[Ash Park 01.0] Famished

by Meghan O'Flynn

  “On it, Boss.” Morrison looked at his watch. “You want a granola bar for the road?”

  “I wouldn’t want a granola bar if I was fucking starving. By the way, Taylor has some pie for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. And how the hell do you know everyone in the prosecutor’s office?”

  “They like granola too.” Morrison winked.

  “Save it for your girlfriend, Surfer Boy.”

  Saturday, November 28th

  Saturday dawned frigid, but clear. I spent the morning alternating between staring through the skylights, working out with Dominic, and scratching behind Duke’s ears while Dominic finished some paperwork.

  Everything was … peaceful. Or had been since last night, when Dominic talked me down from my freak out over the shelter. “I’m sure those girls got into all kinds of things they shouldn’t have,” he had said. “And Jake too. But you’re not in danger any more than I’d be in danger of a contact high for knowing other CEOs who snort cocaine. And you don’t have to go back until the police sort this out. No use worrying before there’s something to worry about.”

  I had balked. “You know people who snort cocaine?” He’d just laughed, and my anxiety had evaporated.

  After lunch, we left to get my dress for the symphony. Dominic drove us around the lake where ice gleamed off the edges of the water and dusted the sparse cattails that had not yet called it quits. They were apparently stubborn bastards, like the cats for which they were named.

  We fought traffic for a few miles, then turned off the main drag. The shops were tucked back from the street, off a long, curvy road that wound through fir trees heavy with snow. I hadn’t even known this place existed.

  His world. I’m in his world. I wanted to press my forehead against the window, relishing the sight of every jewelry store, every suit shop. We parked in front of a large window filled with oil paintings and expensive-looking pottery.

  Dominic led me down the walk and through a wooden door carved with a fairy tale scene: a woman in a ball gown singing to a bird. Hokey, but somehow perfect. Inside the dress shop, row upon row of luscious fabrics lined the walls. I fingered an ornate blue gown wrapped in a layer of creamy lace.

  From the back room, a woman with thin lines around her eyes approached us, her smile painted in candy-apple red. “Can I help you?” she asked me. I looked at Dominic.

  “Tell her what you want. I will take a walk while you decide.”

  Wait … what? This isn’t my world! My heart pounded in my throat as he handed the woman his credit card, stooped to kiss my cheek and headed out the door.

  Everything’s fine. He’ll be right back.

  The woman looked at me expectantly.

  What did I want? “Um … I don’t … it’s for the symphony.”

  She put a finger against her lips, appraising me.

  I fought the urge to run.

  “Come with me,” she said finally. “I have a lovely organza that I think will suit you nicely.”

  An hour later, I left the shop with a garment bag over my arm and found Dominic on the sidewalk outside.

  He took the dress. “How did it go?”

  “Pretty good, I think.” Salt crunched under our shoes. “Why did you leave me alone in there?”

  He kept his eyes on the walk in front of us. “I’m not sure what you mean. They didn’t have anything in my size.”

  “What?” Just laugh, let it go. No, I could tell him anything. I cleared my throat, my face hot. “I … sometimes don’t do that well with new people.”

  “You are stronger than you think.” He squeezed my hand.

  I snorted.

  “You got the dress, didn’t you?”

  I squeezed his hand back, the warmth draining from my cheeks.

  Dominic stopped in front of a set of double glass doors, pulled the handle, and led me inside a room with high ceilings and four separate hallways leading toward the back of the building. Cinnamon and orange peel tickled my nose. I was still taking in the photographs of serene waterfalls when Dominic addressed the woman at the front desk.

  “We have a four o’clock appointment with Genevieve.”

  “Right away, sir.” The brunette behind the counter glanced at me, then back at Dominic. “Will you be accompanying our guest today?” A smocked attendant wandered by, grinning cordially with huge white teeth. I tried to smile back but it might have looked like a grimace.

  Dominic met my eyes. “Yes,” he said.

  Thank goodness.

