Repressed Page 26

  “Good morning, Mr. Petrosky.”

  “Detective.”

  Her smile faltered. “Of course, Detective. Did you need your pills?”

  They wanted him to take some drug that would help with the tobacco cravings, but goddammit, they could kiss his ass. “No thanks.”

  “Sir, part of the program is—”

  “I understand. You want compliance. But I don’t want to take more drugs to get off the first ones, all right?”

  “Detective, tobacco and heroin withdrawal can be—”

  “I appreciate your position. But I’m okay. I’d have symptoms if I wasn’t. And I’ll let you check my blood pressure all day long.” He leaned toward the window. “You could let me have a cigarette.”

  “Nice try.” She shook her head and smiled kindly, probably trying like hell not to roll her eyes.

  “Just one.”

  She looked past him into the room. Looked down. Wrote something on a piece of paper. Looked up again and met his eyes. “Oh, you’re still here?” Now her smile was sarcastic. “Answer’s the same.” She waved him away, this time with her middle finger.

  He liked her better every minute. Even better than he had yesterday when he’d sat in the back of the room trying to figure out how to get into the locked cubicle she was in now, where the computer was. She’d just sat there, pretending to ignore him but watching him out of the corner of her eye. He could always tell.

  “How about a deck of cards?”

  She appraised him. “Have you checked the table in the back?”

  “I will now. Thank you.”

  He felt her eyes on his back, probably trying to tell if he was wobbly on his feet like he had been last night. Maybe wondering if he was about to have a heart attack or a goddamn seizure. He strode to the back of the room taking extra care to walk square and stiff and probably looking like a fucking penguin, trying as he was not to shit himself.

  The cards were on the back table right where she said they would be. He pulled them from the pack and shuffled, attempting to look nonchalant to conceal the fact that he was scoping out the other residents. There was a cocky-looking asshole in the back who didn’t meet the description of any of their bad guys and he was way too overtly jerky to be playing low-key. Petrosky turned his attention to the guys in the front corner, still all standing with slack expressions and pock-marked faces. Probably on heavy legal drugs, helping them come down from even heavier illegal ones. Not a good choice for an inside informant, but this Karen girl wasn’t necessarily smart. Just manipulative. And patient as fuck.

  He dealt solitaire.

  He hated solitaire.

  He fucking sucked at solitaire.

  Three games. Four. Five. The nurse caught his eye and he lifted the deck and nodded to her. She smiled and went back to her prescriptions or whatever she was doing behind the counter. Would she make a good informant? Probably.

  Hell, probably not. She seemed too … genuine. He’d met a lot of perps and he could see guilt like he’d be able to see a third nostril, knew whether they deserved to be handcuffed before he could tell you what they’d done. And the hairs on the back of his neck prickled now at the sound of another person breathing behind him. He resisted the impulse to turn around and look.

  “One of my favorites.” The voice was low, hoarse, the sound of someone who had damaged his vocal cords smoking bad crack or who’d had an unfortunate run-in with a kung fu master and got sucker punched in the trachea.

  “Not mine,” Petrosky said, dealing the cards again. “Turns out playing against myself I can’t win for shit.” A steady shh shh crept into his awareness behind him and he glanced down and saw the head of the broom, sweeping breakfast crumbs from under his seat into a messy pile next to the guy’s shoes. No, not shoes. Boots. Like biker boots, but not—high from the outline through his taupe uniform pants, made of faux leather and adorned with buckles across the top of his foot. Treads bigger than were necessary for any self-respecting man. Not that this meant much—Morrison’s hair was longer than any self-respecting man’s should be, though at least his hair didn’t look like it could leap from its owner and stomp you to death. Unlike this asshole’s fucking boots.

  Petrosky glanced up at the medication window and waved to the nurse again, who was now watching the pair of them from under a cocked eyebrow.

  “No one likes to play alone if they don’t have to, I guess.” The man spoke softly, but there was a note of agitation to it. Irritation or fear? Their suspect had a fear of rejection, got worked up about challenges to his masculinity, if McCallum was right. Petrosky stiffened and stared at his own feet again, keeping his face placid as he could manage. I know what you are, fucker. And soon as he was able he was going to take this jerkwad down.

