“So you’re working for him willingly?”
“No! I mean, sort of, but not really. The truth is, my sister was attacked the other day by the Royal Oak rapist, and one of Kapordelis’s men got a good look at him. I need to cooperate with Andros until I can get the information I need out of his goon, and then we’re done with each other. The reason I got involved in your little operation is only because Kapordelis wanted to test me—and, I might add, you’re damn lucky I did. That guy was going to kill the two of you.”
Dutch smirked. “Joe and I had a backup plan, so don’t you worry about it. But that’s not why I’m here. You can’t work for this guy; it’s too dangerous. Milo’s working on this rapist, and he’ll get him. You don’t need Kapordelis’s help.”
I couldn’t explain why, but something told me that I had to stick close to Andros for some other reason. I pondered that as I looked at Dutch, and something flashed through my mind. “Hey, you really need to be careful around this guy. He’s got cancer—bad—and he doesn’t care if he lives to see another day, ’cause he knows he’s only got a couple of them left. He’s a man with nothing to live for, and if he feels like taking you down because you’re wearing the wrong kind of aftershave, then that’s what he’ll do.”
“He’s got cancer?”
“Bad.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’d be surprised if he made it to Christmas. . . .”
“Then we’ll have to move fast. In the meantime, I’m warning you, back off this case. I mean it. Joe thinks you’re on the take, and I’m having a hard time convincing her otherwise. What’s Kapordelis want from you, anyway?”
“He wants me to help him find out what happened to his wife.”
There was a very long pause, and I squinted in the dark to see Dutch’s face. Finally he said in a voice that suggested he meant business, “You cannot help him with that.”
“Why not?”
“Just back off, Edgar. I mean it. Okay?”
I was confused by the ice that had materialized in his voice. He was waiting for me to agree to walk away. But I didn’t think Dutch fully understood what I had to lose here. Not only did I feel I was very close to cracking the case of the rapist, but something was pushing me to find Dora. All of my intuition screamed for me to continue poking through the file on my nightstand.
I could tell, however, that Dutch would have none of that, so I put it all back on his plate. “And just how would you suggest I deal with Andros in the meantime? I mean, the guy’s not going to take a ‘no, thank you’ from me, you know.”
“Stall. Tell him nothing—and I do mean nothing—until we make our move. We’re really close to nailing his entire organization, and if you go poking around in this you could blow the whole case for us. Andros may die before we can bring him to justice, but there are a lot of other members of the family willing to take his place at a moment’s notice. You’re way out of your league here, so you need to lie low. We clear?” he asked, standing up and holding his right side tenderly.
“Fine,” I said getting to my feet. “Are you taking off now?”
“Got to. I’d stay and make a dishonest woman out of you, but I think you cracked a rib, and besides, your room is freezing! What’s going on up there?”
“It’s a long story. Listen, please, please be careful. This guy Andros is a lunatic, and I don’t think he’s totally convinced that you’re not a Fed.”
“I’ll be fine,” Dutch said, and kissed me lightly. “Walk me out the back?”
I walked him to my back porch, where he turned to me and held my chin, looking into my eyes for a long moment. Finally he said, “I really miss you, sweethot.”
“So hurry home,” I replied as he leaned in and kissed me senseless.
After Dutch had gone I locked up again, set the alarm and went back to bed. My hand hurt and my knee was swollen, so I popped an aspirin before crawling back under the covers. I took a look at the clock before shutting my eyes, and noticed it was after two. One of these days I was going to work off my sleep deficit and get a decent night’s shut-eye. Little did I know as I closed my eyes and sank down into the covers then that I wouldn’t get that particular opportunity for several more days.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning I’d barely woken when there was an insistent knock at my door. I came downstairs in my bathrobe and slippers, stopping to hike up the heat while the next round of knocking encouraged me to hurry.
I peeked through the peephole and saw a young officer there wearing a grim expression and about to raise his hand yet again against my door. I pulled the door open and said, “Can I help you?”
