Shit,” said Spence.
“Exactly. I swear, whoever leaked this will wish they were dead when I get a hold of them.” McCann mimicked snapping something in two over his knee and sat down hard behind his desk, the chair groaning under his weight.
“Still no idea who?” asked Marlowe.
“Not a fucking clue,” said Lieutenant.
“I’ve got a friend at WRZK. I’ll drive over and see if she knows anything,” said Marlowe.
“Like she will offer up a source giving them these kind of ratings,” said Spence. “Damn reporters’ll sit in the tank for months before they rat.”
“Do it. It’s worth a try. This has got to stop. The mayor and the captain are on me like ticks wanting this thing solved. I can’t take a piss without a reporter waiting to hold my cock. Now this shit. Nothing worse than an overeducated, egomaniac doctor with a valid point.”
“Anything turn up connecting the victims yet?” asked Marlowe.
“Not yet. I’ve got the whole station working on it. If it’s there, we’ll find it,” said the lieutenant.
“It’s there. It’s got to be.” Marlowe wondered if crossing his fingers would help.
* * *
Marlowe pulled into the parking lot at WRZK. A tricky bit of business indeed, getting Natasha Peirce to give up a source…actually, no chance. He needed to think of a different ploy. Time for a little carrot and stick.
Natasha was a looker, much of the reason for her quick rise to on-air reporter. However, to think her a nothing more than a mouthpiece in a skirt would be a huge mistake. Natasha possessed a sharp intellect fueling her curiosity and unmatched ambition.
Marlowe found her hawking over the shoulder of some poor lad in the film room, dictating edits.
“No, pan to the fire. Move it there. Now close up on me. No, no.” She grumbled. “Good Lord, what do they pay you for? Do I have to do it myself?”
Natasha struck an impressive presence. She stood a shade shorter than Marlowe, with long strawberry-blond hair and a supermodel’s figure, none of which seemed to impress edit boy at the moment.
He threw up his hands, calling surrender. “Fine, you wanna do it? You do it.”
“Natasha,” said Marlowe.
“Detective Gentry, I wondered when I’d get a visit from you. Care to make a statement?” she said with a sarcastic grin
“Not today, and if you ever want another statement from me or the department, you might want to clue me in on this source of yours.”
“I’ll be right back. Edit the third take while I’m gone,” she said to edit boy, then faced Marlowe. “Source? Why Detective, I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Can it Natasha. Your station has been first with reports since this Seraphim mess began.”
“We’re good, what can I say,” said Natasha, flicking her hair over one shoulder.
“You can tell me who is feeding you the information, for a start.”
“Come on, you know I’m not going to do that. It’s a solid source. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”
“Listen Natasha, we have our asses in a sling here. This guy is going to keep on killing, and the details you release make it difficult to weed out all the wackos trying to take credit. Plus, when we catch him, we have that much less to use. Help us out a little.”
“I’ll tell you what. Promise me an exclusive when you catch him. With both with you and the killer. Deal?”
“You know I can’t make that kind of promise. Yeah, I’m lead on this, but the higher ups make those calls.”
“Well, in that case…sorry, I can’t help you.” She turned back toward the film room.
“I can promise to do everything in my power to get you the exclusives, and I’ll personally feed you bits that won’t hurt the investigation,” Marlowe said to her back, eliciting a quick about-face.
There’s the carrot. Now for the stick.
“However, you know I can make your job as tough as you can make mine. Anger the department, and you can forget any help on future cases. Next time, you might not have a source in your pocket.” Marlowe watched the wheels turn and lock into place behind Natasha’s baby blues.
“Fine,” she said, after a split-second hesitation. “I never met the source. Phone calls only. I sent his payment to a P.O. box. Voice sounded like a young guy. Sorry, I don’t have much more.”
“It’s a start. More than I had two minutes ago. Thanks Natasha.”
“Sure thing.” Marlowe watched her walk away, and shook his head. He was hanging around Spence way too much.
Natasha had not given him much to go on, but he had a sneaking suspicion he might know the culprit. Nothing solid, he could only keep his eyes and ears peeled in that direction and hope for a slip up. Something told him a young man recently into a wad of cash might want to buy himself something nice.
CHAPTER
15
In the weeks since her failed escape attempt, Becca felt like a bird trapped in a cage while the cat prowled hungry below. Michael called repeatedly at work until she assured him she was on her way home. Once home, he watched her every move. His anger flared with the slightest perceived provocation. Fresh bruises marked her with his reprimands.
So, little surprise she anticipated arriving home this evening with apprehension. She claimed to work as late as she thought believable. Michael knew her schedule well enough to sniff out a lie if she pushed it too far.
Becca stepped through the door praying he might be asleep or something, anything to avoid interaction. No such luck; Michael greeted her wearing something that shocked her…a smile.
