by G. G. Andrew
She hadn’t meant to utter the word relationship that morning, to admit they were doing anything other than having some excellent sex when she wasn’t making lattes or watching his kid or playing Nancy Drew. But he’d said he was okay with the word. What did that mean? Could she be in something like a relationship with someone like Scott Culpepper—a cop! a freaking cop—without the world ending? Without him realizing he could do thirty times better than her, and leaving her to her boxes of shame and criminal record and glitchy brain?
She parked at the West Haven franchise, between a delivery van and blue sedan. It was Saturday and relatively quiet, but the shop was on the main drag through town, and the rumbles and honks of traffic reached her ears as she walked to the entrance.
He’d let her into Lily’s life too. Not just as a babysitter, but as the kind of woman whom he’d let take his daughter to a tea party. The kind of tea party that Taylor Stiles held, she remembered as her gut twisted. The reality of that, on top of two dozen girls like Lily, all fighting to be princesses, eating too many sweets, and unable to fully master the function of a napkin, daunted even a semi-hardened criminal like herself. But she’d face that and Taylor’s pastel pretension for Scott, and, what’s more, she’d have done it for Lily even without her dad in the picture. She’d found the little girl adorable since she’d met her at Thanksgiving, but she’d grown even fonder of her since then. Scott might’ve thought she played with her so much to be nice, but Kim didn’t have anyone else in her life who enjoyed unicorns as much as she did and didn’t judge her, silently or out loud, for her numerous poor life decisions. Everyone should be lucky to have a Lily in their lives. She’d taken to calling the girl “cuddlebug,” because at night when they’d watch a movie, she’d plop in Kim’s lap like she’d done that first night she’d babysat her.
Plus, she was getting immune to Lily’s feminine wiles, which wasn’t something to be said for Scott. She could go toe-to-toe with her at bedtime now, when Scott was working.
The reek of the coffee when Kim opened the entrance to the shop made her nostalgic for Hot Haven. It was the stench of bad coffee. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. When she spotted the strawberry-blond Destani in a booth by the window, she was grateful to see she had two cardboard cups waiting.
“Hey,” Kim said as she slid into the booth across from her.
“Hi.”
The girl looked nervous. Despite the warm weather, she wore a thin cardigan and her eyes kept surveying the store. She was pale too.
“You okay?” Kim asked.
“Yeah.” The girl nodded, but then her voice became more firm. “Yes.”
“Did you find something online?”
Destani shook her head. “No. Not yet. But I think I will.”
“Why?”
“Because I know the guys who are doing this.”
Kim grabbed the coffee. “The guy who’s doing this is named Viktor Antonovich. I was working with him at Hot Haven in Hamden. The cops figured it out, but he ran out of town before they could catch him.”
“Viktor?” Destani’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t recognize that name.”
“He was a Russian exchange student at Yale,” Kim said. “Thick accent. Longish hair. Pretty creepy.”
“That’s not the right guy.” Destani was shaking her head.
“What?”
“I was dating this guy last spring, Aidan. He was older and in college, and we met at a bar and—well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, he took me to hang out with his friends a few times. Most of them were at Yale, or had gone there, like you said this Viktor guy did. But I don’t think any of them was Russian. They didn’t have an accent at least.”
Kim blew on the coffee and took a big, hot gulp. She needed it.
“I don’t know any of their last names.” Destani played with her cup, rotating it on the tabletop. “They were kind of jerks, actually. They didn’t really talk to me. One of them they called Ry, another was Jason. They got me into bars and we’d stay out really late. But they’d just get into these long philosophical discussions with big words, and I didn’t follow half of it, and they didn’t bother to catch me up. I’m smart,” she said, her voice getting angry, “but they had all these inside jokes about all the stuff they read in class. It was annoying. I just sat there by Aidan and smiled and laughed when the rest of them did. You know what I mean?”
At Kim’s nod, she continued. “The Ry guy had a girlfriend there, too. Autumn. She went to Yale too, but last July he found out she’d cheated on him and they broke up. She stopped coming.” She took a sip of her coffee and shook her head. “He was so pissed. They talked about it right in front of me a couple times—I understood that conversation, at least. And that second time, one of the guys—I don’t remember his name, but he had brown hair and he was the one that made them laugh the most—he said something like, “Don’t you want to get her back?”
Kim’s stomach churned in anticipation. The coffee-sludge wasn’t helping.
“This guy explains that Ry should put something about her online where everyone can see, especially if she sent him any naked selfies. The guys all started laughing at that, but I didn’t. Then Ry says he doesn’t know how to do that, and what if he gets caught? So the funny guy says something like, ‘I’ll find a way to do it for you, but it’s going to cost you.’ They all laughed at that, like it was a big joke, but you kind of knew the guy was being serious. He was like, ‘You Yalies don’t like getting your hands dirty.’”
“Huh.” That sounded like something Hutch would say. “Did this guy have a shaved head?” she asked.
Destani said. “No. At least not then.”
