The Violated

by Bill Pronzini

  “I don’t think you should be alone yet.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to fall apart.”

  “But I do worry. I’ll just stay through the afternoon. Keep the wolves away from the door.”

  And off the phone, too. Her landline rang twice, another media jerk the first time and then some anonymous asshole who thought I was Liane and said how glad he was “that dirty rapist husband of yours is dead.” I told him to go screw himself and slammed the phone down. It was the kitchen extension, so Liane didn’t hear me. A good thing I’d answered it and not her.

  Another call came at one o’clock, this one on my cell. Nick wanting to know how Liane was and to tell me he’d had a visit from a cop named Bennett. “Asked me a bunch of questions about Friday night and about my relationship with Marty,” he said.

  “My God. Don’t tell me they think you’re a suspect?”

  “No. Hell, no. He said they’re talking to everybody who knew him or might’ve had a motive for shooting him.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I said. “Maybe they’ll actually find out who did it. You were cooperative, weren’t you?”

  “Sure, I was cooperative. I’m not stupid.”

  “What did you say about Marty?”

  “The same things you’d’ve said if you were here. That I always got along with him and I don’t think he committed those rapes and I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? Christ.” Nick made one of his whistling sighs. “Liane need you to spend the night there again?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll probably be home around dinnertime.”

  “Good. You’re a lot better cook than I am.”

  That was Nick for you. Always thinking of himself, even in the midst of a crisis.

  Allan finally called at two o’clock. How was Liane and would it be all right if he stopped by to see her around four? I checked with her to make sure she didn’t mind. She didn’t, which was encouraging. I’d leave for home when he came, I decided. He had a quiet, reassuring way about him—a sort of soothing dentist’s bedside manner, if there is such a thing. Chair-side manner? Well, whatever. I’d done all I could for her for the time being. Maybe he could do something to lift her spirits a little more.

  He arrived at four on the dot. He had on a suit and tie and looked positively scrumptious, even with the grave expression he wore in place of his usual smile. This was no time to be thinking about such things, but I hoped they’d be more than just employer and employee one day. They’d make a handsome couple. And he’d be so good for her, so much better than Marty had been. She deserved some happiness, some real happiness, after what she’d been through the past couple of years.

  I showed Allan into the living room and stayed just long enough to tell Liane I was leaving. But I didn’t leave, not for quite a while. I was getting my coat out of the hall closet when the doorbell rang. Another media jerk, I thought, but, no, it was the big Mexican cop, Lieutenant Ortiz.

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Torrey.”

  I glared at him. “What for? Can’t you leave her to grieve in peace for one day?”

  “I have a few more questions.”

  “Questions, questions. Why do you have to keep persecuting her?”

  “I am not persecuting her, Mrs. Dexter. I am trying to find out who murdered her husband.”

  “She doesn’t know anything about what happened to Martin, she told you that yesterday. Besides, she has a visitor, somebody else who cares about her. Dr. Allan Zacks.”

  “I won’t take up much of her time. Or yours. Or Dr. Zacks’s.”

  God, he was an exasperating man. But what could I do except let him in? If I didn’t, he’d just come back again later and probably make things even harder on Liane.

  Allan stood up, frowning, when I brought Ortiz into the living room. Liane didn’t move or show any surprise that the big bulldog was back again so soon with more questions and no apology. Allan didn’t like him bothering her, that was plain from his expression, but he couldn’t do anything about it, either. He said, “Do you want me to leave the room while you ask your questions?” When Ortiz said it wasn’t necessary, Allan went over next to Liane’s chair and stood there in a sort of protective way. I liked him even more for doing that.

  “All right, Lieutenant,” she said in a dull voice. “What is it this time?”

  “A matter of a missing key.”

  “What missing key?”

  “From your husband’s key ring. It held four keys when the search of his vehicle was made three weeks ago. Now there are only two.”

  “That’s two keys gone,” I said, “not one.”

