Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  Macaroni? I’d managed to smile back at him and his pathetic attempt to cheer me up. His teeth were crooked on the bottom just like Mom’s. Were.

  “Tell me what happened with your mama today.”

  “I don’t know. I was at school.”

  He wasn’t a moron like Trey, so he hadn’t bought it. Not for one second. I could tell because he’d glanced real quick at his partner and frowned. “At school? On a Saturday?”

  I’d shrugged. “That’s how I found her when I got home. She took too much, I guess.”

  “Does anybody else live here at the Blue Bird with you, Evie”?

  “Um, no.”

  “No? Are you sure? The desk clerk said there’s a man who hangs around here? Trey?”

  Like usual, that name had made my stomach scramble like a small animal burrowing in its nest, a fox nipping at its heels. “Oh, him. Yeah. He stays with my mom sometimes. But I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

  “Do you know where we can find him?”

  I’d shaken my head. Felt my bottom lip start to tremble. Like it belonged to somebody else.

  “Are you afraid of this Trey guy?”

  Sometimes a minnow of truth makes a whopper of a lie believable. Mom had taught me that one. So I’d looked him square in his face. “Yes.”

  ****

  Maggie stands up, her chair scraping against the wood floor like she’s determined to drag me back here. To the present. “Don’t be rude, Evelyn.”

  I make my way out of the kitchen, but my legs feel impossibly heavy, the past still grabbing at my ankles. Still wanting a piece of me. Even Maggie nudging me along with a hand at my back doesn’t help. She sighs as she opens the door and clears the way for Detective Munroe and the man. This man who saw me on the first worst day of my life. He must remember too. That’s why he’s here. This is an ambush.

  “Dr. Maddox, Mrs. Maddox, I’d like you to meet Chuck Maroni. He’s the homicide detective working the Violet Kurchell case.” Of course he is.

  I shake his hand and meet his eyes—still kind, still brown—but I won’t let him throw me off balance. I strike first. “I remember you,” I say. “Macaroni, right?”

  His warm laugh doesn’t hide the purposeful look he shoots in Munroe’s direction. “I was hoping you’d remember. It’s been ages. As this old face will tell you.”

  “You know each other?” Maggie asks, lurking.

  “Detective Maroni—I guess it was Officer Maroni back then—was the first one there after my mom died. He was very kind to me.”

  “It means a lot to hear you say that. I didn’t know squat about talking to kids back then, much less interviewing them. I always thought I’d screwed it up somehow.” He walks toward the sofa, wringing his hands like two old dishtowels, and takes a seat. “You know, your mom’s case is the one that got me into homicide. I just couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to the story. Where’d you end up after that?”

  “LA. I moved back up here for college.”

  Maggie’s brows lift a little, but she keeps her questions to herself. Instead, she offers coffee and tea and bagels. She even plumps the pillows before Detective Munroe joins Macaroni on the couch. With nothing left to do, she touches my shoulder. “Shall I…stay?”

  I’m silently screaming no, but apparently no one can hear me, because Detective Munroe nods. “I think it might be helpful if you did.” She gives me a pitying smile. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “You found my license. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “We did.” She puts it on the coffee table and slides it over to me. It looks remarkably unscathed, but I don’t touch it. I can’t help but think of Danny’s greedy hands all over it, all over me. “One of our officers on patrol happened to stumble across it near your office.”

  “Do you think Danny could’ve dropped it there last night? Or left it on purpose?”

  Macaroni turns to me when he speaks, one hand dipped beneath the table scratching Sammy’s head. Sammy leans in, his chest humming like a motor. Traitor. “Well, Evie—if I can still call you that—that’s the very question we’re hoping you might help us with. Do you think Danny knows you?”

  Like mother, like daughter. There it is again, that rasp. “Do you?”

  “Yes, we believe there’s a connection.” I feel Maggie’s eyes on me. Detective Munroe’s too. And the whole world shrinks down. To me and my past—as hard and far-reaching as the limbs on the hanging tree. This room is too small for the both of us.

