by Jenna Rae
As she pulled into the parking lot, a dozen young men conferred among themselves. They dispersed like a cloud of smoke, fading back and easing into the shadows, a band of soldiers blending into the background. They both terrorized and protected the residents of the building, and they recognized her as a “government type” before she’d made it into the lot.
Police, social worker, schoolteacher—the marginalized often had a well-developed distrust of people who showed up claiming they wanted to help. Brenda couldn’t blame them. More than once she’d seen a well-intentioned public servant worsen an already bad situation by interfering without having the power to make things meaningfully better.
A few loitering kids slipped inside the block of a building when she got out of the car, and she knew she was unlikely to see anyone else once the little lookouts gave residents word of her arrival. The kids had been charged with finding out whether she was going to come inside, she thought. Sometimes social workers and therapists got as far as the parking lot and decided they didn’t really need to follow up on their charges after all. Even with her newly garish hair color, she was apparently still recognized as an outsider. More importantly, she had probably arrested a two-digit percentage of the residents. She yanked open the entrance door and gritted her teeth at its groaning, squealing protest.
Briarwood Arms’ flickering fluorescent lights gave her the usual headache. The musty, poorly deodorized air didn’t help her feel any better. She and her mom had stayed in an apartment much like those in Briarwood Arms for most of her third-grade school year and she’d smelled the place on herself long after they’d moved to yet another subsidized-housing block in yet another dying city. She and her mom had moved into still another place dismayingly like it for her eighth-grade year, and by then she had been looking for a way out of her mother’s chaotic, dreary life.
Working to shrug off her bad, old memories, she listened to the unnatural silence of the block building. Her only relief came from Fortune’s location on the first floor, because it meant she could avoid the hazards of both elevator and stairwell. Odd numbers were on the right, evens on the left, and her only company was a chorus of buzzing flies that darted frantically around the musty hallway.
There were always flies in the hallways at Arms, though there never seemed to be much food for them. The occasional body was usually removed in short order. Nonetheless, she had never come to this desolate place without hearing the symphony of flies as the theme song of the apartment building.
Sixteen doors from the front entrance was the apartment designated by the number 131. It was near the emergency exit that was again chained shut, which was both a violation of the fire code and a practical measure against break-ins.
She called Fortune’s cell phone before knocking but got no response to either overture. There was no scrambling sound from inside either. Fortune had been wrecked by their short conversation and might have visited her dealer for some chemical consolation, but she had expected her to burrow in at home as soon after work as possible.
Some addicts liked to explore their world and share their high with friends. From what Brenda saw, Fortune was brittle, depressed, solitary and both physically and emotionally exhausted. Despite her flinty protestations to the contrary, Teresa Fortune was obviously deep in mourning for Mark Donnelly.
More for form’s sake than anything else, she tested Fortune’s doorknob and was shocked when it turned. Her breathing went hot and fast, and she took a moment before deciding to go in. This was stupid, of course.
She knew she should call Tori or Walton or any of a score of fellow officers who would show up, no questions asked, to assist her. She knew she should tell someone where she was and why. But after a moment’s silent rumination, she eased the apartment door open and examined the darkness inside.
The hallway light went dark momentarily, and she reminded herself that was what outdated fluorescent bulbs in poorly maintained buildings always did. Still, her heart jumped and she hesitated in the doorway. She reached to her waistband and drew her weapon, pointing it and her small, powerful flashlight, still turned off, at the gloom in front of her. When the hallway light flickered back on, she automatically scanned for a shadow, but there was no one behind her.
She began to make out dim shapes inside the apartment: sofa, chair, television, table. Stepping over piles of debris, she cleared the few rooms. The place was obviously a mess, but it was hard to know in the dark whether that was the result of a junkie’s prototypically poor housekeeping or a home invasion. Finally she flicked on the light switch in the central kitchen and blinked at what she saw.
Peterson had disappeared. Staci Smith had disappeared and her apartment had been searched. Had Teresa Fortune disappeared?
The furniture was a mélange of old cast-offs and cheap mass-market bits. There were dirty dishes in the sink and on the floor and tables. There was an excess of detritus everywhere and a thick gray ring around the tub, so Fortune wasn’t going to win any housekeeping awards. But the place was more than dirty. It had been tossed.
The overturned drawers, slashed couch cushions and scattered belongings were obviously the work of whoever had been looking for whatever he’d been looking for. There were no overt signs of a struggle, but in the chaos of the clothes, makeup, food and garbage it was hard to tell for sure.
She played with the notion that Fortune had ruined her own things. Junkies could get delusional and paranoid, thinking someone had hidden extra drugs or money or cameras in their sofa cushions, appliances or walls.
But Fortune was still a working addict. She had the wherewithal to go to work, run a cash register, put makeup on her bruises, style her hair, match her fingernail and toenail polish, touch up her worn shoe with a marker, shower and wash her clothes. Someone else had torn her place apart, and recently.
Brenda forced herself to take copious notes on the conversation she’d had with Fortune only hours before. Then she detailed why she’d come to Fortune’s place and how she’d found it. She called the department to report a burglary and decided to leave it at that.
