by Jasmin Quinn
“Would you mind calling him, please. And telling him I’d like to talk with him. Here, face-to-face.” She pulled air into her lungs. She knew she sounded like a lunatic.
Brody shook his head. “I’m not going to do that. You need to explain the nature of your business to me. Then I’ll assess the situation and put you in touch with one of our officers.”
Kelsie felts tears prick at her eyes. But she held them back, like the old Kelsie. She couldn’t stand here though, arguing with him. Time was slipping and so were Dean’s chances of survival. She was going to have to resort to name dropping. “I know Chief Constable Andrew Doherty personally,” she said, drawing deep into her rarely-used bitch arsenal. “He’ll come if you call him and let him know that I need to talk to him.”
Brody raised his eyebrows slightly, then dropped a neutral mask over his features. “May I see your identification please?”
“Please,” Kelsie pleaded, desperately. “Just call him.”
He gazed at her, hard. “Identification please.”
Kelsie shook her head. She couldn’t hold back desperate tears that started sliding down her cheeks. “I don’t have any on me. I have nothing on me, no ID, no money, nothing. Please, just call him.”
“Take a seat Miss. I’ll call.” Brody reached for the phone and talked quietly into it for a few minutes.
When he hung up Kelsie got up immediately. “What did he say?” And then the door to the back opened and another man stepped out. Kelsie looked at him in confusion.
“Miss,” the officer said as he stepped up to her, reaching up and taking Kelsie by her upper arm. My name is Finn McQueen, I am the staff sergeant on duty. Will you come with me please?” He was tall and broad, his face impassive, his eyes tired. And his grip was strong as he tightened it on her arm, effectively stopping Kelsie from pulling out of his grasp.
“Why?” she asked fearfully.
“I understand you’re a friend of the Chief’s. Before we call him, I want to know a little bit more about what’s going on.”
Kelsie assessed the situation, she was working her way up the chain so that was a good thing. She nodded. “Okay.”
McQueen led her down a hall and into a bleak room with a table and a couple of chairs. “Please take off your jacket and empty your jean pockets,” he said politely as he let her go. Kelsie turned to face him.
“Are you arresting me?” she asked incredulously.
“No ma’am, but it’s protocol.”
Kelsie ripped her jacket off angrily and threw it at him. “I have nothing in my pockets as you can clearly see,” she snapped as she turned in a circle showing the outline of her bottom against the tight jeans. “No jewelry either. I have no ID, I have no money, I have nothing. I need help. Please. I need to talk to Andrew Doherty!”
McQueen nodded as he caught the jacket. “Please take a seat at the table. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He left the room, closing the door behind him. Kelsie flinched when she heard the latch. She knew she was locked in again. “God damn it!” she swore at the closed door. The effort to do that took the wind from her sails and she felt a wave of exhaustion. She walked over to a chair and sat down, placing her elbows on the table and covering her face with her hands. She was so tired, so distraught, so scared. And naive she thought, angry at herself. For thinking that the police were a solution.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Staff Sargent Finn McQueen walked out of the holding room carrying Kelsie Scott’s leather jacket. There were three staff sergeants at this facility and they alternated shifts and day’s off. He was on day 7 of a run of 12 night shifts. It had been a quiet run and frankly, despite the never-ending case load, he was getting a little bored. He didn’t exactly like nut-jobs, but his instincts told him that the blond woman who walked into the building looking for the Chief was not your run-of-the-mill crazy.
Yeah, she was dressed like she was on social assistance and she looked like she was three days past her last fix. But she walked liked someone who was used to wearing heels and she wasn’t yelling or screaming or throwing a fit. She was compliant and upset. He dropped the leather jacket on the evidence table and ran his hands down the lining of the jacket, looking for hidden recesses where drugs might be kept, coming up empty. Nothing in the pockets either but a couple of bobby pins and a wedding ring. As he pulled the pins out, he took a closer look at them and smiled wryly. These pins weren’t for her hair – they had been fashioned into a lock picking tool set. Didn’t see that coming. He finished searching the jacket. Nothing else.
