Repressed Page 10

  Decantor scribbled on his notepad and Morrison eyed the book. He hadn’t realized Decantor was taking notes. Was he being interrogated? Sweat popped out on the back of his already wet neck as he masked his face with nonchalance. “What have you got so far?” They’re going to lock me up. Again.

  “Found her in her apartment, chain lock cut. It wasn’t a robbery—Bell had a gold bracelet lying on her dresser. Looks like the perp snuck in while she was sleeping. Shirt in her mouth, probably to keep her quiet. Some visible tearing in the genital region, and on her lower belly, all of it done with a round, sharp object like an ice pick, but bigger. Raped with the implement used to stab her. She bled out.”

  What the hell? Just like the wounds on Acosta’s back. A couple attacks on little boys didn’t fit with this case, and Acosta hadn’t had any puncture wounds in the genital region. But that round shape was unusual and they’d held that information back from the press. Then there was the shirt. Acosta’s and Reynolds’s shirts had been wrapped around their throats, but shoving it in the victim’s mouth wouldn’t be much of a stretch. “Sounds like a sex crimes case,” he said slowly.

  “Yeah, it does. But the chief said you guys were overloaded and we didn’t need special training to deal with a homicide—no living victim to assist. And there was no semen, no trace of spermicide, so the medical examiner doesn’t think there was penetration by anything other than the spiked object.”

  Spiked object. It had to be related. Morrison jerked toward a sharp scratching sound just in time to see Slash poke his head through the cat door. The cat peered at Decantor, then yanked his face back through the hole to the outside.

  “A jilted lover might fit,” Decantor was saying, “out to get revenge on her boyfriend’s other woman. Raped her with the knife or whatever for taking what she saw as hers. We did think about Acosta, with the size and shape of the holes, but—”

  “How’d you know about the punctures? On Acosta?” Had the stabbing pattern gotten leaked too? Morrison ground his teeth.

  “The ME. But he did say the rest didn’t match—no rape in Bell’s case, not enough force behind the wounds to be a stomping, different locations, vastly different victim. But he’s double checking as a precautionary measure because it is a weird weapon.” He stopped writing and leaned against the counter. “Outside of Acosta, what other cases are you guys working on right now?”

  Morrison kept his face blank. “Most were reassigned when we got Acosta, but the few remaining are about what you’d expect: some domestic violence, a few sexual assault cases. But they’re all wrapped, just finishing up the final paperwork. Why?”

  “Just curious because … well, you knew Bell. And”—Decantor tapped the tip of his pen in the book—“someone went through her purse. Left the wallet, but pulled out a bunch of other shit, including your card. I thought maybe you were investigating her for something. Domestic violence incident, thought maybe she was an ex-hooker since that’s Petrosky’s specialty.” He raised his eyebrow in Morrison’s direction, maybe asking him to deny it.

  “Nope, I just wanted to hire her as a nanny for Evie. But she turned down the job, said she took another position.” The final hiss of the coffeepot drew Morrison’s attention but he didn’t turn, just watched Decantor process the information.

  Decantor’s eyebrow sank to its usual position. Acceptance. “Did she say where she took that other job?”

  Morrison turned to pour the coffee, swallowing hard over the knot that had taken root behind his Adam’s apple. Some coffee splashed over the rim of the first cup and he wiped it up with his face towel, then passed Decantor a mug. He left his own on the counter.

  Decantor stilled—he must have noticed the panic on Morrison’s face. “I’m just trying to track her movements,” he said gently. “You know how it is. Not a single credit card hit, no ATM stops, nothing. You saw her Monday so you’re the last to see her alive. No one thinks it was … you know. You.” Decantor, and the whole Ash Park PD, had seen Morrison’s imprisonment last spring, had watched as the incident unfolded in court: the false arrest for Griffen’s crimes, the way Shannon’s ex-husband had gone after him tooth and nail, trying to keep him locked up, the evidence planted at Morrison’s house that would have convicted him if Shannon and Petrosky hadn’t uncovered the real killer. Thinking about it still made Morrison nauseous, and he’d only been locked up a week before Shannon and Petrosky had managed to clear him. “It was just an interview,” Morrison said. “I’ll get you her résumé, but we didn’t cover anything except her job history.” He went to retrieve Bell’s file from the stack still on Shannon’s night table and returned to Decantor, who squinted at the fat folder in surprise.