Only then did she start trying to canvass the neighbors, none of whom opened their doors to the police officer who did not identify herself as a police officer. Two hours later she was back in the Caliber, having learned nothing of use and having called Walton to let him know Donnelly’s other girlfriend was now a possible missing person.
“Captain Borelli,” he said, “I appreciate your letting me know about this, but really—”
“Chief, please hear me out,” she cut in. “I get that Yolo County said Donnelly might have killed himself, and I get that I can’t investigate any of this. But something is really off. My asking questions of people is not the problem here; the problem is that three people I talked to about this have disappeared shortly after I talked to them. Fortune’s apartment was ransacked, just like Smith’s.”
There was a long silence. She sat in her new little car and wished she had never heard the name Mark Donnelly. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. “Chief, I should mention, I had dinner with Tami Sheraton’s sister Shay. I think you know her, she’s a lawyer—”
“I’ll send patrol to her house and call her myself.” He heaved a great sigh. “I’m sure nothing’s really going on, but we can’t take a chance. The last thing we need is the eldest Sheraton daughter going missing after her little sister gets killed by one of ours. Call me tomorrow, okay? I’ll have someone get in touch with you if anything comes up. And Borelli?”
“I know,” she croaked, “don’t talk to anybody else.”
“Please.” He cleared his throat. “One other thing, and I know this is awkward. I don’t quite know how to ask it.”
“No, sir,” she said, her tone neutral. “I do not have a personal relationship with Shay Sheraton. I just wanted to give her my condolences on the loss of her sister.”
“Of course.” He gave a hollow laugh, the edges of which were ragged with obvious relief. “I wasn’t going to
suggest otherwise. Heh, heh, heh. Well, good night.”
She left a message for Tori. Then she drove home as quickly as she could. She opened her own front door with a relieved smile. Here, in her lovely little house, she could breathe without having to filter out the despair, filth and chaos of poverty. Here she was safe.
The first thing she saw after her customary visual sweep of the room was the beautiful Bernice Bing painting she and Tori had exclaimed over and showed to their friends with the joy of a restaurateur basking in the culinary glow of a brilliant new chef.
She smiled over the lovely landscape they’d both fallen in love with, then over the books they’d read together and talked about, and the beautifully detailed candlestick holders they’d put first on the mantel, then on one bookshelf, then another, giggling at their own silliness.
The things they’d surrounded themselves with had been imbued with some glow of romantic hopefulness, once upon a time, and the items still held some of that magic for her. She knew she should either let the stuff go or at least stop seeing it as evidence their love was real, but she wasn’t ready to do that yet.
She called Dan Miller yet again. This time she indicated she would need to hear from him or there would be unnamed consequences. She felt ridiculous, leaving yet another message for someone who was not beholden to respond to her while she was on leave.
After a long, hot shower to wash off the grime she imagined was left by Briarwood Arms, she lay on the scratchy new sheets she regretted purchasing. What kind of penance did they represent?
Even with the lights off, the ambient glow of the moon and various electronics—her laptop and phone, both charging, the clock radio, the stereo—made her head ache and her eyes sting. She curled up on her side with her hands over her face, feeling cold and lost and alone. Everything suddenly felt like too much. As if unleashed, the pressure that had squeezed her chest in the parking lot of Dave’s threatened to come back. She measured her breathing until she felt back in control.
She could see the faces and hear the voices of everyone she had spoken with through the last few days, and she couldn’t push them away. Where was Peterson? Where was Staci Smith? Where was Teresa Fortune? Had she endangered them? How about Shay Sheraton? Had meeting her for dinner put Shay in danger?
And Tori? She’d been talking to her every day. What if Tori disappeared too? Of course, Tori had disappeared long ago, in her own way. The last few years had been difficult between them, and they had soured the sweetness they’d once shared so gleefully and squandered so recklessly. She watched her hand reach out for her phone.
“If I called you, would you come to me?”
She could picture it. She could call Tori and let her hear the despair, frustration, and guilt in her voice, and maybe Tori would even be willing to come over. Just as a friend, of course, because that’s all they had left. Maybe she would even lie next to Brenda and hold her hand or even cuddle a little, if Brenda begged her. For the first time, she could picture Tori in their room without being flooded by rage and hurt at the memory of the other woman in this very bed with her.
“What did I do to make you cheat on me?”
But there was no anger left, not at that moment. There was plenty of guilt and a lot of hurt and confusion, but finally she could truly see the ways she’d let Tori down, and the distance and resentment she’d allowed to grow between them. Maybe she’d left Tori so lonely she’d become desperate.
She hugged herself, racked by cold. She’d cried so much over Tori she barely noticed she was crying over Tori again. She’d let her world shrink to the job and Tori, and now Tori was gone and maybe the job was too. It seemed a pretty poor bargain.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Her voice was hoarse with tears, and she sat up and swiped at her eyes.
She ran through the long list of ways in which she’d failed on the job and in her marriage—and, legal or not, it had been a marriage—and she knew she’d taken the good things in her life for granted. She’d gotten complacent, self-centered and smug.