  “The license plate number you gave the officers last night…Danny’s truck…it’s registered to Trey Waters. As I recall, you know him, right?”

  I feel the lie on my tongue, the same one I’d told Detective Munroe—“I don’t remember Trey Waters.” But if I lie again, they’ll start to wonder why, what I’m hiding. I let Cassie die. I let her die and I kept quiet. So I give them the minnow and keep the whopper reeled in close where they can’t see it.

  “Knew him,” I say. “I knew him.” And he nods like he understands. In hell, all roads lead to the devil. All roads lead, have always led, to Trey.

  ****

  As soon as the door closes behind them, I’m ready to bolt upstairs and dive under Jared’s covers—where if I press my face deep into the pillow, I can convince myself I still smell him—the only place I’m sure I’ll be able to breathe again. But Maggie grabs my arm, her long nails closing around it like a steel trap.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us your mother was consorting with a common criminal.”

  I laugh but it goes nowhere, sinks fast in the deep quiet of the room. “Really, Maggie? You knew she was addicted to heroin. You knew she was a prostitute. I didn’t think I needed to tell you she wasn’t a card-carrying member of the country club. Besides, I haven’t seen the man in over twenty years. What does it matter?”

  “It must matter. Or they wouldn’t be here asking you questions about him.” And I know she’s right. Trey’s not the sort of animal that stays buried. He’s the Stephen King sort, clawing his way up to scratch out your eyes.

  “This guy…this Trey…he lived with you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And he…was he your mother’s…boyfriend?”

  I can’t stand the way Maggie tiptoes around it, so I hit her with it smack in her well-to-do face. “He was her pimp. They used drugs together. And Detective Maroni thinks Trey killed her. Or at least that’s what he thought back then.”

  She gasps, and I relish the breathy sound of it. I like that I can shock her even now. Especially now when I don’t have to explain myself to Jared. “Did he?”

  I dart away from her, but I pause on the first stair, because I want to look at her when I say it. I want to scald her with the truth. But then I see her eyes—Jared’s eyes. My anger boils out and cools, until it’s nothing but a placid lake of sadness. I can’t be angry. Not at her. I feel the tears come before I say it.

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Butch

  January 18, 2017

  Wednesday

  I roll down the window and stick my head out like a hound dog, jowls flapping in the wind. The air of downtown Oakland—exhaust, rain, the faint scent of garbage—has never smelled so good.

  Jail had a different odor than prison. Raw and cold and alive. An acrid bouquet of oniony sweat, metal, and fear. Worse. Because they don’t even bother to pretty it up with a chemical sheen. Folsom, on the other hand, had always smelled like bleach. That sharp, stinging odor meant to cover up blood, urine, vomit—all the things that come out of a man. Every day, they’d mop down the tiers, slicking the floor, shining it up, ready for the next J-Cat Jimmy to take the leap. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that smell.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Mr. Richert asks as he drives
us back to the halfway house.

  Hell no. I could say what I’m thinking, but Richert would pull it out of me anyway. He’s one of those. “We just went out for a walk. It was no big deal.”

  “Hmph.”

  And so it begins. The litany of cognitive distortions I thought I’d outgrown at Folsom. “I lost track of time.” Denial. “We weren’t even that late.” Minimization. “It was Sebastian’s idea.” Blame. I scold myself from afar, but I don’t take it back. Not any of it.

  “I thought you didn’t like the guy. A few days ago you were demanding a room transfer and calling him a perv. Now you’re breaking curfew with him. Something don’t add up, Calder.”

  “He’s not that bad.” Sebastian is a lying, thieving snake in the grass, and I plan on telling him exactly that when—if—I see him again. But, right now, freedom blowing in my face, I kind of love him for it. Because getting rolled up on a curfew violation is one thing. It’ll get you a slap on the wrist, a do better next time. Getting caught with the driver’s license of an attractive female psychologist, especially one who works in the same building with you, well, that’s another animal altogether. I know exactly how they’d spin it. Just like the DA did with me and Gwen.