  The man made no further effort to correct the mess on the floor, but shuffled around the table toward the other chair. Petrosky squinted at the boots again. On the inside, near the heel, a set of hammered copper panels were sewn to the boot, mud or dog shit squished between the panel and the boot tread in the tiny, imperfect crevice. Fucking fancy. Looked homemade, too. Petrosky wondered if he knew how to make spikes. But surely he did. He was flaunting it, teasing him. It was a slap in the goddamn face. He had to know Petrosky was aware of who he was, and the fact that he didn’t seem concerned made Petrosky’s heart rate climb. If this guy didn’t care about getting caught—was the damage already done? Were Shannon and Evie already dead? Was the guy on a suicide mission? What?

  Unless he was just there for Petrosky. Maybe he wanted to spill. From the sounds of his heavy breath, the guy was practically salivating with the thrill of almost discovery. Almost. This dude was a fucking idiot.

  Dude? Now he was thinking like Morrison. His heart seized at the thought of Shannon and Evie, and he resisted the urge to grab the broom and shove it up the guy’s ass for what he’d done to Shannon’s face. Hopefully this bastard hadn’t done worse since that photo on Morrison’s phone. And if he had … Petrosky’s fist clenched but he released it, sighed far more loudly than was necessary, and collected the cards into a pile. “Want to play? I can’t do this shit anymore.”

  A thunk noise, wood on mortar, probably the broom being propped against the wall. “I suppose,” the guy said softly. “I am due for a break.”

  Petrosky finally glanced up as the guy circled the table. Bald, shorter than Petrosky, thin— he’d fit the stats of the booted killer at the Acosta scene. No visible tattoos, but a stippling of pock marks ran along his jaw. Some might have been pimples, even infected blackheads, but others were deeper, as if he’d been digging for something in his face with a needle. Sicko had probably enjoyed that shit.

  But his most striking feature was the lack of wrinkles—not a single age spot. This guy was really young, nineteen or twenty, especially with the acne. Just a fucking kid. He had been learning—McCallum’s shrinky ass was right. He’d been watching the pedophile. Maybe watching Karen. His gaze was dead and dark, even when he smiled, but his black eyebrows had a touch of blond coming through at the corners, like he’d done a shitty dye job. That explained the half-blond-half-black hair at the Bell crime scene, the one they’d used to type his DNA. The guy’s gaze flicked to the nurses’ station and when the nurse looked their way he sat quickly, averting his eyes though he could not hide the brief quiver in his jaw. Fearful. But as Petrosky watched, the man’s face hardened and he sat straighter. Fear and rage. McCallum was fucking good.

  A badge on his shirt said Adam: Xtreme Clean Janitorial. Fake name? Probably an independent cleaning company, unrelated to the rehab center. Looked like the center paid ex-patients for mentoring and not for cleaning up—or maybe they just hired out on the weekends. Still, if HR had been more forthcoming, maybe Petrosky would have been able to snag this bastard before he’d ended up in this shithole. Bunch of fuckheads, all of them.

  Across from Petrosky at the table, Adam’s eyes glittering darkly but still with a telltale tremble at the corners. “So what are you i
n for?”

  “Heroin.”

  “Mm-hmm.” No shock. No surprise. He already knew.

  Petrosky dealt out gin rummy. “What about you? Dabble a little on the side?” He leaned in conspiratorially and tried to wink but his eyelid just twitched like he was hopped up on crank.

  “I don’t do drugs. Tried a few in my day, but … you know.”

  Yeah, he did know. This guy wasn’t an addict. This guy had no demons that bothered him enough to drown them in liquor or drugs—inside, he was already numb. Some people were born that way.