  “Really checked the babysitters out, didn’t you?”

  More than he should have. He probably looked guilty as hell, even though he couldn’t imagine another cop who wouldn’t do that for his kid. Valentine sure as shit would. Decantor just didn’t understand; he was still a bachelor.

  “Just background checks.” Morrison passed him the folder with a tightness in his throat that he covered with a smile. “Just do me a favor and pretend you did the research yourself, all right?”

  Decantor nodded and tucked the folder under his arm. “Absolutely. And I’ll give Shannon a call for follow-up, just to have her statement on record.”

  Morrison recited her cell, and Decantor’s pen flew over the page, jotting other notes apparently, maybe about Shannon being out of town. Maybe not.

  Morrison cleared his throat. “Seems like there’d be someone else at her apartment building who would have seen her after she came here.”

  “Yep, and nothing. Doesn’t look like anyone noticed her missing.”

  “Then how’d you—”

  “Fluke. Building superintendent went to see her because her car was getting towed—she’d parked in a reserved spot. He got worried when she didn’t answer the door because she had a diabetic seizure in the lobby last year—he figured better safe than sorry.”

  Bell hadn’t mentioned anything about being diabetic when she was interviewing for the nanny position. She should have told us. And if Bell had withheld something so critical, how could he know whether the nanny they’d actually hired had been forthcoming?

  Decantor was still talking, and Morrison had to force himself to tune back in: “—closet full of books, no heels or going-out clothes like you’d expect. Lucky we got the call before she started to smell. Or before a friend or family member found her.”

  “Lucky.”

  Decantor nodded. “So you interviewed her on Monday. What time did you call to offer her the position?”

  “Shannon called her Tuesday, earlier in the day. She rang me back that night, around … seven or so.”

  Decantor stopped writing. “Tuesday night?” Worry etched itself into the lines around his tight mouth. “She was dead by then, Morrison. The medical examiner says she died on Monday.”

  Morrison froze. Impossible. The ME had to be wrong. Morrison pulled his phone from his pocket, handed it to Decantor. “The number she called from matched the number on her résumé.” He paused. “Though it was weird that she called me and not Shannon—Bell had my card, but Shannon was the one who had called her. Shannon interviewed her initially too. And the voice on the phone was … a little off, deeper, but I thought she had a cold.”

  “No cell found at the scene.”

  Someone had taken it. And they called me. It was just a phone call, but he felt almost … violated. His stomach churned and he turned to the kitchen window, half expecting to see someone watching them. His fist clenched. He stared hard at it until it went slack.

  “Why kill someone and call back random numbers the next day?” Decantor said, frowning “You think he was trying to make it look like she was still alive?”

  “Maybe. But why bother to do that?” He met Decantor’s eyes. No one would have found her for days without that tow truck, he’d said.

  “Maybe he wanted to make sure no
one got worried, so he could have his … way. After she was dead and cold.” Decantor grimaced. “He probably creamed his pants before he could take it out the first time.”

  Who the hell called me?

  “Gotta be someone she knows,” Morrison said. “Someone who stalked her at least, knew how to get in and out of her apartment. Who knew she’d interviewed with us.” The implication tugged at a soft spot in his stomach. “And the voice on the phone was female, so you’re looking for a woman, too. Or someone with one of those electronic voice changers.” What the fuck was going on? Had they badgered Bell about why she had a cop’s card in her wallet? Were they fucking with him? But … the weapon. So similar to the one used on Acosta.

  Then again it wasn’t hard to get hold of an ice pick. The press leaks were probably behind this bullshit too, someone who knew more than they should. Later this week there’d surely be a big story out about the weapon and the stomping, and everyone and their mother would be wasting the department’s time with nonsense tips.