  We took the blue-gray corridor on the far right and emerged into a large salon, complete with leather seats and sea green towels that looked plush enough to sleep on.

  A tall blonde wearing high heels and a skin-tight black sweater approached and held out her hand. “I’m Genevieve,” she said. “Welcome.” The corners of her lips turned up and it made her look younger, friendlier. Her hand was warm.

  I relaxed into the cushioned back of the chair as she pushed the foot pedal to raise it.

  “So, what would you like to do today?” she said.

  Dominic smiled down at me. “You need me for this, or shall I leave you to it?”

  His eyes showed no irritation, only confident support. I sat taller, suddenly more self-assured. “Go ahead.”

  My heart raced as it had in the dress shop, but this time I was ready for it. I watched Dominic’s broad back in the mirror as he retreated down the hallway.

  You’re stronger than you think. I glanced up at Genevieve, sure that I would see some sign of contempt at being kept waiting. She smiled kindly.

  I can do this. I am in control. I took in the green of my eyes, the milky hue of my skin, the mahogany of my hair. Somehow it all felt wrong. In the lighted vanity, the colors lent themselves to a face that looked far too much like … him.

  I set my jaw. “You know, I think I may be up for a change.”

  Genevieve reached for a comb.

  I smiled at the mirror. I’m not his little girl. Not anymore.

  Petrosky stood in the middle of the room and tried not to touch anything. All goddamn day yesterday she had been gone, and now that she was finally here, he hoped he hadn’t wasted his time. Not that he had more pressing engagements since Graves had hijacked his fucking case.

  Margaret Garner sat on the couch, a maze of tiny blue veins creeping across her nearly translucent chest like spiderwebs. “I just can’t believe she’s gone,” she said over the dry whir of the space heater.

  Petrosky studied Garner’s face. He saw sorrow there, expected from someone who had been closer to his victim than her own estranged mother. But her eyes were purely sad, no twinge of surprise, no disbelief. Had Garner expected something to happen to Antoinette Michaels? What had she seen in the last three years that Michaels had been her off-and-on roommate?

  “And Tim … oh god.” She collapsed into sobs.

  There’s her surprise. No one ever expected kids to die.

  Petrosky watched Garner pick at a plume of stuffing peeking through the threadbare arm of the couch, her tears leaking onto her pants.

  “Tell me about the last few weeks,” he said.

  Garner sniffed and swiped at her eyes with a tissue. “The usual. She was trying to get back on her feet. She always got clean for a few weeks, then every time, back into the life. She worried constantly about Tim, about how she was going to get him into a good school district or whether she’d have enough money for food.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary recently?”

  Garner shrugged.

  “Then why did she go to the shelter?”

  “Oh, that.” Garner ran a hand through hair slick with grease. “Someone beat her up, and pretty good too. But it’s all … I mean, it happens with what she was doin’.”

  “Do you know who the guy was?”

  She paused for too long.

  Suspicion corded Petrosky’s neck.

  “I—I don’t think he was a regular, but I don’t know. I have
n’t done anything like that since I found my boyfriend.” Her lips twitched into a half smile, but the corners of her mouth trembled.

  She was lying. But was she hiding something relevant to this case? “I’m not here to arrest you. If I were, I’d be packing up that needle on the kitchen counter and hauling you in.”

  Her mouth dropped open, eyes flicking to the kitchen.

  Petrosky stepped closer. “I have no interest in your drug use, your occupation, or anything else besides finding out who killed Antoinette and Tim.”

  Garner’s shoulders slumped, eyes on her lap. “I did … I mean, I can’t get in trouble for taking a message, right?”

  Petrosky stared hard at her until she met his gaze.

  She licked her lips. “I took a message for her.” Her sour breath hung in the air between them.

  “When?”

  “The night she got beat. Like I said, he wasn’t a regular, he just left an address because I told her she could use my car for the evening.”

