by L. T. Vargus
“But what about Kara and Amber? Is Demetrio tied up in all of that?”
Zoe gestured at the man in the next room.
“He already admitted that Kara Dawkins worked there.”
“But no one from the club remembers seeing Amber?”
“None of the girls who work there now,” Zoe said. “Amber’s been away at school for a couple years. So maybe she used to work there.”
“Maybe.”
“I mean, you found that matchbook for the club in her room, right?”
“Yeah.”
Zoe spread her hands as if to indicate that this was proof of a solid connection between Amber and the club.
“Before you said that was—and I quote—‘extremely weak sauce.’”
“Yeah, well… that was before we knew how scummy the place was.”
The door to the observation room swung open, and Detective Peterson poked his head in.
“Demetrio’s lawyer just got here, but I thought you might want to see this,” he said and handed Zoe a printout of Robbie Turner’s criminal record.
They scanned the first page. Robert Turner, Jr., was a twenty-two-year-old Caucasian male with a history of arrests going back to his teen years for shoplifting, possession, retail fraud, drunk and disorderly conduct. The list went on.
“Looks like we have ourselves a budding small-time criminal,” Zoe said. “He gets around, too. He’s got busts spread over several counties. Salem, Washtenaw, Kalamazoo.”
Zoe tilted the page and squinted at the grainy driver’s license photo.
“Yeah, you know, I think I kinda know this guy.”
“Really?” Charlie asked, intrigued.
“I mean, just a vague familiarity. We see so many run-of-the-mill delinquents like this, they all kind of bleed together. But he’s got kind of a squirrelly look to him that makes me think I’ve seen him come through a few times. I think maybe his hair is different now.”
Zoe flipped the page, revealing a section with the heading “SMT,” which stood for scars, marks, and tattoos. It noted a scar on the left hand and a tattoo on the left forearm. A black-and-white photo of the inked arm showed a skull and dagger, with a banner wrapping around both that read, “Death Before Dishonor.”
“Holy shit,” Charlie said, staring at the photo, remembering now. She could see the blurred shape in her mind’s eye. The undulating shadows on the wall. A chase through the snow.
She pointed at the page in Zoe’s hands.
“That’s the dude who’s nailing Sharon Ritter.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Back in Zoe’s car, they zoomed toward the east side of town. It was time to pay Robbie Turner a visit.
As they drove, a discussion with Will from a couple days earlier suddenly sprang to Charlie’s mind.
“Did you hit Will in the face with a rock when you were kids?”
Zoe adjusted her glasses, eyes on the ceiling.
“I thought he’d duck.”
“What?”
“When I threw the rock,” Zoe said. “I faked him out a few times, and he kept ducking. So when I actually threw it, I thought he’d do the same. Instead he just stood there like an idiot and got hit in the face.”
“I see. So it’s his fault the rock hit him.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Zoe insisted, her cheeks flushing. “I felt horrible about it, by the way. It was a big rock and it hit him—BAM!—right below his left eye. But you don’t know what it was like growing up next door to him. He was like Bart Simpson. One time, he melted a hole in one of my Barbie dolls with a magnifying glass. And do you remember that summer they had to close down all the beaches because of high bacteria levels?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“I was seven. Will convinced me the bacteria story was a lie to cover up the real reason they’d closed the beaches. A shark was loose in Lake St. Clair and several kids had gone missing.”
Charlie chuckled.
“I didn’t dip a toe in the lake that summer. I was terrified.”
They reached the address on Robbie Turner’s driver registration, and Zoe parked across the street from the crumbling old apartment building.
“So we can tie Robbie Turner to Kara Dawkins, since he was the one who brought her in to the Red Velvet Lounge,” Zoe said.
“Correct.”
“And we can tie him to Amber Spadafore through her mother, whom he is—as you so eloquently put it—nailing.”
“Also correct.”
“But what about Amber herself? You think he’s nailing her, too?”
“Ugh,” Charlie said, grimacing at the thought. “I hope not.”
Zoe unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door.
“Ready?”
Charlie shadowed her down the snowy sidewalk, eyeballing the brick building Robbie Turner called home. The whole place looked like it might cave in on itself in a strong wind.
Zoe held the front door aside, and Charlie entered a dank foyer ahead of her. In its prime, the building had probably once been quite lovely, with cove ceilings and arched doorways, but now it was in a state of decay. Cracked plaster. Peeling paint.
At the end of a dim passage that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and wet dog, Zoe paused before a door. A brass plaque marked this apartment as 1F.
“This is it,” she said with a nod.
She lifted her fist to knock, but Charlie stopped her before her knuckles made contact.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Are you gonna do the standard cop knock?”
“The what?”
“Cops have this way of knocking. Very aggressive. Like, ‘Open the door, or we’ll kick it down.’”
Zoe’s lips quirked up on the right side. It was clear she wasn’t amused.
“I’m just saying, with Robbie Turner’s history, he probably knows the knock.”
With a melodramatic roll of her eyes, Zoe stepped back and tumbled her hand toward the door, giving Charlie leave to do the knocking herself.