  “Maybe Shannon will have some insight since she interviewed Bell initially. You think she’ll be up now?”

  “Not sure. Haven’t talked to her today.” She was trying to prove to herself that she could do this alone. That she didn’t need him as a crutch. She was driving and trying to be safe. But she forgot her medication. “I’ll call her now.”

  He got Shannon’s voicemail three times in a row, and in that time Decantor finished his coffee and moved into the living room, stepping on Shannon’s favorite rug with his heavy boots. Though Decantor left no mark, Morrison winced at the intrusion.

  “I’m sure she’s driving.” The phone echoed with the last line of her voicemail, Shannon’s voice, and his stomach twisted and turned, the knot in his throat expanding, trying to cut off his air supply. And the needle of panic in the back of his brain wriggling its way free, struggling against his self-restraint and Decantor’s worried stare. She’d planned to stop halfway to Atlanta, stay in a hotel, but if Evie was sleeping, she might have kept driving. And there was no telling whether she’d be in a good cell zone, right? Or maybe her phone battery had died.

  He forced a smile. “When she calls back I’ll have her call you, okay?” His chest was hot and sweaty and it had nothing to do with his run. “I’ll write out a statement about what happened on Tuesday too, what the caller said and all that. And I’ll email you my phone records so you can follow-up on the Bell case.”

  “Okay, man, sounds good. I appreciate it.” Decantor nodded. “And I’m sure whoever called was fucking with you. Found a cop’s number at the scene, wanted to be an asshole.”

  With a voice changer?

  “I’ll walk you out,” Morrison said to the dead screen, willing it to ring.

  When the taillights from Decantor’s car finally receded, panic wrapped around Morrison’s heart like a skeletal hand and crushed the last remnants of calm. She was okay. Had to be. But why wouldn’t she call him, dammit? It had been … what? A day. No, not even. Twelve hours. No, fifteen. They could surely go a few hours without talking—she fucking hated talking on the phone. He was being paranoid. He was freaked about being away from them.

  But something weird was going on here.

  He grabbed his keys to go back to the precinct. He’d run down her credit cards and goddammit he’d drive out to Alex’s himself if he had to, just to put his nerves to rest. And to tell her he missed her. That he missed Evie. That this really wasn’t about her—it was just his own need for them and nothing more. She’d surely be able to see that. Hopefully.

  His cell rang. No, not rang—text. Shannon. Oh, thank fucking god.

  “Sorry, horrible reception. I’ll call tomorrow, ok?”

  He responded:

  “Ok. Love you.”

  He waited for a response but none came, and finally he pocketed the cell.

  Of course the reception is bad. Of course it was. Had he really thought the miles of freeway were replete with cell towers? But the silent phone seemed to amplify the quiet of the house—too quiet—and every nerve in his body sang with anxiety and agitation and acute panic. He would have felt so much better just hearing her voice.

  Then suddenly every shadow was an invitation to go back, every creak of the house settling a whisper to return to a life he’d left behind. I can make the pain stop, the voice whispered. And it could. Just one hit would soothe his frayed nerves, make sleep come fast and hard and he could start again tomorrow, refreshed. It was the drug, an emotion more than actual words, but he could feel each syllable echoing in his head, through his chest, and prying into those tiny glorious places of exquisite loveliness that could only be reached with the needle. He hadn’t touched those quiet places in years.

  Stress. It was always the stress that tried to drag him back. But if Shannon could be strong, avoid her own crutches, then goddammit, he could too. And if he couldn’t … he’d never tell her.

  No.

  He yanked at the doorknob and his hand slipped, slick with his own sweat. He tried again, felt the click of the latch giving way, and escaped into the night.

  16

  Petrosky’s windows glowed yellow with murky lamplight. There were no other cars in the driveway, but the tinkle of female laughter wafted through the open window and over the porch. Petrosky had picked someone up. Probably someone he shouldn’t have, like always. Never for sex, he didn’t think, just for company—and because Petrosky wanted to get them off the street, if only for the night.