  “He left you an address?” That didn’t make sense. His killer wouldn’t just throw his address to anyone who asked for it. The guy was smarter than that, he could feel it in his bones.

  “Well, he left her an address.” Garner swallowed hard. “When I answered I was hoping it was … a friend of mine and—”

  “You tried to take the job.”

  She stared at him. “He got the number from one of us. I didn’t know if it was her or me. So I just pretended to be who he was looking for.”

  “But he asked for her?”

  Silence.

  “Ma’am?”

  She sighed. “Yes, he asked for her. But these guys won’t leave their information with anyone besides the girl who’s coming, and most of the time they don’t call back. I was tryin’ to help her out. I didn’t mean for her to get … for Tim to get—” Her chest heaved and her eyes slid back to her lap.

  “This wasn’t your fault. But if you have information, any information, you need to tell me now. Help me catch him, Margaret.”

  She raised her eyes and her breath was slower, more controlled. “Like I said, I just took a message. Told him I’d be … I mean, she’d be over in a little while.”

  “Do you still have the address? A name?”

  “Course. It’s good business to keep ’em if things get slow later.” She grinned, then shook her head, her proud smile faltering. “I’ve got an address for you. They don’t leave names, though, not that we need ’em. We ladies never forget a … face.”

  Petrosky called Morrison on his way to the precinct. When he stopped behind the building, Morrison ran out and jumped in the car, his beach-boy face flushed from the winter chill.

  “The address belongs to a James Clark,” Morrison said, talking so fast his words were almost unintelligible.

  Petrosky sucked on a cigarette and furrowed his brows. James … He exhaled in a burst and jerked his head backwards. “The guy Montgomery was out with the night after Campbell was snatched?”

  Morrison looked like a cat that just ate a fucking canary. “It gets better. Apparently that’s not even his real name. James Clark, AKA Robert Fredricks, has a pretty significant record. Did a prison stint for two counts of first degree rape at age eighteen. Got out about five years ago.”

  Petrosky’s muscles shivered with excitement. At least he hoped the shakes were from excitement and not because the bottle of Jack Daniels under the passenger seat was still full. He should have emptied the liquor into his coffee before he got to the precinct.

  Morrison opened his window and waved the smoke away from his face. “Should we go in and tell Graves?”

  Petrosky took another drag, blew it out violently and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Let’s take a drive first.”

  An hour later they pulled into a small neighborhood near the Everette crime scene and squeezed their car down deeply rutted dirt roads that were barely wide enough for one vehicle. Petrosky could see the shore of a small, tranquil lake within walking distance of the street, but the cottages surrounding it were anything but quaint. Peeling paint was commonplace, some of the homes had shutters swinging from single rusty hinges, and behind one rickety fence, a Doberman snarled at them as they rolled by.

  The car bounced over a particularly deep rut in the frozen dirt road. Petrosky hit his head on the roof, swore, and gripped the wheel harder.

  “Gotta watch that, Boss. Maybe you should be wearing your seat belt.”

  Petrosky rubbed his smarting head. “This is it.” The difference between this house and the ones around it was remarkable. It was small, but freshly painted, with doors and windows in good repair. The roof looked new. The flower beds, now frozen, contained neatly-trimmed evergreen bushes, and not a single leaf peeked through the snow that covered the lawn.

  Well-maintained.

  Meticulous.

  Careful.

  The front porch had been swept clean of snow and salt granules crunched under their feet. Morrison picked up the door knocker and dropped it. Somewhere, water on ice ticked steadily.

  The hairs on the back of Petrosky’s neck prickled. He knocked with his fist. Nothing. He tried the knob. Locked.

  Petrosky pulled his Swiss Army knife from his back pocket and wiggled it into the door jamb. The lock gave way with a click.

  “Boss—” Morrison began, but Petrosky was already turning the handle. “We’ve got one shot, Surfer Boy. They’ll be all over the place giving us the run around as soon as we call it in.” He nodded to the mat. “Wipe your feet.”

  Petrosky stepped inside. Morrison followed and closed the door.