  Mr. Calder became obsessed with Gwendolyn. Stalked her. Demanded she see him again. When she refused, he couldn’t live with it. Or, more accurately, he couldn’t let her live with it. And he viciously, savagely, ended her life.

  And what could I say? There was truth there, untruth too. But when you do something as downright evil as murder, you lose your right to clarify.

  So when Cop One had ripped open the envelope, practically salivating, I’d had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. With pure joy. Relief. A goddamned baseball card. Some no-name Yankee from the 1990s. Even now, thinking of it, I cover my mouth to hide a giddy smile.

  “This don’t have anything to do with that lady doctor, does it?” Instantly deflated, I frown at him. “Don’t give me that look, man. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “How do you know about Evie…uh, Dr. Maddox?”

  “I know because it’s my job to know. Agent McElroy told me. He’s worried about you. And so am I. When you told me you got a lead on a job from an old friend, I was picturing a bald ex-con with a half-dozen tattoos and a beer gut, not a pretty little psych doctor.”

  “It’s not like that.” I wish I could sound more convincing. “Seriously.”

  “Well, since she popped up, trouble’s sure been on your tail. Think about it.”

  “I am thinking.”

  He slaps the wheel and guffaws like I meant to be funny. “Oh, I know that. But are you thinking with the right head?”

  ****

  I’ve got a confession to make. That first night in the alleyway, I took your license. I don’t know why. It was just lying there on the ground—sad, like a dead leaf or a scrap of paper—and then it was in my pocket. But that’s not all. I lost it before I could give it back—I wanted to give it back. Why am I telling you now? Because I’m sorry, for starters. And because Danny never had it. He never took it. I think he knows you.

  That’s the speech I practice on the walk to Chicken and Waffles. It comes easy, because it’s the truth. Mostly. And after my two hours stuck in a foul-smelling jail cell—to teach me a lesson, Agent McElroy had said—I want to start fresh. Honest.

  I tense up when I get close to the restaurant. There’s a line of people outside, just milling around in the cold. Waiting. My booth is taken, of course, because every booth is taken. And at the counter, a butt in every stool, half of them gun-toting, backslapping boys in blue. Just my luck. Probably finishing up the night shift. At least I don’t see the cops who took me in…yet.

  I know a fish out of water when I see one. Brenda had been right when she’d said it. That’s exactly how I feel. A poor fish, flopping around, desperate. Just waiting for somebody to clock me over the head and put me out of my misery.

  I stop, start to turn back. I can talk to Evie at work. Anywhere but here.

  “Calder?”

  And now I really am a fish. A hooked one. Caught. I walk toward Evie as she reels me in with her eyes.

  “Hey,” I say, because it’s all I can manage right now. Looking normal takes effort when your brain is hardwired for the big house. I maneuver through the crowd—why is that big dude with the tats looking at me?—my shallow breath just marking time till I get the shank in my back. Or a bum rush from the skinheads. Or a solid push over the tier like Jimmy. I know it’s not real, but when I get to Evie, smack dab in the middle of the line, I press myself to the wall and suck air into my gills.

  “I didn’t think it would be this crowded,” she whispers, leaning in. Confessing. I’ve got a confession to make. “Or this cold. It’s freezing.”

  My brain goes blank, and her face fills it. Her nose is pink at the edges. Like she’s been crying. Or maybe it’s just the January wind whipping it raw. Her eyes look tired, a murky seaweed green, but they light when she smiles. And I think of something to say.

  “Yeah, me neither. I never come here in the mornings.”

  “I see why. I’m sorry I suggested it.” She joins me on the wall, the sleeves of our jackets almost touching. Like she knows I’m a live wire—sparking and pitching—that needs to be grounded. The line moves on without us. And when the tatted man answers his cell, his hard-as-plaster face breaks into a grin.

  I realize I’ve got her red umbrella in a death grip, and I ease up. Hand it to her. “Thanks for this,” I say.