“Glad you’re home,” he said. “Big news. I’m up for sergeant.”
“That’s…that’s great. I’m happy for you.” Becca tried with all her might to summon a convincing smile.
“For us. The bump in pay will be nice. You’ll still make more than me, but…” The last sentence bore a noticeable drop in enthusiasm. “Anyway, I thought we’d celebrate. I put a couple of T-bones on the grill. We can watch the game together.”
“What about Ed?” she asked. Eduardo was Michael’s partner on patrol, and his usu
al sidekick.
“Humph, he’s got his kids or some shit.” Obviously, Ed was his first choice, and he seemed none too pleased with the snub.
Becca rarely ate meat and did not consider herself even a cursory sports fan. Not that Michael cared. This evening centered on him, with her a mere prop for his celebration.
“Well, let me change.” Becca went upstairs to the bedroom and changed into sweatpants and long-sleeved t-shirt. This, in its own way, made her more nervous than his outbursts. She harbored no affection for Michael, not for a long time. Any need to fake it had passed years ago.
She knew he met secretly with more than one woman to satisfy his desires. It did not matter; Becca would thank the hussies if she could. Why he seemed so intent on keeping her and maintaining their hollow marriage puzzled her. The psychologist in her supposed it boiled down to control, a need for power.
He lacked such control in his job; it being no secret his commanders viewed him as average at best. She doubted he had any real chance of making sergeant. Michael did not possess leadership skills. He made a good foot soldier, but anything more should remain above his pay grade.
As Becca entered the kitchen, Michael finished off another beer and placed the bottle next to empties on the counter. She blanched at the sight.
“Here ya go.” He handed her a plate. The meat looked rare—just how Michael liked it. The runny meat’s mere appearance made Becca queasy.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to mask her revulsion.
“Come on, I’ve got a hundred bucks riding on the Raiders.”
Becca nibbled on the steak and jumped each time Michael screamed at the television. He went through four more beers during his meal. His speech began to slur, his tirades at a dropped pass grew more vehement.
Another six-pack later, Michael appeared well lit. The Raiders did not cover the spread, driving him into a fury.
“Fuck the Raiders. They never cover. I must be fucking crazy, betting on that bunch of losers.” Michael clicked off the set and slammed the remote down on the coffee table.
Becca’s fear steadily increased with every passing minute. She knew this play well. It wouldn’t be long now before she became the focus of his irritation. Yet, surprisingly, he calmed and moved to sit close to her. Her body stiffened; she pushed herself into the cushion.
“You know…it’s been a long time,” he said in a slurred, soft voice. “I know I’m not always easy to get along with, but I still love you.” He nudged his head against her neck, making her skin crawl.
“Michael.” She wiggled free of his embrace. “This was nice, and I am so proud of you. You’re great at your job, and I’m sure you’ll get the promotion, but I’m really tired. I just want to go to bed.”
“Exactly what I had in mind.” Michael clumsily pulled her shirt above her mid-section.
“Michael. No.” She shocked herself with the rebuke. Becca pushed around him, but he caught her arm and slung her back onto the sofa, the force whipping her head back.
“No? You tell me no?” His face went crimson, his grip digging into her skin. He tore her sweats with a loud ripping, spread her legs, and struggled to push his pants to his knees. Pressing himself to her groin, he tried to nudge her underwear to one side.
Becca’s terror blinded her to any possible repercussions. She shoved Michael hard and kicked out with all her strength. Her foot connected squarely with his testicles, a soft pop rewarding her effort.
Michael fell to the floor moaning, hands holding his crotch, his face bright red. He flopped about and tried to get to his feet, but collapsed during the attempt. Becca dashed for the stairs.
“You fucking bitch. I’ll kill you,” Michael screamed.
Becca grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand, flew into the bathroom, locked the door, and dialed 911.
“Becca,” Michael yelled. He entered the bedroom and stood outside the bathroom door breathing pure hatred. “I’ll bust this fucking door down. Open it, now.”
“My husband is trying to kill me. Please help me.” She jumped back and dropped the phone as the door thudded from an impact. Her only salvation was that Michael could barely stand, much less ram through the door. He tried several more times, each collision causing the ships on the walls to rock on their seas, only paintings, but the tidal wave was all too real.
Finally, the room beyond went quiet. Becca huddled on the toilet seat, clutching her shattered phone. She prayed the call went through. Soon, Michael would try again, and, drunk or not, the door would not hold forever.
An hour passed, and Becca began to lose hope. They did not get the call. No one was coming to save her. If Michael came through the door, she would fight. She would have to…and fight for her life.