  The front entryway opened into the kitchen, strong with the scent of lemons. The stainless steel appliances and porcelain floors gleamed in the light streaming through the spotless windows. Framed black and white photographs hung on the walls—copies, but good quality ones. Expensive.

  Morrison was still standing by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a nervous first grader. Petrosky left him and wandered farther into the house. To the left of the kitchen, an archway opened to a small but nicely furnished living room with a big screen television. He stole past leather sofas into a hallway. The first door opened to a small, tidy bathroom—spotless, like the rest of the house.

  From there, he entered a huge bedroom with a king-sized bed. Four poster spindles nearly touched the ceiling, each one painted to appear old or tarnished. Shabby chic bullshit.

  No, he thought as he moved closer. They’re actually marked.

  He touched the headboard. The black iron was gouged with slivers of silver. Metal scored by metal? Did you handcuff them and torture them here first, you sick bastard?

  He opened the nightstand drawer. Toenail clippers, remote control, phone charger. He closed the drawer and turned on the closet light.

  Boots creaked on the carpet behind him. Morrison whistled at the wide array of suits and ties.

  “Nice of you to show up.” Petrosky squinted at the ceiling—smooth. No shelves on the upper walls. “Any wisdom to offer?”

  “Well, this dude obviously has money. Why would he be living out in the middle of nowhere in a neighborhood full of thugs and crime?”

  Dude? Fucking surfers. Petrosky fingered a silk tie. “In these neighborhoods, people mind their own business.” Which hopefully means they won’t notice we’re here. He ran a hand behind the wall of shirts. Nothing. He scanned the floor. A corner of brown peeked from under the shoe rack. Petrosky crouched, grabbed the corner—a shoebox—and pulled it into the light.

  Morrison edged around him.

  The box was full of photos. The one on top showed a blond woman lying nude on the bed in the same master bedroom. She was handcuffed to the iron posts, her eyes wide with terror, irises colored in with red marker.

  Petrosky’s heart faltered, then hammered painfully against his ribs.

  He pulled out a stack and rifled through them. Here, another blonde was bent over the bed, her right wrist handcuffed t
o the bedpost, her face turned toward the camera. A piece of duct tape covered her mouth. In another, a woman was cuffed face down on the bed, her back and buttocks slashed with weeping, bloody wounds. From a knife? A whip?

  Petrosky’s stomach rolled, but he kept flipping, faster and faster. There were other young girls with their legs spread wide on the bed and their arms attached to the posts. In some, the camera had snapped shots from above: girls with male genitalia in their mouths, duct tape still hanging from the sides of their lips. Some were blindfolded but unrestrained. Others had their ankles tied to either side of the bed. In every photo, their eyes had been colored in with red, making them look demonic.

  Petrosky flipped another photo.

  Morrison gasped.

  Antoinette Michaels stared back at them, arms handcuffed above her head, mouth covered in duct tape. The beginnings of fresh bruises on her cheek were obvious in the picture as was the horror etched on her face.

  He had no doubt they would find photos of the other victims there.

  Petrosky’s skin crawled with electricity. He put the pictures back in the box and covered them with the lid. The box shushed as he slid it back under the shoes.

  “Boss, what are you—”

  Petrosky put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “We broke in, California. Without a warrant we can’t use them anyway. Right now, we need to get out of here, get a warrant, and stake this place out before he hurts someone else.”

  They hurried back through the house and out the front door. Petrosky locked it behind them, his heart throbbing in his ears. Outside, the only sounds were the steady drip of melting ice and the wail of the wind.

  “Find a good parking place down the road,” Petrosky said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Make sure we can see the house.”

  “Aye aye, Boss.” Morrison put the car in gear. Tires crunched over ice and salt and rocks.

  Petrosky stared at the phone. He had no choice.

  “Graves here.”

  “Sir, we have some new information.” Petrosky explained as Morrison pulled behind an abandoned house a block from Clark’s place.