Charlie gave the door four light taps. A neighborly knock.
Noises came from inside the apartment. Shuffling footsteps. Groaning floorboards.
The door swung aside, revealing a middle-aged man in a red plaid bathrobe. Two pale stick legs protruded from the bottom hem and disappeared into a pair of ratty slippers.
He sniffed and said, “Hey,” smirking slightly at Charlie in a way he probably thought was charming but wasn’t. Then his eyes slid over to Zoe, and he stood up straighter.
“What is this?” he asked. “If that old hag upstairs is saying I got the stereo on too loud again, I wasn’t even playing music.”
“We’re looking for Robbie Turner,” Zoe said.
The man relaxed at that, propping one shoulder against the door frame.
“Ah. Shoulda known.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair, stirring it into a shaggy mess. “What’d the little punk do now?”
“Is he here?” Zoe asked.
“Nah. Kicked his ass out a couple months ago.”
“And your name, sir?”
Even though Zoe was the one asking, he stared at Charlie when he answered.
“Wayne Kelly. And who might you be?”
He adjusted his stance, revealing quite a bit of one thin, pasty thigh. Between that and the triangle of sparsely haired chest, Charlie began to feel more than a little uncomfortable.
“I think we all know that Wayne here isn’t wearing anything under that robe,” Allie said.
“I’m Deputy Wyatt.” Zoe pointed a thumb at Charlie. “And this is my colleague, Miss Winters. Have you seen or spoken to Robbie since he moved out?”
Pursing his lips, Wayne fiddled with the tie of his bathrobe. Charlie winced. That tie was the only thing standing between her and him.
“We ain’t exactly on speaking terms. Little fucker owes me three months of rent.”
“I see.”
“When he left, he stole my guitar and a whole
rotisserie chicken I had in the fridge.”
“He stole a chicken?” Zoe asked.
Her eyes flicked over to Charlie, who had to bite down on her cheek to keep from smiling.
“Yes, ma’am. A rotisserie, like I said.”
“Surely the fact that it was a rotisserie chicken bumps this up from a misdemeanor to a felony,” Allie said.
Zoe hooked her thumbs around her gun belt.
“Any idea where he might be living now?”
Wayne scratched the week’s worth of stubble on his chin.
“Nope.”
Producing a card from her pocket, Zoe handed it to Wayne.
“Well, we appreciate your help today, Mr. Kelly. If you do hear from Robbie or get an idea of where he might be, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”
Wayne’s bloodshot gaze ogled first the card, then Charlie.
“What about you? You got a card?” Wayne twirled the bathrobe tie the way a burlesque dancer might spin the end of a feather boa.
“Fresh out,” Charlie said, backing away.
She followed Zoe out, feeling Wayne’s creeping gaze on her back as she went. Once outside, they both took in deep breaths of fresh air.
“So, do we believe him? Or is he covering for Robbie?”
“Only one way to find out,” Charlie said, scampering down the front steps and skirting around the corner of the building.
The dumpster positioned near the back of the building was overflowing with trash. Beside it, a hideous couch with orange upholstery was propped against the wall. Charlie lowered it to the snowy ground, getting a whiff of cat piss as she did. She scooted the sofa closer to the wall of the building, just beneath one of the last two windows on this side.
Scrambling up onto one arm of the sofa, she cupped her hands around her face and pressed her nose to the scuzzy glass.
“This is… I can’t be doing this,” Zoe said.
“You’re not doing this,” Charlie said, squinting to see through the haze. “I am.”
This window looked in on a small bedroom. Charlie spotted a Playboy Playmate calendar from 2016 tacked to the wall. On the bed, a pair of plaid flannel pants that matched the bathrobe Wayne had been wearing sat in a heap.
Bouncing across the length of the sofa, Charlie moved to the next window. Another bedroom. This one was empty aside from a stripped mattress on the floor and a Pepsi bottle that looked suspiciously like it was filled with piss. On the wood frame over the door, something familiar caught her eye: a bumper sticker reading, “No Fat Chix.” Robbie was absolutely passionate about that, it seemed. The corner of this decal was torn and rumpled, like someone had tried to scrape it off and quickly gave up.
Hopping down to the snow, Charlie dusted her hands.
“Shockingly, I think dear Wayne was being truthful with us. Robbie’s room looks abandoned.”
“Well, crap,” Zoe said.
As they trudged back to Zoe’s cruiser, the radio on her belt blipped out a mishmash of cop jargon that Charlie didn’t understand.
Zoe picked up the handset.
“Ten-four, on my way,” she said, then turned to Charlie. “I gotta head back to the station. I’ll drop you at your place?”
Charlie nodded and kicked at a loose stone. It went skittering over the blacktop.
Zoe must have sensed the frustration she was feeling, because she reached out and clapped Charlie on the back.
“Robbie may not be here, but we’ll find him. He’s gotta be panicking at this point. He wrecked his car. His boss got busted. He’ll screw up somewhere, and we’ll get him.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Charlie said, but the words sounded hollow in her ears.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Charlie schlepped up to her apartment, trying to shake off the funk that had settled over her. Zoe had continued trying to cheer her up on the ride, reminding her that there was an APB out on Robbie Turner. But Charlie couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d almost had him—he’d been literally within arm’s reach the night she’d chased him through the woods. So damn close.