  To the left of the table, a tiny smear of mud from Adam’s boot marred the linoleum. Petrosky nodded toward it. “Better wipe your shoes or you’ll be here all night cleaning up after yourself.” He waited for a telltale grimace or a frown, and the guy didn’t disappoint. His nostrils flared, and he kicked the mud with the toe of his boot. The walkways outside the rehab center were cement. He must walk to work, or maybe he biked it through the park. Explained the mud. Forgoing car ownership would also mean one less thing to buy—one less record to have.

  Petrosky picked up his cards, and the guy did the same.

  “Looks like it’s been a hard road for you, Detective.” The guy’s chest puffed out, almost in challenge.

  Petrosky resisted the urge to remind the guy that he hadn’t told him he was a detective, and instead chose a card, then laid another down. “You look a little tired yourself, Adam.”

  Adam did not respond to the use of his name—maybe not his name at all—just shrugged and played his turn, laying his discard down. Thin fingers, fidgety. Eyes darting all over the fucking place, as if he was trying to decide how to act. At his temple … bumps—hives?—were appearing, swelling, working their way across his skin. Adam scratched the back of his neck.

  “Bet it’s hard, this line of work,” Petrosky said. “All the bitches coming in and out every day, the nurses giving you shit. Having to wait on them like you don’t even exist.”

  Adam’s jaw worked, and his chin was suddenly pinker, angrier—definitely a rash. He clenched his fingers. What the fuck was wrong with this guy?

  “Bet it keeps you up at night. You’ve got bags under your eyes: trouble sleeping, am I right?”

  Adam’s gaze darkened, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Not really from this. More the cats. They claw the windows at night, or fight on the lawn.” He stared at the cards, perhaps unsure about his next move. “Any ideas for getting rid of them?”

  If he had cats at his window, he probably had a one-story house. A one-story house within walking—or biking—distance. Petrosky wracked his brain. He’d lived in Ash Park for twenty-five years. He could think of two neighborhoods that were likely. But how to discern the exact property?

  Petrosky pulled an ace and discarded it. “You got awnings? I’d think if you hung something from them, you’d make it uncomfortable for the furry fuckers. Strings of beads or something heavier that will sit against the sill. Block them out?”

  Adam shook his head. “Nope. And the shutters are old as shit, and the worst piss-poor green you’ve ever seen.”

  Green shutters. This fucker was brutal but not smart—or maybe he was just too damn excited. The look on his face was closer to “come at me, bro” and less “holy shit, I’m about to get caught” like it should have been.

  “Sounds like you need an upgrade.”

  “Or a better job,” he spat.

  Angry again. Fuck.

  “And it’s right across the road from some moron with an American flag that flaps all night long. Can you believe that? Not even sure how anyone can fly it all proud like that these days.” His eyes flicked to the nurse and back. “What do you think, Detective?” His words dripped bitterness. He was telling him on purpose. If Petrosky hadn’t asked a single question, this guy would have brought it up anyway. And if Petrosky hadn’t been coming down off heroin, withdrawing from nicotine, and clenching his ass cheeks together, maybe he’d have noticed sooner.

  He could find the place now. Probably rather quickly. In an hour’s time they could be walking Shannon out—so long as this guy was giving him the correct location and Shannon wasn’t locked in a storage shed somewhere, which was entirely possible. But the moment Petrosky checked himself out of this hellhole was the moment this fuckhead called his partner. Called Karen. And once that happened, Shannon and Evie were dead. Maybe he’d find their bodies full of holes like those in Dylan Acosta’s back.

  Adam smiled, but his eyes were menacing, not friendly. Adam was giving him this information because he wanted Petrosky to screw up. He wanted a reason to kill Shannon and Evie. Maybe he was tired of the game. Bored? But if Karen had another goal in mind—going after Morrison and Shannon both, as she had when she was with Griffen—she wouldn't be ready to give up yet. What had McCallum said? That their guy was afraid of women. That he’d been rejected. Maybe Adam was tired of playing the game, but he couldn’t confront Karen directly, so he was forcing her hand by ending the game himself.

  The guy was staring at him, not at the cards. He knew Petrosky was trapped. Phone calls were monitored here, and Petrosky was certain there’d be no home registered in this guy’s name. Nothing to make the process faster. Even if the asshole wasn’t lying, they wouldn’t be able to scout the neighborhood, let alone pinpoint to the correct house before Shannon and Evie got hurt.