He left the jacket on the evidence table and filled a paper cup with water from the water cooler, then he re-entered the holding room, placed the cup of water in front of Kelsie and took a chair on the other side of the table.
“Did you call Andrew?” Kelsie asked; he could hear the anxiety in her voice.
McQueen didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled a pen and notebook from his shirt pocket. “Have you had anything to drink tonight, Ms. Scott?” She shook her head, he jotted a note. “Any drugs?” Kelsie furrowed her brow at him.
“No. Why are you asking me this?”
“It’s standard, Ms. Scott.” He made another note. “Are you on any prescription medication.”
“No. Did you call Andrew?”
“How did you get here tonight?”
Kelsie exhaled. “Did you call Andrew?” she asked stubbornly.
McQueen gazed at her impassively. “The sooner you answer these questions, the sooner we can start to solve your problem. How did you get here tonight?”
Kelsie tried to stare him down, but he was good at his job. She dropped her eyes first. “I took a bus.”
“Which bus?”
“I think it said 31. I’m not sure. The driver brought me to a stop a few blocks up from here. I walked the rest of the way.”
McQueen made a last entry then closed the notebook and returned it to his shirt pocket. He placed his hands on the table, palms up, opening himself up to her, trying to get her to trust him.
“Tell me what’s going on, Kelsie,” he said firmly but gently.
Kelsie shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t talk to anyone but Andrew.” She picked the paper cup off the table and took a long drink of water. Finn watched her face pale as the water hit her stomach. She dropped the cup down on the table and leaned forward, placing her hands on her belly. Finn let her sit for a minute, watched her as she took shallow breaths, trying not to vomit. He wondered if he’d misjudged her, maybe she was overdue for a fix.
“Are you okay, Ms. Scott?” he finally asked.
She looked up at him suddenly, he saw the anger in her eyes, in her face. It took her a moment to reign in her emotions, slide the mask in place, effectively hiding what she was feeling, what she was thinking. Then she said, “I haven’t eaten today, or is it yesterday?” Confusion flickered across her face. “I don’t even know what time it is.” He could hear her despair.
He looked at his watch. “It’s 2:30 a.m. Kelsie. What are you doing out here this time of night?”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him, lowered her eyes to look at the table, thick lashes fanning across her cheeks. He watched her, looked at the bruise on her cheek, fresh fingermarks. He wanted to reach across the table and stroke the pain away. She was beautiful, he realized. And whatever was going on, she wasn’t someone used to being on the streets, not a junkie, or a prostitute. Not a welfare case. Damn, but he loved a mystery.
He reached into his shirt pocket, palming the pins. He dropped them on the table in front of her. She stared at them and he watched her as her face flushed. He wasn’t sure why – anger, embarrassment, something else? “Are these yours?”
She looked from the pins to him. “Yes,” she whispered. He would have paid a hundred dollars to read her mind at that moment. He could almost see it working. “I only used them to open a couple of doors. I wasn’t breaking into anything. I’m not a thief.”
He smiled at h
er last statement – I’m not a thief – adamant, but she could pick a lock. He closed his fist around the pins, and placed his hands on the table, leaning forward, “I can’t help you Kelsie, if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
She looked up at him and said, coldly, “I don’t want your help. I want Andrew Doherty’s help.”
“Here’s the thing, Kelsie, we all work for the Chief. We all represent him from the constable at the front desk, to the uniforms and detectives, to me, to my boss, to the deputy chiefs. So, when you ask for the Chief’s help, that’s what you’re getting. Through me.”
“I can’t trust you,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked.
She didn’t respond. He tried another tact. “Are you the Chief’s girlfriend?”
He watched her face redden, anger flash in her eyes, then a dawning realization of what this looked like to him. “Andrew Doherty has been married to his wife, Maria, for 26 years. They celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary last year. I attended the party with my father. They have two daughters, Marisol and Katherine. Marisol just graduated from university this past spring with an arts degree. Katherine will graduate from high school next year. I am not Andrew’s girlfriend.”