  “The other can be accounted for. For the brewery truck he drove while he was employed there. It’s the fourth I’m interested in.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake? What does a key have to do with anything.”

  Ortiz ignored me. “Silver,” he said to Liane, “with a small red dot above the ring hole. Familiar?”

  “No. I never paid any attention to Martin’s keys.”

  Who does? I thought. A key is a key. One of mine could have had pink polka dots on it and I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Do you have any idea what he might have used it for?”

  “No.”

  Ortiz looked at me. “Mrs. Dexter?”

  “How would I know anything about Martin’s keys? My husband might, but I doubt it. Call him up and ask him. He’s home.”

  “Before I do that,” Ortiz said, looking at Liane again, “I’ll check among your husband’s effects. If you have no objection?”

  Allan said, “I don’t see how this allegedly missing key pertains to your investigation.”

  “It may not. I won’t know until I find out why he carried it and why it’s no longer on his key ring.”

  Allan started to say something more, then changed his mind. He had a pinched look on his face now, as if something he didn’t like had just occurred to him. Well, I thought I knew what it was because I’d just had the same thought. Great minds and all that. Ortiz didn’t believe the missing key had anything to do with Marty’s murder; he was looking for it because he thought it might prove his obsessive theory that Marty had raped those poor women. The mask, gloves, and knife the rapist used had never been found, and to Ortiz’s nasty way of thinking that missing key might open a box or something where they were hidden. But I kept my mouth shut just as Allan had. Liane was upset enough as it was without having that damned can of worms opened up again.

  She said in that same dull voice, “If I say no, you’ll just get another search warrant. So go ahead, look all you want, anywhere you want. I don’t care.”

  “Mrs. Dexter, will you come with me, please?”

  “Do I have a choice? Oh, all right.”

  I went with him into their bedroom and stood around fuming while Ortiz rummaged through Marty’s few belongings. He didn’t find the key with the red dot in the bedroom or the bathroom or anywhere else in the house. I thought that would be the end of it, but no, he had to go out and look in the garage, too. He poked around in there for ten minutes, opening up cabinets and cartons. Fat lot of good it did him. The missing key wasn’t anywhere on the property, unless somebody had buried it in the yard. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a team of cops come in and dig up every inch of ground.

  When he was finally satisfied, we didn’t go straight back into the house. Oh, no, I had to stand out in the yard with him while he called Nick on his cell and asked him about the key. Nick didn’t know anything about it, either. I could tell that from Ortiz’s end of the conversation.

  Then we went inside, Ortiz just long enough to tell Liane he hadn’t found the damn key and to let him know if she remembered anything about it. When he was gone, she said, “He’ll be back,” in that same dull voice.

  “He’d better not,” I said.

  “He will. There’s only one thing that will make him leav
e me alone.”

  Allan and I looked at each other. We both knew she didn’t mean the police finding out who killed Marty, she meant another woman being attacked, but neither of us said anything. I didn’t want a terrible thing like that to happen, God knows, but I didn’t want Liane to go on suffering and being hassled, either.

  Effing cops. How could they catch the rapist and Marty’s murderer by going around looking for keys with red dots?

  SHERRY WILDER

  As soon as Neal left for his office on Monday morning, I showered and put on black slacks and a loose pullover, the clothes I always wore for my weekly trips to the Bull’s-Eye in Riverton. This would be my sixth and I felt energized and eager, as always. Amused, too, because Neal still had no idea what I’d been doing, no clue about my Pink Lady. He’d be furious if he found out, the way he felt about gun control. I used to feel that way, too, but my God, not anymore.

  I certainly wasn’t going to tell him, and if I was careful, he’d never find out. We’d made a pact when we were married never to poke around in each other’s personal possessions, and we’d both honored it. Not once had he ever opened a purse of mine without being asked to. A couple of times recently he’d picked up and handed me the big Baggallini Bagg he’d given me for Christmas two years ago, when Christmas was still a white and not a black holiday for me, but he hadn’t had an inkling that the ultralightweight Pink Lady was nestled deep inside. She weighed only twelve ounces.