Even acquiring the boat, which had cost more than she should have spent to buy, repair, and berth in Green Hand Marina, had been a late-stage move made out of fear, not a generous gift of thoughtfulness and love. If she could go back—but it was no use wishing for a time machine. All she had was now.
“How do I go on from here?”
Her long, lonely future stretched out in front of her like a prison sentence. She couldn’t picture herself walking back into the station and sitting at her desk, meeting with the brass to justify expenses and convening her detectives to go over their new cases.
She couldn’t imagine going on first dates with new potential girlfriends, trying to look for red flags without sending up any of her own. She couldn’t fathom calling up all the friends she’d mostly ignored for the last several years, asking them to lunch or inviting them over to watch a movie. Andi would always be there for her, but she was dealing with her own pain.
Brenda and Tori had built a quiet, insulated little life for themselves with no room in it for anyone else. Then Tori had chafed at the isolation and pushed for ways out of their bubble built for two. Maybe, she thought, if I hadn’t made her feel so trapped, she wouldn’t have chewed off her own foot to get out.
“Just stop! You messed it up. She messed it up. Stop going in circles!”
But she couldn’t seem to do that. She chewed on how she’d driven Tori to betray their promises to each other, unable to let it go… It was hours later she imagined Tori was just in the bathroom or getting a drink of water and would be back any second.
She could almost see Tori’s shape in the bunched blankets, her hair in the filtered moonlight. She could almost smell Tori’s scent in the cool nighttime air. With a sigh she finally let herself succumb to sleep.
Chapter Ten
“She’s hot. I’ll give you that.”
Brenda looked up from her steaming mug. “What are you talking about?”
Andi slid a plate in front of her. “Shay Sheraton, of course. Now eat your breakfast.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” She eyed the fresh, sweet-smelling pastry and grinned. “Which one of us is the detective?”
“You forget, I know everything that happens in this town.” Andi was wearing one of the necklaces Lauren had made for her, and the reddish jasper beads drew Brenda’s gaze. She was glad to see them. Andi hadn’t worn any of the handmade jewelry since Lauren’s funeral.
“I’ve always loved that necklace. She was incredibly talented.”
Andi ignored this. “You’re losing weight. Stop yakking and eat.”
“It wasn’t a date, you know.” She peeled off a strip of croissant and chewed thoughtfully on the buttery layers. “Wow, this is amazing!”
“She’s one of the hottest dykes in Briarwood. So are you, and you’re both single.”
“It doesn’t matter, Andi.”
“It matters. And it really matters with a hottie like that.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You could take her on that boat.”
“I don’t know. That seems kind of weird.”
“Because you got it for Tori but never gave it to her?” Andi raised an eyebrow. “She was fucking somebody else in your bed. You’re free to have drinks with someone else on your boat—and it is your boat, after all that money you spent. And it’s time. You’ll spend the rest of your life mooning after Tori if I let you.”
“Does that mean you’re ready to start looking around?”
Andi pursed her lips. “What else is eating at you?”
“Peterson, of course. And two women who might be missing too.”
“Do you think this is related to that sergeant shooting Tami Sheraton?”
“I don’t really believe in coincidences, but I don’t have a whole lot of actual information. I’m shooting blind, if you want to know the truth.”
“Always. I’ve got some stuff to do. Be right back. Eat up.”
She watched Andi escape to the back room, wishing she’d found a gentler way to respond to her best friend. In the crowded café, paintings and sculptures by local artists adorned the warm yellow walls. Sun shone through the wide windows that looked out on the wharf and the biggest of three piers that drew visitors to Briarwood. A symphony of laughter, conversation and movement enlivened the bright, beautiful space with vitality and warmth. The café was a little nest on the edge of the wide, unknowable sea.
Behind the counter was a large photo of Lauren. Brenda couldn’t tear her gaze from the black-and-white presentation of Andi’s late wife. Even in the gray tones of the portrait, Lauren’s vitality and humor shone through. Brenda’s vision blurred with unexpected tears. She felt Andi’s hand on her shoulder and swallowed hard.
“Sorry.”
“You okay, Bren?”
“Just—the picture.”
Andi slid into the chair across from her. “I know. It gets me at the oddest moments. Just yesterday, I was going over the timesheets and looked up. I saw her eyes, and it just hit me.”
She grabbed her oldest friend’s hand. “Are you okay?”
“Didn’t I just ask you that?”
She shook her head. “You’re the one who—”
“Don’t say it.” Andi shook her burgundy hair out of her eyes. She was nearing fifty, but when Brenda looked at her, she saw the twentysomething dreamer who still had her whole life in front of her. Then, as now, she was a tiny powerhouse with big, dark eyes and boundless energy. “I know you’re dealing with more urgent things, but I don’t know anything about police work. I want to talk about this Shay Sheraton thing.”
“What thing? There’s no thing to talk about.” She laughed, feeling her cheeks grow warm.
“Oh, really, sugar? Because that little blush tells me there is a thing, and no words you say will convince me otherwise.”