  When Petrosky let him in the front door, the women at the table eyed Morrison suspiciously. One dark, one light; one tall, one short; both thin as rails. One wore shorts so brief only the fringe was visible underneath the hem of a sweatshirt reading “Ash Park PD.”

  “Am I interrupting something?” Morrison asked.

  Petrosky ignored the question and turned to the women, raising his voice so they could hear him across the room. “Ladies, this is Detective Morrison. Morrison, June and Rita.”

  Morrison raised a hand in greeting, not trusting his voice enough to speak, and Petrosky gestured to the table. “Now that we have four players...how about some spades? You in, California?”

  Anything to distract him from Shannon and her terrible reception. Anything to distract him from the case and the fact that a killer had possibly called him, though surely it was a sick prank or they’d have made some type of demand, right? He should bring up Decantor’s visit, almost wanted to, but the thought of having to rehash it right now while the drug was still whispering softly at the back of his mind no matter how he tried to forget—he needed to be distracted from that, too. He needed to forget all of it before he lost his shit. “Yeah, I’ll play.” He leaned close to Petrosky’s ear and lowered his voice. “Did you pull them off the street tonight?”

  “Mind your business, California. Nothing illegal about this. Just a couple of people playing cards.”

  “Yeah, okay, I know.” He tried to keep his voice even, hiding his anxiety, his addiction, his past, beneath a grin. “Wouldn’t be fair to avoid people based on profession anyway.”

  “Well fuck, you think they want to avoid us because we’re cops? I hadn’t even considered that.” Petrosky headed for the table and plopped into a chair.

  Morrison took the seat across from Rita and her hazel eyes shifted to Petrosky, who grinned at her. She smiled back with teeth so white and clean they could have been featured in a toothpaste commercial. Morrison peered into the plastic cups on the table.

  Please don't let him be off the wagon.

  Of course he’s off. No point even trying to stay clean. We all fall eventually. We’ll go down together.

  He resisted the urge to smell the cup.

  Petrosky saw him looking and frowned. “Shirley Temples.” Almost defensive. “Want one?”

  Morrison glanced at the counter—bottles of 7up and orange juice sat with a jar of cherries in the glow of the pink princess night-light that had belonged to Petrosky’s daughter. No liquor, a
t least not out in the open.

  “You can just make OJ too, straight up,” Petrosky said.

  “Too bad you got nothing to go with it.” June’s voice was raspy as sandpaper. She pouted as she dealt the cards and Petrosky shot her a narrow “stop giving me shit” look, but he lost his scowl when she winked at him. Then she smiled. There was no way these girls were here for free, which was sketchy at best, but at least Petrosky was sober.

  “Shirley Temples sound great,” Morrison said. Rita stood but he waved her back down. “No, I’ll make it.”

  “She’s been playing bartender all night,” Petrosky said. “Rita makes a damn fine drink—she’s a professional now too. I called in a favor over at The Lounge.”

  “The place Crazy Mark runs? I thought we arrested him.”

  “We did. He’s on probation. Good deeds will help him stay that way.” Petrosky winked at Rita and she beamed.

  June picked up her cards. “Eddie got me an interview tomorrow too,” she said, not to be outdone. She smiled at Petrosky, then down at her hand while she arranged her cards. “Three.”

  Morrison exchanged his own cards and waited while June and Petrosky made their plays. They were halfway through the hand before Morrison realized his heart had slowed and the back of his neck was dry.

  The needle in his brain was gone.

  “It was night, and the rain fell; and falling,

  it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood.”

  Edgar Allan Poe, Silence - A Fable

  17

  There was no light, only the blackness of fear that pulsed in time to her throbbing head. Her breath came in heavy gasps, thick and muffled, echoing in her ears like she had a hood over her face. But there was no hood, only the dark—the cloudy thunderstorm gray of a tomb. Stifling. And all was silent. How long had she been here?

  Shannon raised her head and pain shot through her neck and down to where her shoulder connected with the floor.