“Miss Cooper?”
“Yes?”
“I’m here to escort you to the police department. Detective Johnson would like to speak to you.”
“And instead of calling me on the phone he sent you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Uh-oh.
“Fine, give me a minute and I’ll be right with you,” I said as I waved him into my living room and beat a quick path up the stairs. I had an inkling why Milo would send an officer to fetch me—my guess was that he’d viewed the video from the parking garage and wanted some answers. Pronto.
I sighed my way into a pair of jeans and a thick sweater, skipping the stiletto boots and choosing a pair of comfortable loafers instead.
After I’d locked up the house the officer and I headed over to the department, and dutifully I followed behind him as we walked up the stairs and into the Detectives’ Unit. We pushed through the double doors, and I noticed immediately that Milo wasn’t in the large, open room. Instead of dropping me off to wait at Milo’s desk, my escort motioned me down the hallway to one of the interrogation rooms. The officer stopped before one of the doors on the left and, after opening it, waited for me to enter. I walked in and heard the door close briskly behind me. I turned sharply at the sound and noticed that I was alone . . . or so it appeared.
I turned back to the room and sat down in one of the chairs behind a secondhand table. I folded my arms and waited. There was a clock on the wall that marked off the seconds, and I watched them tick-tock for a while, then grew impatient. Bored with Milo’s little tactic, I concentrated for a moment sending out my intuitive feelers.
Milo was nearby; I could feel his energy. I made an exaggerated eye roll in the direction of the two-way mirror on one side of the wall. He was behind it, watching me. I was sure of it.
Finally, nearing the point of being royally pissed off, I closed my eyes and focused in the direction of the two-way mirror. The feeling I had was that another person was with Milo, older, male, and light-haired. I honed in on that energy for a minute, and started picking up details right away. Good, this would be fun.
“Milo, your buddy needs to be careful about his back,” I said loudly in the direction of the mirror. “He’s got some sort of alignment problem in his lower vertebrae, and his posture isn’t helping matters any. Also, his daughter has been taking the family car without permission, and if she’s not careful she’s going to get a speeding ticket . . . and won’t that be embarrassing?” I chuckled, slapping my knee. “Also, I’m sensing something about an addition on the back of his house, like where the deck is. There’s this area for a hot tub or something . . . and there’s going to be a discussion about what size to put in—he should go with the bigger one. Also there seems to be an issue again with the daughter. Like she’s hanging out with the wrong crowd. She’s also stealing money from him, and if he’s not careful she could take a bite out of his savings account—”
That did it. The door opened briskly as Milo and a rather shocked, balding, white-haired second detective walked in.
“That’s enough, Abby,” Milo said sharply.
“My sentiments exactly,” I replied coolly, opening my eyes and sitting up tall and straight. There was no way I was buying into any intimidation tactics.
“This is Detective Anderson,” Milo said, waving to
the man next to him, who, I happened to notice, had a bent, rather pitched posture.
“Charmed,” I said, scrunching up my face in a mock grin.
Anderson merely nodded, although he continued to eye me warily.
“I suppose you know why you’re here?” Milo asked coolly.
“None whatsoever,” I answered dismissively.
Milo pulled out one of the chairs and brought it close to me. Turning it backward and straddling it, he rested his arms on the frame and eyed me critically. “I don’t like being lied to.”
“Who does?” I was the picture of innocence, staring back eyeball-to-eyeball.
Milo sighed and stood up again. Quickly he walked out of the room and shut the door, leaving me with Detective Anderson.
I eyed Anderson, who eyed me back nervously. I smiled wickedly and asked, “So, Anderson, how you like your new boat?”
Anderson’s jaw dropped, and he scooted his chair back a tiny bit before catching himself. Then he said nervously, “Cut that out.”