Kim exhaled, feeling a measure of relief. This didn’t seem like something Hutch would be involved in, but the kind of crowd Destani was talking about? That was exactly the kind of crowd her ex sold drugs to. Complete with the four-syllable words and the tendency to date young women they ignored unless it was bedtime. She hadn’t really dated many of those guys, because they bored the shit out of her.
“I broke up with Aidan a few weeks later,” Destani continued. “I don’t think he was that into me, and I still had feelings for my ex. But if I’m on this list you say you have, and so is an Autumn who used to date a guy named Ry or Ryan or something, then one of those guys is doing it, or they hired someone who can. I know it.”
Kim pushed away the coffee cup and hauled the list out of her purse. Her fingers were shaking as much as they had the day Scott told her Viktor had been the one to leave the note. This was bigger than they’d assumed. Maybe Viktor was involved, but he wasn’t the only one—or, if Destani was right, even the one in charge.
“This is the list I have,” she explained as she rifled through it, back to front, looking for an Autumn. “It’s a list of women, with their personal information and some links. I haven’t gone through it all, I’ve just contacted some women at the back, you and someone else.” Almost more to herself than Destani, she added, “I’ve got way more work to do.” Her eyes scanned quickly, only looking closer at the names beginning with A, and then on the first page—of course—she saw it.
“Autumn Hauser,” Kim read. “Was that her name?”
Destani shrugged. “I’m not sure. We can ask her.” She straightened her shoulders. “I want to help.”
Kim looked up. The girl was young, even if she had already met more than her fair share of bastards. She wouldn’t want her to approach these women alone, for all the reasons Scott had warned her about. Still, she understood the helplessness that Destani probably felt. The anger. With a few swipes and keystrokes, these men were twisting the truth of these women’s lives, damaging their reputations and endangering their jobs and relationships. Not to mention their sense of security and privacy. Somewhere on the web, they both knew, a naked picture of Autumn Hauser was probably being gawked at by hundreds of men without her consent, men who didn’t know her last name or favorite color and didn’t care. It would be hard to recover from
that.
Kim sighed. “How do you want to help?” she asked.
Destani held out her hand. “Give me a page.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Scott
Monday evening, the precinct was strangely slow, so Scott had a chance to investigate some leads that might point to Vicktor’s whereabouts. The problem was, every lead he chased down was giving him more questions than answers.
His neighbors still hadn’t seen him. They’d discovered he’d been seeing a psychologist, a Dr. Park, but the man wouldn’t speak with them, citing professional ethics which prevented him from discussing the case unless he was asked to testify. Even after they flashed their badges, the guy wouldn’t budge.
“I see a lot of clients with criminal records,” Dr. Park said. “I owe it to my clients to protect their privacy. If he or someone else is in danger, I can tell you that I don’t know where he is right now. But if you need more information from me, I’ll need something from a judge.”
None of the women who’d filed police reports seemed to know who might have helped their exes and former friends and disgruntled co-workers harass them, though many of the connections pointed back to those men being involved with the Yale community, which they’d already guessed. The campus police force was equally stumped. He was helping Carter drive by a few of the men’s houses in free moments to see if anything looked awry or if they spotted the Russian. So far, they hadn’t.
When he went to question the staff at the university computer lab, he not only didn’t get any clear answers, but began to question what they had found out.
“Viktor? Harassing people online?” One of the other students asked, his dark bushy eyebrows knitted together. “You sure?”
Scott explained that Viktor was wanted on suspicion of harassment, and assumed that since he worked at a computer lab, he had the skills necessary. That assumption was about to make an ass out of him.
“We hired him because he said he’d worked in a computer lab back home, but to be honest, he couldn’t help a lot of people who came in here,” the guy explained. “I think he probably lied about his experience. Also, there was a language barrier there. He could speak English fine, but he couldn’t read or write it for shit. These things you found online have a lot of typos?”
Scott put his hands on his hips and exhaled. “No.”
“Viktor may not be your guy, then.”
“Damn.” Scott drove back to the station to confer with Carter later that night. When he thought about it, it made sense that Viktor hadn’t been acting alone. Hadn’t Kim and her manager described him as aloof? How’d he’d rustle up clients?
While he drove, Scott whipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed Kim. As the day wore on, his feeling of security that Kim was safe from whoever had messed with her was evaporating. There was someone else with their hands in this. Maybe more than one person.
He got her voicemail. Swearing, he ended the call. That had been happening more frequently the past couple days. If Bette was able to watch Lily and she didn’t have to work, she would leave for long stretches of time to meet more women on that list. Thinking about her doing that alone made his muscles clench and a trickle of fear vibrate down his spine. If there was a lair in all this, pretty soon Kim would stumble upon it, unarmed and unprepared. He had to put a stop to it next time he got ahold of her.
Detective Morales was at her desk, her long dark hair over one shoulder and half-braided, like she’d been playing with it while lost in thought.
Scott filled her in on what he’d learned at the computer lab.