  Adam smiled at him. He’d been fucking with Petrosky the whole time.

  Petrosky gritted his teeth and laid down his cards. “Gin.”

  39

  Morrison turned the phone over and over in his hand as if that would make the text message different somehow. But every time the cell came to rest face up in his palm the message was the same.

  He had texted:

  “It’s done. Watch the news.”

  Janey’s reply:

  “Now to watch them suffer the way I watched Danny suffer.”

  The pictures she’d sent earlier practically leapt off the screen, and he couldn’t stop looking. Shannon, the bottom half of her face covered in spit and gore, her lips surgically zipped together with blood-soaked sutures. Evie’s onesie, drenched in blood. But no photos of his daughter. He could not allow himself to consider what that meant.

  He had done everything he’d been asked to do, and he knew now what a grievous mistake that had been. This was the reason you didn’t give in to demands. This was the reason no panicked spouse was allowed to decide whether to give kidnappers what they wanted.

  He had settled some old drama she’d had with Roger. He had hurt his best friend—maybe irreparably. But the suffering wouldn’t end there. He hadn’t begun to suffer yet. That had been the point all along.

  And after all of it, he still didn’t know who Janey really was. Once you remember me, you’ll know exactly where to find me. Was she full of shit? Didn’t matter if she was—he had nothing else to go on and if he didn’t do everything in his power … he’d never forgive himself. He was no longer concerned with the possibility that she was lying.

  What if she wasn’t lying?

  Morrison leaned back against his pillow and dropped the cell to his side, picking up the photo of Evie they’d always kept beside the bed. Newborn, pink. Before she had known pain. Before she’d been taken. Before she’d been … abused.

  His gut clenched, trying to force bile into his throat. He had to get her back.

  I’m coming for you, baby, baby girl.

  But what else could he do? He’d scoured all the newspaper clippings from around the time of Danny’s death. Obits, headlines, every local high school yearbook that he could find online. No Janeys that matched the description he was looking for. And Danny had no family left that Morrison could ask—Danny’s father had died before he’d met Morrison, and his mom’d had a heart attack nearly six years ago. No siblings. Even Mrs. Palmer had no idea who Janey’s family had been, though she’d looked—had to be a runaway or adoption —and the cell Janey had used to text Karen Palmer
was a throwaway. He’d looked at birth records from 1983 to 1987 for fuck’s sake—no Janeys listed. Jenny? Janet? Jane? But there were too many. And he had no more time.

  You see me, but you don’t. Because she had been there that night. She’d watched Danny die. She blamed Morrison now, whether it was because he’d brought the drugs or left without getting help, or because she’d watched him beat Danny to death in a moment of drug-induced rage—he had no idea. He couldn’t remember a fucking thing—or at least nothing that would make all of this click. But just because he couldn’t recall it didn’t mean he hadn’t done it. And no matter how often he told himself he didn’t want to know … he had to find out. Or he’d fail. He’d lose Shannon. He’d lose Evie.

  He’d lose everything.

  The needle called to him. There had been too much in that bag for Petrosky alone, way too much. And that was the point, wasn’t it? That was why she had put him through all of this. To bring him to this place where the drug spoke louder than everything else, where the drug would talk and he’d listen because he had nothing and no one else.

  His wife was gone. His baby. Petrosky. All because of him. They’d never forgive him. And they shouldn’t—he couldn’t forgive himself.

  The comforter, once so soft, so sweet, felt rough and full of sharp edges under his bare legs. No matter how slowly and purposefully he inhaled, the air did not restore his calm—it was a roaring ocean, trying to drown him. It had all been a carefully laid trap. She’d set out to destroy him from the very beginning.

  And she would. Tears fell onto Evie’s picture, still clutched in his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

  One last chance. One last shot.

  The spoon, cooling now but not yet cold, sat next to him, staring accusingly. He palpated the vein in his thigh and it sang with anticipation. I’m ready, it called. No one will ever know.