I ignored him and continued, “And your wife, what’s her connection to Pittsburgh? Is there a sister in Pittsburgh who’s got a birthday coming up? Tell her she should go—she’ll have a blast. But you need to stay home—you’re no fun at parties . . .” I taunted. Anderson began to fidget and squirm. Nothing delighted me more than spooking big, burly men who thought they were God’s gift. In a minute I’d have this guy peeing his pants. “Oh, and while she’s away you can hang out with your girlfriend without fear of getting caught. She’s the blonde, right? Or is that your wife, and your girlfriend’s the brunette?” Anderson squirmed in his chair, his face turning red and a vein popping up in his temple. “Oh . . .” I said, making a sudden connection. “That’s why your daughter’s acting out, isn’t it? She knows about your little affair, doesn’t she?”
Anderson’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he stood up abruptly. I’d hit a nerve, and this guy was chicken. He made a motion to turn toward the door when it opened, and Milo came in pulling a TV/VCR into the room on a cart. He took one look at Anderson’s ashen face and said, “Goddamn it, Abby! Cut that out!”
I worked my face into a “Who, me?” expression and batted my eyelashes at Milo as Anderson reluctantly took his seat again after moving it to the back of the room. Milo scowled at him but didn’t say anything as he loaded a tape into the television’s VCR unit and pressed play. “This is the videotape of the garage the day your sister was attacked.”
I turned my attention to the monitor as it went from fuzzy to a grainy black and then a black-and-white image taken from the ceiling of the parking garage above the stairwell appeared. I watched as the top of my sister’s head came into view. She walked around in a small circle as she searched for my car; then she took out her cell phone and began to dial. There was no sound, but in my ear I could hear her words echoing from my memory as she called me and began to speak.
Suddenly a tall figure dressed in a ski mask and a long trench coat appeared from the direction of the stairwell and shadowed my sister as she walked toward a row of cars. Cat paused for the briefest of seconds, and then, like a tiger, he pounced on her. The force of his attack caught me off guard. He swung his arm around her neck, yanking upward savagely. I watched in horror as my sister was pulled backward, her feet dangling off the ground and her arms flailing. The attacker raised his free hand, wielding a tire iron, and brought it down on Cat’s head.
Horrified, I felt my hand come up to cover my mouth, and tears fell freely from my eyes. I’d seen only the aftermath of the attack, which had been bad enough. Somehow watching it unfold on the television screen was so very much worse.
Shaking, but unable to tear my eyes away, I saw another figure appear, this one much bigger than the man who’d attacked Cat. As Goon charged forward, the Royal Oak rapist scuttled backward, still holding on to my sister’s nearly limp body. Goon rushed him with all the fury of an angry bear. The rapist hesitated for a moment; then, just as Goon was about to pounce, he threw my sister at Goon and turned to run.
With amazing agility Goon caught my sister in one hand and reached out to grab her attacker with the other. For a moment it looked as if Goon had caught the man, but his bulky frame blocked a clear image of what happened next. There was half a second of scuffling; then the attacker was running away, his head ducked low and his coat collar pulled up high as he ran to the other end of the garage. He appeared to have dark hair, but we already knew that; any other details about his appearance were obscured by the grainy image of the video.
Just as the assailant flew down another stairwell, I appeared on the monitor, rushing toward Goon, who carefully handed Cat to me as I sank to my knees in near hysteria. I watched the screen as Goon then bent down and retrieved something off the ground, clearly the ski mask, and I could see that he tucked it into his overcoat, then dashed away just before the police came up the garage ramp.
The video had gone on for no longer than two minutes, if that, and yet it felt elongated somehow. Like so much energy needed hours to expend itself rather than the minutes it had actually taken.
Once the police arrived, Milo flipped off the television and turned to me, his eyes dark and intent, his voice icy. “So who is he?”
“Who is who?” I asked, stalling.
“Don’t play around; this is serious,” Milo warned.
“If you’re talking about the man in the video, I have no idea.” Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .
“Bullshit.” Apparently Milo had his own inboard lie detector.
“Listen,” I began, my voice reasonable, “now that I’ve seen the video I will admit that I vaguely remember there being someone else in the parking garage, but you have to understand, my main focus was getting to Cat. I guess I was so traumatized by the event that I blocked out everything else.”
Milo straddled the chair again, eyeing me with a dull expression. He didn’t believe me for a second. I waited for him to say something, but long minutes ticked by as he continued to stare at me without changing his expression. It was hard, but I kept my mouth shut and waited him out. Finally he motioned to Anderson. “Can you give us a minute?”
Anderson barely hid his relief as he stood up quickly and exited the room. Milo turned back to me after he’d gone, and asked, “Why don’t you want us to catch the guy who nearly killed your sister?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Milo! Of course I want you to catch him, but if I’ve got a trauma-induced memory-selection thing going on . . . well, then there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t know who that guy was—just some Good Samaritan in the right place at the right time, thank God.”
“The same Good Samaritan you were seen talking to in the hallway of your office building?”
Oh, crap. He had me. “I’m sorry?” I asked, doing my best to look shocked.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m damn good at my job. Two witnesses who first called nine-one-one swear they heard you talking to a man in the hallway of your office building, then saw you rushing down the stairwell with this guy in tow when your sister was attacked. It’s pretty clear by the video that we now have an eyewitness who can not only help identify the rapist, but who also has the physical evidence of the ski mask in his possession. What I don’t understand is why you would want to hide the identity of someone who could lead us right to the guy that tried to kill your own flesh and blood!”
“No,” I said, shaking my head back and forth and easing into another lie. “No, that’s wrong. Milo, I don’t know the guy in the video. The man I was talking to in the hallway is a client, who may have looked a little like that guy on the videotape, but he didn’t come with me across the street to the parking garage.”
“So where’d your client go?” Milo pressed.
“Hell, I don’t know! Maybe he was also trying to call for help. I mean, I know he ran down the stairs with me, but I swear to you he was not with me when I crossed the street to the parking garage.” That, at least, was true. Goon ha
d already made it across the street when I’d pushed through my lobby doors. “And I’m sure it’s not my client on the video. I would have recognized him, and of course I would have told you about him if I’d known him.”
“Okay, so what’s your client’s name?”
“Why do you need to know his name?” I asked, feeling like a mouse in front of a cat.
“Maybe he heard something, or saw something—you know, we’d want to talk to anyone in the vicinity near the time of the attack.”
“Uh, I don’t remember his name offhand—”
“But you keep records, don’t you? You could look it up, couldn’t you?”
Despite my efforts to appear nonchalant and trustworthy, I was beginning to turn red and fidget. “Uh, sure . . . I guess. Still, don’t you think you need to be looking for the big guy in the video instead of harassing my clients?”
“Why are you getting so defensive?” Milo asked me, cocking his head in mock shock.
“I’m not getting defensive; I’m merely suggesting that you put your focus where the focus should go—namely on the guy who tried to murder my sister!” I was angry now, and quickly losing my cool.
“Okay, Abby, I’ll make you a deal,” Milo said softly as he leaned in close to me again. “You tell me who that other guy in the video is, and I promise you I’ll focus my full attention on finding the son of a bitch who put Cat in the hospital, because the fact of the matter is, sweetheart, I know you can tell me who he is, and your ‘selective memory’ explanation is full of shit.”
I sat there staring at Milo for a long moment. The truth was that I really did want to tell him about Goon. But doing so would only put him, me and everyone else I cared about in real danger. I had to go with the intuitive feeling that I needed to tread carefully here. If Andros suspected I had told the police about Goon, he would kill me. He’d as much promised me that in his study the night of my test. I shut my eyes for a brief moment and collected myself, then opened them again, looking him squarely in the eye as I quietly said, “Milo, I really can’t help you.”
Better Read Than Dead Page 23