Carter tapped a pencil against her lips. “So what do we know about all this?”
“That it’s a hell of a lot more complicated than we thought last week.”
She smiled grimly.
Scott rubbed his jaw. “Viktor Antonovich didn’t do the harassment alone. He left those notes, maybe uploaded some photos, but he couldn’t have written those ads online. He doesn’t have a great grasp of written English. He’s got an accomplice. Maybe more than one.”
Carter nodded. “And that person does know English. Probably a native speaker. Probably we’re still looking for a guy who’s not crazy about women.”
“And is connected to the Yale community.”
“And is connected to Yale,” Carter agreed. “Also, he’s friendly, maybe even charming. Viktor is quiet, right? This guy got dozens of men to pay him to stalk their exes. He’s a salesman.” She dropped the pencil and began braiding her hair again, staring off over Scott’s shoulder. “Sure, maybe word of mouth spread after a while, but I’d put money on this perp at least not being withdrawn. He’s earned the trust of these guys somehow.”
“I think you’re right.” He dropped in a nearby chair, making a steeple with his fingers as he stared at the ceiling. A thought occurred to him. “Did you hear about these underground parties they have off campus on Wednesday nights?”
“No.”
He straightened up and looked at her. “I stumbled upon one the other week. It was in the basement of an old house. Looked like some stuff was going on there the attendees wouldn’t want the university or local law enforcement to know about. Someone there might know about this, or know someone who does.” He only knew it was a regular thing because of Kim, and as he remembered that evening, he thought of Hutch, that cocky ex of Kim’s. The fingers of his right hand closed in a fist. “In fact,” he said through gritted teeth, “I met a guy that night who’s clearly on the wrong side of the law. Late twenties, shaved head, built physique. Dealer.” A shot of adrenaline raced through him, and he leaned towards Carter and spoke quickly. “His name’s Hutch. And from what I know, he’s well-connected.”
She met his eyes. “Charming?”
“If you like snakes.”
Carter crossed her arms. “I need to get into that party.”
His cell rang.
Kim. He picked up.
“Where are you?” he nearly growled.
“On my way back to your place,” she said. “I’m sorry I missed your call.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes…”
“Good. Keep it that way. I’ll be home in half an hour.”
“Wait, Scott.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think Viktor did it. I mean, not all of it.”
“Yeah?” They’d figured that out, but he wanted to hear what she had to say.
“The woman I met with on Saturday, Destani, she told me something that I’ve been thinking about. The more women I contact, the more I think she’s right. It was some Yale guy who did this. Destani used to hang around a group of asshole university guys, and she thinks one of them is the person. He’s not Russian, Scott.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t want you meeting with any more of those women. I’m not asking this time.”
“What?” She sounded surprised, but her tone was laced with a shot of irritation.
Would she always drive him crazy like this?
“Go straight back to my place. Bette’s there. Tell her to stay until I get back, or stay the night. And don’t take any calls from your ex.”
“You think Hutch had something to do with this?”
He let his silence answer her. After a beat, he added, “I’ll see you at home,” and ended the call.
Carter was watching him, but her lips were pursed like she’d been pondering something else.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Carter stood and grabbed her bag. “Oh, nothing,” she drawled. “I’m just trying to think of the best place to get clothes if a woman wanted to make herself look like a hot grad student.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hutch
Hutch stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of his boot and walked back into the party.
The basement was warm and smoky as usual, and tonight someone was playing Etta James on a record player over the clin
ks of the pool game and high-pitched laughter of drunk university girls. He fell into a dark purple chair in a corner, apart from others. The way he liked it.
Hutch was bored out of his mind.
He didn’t have to leave the house to smoke. No one else did. But he welcomed the chance to stand outside in the dark, with the cool night surrounding him, and remind himself that the building he’d just left, and the people within it, weren’t all there was.
He really had to graduate from this scene. The Yalies had changed in the past couple years—these Yalies had, at least. Hutch could remember a time when he’d enjoyed throwing back expensive booze and having the kind of conversations about theology or economic theory he’d imagined having as a teenager—granted, in a different context. He’d been smart and read everything he could get his hands on his entire life, but he’d never been good at the school thing—the sit-in-your-seat thing, the read-this-and-not-that thing, and especially the don’t-question-the-teacher thing. New Haven at least afforded him the opportunity to make money while being around people who could stimulate his brain.
But lately the conversations had seemed like so much posturing. University jerks who didn’t know what they were talking about, but liked to hear themselves talk all the same. Grad students who kept making the same arguments every gathering he attended. It wasn’t just the pot he sold them, either. Some of them didn’t know economics from their own asshole.
They’d gotten meaner too. Last week he’d watched one beat another at pool. This one, Jason, had deep pockets, but he’d played against a kid Hutch had heard was on scholarship. After the kid started losing, you could see the sweat shining on his face from across the room. This wasn’t money he could lose. When the game was won, his buddies high-fived the winner, and despite taking a chunk of the poor kid’s tuition funds, the bastard was jovial.