Becca heard him moving outside. She picked up the plunger and frowned. Not much of a weapon, but the bathroom did not exactly house an armory. Hairspray. Good substitute for mace, she thought. Too bad she no longer smoked; a lighter could make it a mini-flamethrower.
The door handle jiggled. Becca braced and prepared herself.
A knock on the door, and a voice, “Miss, you alright in there? It’s Officer Cotts, open up. It’s okay now.”
Becca cracked the door and peeked outside. A police officer stood looking at her with either concern or impatience, difficult to discern which, from his naturally pinched nose and narrow eyes. “It’s okay, I promise. We have Michael downstairs.”
“He tried to kill me,” she said, finally allowing the tears to stream.
“Now, I’m sure that’s not true. I’ve known Mike for ages. He’s a hothead, but that’s all.”
They walked down the stairs. Michael stood with two other officers in the living room. They were laughing.
I’m going to throw up.
“He tried to rape me,” she said in a despondent voice.
“What? You’re his wife, he can’t rape you,” said Cotts, an incredulous expression on his face.
She stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide. Then understanding slid down her face. They would do nothing. They would protect their own and rationalize her accusations away. Calling them only delayed the inevitable. Maybe she survived tonight, but what about tomorrow, or next week? Becca realized now more than ever, she lived on borrowed time.
“You have to understand how much pressure our job puts on us. Michael’s out there every day risking his life to protect you and everyone in this county. You’ve got to cut him some slack. Stay out of his way when he’s in one of these moods. You’ll be fine, okay?” Cotts patted her on the back, his condescending tone pushing her lower.
Becca could not speak. She simply stared past Cotts, watching the patrol cars’ lights spin round and round. The alternating red and blue flashes lulled her into a trance. Her expression shifted from distressed to vacuous, all feeling drained away. She felt like one of those plodding zombies in a late night horror flick. Dead, without emotion, hungry for something she would never find.
After the police left, Becca tried and failed to compose herself. Michael would stay away for a few days, of that much she was able to insist on. She called Rachel, not wanting to be alone right now. Possibly a mistake. Rachel cared deeply for her, but played the overprotective mother’s role a little too well. Becca just needed her presence, not her endless advice and admonishments.
Rachel rushed right over. She took Becca into her arms, cooing everything would be all right. Like a child waking from a nightmare, Becca desperately needed to hear those words, and for now, would even pretend to believe they were true.
After sitting Becca down, Rachel’s motherly instincts kicked into full gear. “You most certainly will not be going to work tomorrow. You’re a mess. Look at you. That man tried to rape you, might very well have killed you. Monica can call your patients. We can close down for one day. Jesus, you deserve that much.”
“No, I need to go. I need something normal, something I can control. I feel so helpless, so goddamn weak. I need to work.”
Rac
hel softened. “I guess I can understand that. At least cancel a few, make it a half day.”
“Alright, have Monica reschedule my after lunch appointments.” She knew she spoke, but the words seemed to emanate from somewhere far away.
“That’s my girl. Come here.” Rachel enveloped Becca in a crushing hug. “I love you, and I’m always here for you.”
“I know you are. Thank you, Rach.”
The next morning, Becca tried to keep everything normal. She needed to stick to her daily routine, nose to the grindstone. Rachel proved a godsend. She cooked breakfast and had piping hot coffee waiting.
They took separate cars to the hospital after Becca assured her she would be fine alone tonight. She whipped the Volvo into her designated spot, took a deep breath, and headed for the building. As much as she tried, however, she could not get last night out of her head. The feel of his hands on her, like a stranger’s.
You’re his wife.
She still heard that phase in her mind, whirling around like a tormented ghost haunting the bell tower. Becca did not want to be his wife, not anymore. She hadn’t for a long time. Trapped with no way out, if she ran, he would find her. He really could kill her and get away with it. He would make up some story, and his cop friends would sweep it under the rug.
She knew now, without any doubt…Michael would kill her. Intentionally or by accident, it was only a matter of time. One beating would get out of hand and go a little too far. Only a matter of time.
Becca wanted nothing more in that moment than to turn around and run. Give up her home, her career, and run. Flee to some place where Michael could never find her. With his contacts and access to databases, did any such place exist?
She could change her name and take on a whole new identity. Silly, she would have no idea how to accomplish such a thing—new Social Security card, driver’s license, and so many other matters. This was not some movie where she could track down the shady guy in a back alley to draft her a new life. No way around it, Becca remained a captive to her fear.
A thought seeped into her mind, one she never believed she would ever consider. One way out that Michael possessed no power to stop. Even death must be preferable to the hell she lived in. Every day, she coached patients through this same despair, but Max Bannon had it right, everything seemed so much different when you were the one in the shit storm, and not some hypothetical exercise, or observing someone else’s life.
A Coin for Charon Page 16