  Evie moves closer or maybe I imagine it. And all I can think is I hope I’d scrubbed hard enough to get the stench of jail off me. Sometimes, even before last night, I’d think I still smelled like prison. Despair gets in your pores, you know. Till you start to sweat the stuff out like it’s some kind of sickness in your blood.

  “Maybe your friend—Brenda—can help us out with a table.” Evie’s definitely closer, because I feel her elbow nudge me, teasing. “Or you anyway. She’d probably make me sit out here.”

  “I just remembered Brenda has Wednesdays off.”

  “Then what the heck are we doing here? I don’t know about you, but I came for Brenda.” She laughs at her joke, and I feel like I can breathe again. Until she links her arm with mine and points down the block. “There’s a mini mart up the street. We can grab a coffee and walk to the office. I’ll get Melanie to give me a ride back to the parking garage this afternoon. If that’s okay with you.”

  I’ve got a confession to make. That first night in the alleyway, I took your license. And now, I’m thinking with the wrong head. “It’s perfect.”

  Once we’ve cleared the Chicken and Waffles’ chaos, I swallow hard. Now’s the time, Butchy. Do it now. I stop moving, and Evie releases my arm. I turn and face her. Get it over with, dude. “So…”

  “You’ll never believe what happened last night after the whole thing with Danny.” And before I can spit it out, she’s holding up the goddamned license. “The cops found it.”

  For a ten count I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack. Like there’s a vice in my chest and it’s clamped tight. “They did? Where?”

  She shrugs. “Somewhere near the office. They came by this morning…early. That’s why I look like hell.”

  For another ten count, I pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger, dancing on the ledge of hysterical laughter. Because Evie’s hell is a place I want to visit. And because somebody up there is pulling strings for me. Not my dad though. He’d have left me in the slammer last night for my own good. He’d want me to fess up, even now. Maybe it’s Jesse. He was always up for a bit of mischief. Like the time we put red dye in the milk carton. Or when we slathered all the doorknobs with Vaseline.

  “Just to give you the license? Or did they catch Danny?”

  “Neither.” And she starts to walk again, pulling her jac
ket tight to her like a hug. I’m glad not to have to look her in the eyes. They see me, somehow, down to the bones. Down to the part of me that’s all rust and ashes. “They wanted to talk about the past. My past. You know, you’re the only one who could possibly understand.”

  “The past? What do you mean?”

  “Trey.” She whispers it like a curse word. And in a way it is. A cursed word. “Danny knows Trey or Trey knows Danny. Either way, they’re connected. The truck’s license plate came back registered to him.”

  “Why would…? Do you think it could just be a coincidence?”

  The mini mart beckons up ahead promising warmth and caffeine—I’m desperate for both—but Evie slows, shakes her head. “I got a note from the dead girl.”

  ****

  Evie’s been tearing at the edge of her empty coffee cup for the last two blocks. I’ve got this urge, a stirring in my belly, to put my hand on hers, to quiet it. But I don’t. I most definitely do not. It’s been so long since I touched a woman with intention, it feels impossible. Treacherous. Like scaling Mount Everest or lifting a semitruck. Touch like that—real intimacy—is one of the things I’d learned to live without. Same for privacy, dignity. And cheeseburgers with fries.

  “So you don’t know when she left the note…and it just said to meet her at Willow Court?” I ask. “That’s all?”

  “Yes. That’s all. I told you already.”

  I’ve spouted enough lies to know when I’m being lied to, but I let it go. Because if I didn’t, I’d have to officially change my name. Just call me Mr. Big F. Hypocrite, folks.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just…it was a long night. And I’m worried. What does Trey want with me?” She looks at me like I might have the answer. Like she trusts me. And that thrills me and freaks me the hell out. “I thought that part of my life was over.”

  The office parking lot is mostly empty. Just Mr. Vinetti’s old work truck and a beat-up Buick. So nobody would notice if I put my arms around her. I imagine how she’d fit perfectly, with her head just under my chin. How her hair would smell—the exact opposite of prison—like hope. But then, I think of Gwen, and the smell spoils. Rotten like my rancid apple of a heart.