  Before I left the house I opened the bag and took her out, as I sometimes did when Neal wasn’t around—just for the pleasure of looking at her, holding her. Oh, she was a beauty. Compact, five-shot .38 Undercover Special. Two-tone aluminum frame, anodized hot pink and stainless. Two-inch barrel, fixed sights, soft rubber grips, and a three-point cylinder lock. She felt just right gripped in my hand, and she fired effortlessly once you got used to her. Hardly any recoil at all. Made for women, perfect for women.

  I’d bought her in the Bull’s-Eye gun store. But only after I’d taken their Women’s Academy safety seminar and training course and learned the basic principles of self-defense and how to handle and fire a handgun, then got a permit. Before going to Bull’s-Eye, I had never shot one, never even held one. Their certified women’s instructor, Tina Collins, also taught the proper use of OC pepper spray and gave me a free can when I completed the course. Naturally I kept it in the Baggallini with the Pink Lady.

  At first, on the range, Tina had me fire different types and calibers of guns to find out which I was most comfortable with. Basic Pistol, training and practice, this course was called. Once I passed it, I was allowed to buy a gun of my own. I fell in love with the Pink Lady as soon as I saw her. And we performed together beautifully from the first. Now after five sessions I was in Intermediate Pistol, where you focused on close-grouping your shots at various distances.

  I couldn’t wait to get to Bull’s-Eye and I drove a little faster on the freeway than I should have. I really looked forward to these practice sessions, the way I used to look forward to working out on the treadmills and elliptical cross-trainers at Norden’s. That they were a secret from Neal made them even more special.

  Tina was free when I arrived and targets were open in the shooting area so I didn’t have to wait. I put on the required eye and ear protection, and then the Pink Lady and I spent a glorious hour and a half of close-grouping target practice. My eye was particularly good and my hand perfectly steady today.

  Tina thought so, too. “You’re becoming very proficient, Sherry.” We’d been on a first-name basis since my second session. She was a stocky redhead in her forties, probably a lesbian (not that that mattered to me in the slightest), and an expert markswoman as well as an expert teacher. “Your last half dozen groupings are outstanding.”

  “Do you think I’m ready to move to the next level?” The next level was Advanced Pistol, where you learned techniques employed in tactical/defensive situations.

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “First lesson next week?”

  “Next week it is.”

  I could have hugged her. If others hadn’t been nearby, maybe I would have.

  Before leaving Bull’s-Eye I carefully cleaned the Pink Lady and polished her aluminum frame and stubby barrel until they gleamed. I felt almost euphoric on the drive back to Santa Rita; it had been a wonderful morning, with the promise of more and even better ones to come. Nothing else had made me feel this good in as long as I could remember. Not running or working out at the gym. Not sex—I’d never liked it all that much with Neal or any other man. Not Johnnie Walker, either, although he was the closest after Bull’s-Eye and Tina and the Pink Lady.

  I took the downtown exit off the freeway and drove along the river. Norden’s was up this way. Maybe I ought to stop in and talk to Sam Norden, I thought. It was time I started working out again, giving fitness lessons again part-time … wasn’t it? Yes, probably. Sam had come to visit twice after what happened in the park, once in the hospital and once at home, and both times he’d said I was welcome back anytime I was ready, at an increased salary and no charge for my workouts. But I didn’t feel like talking to him today. Or to anybody, now that I was back from Riverton. The euphoria was wearing off, the scar on my neck beginning to throb again, and I didn’t feel like working out or driving any more or going home yet.

  The Santa Rita Inn was just ahead. I turned into the parking lot and went inside, into the bar off the lobby. Three men in suits were perched on stools at the other end, and they all looked at me as I sat down. Well, let them look. Let any man look, as long as that was all he did. None of them better ever again try to stuff their goddamn wienies into me. They’d meet the Pink Lady if they did, up close and personal.