Finn grunted. That’s how it worked, you keep asking questions until you ask the right one. Then you know – it was the most she said since she arrived, and she knew things about the Chief that he didn’t. He sure as hell wasn’t invited to any anniversary party. He wasn’t sure the Chief would even know him by name. “Who’s your father?” he asked.
Wrong question. He could have kicked himself as he watched Kelsie’s face shutter. “I don’t want my father involved.”
He nodded. “Okay, I’ll make some calls.”
“You’re calling Andrew?” Kelsie asked hopefully.
“Maybe I should just give you a phone and you can call him yourself.”
Kelsie frowned. “I don’t know his number, he’s my father’s friend. Not mine.”
Finn sighed. That certainly made sense. “Listen Kelsie. I’m a Staff Sergeant. I can’t call the Chief directly and I sure as hell can’t make the decision on whether we get him out of bed at 2:30 in the morning to come down here to talk to you.”
“You’re right,” Kelsie said, looking at her hands, trying to scrub some of the dirt off them. She was blinking her eyes rapidly and he could tell she was trying not to cry. “It’s just… I don’t have anywhere to turn. I don’t know who to trust. Not my dad for sure. And I don’t know if I can trust my boss.”
“Who’s your boss?” he asked softly, gently. He was finally getting her to open up. He didn’t want to lose her now.
She took a deep breath. “Malcolm Westwick.”
Finn blinked in surprise. He was not expecting that. “The Malcolm Westwick?”
“Yes,” she replied in a small voice.
Finn stood up. “Be right back.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
He walked to his office and sat down at his desk, pulling his laptop towards him. He googled Kelsie Scott, and there she was in the government directory. Assistant to Malcolm Westwick. And her image popped up in several media shots, in an expensive suit, high heels, and with a briefcase in hand. It was her. And another with her father, Randall Scott. Of course.
“Fuck!” Finn allowed himself a small rueful grin. An hour ago, he was bored. Now he would give anything to have his boring night back again. But too late for that. The woman in the holding room was seriously connected. Randall Scott’s daughter, Westwick’s assistant. Both assholes. He had to handle this situation very carefully, he thought. Politics wasn’t his strong suit, actually diplomacy wasn’t his strong suit, and he suddenly found himself neck deep in the shit. “Fuck,” he said again as he picked up the phone.
Chapter Thirty
Kelsie was pacing the floor of the holding room when the McQueen finally returned. He was carrying her jacket. She glared at him. He’d been gone at least a half-hour.
“Sorry it’s taking so long, Ms. Scott,” he said. His attitude was different. He seemed cautious and distant. “Andrew Doherty is on his way.”
Kelsie looked at him skeptically. “Are you telling me the truth?”
He nodded and was about to say something then stopped. He handed her back her jacket. “You can clean yourself up in the women’s washroom. Then you can wait in the Inspector’s office. The chief said he would be here in the next hour.”
Kelsie felt panicked at how long everything was taking, but then thought that at least things were finally moving forward. “Thank you,” she said as she took the jacket, “for helping me.”
“Ms. Scott.” Finn’s voice was cool, assessing. “I don’t know what you’re mixed up in or why you won’t involve your father or your boss. And I know you don’t trust me enough to tell me.” He handed her his card. “My cellphone number is on the back. If you need my assistance at anytime, now or later, call me. I’m a good guy.”
Kelsie felt tears well up in her eyes at his kindness. She took the card from him and slipped it in her coat pocket. Then he held the door for her and led her to the washroom. “I’ve sent one of my staff out to get you a sandwich and a coffee.”
Kelsie thanked him as she slipped into the washroom. She used the toilet and then washed her hands and face. She could see the bruise on her face, purple and bold against her pale skin. Nothing she could do about that, not right now anyway. Her long hair was messy and tangled and she tried her best to comb it out with her fingers. What she wouldn’t give to be home right now, in her tub. But then thoughts of Dean intruded on her and she turned away from the mirror, steeling herself as she opened the bathroom door.