She unlocked the door to the apartment and dropped her bag inside. There was a note from Will on the bed.
C-
Call me when you want to stir up more trouble.
-W
It brought a brief smile to her face before she went back to brooding about losing Robbie Turner. She dropped onto the edge of the bed and hunched forward, propping her elbows on her knees.
He got kicked out of his apartment. Where would a twenty-two-year-old in trouble go?
Charlie’s head snapped up, and she hustled into the kitchenette, where her laptop sat open on the counter. She typed in “Robert Turner Salem Island” and hit the enter key. The second result was a local address for Robert and Felicia Turner. Young Robbie’s parents lived on the island.
Robbie’s parents lived in a single-story ranch house bordered by a row of skeletal lilac bushes. A pontoon boat covered with a tarp squatted next to the garage. Charlie peeked into the garage as she passed. It was empty, but that didn’t necessarily mean no one was home.
The driveway and sidewalk had been freshly shoveled, and crystals of rock salt crackled under her feet as she approached the front door. She knocked against a steel screen door, the metal cold against her knuckles.
Through a small pane of decorative glass on the door, she spied an L-shaped beige sectional taking up most of the floor space. Flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. A china cabinet in the corner filled with some kind of small figurine collection. Angels or fairies, she thought.
Charlie listened while she waited, hoping to hear a muffled voice or the faint sound of a TV in another room. She heard nothing and sensed no movement.
She knocked again to be sure, but after a full minute, she was forced to concede that no one was home.
Treading back to her car, she considered whether she should sit on the house for a while, figuring that either Robbie or his parents would have to turn up at some point. The prospect of watching an empty house for hours on end didn’t exactly sound appealing, but she couldn’t think of what else to do.
She opened her car door and climbed in, glancing back at the house in hopes of seeing some sign that someone was inside: the flutter of a curtain, a light turning on. But there was nothing. Charlie sighed.
The moment she pulled her door shut, she sensed movement. A flash of something metallic near her right eye.
Cold steel pressed against her neck, just above her larynx. Holding absolutely still, Charlie’s gaze snapped to the rearview mirror, where a pair of wild brown eyes stared back at her. Above them, a scraggle of dark hair.
Robbie Turner crouched in her backseat, holding a knife to her throat.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Robbie jerked forward, his torso pressing into the back of her seat, something twitchy and animal in his movements.
Charlie gaped. Frozen. Breath heaving into her open mouth.
Her eyes whirled in her skull, trying to watch both him and the knife against her throat, somehow not able to look directly at either.
“Don’t move,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
Charlie swallowed, wincing when the blade dug a little harder into the skin. She had to think. Had to be smart.
It was a struggle to speak, to keep her voice from trembling with the knife brushing her carotid artery.
“OK, Robbie. You’re in control here. Tell me what you want.”
“What I want?” His eyes stretched wide in the rearview mirror. “I want you to stop snooping around after me. I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”
Charlie tried to nod, but the edge of the knife stopped her.
“Alright. But I don’t know if that’s going to help you all that much anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cops busted the Red Velvet Lounge last night.”
His face went hard, eyes flashing.
“So what?”
“So the owner, Demetrio? He gave you up. Said you were the one who brought Kara Dawkins in. I’m not the only one looking for you now.”
That rattled him. She watched his face contort in fear as his mind connected the dots. It was a gamble, laying it all out like this. If he was thinking rationally, he might be willing to let her go. He could take her car and her phone and run. If not… well, then she might end up like Kara and Amber.
“Fuck. Oh fuck.”
The blade began to shake, nudging uncomfortably against Charlie’s larynx.
“The police know that I’m here, Robbie. If anything happens to me…”
The knife glittered where it caught the dome light as the blade sliced the air again. Away from her this time.
She gasped as the blade flopped onto the empty passenger seat. It bounced twice, and then it settled into one of the grooves in the upholstery.
They both stared at the spiky metal for a moment, shocked silence filling the car. Charlie’s chest quivered, sucked in a fresh breath.
Then Robbie’s hands shot up as though Charlie had pulled a gun on him. Palms out. Arms shaking. Fingers trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a wavering voice. “I’m sorry, OK? I thought I could scare you off. I didn’t know what else to do. Everything’s gone to shit, and I panicked. But now…”
She turned to face him fully, found the expression of a frightened child staring back at her. Eyes wide and wet.
He cleared his throat.
“Look, I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t want to hurt anybody. I just… want to tell my side of the story.”
Charlie wasn’t sure what to make of his sudden shift in demeanor, but she wanted to keep him talking.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“I didn’t kidnap Kara or anyone, OK? But I know how the cops think around here. They’ll pin it on me anyway. Maybe even off me and plant a weapon on my corpse or something. An easy way to make all of this go away. I’ve seen the stuff about Jeffrey Epstein on the news. I know how the real world works.”