  “Johnnie Walker Black Label, neat,” I told the bartender. “Make it a double.”

  GRIFFIN KELLS

  We had the preliminary forensic report late Monday afternoon, but I had to call and pester Ed Braverman again to get it. The delay was because one of his assistants was out sick and Ed was swamped with work.

  Martin Torrey had been shot with a .38-caliber weapon of undetermined manufacture. Without the weapon that had fired it, the information was of no immediate value; .38 was a common handgun caliber. The perp had either carried the piece away with him or chucked it into the river. In the latter case, the chances of recovering it were virtually nonexistent. Even if I could get permission to have a portion of the river in the vicinity of the crime scene dragged—an unlikely prospect given the cost and the uncertainty that that was what had been done with the weapon—it would have been a waste of time. The river was loaded with silt, its bottom all thick, sucking mud. You could drag for something as large as a truck tire you knew was in there somewhere and never find it.

  The forensic exam of Torrey’s body, clothing, and shoes had revealed one item of interest—a reddish-brown hair on the cuff of a shirtsleeve. But the shirt had been freshly laundered, and the hair color matched that of Torrey’s wife; in all likelihood it would turn out to be hers. Otherwise, Braverman had found no worthwhile trace evidence, just grass stems and grass stains and mud from the riverbank on the shoe soles.

  The autopsy was still scheduled for Tuesday, time as yet unspecified, but if the assistant didn’t show up again, Braverman said, it might not get done until Wednesday. Hurry up and wait, like the goddamn military. We needed a better estimate of the time of death.

  Braverman confirmed the cause as a single bullet fired at close range into the brain through the left temple, the slug lodging against the parietal bone to prevent exit. The two in the groin had been administered postmortem. There was powder tattooing on the trousers as well, he told me, so those rounds had also been fired point-blank.

  Joe Bloom’s report was even less revealing than Braverman’s. The only clear latent prints in the Camry were Martin Torrey’s, all others smudges and overlaps. Careful vacuuming of the carpets produced nothing other than the usual dirt, dust, pollen, plant and grass fibers.


  We’d had no luck in finding witnesses to the incidents on Friday night. Not that this was any surprise. Very few vehicles venture through the South Street industrial area after dark. Some homeless were known to bed down in the area, but they were law-leery; none that my men talked to would admit to having seen anything.

  Torrey and his killer had probably entered Echo Park near where the body was found, which meant that the vehicle that had transported them there had been parked in that vicinity—on Parkside Drive, the street that paralleled the outer edge of the park, or on one of the streets that led off it into the housing development there. The drive’s east side was lined with vehicles 24-7, and it would have taken only a few seconds when there was no traffic to cross into the park. I’d had a team canvass the homes in the immediate area, but none of the residents had noticed anything out of the ordinary. Neither had any of the officers who night-patrolled Echo Park and vicinity.

  So once again we were mired in frustration. No solid evidence. No witnesses. And no suspects except for Jack Spivey—if the approximate time of death was eleven or later, and if he couldn’t or wouldn’t adequately account for his whereabouts after leaving Santa Rita Lanes.

  JENNA KELLS

  The painting wasn’t going well. I was trying to do a watercolor of a long-billed curlew I’d sketched in charcoal last summer, and I couldn’t seem to get it right. The sketch was all right, but the colors of the bird’s plumage and the surrounding marshland weren’t. Too pale, the pastels washed-out instead of properly representational. The painting simply wouldn’t come alive.

  I gave it up after a while. Not a good day to be engaging in passive pursuits, with all the upheaval in Santa Rita and Griff smack in the middle of it. Worrying about him made me restless, edgy. I wished this were one of my days for volunteer work—the Breast Cancer Awareness program, art classes at the seniors’ home, assistance at the county food bank. But it wasn’t. And you could only do so much.