Andrew Doherty took almost an hour to arrive. Kelsie had eaten part of the sandwich provided her, but she couldn’t stomach the coffee. McQueen brought her more water as they waited in silence. The Inspector’s office was large and comfortable and while Kelsie still felt agitated, she was regaining her sense of self.
The Chief finally walked through the door. He stopped, a shocked look on his face as Kelsie turned toward him. “My god, Kelsie, what happened to you?” He didn’t touch her though, and she didn’t stand to hug him. Theirs was a collegial relationship, but not an intimate one. He was her father’s friend. And in that moment, she wondered how deep that friendship ran, wondered if she’d made a mistake, coming to him. She glanced over at McQueen who was standing at attention, watching her.
Then he said, “I’ll leave the two of you.”
The Chief sat down behind the desk. “It’s McQueen, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir, Staff Sargent Finn McQueen.”
“You were primary on the Overton file.”
“Yes Sir,” McQueen nodded.
“That was a good piece of work. How’s the leg?”
“Almost perfect,” McQueen responded, his face impassive.
“Stay put, please,” the Chief ordered, and McQueen complied, leaning his backside against the meeting table, planting himself between Kelsie and the door.
The Chief looked across at Kelsie. “I called your father, Kelsie. He’s on his way.”
Kelsie dropped her head to her hands and rubbed at her face. She fought an internal battle about how to do manage the situation. Her rationality won out. She looked up at the Chief and said coolly, “I wish you hadn’t done that, Andrew. I feel like this is a violation of my confidence.”
Andrew returned her gaze with a superior one. After all, he was the Chief. “I get a call from one of my staff sergeants at three in the morning, telling me you’re at the precinct demanding to talk to me. Telling me that the desk constable thought you were a hooker or a drug addict or both. That you have no identification, no money, nothing on you. And that you’ve been beaten up. Of course, I’m going to call your father.”
Kelsie looked over at McQueen, accusingly. “I told you I didn’t want to talk to my father.” McQueen started to answer but the Chief cut off his reply.
“McQueen
told me that. He told me everything he knew. That’s his job. To report up to his superiors. Be a little more grateful, Kelsie. He looked after you well.” Kelsie winced inwardly at his words. She was familiar with his patriarchal tone. Every man in her life used it on her. It was their positions of power, their self-assurance that they were kings of their castles. It pissed her off. She felt the anger rise like bile in her throat.
She was about to retort when a soft rap at the door stopped her. Constable Brody poked his head in without waiting for a response. “Mr. Scott’s here, sir.” And then he opened the door wider to let Randall pass.
Randall strode into the room, ignoring McQueen, nodding at Andrew then looking down at Kelsie. Her head was bowed, and she didn’t look up. “Kelsie,” Randall said, concern dripping from his voice. “Are you okay?”
“What do you think?” she replied, bitterly. She didn’t dare look at him. She felt like a trapped rabbit, surrounded by wolves. It made her even angrier and she thought she might not be able to maintain her composure if her father touched her. Fortunately, he did not. He drew a chair up beside her, and said, “What have you told them?”
She reigned in her emotions looking up at him angrily. “Nothing yet. You swooped in, just in the nick of time to keep me from talking.”
Randall took a long assessing look at her and then glanced back at McQueen. “How about I tell them, Kelsie?”
“No!” Kelsie said sharply. “I don’t want you to tell them your edited version.”
“Then start talking,” Randall ordered, his voice hard, his words blunt.
“Randall,” Andrew cautioned. “Let me manage this please.”
Randall nodded curtly, he was on Andrew’s territory now. Andrew said kindly to Kelsie, “Okay. The floor’s all yours. Let’s hear it.”
Kelsie stared straight ahead, past the Chief to a point on the wall. Then she said, “My boyfriend’s name is Dean. He’s an undercover cop.”
