Killing Ways
Killing Ways
Alex Barclay
Dark times lie ahead for Special Agent Ren Bryce and the Rocky Mountains Safe Streets Task Force in the heart-stopping new thriller from the bestselling author of DARKHOUSE and BLOOD LOSS.In the game of vengeance, he holds a killer hand.In her most shocking case yet, FBI Special Agent Ren Bryce takes on a depraved serial killer fuelled by a warped sense of justice.A master of evasion, each life he takes ramps up Ren’s obsession with finding him. Then one victim changes everything and brings Ren face to face with a detective whose life was destroyed by the same pursuit.Together, can they defeat this monster? Or will he take them both down?
Copyright (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Copyright © Alex Barclay 2015
Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Cover photographs © Tony Watson/Arcangel Images (subway); Eliada Toska/Getty Images (woman running); Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) (wing)
Alex Barclay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
Source ISBN: 9780007494545
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2015 ISBN: 9780007494552
Version 2015-03-04
Praise for Alex Barclay: (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
‘The rising star of the hard-boiled crime fiction world, combining wild characters, surprising plots and massive backdrops with a touch of dry humour’
Mirror
‘Tense, no-punches-pulled thriller that will have you on the edge of your deckchair’
Woman and Home
‘Explosive’
Company
‘Darkhouse is a terrific debut by an exciting new writer’
Independent on Sunday
‘Compelling’
Glamour
‘Excellent summer reading … Barclay has the confidence to move her story along slowly, and deftly explores the relationships between her characters’
Sunday Telegraph
‘The thriller of the summer’
Irish Independent
‘If you haven’t discovered Alex Barclay, it’s time to jump on the bandwagon’
Image Magazine
Dedication (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
To Moira Reilly,
Thank you for being your warm, wise, and wonderful self.
With you here, the book begins on the perfect note.
Table of Contents
Cover (#uddb1895a-6e68-51e8-91a9-7fb8bbba9984)
Title Page (#ubf94ed82-f2a8-5a4a-bec8-9aca2788fc34)
Copyright (#u842af017-bfd7-5df9-84b5-1bbedde33c38)
Praise for Alex Barclay (#u99173b15-2bba-52f8-adad-7fd952bbe2ef)
Dedication (#u7310678f-0dd1-50d0-93d8-f39b49ded778)
Prologue (#uf52a21b7-285a-523d-9fef-d32ce16dfb37)
Chapter 1 (#u93aa5502-48b1-52fd-b5df-11b62197fa92)
Chapter 2 (#ubdcb7a85-169f-5f67-9aa1-e70fbfae75ba)
Chapter 3 (#uf6bccfd3-513e-5c81-ab15-28fedbfb96fc)
Chapter 4 (#u1bb38216-ee98-5e9a-a297-11744657613d)
Chapter 5 (#ubc562aa0-5a67-5694-bdb1-c622f2fe3f37)
Chapter 6 (#u8bd41164-33ab-5275-ba1d-5c9baf5865b6)
Chapter 7 (#u9f94d01c-60bd-5292-898f-ecd89ebd9688)
Chapter 8 (#u70a21fc1-3208-5d02-b385-7f6790aa7ec8)
Chapter 9 (#u49af57b8-c0f5-517f-a5ef-98e90a82818f)
Chapter 10 (#uab925227-4e32-5278-9e37-025deb7da4b6)
Chapter 11 (#u7769ac3f-0575-5c41-859b-2ac92e3db758)
Chapter 12 (#u97aba2b3-cf17-5dd8-a8e9-805f4ff20502)
Chapter 13 (#ubd7f91e3-e01b-5fc7-8017-e4bbe3e8a274)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 65 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 66 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Alex Barclay (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
Amanda Petrie stopped dead in front of the skeletal wreck of a creature stumbling toward her on legs like knotted spindles. The woman looked to be in her sixties, bruised, wounded and terrified. She was dressed in a faded blue nightgown draped no differently than if it was on a hanger in a store, except that it was caked in filth of all kinds, and it stank like something inhuman. Her matted gray hair grew between bald patches, she was missing teeth, she was hollow-cheeked, she was a shell.
Amanda dropped her cell phone, didn’t even notice how it bounced and cracked and spat out its battery, how the binder she’d been holding struck the ground, broke open, sent loose pages from magazines sliding across the concrete.
From the awful silence that followed, Amanda began to hear something – a soft pit, pit, pit. She looked down. A bright photo of a rainbow-themed garden party had floated from the binder and landed between the old woman’s dirty feet. Maggots were dropping onto it – pit, pit, pit – from under her nightgown.
Amanda turned away, heaving. She pressed her hand tightly over her mouth. Her eyes bulged and watered. Slowly, she turned back to the woman.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Are you OK? I mean … do you need help? Obviously you need help …’
The woman stood before her, wide-eyed, not a blink. And from this desolation, Amanda noticed eyes the most incredible shade of blue, and was suddenly struck with an image of a baby girl in a bassinet smiling up at her parents, innocent, expectant, hopeful, years from this.
‘Where did you come from?’ said Amanda, looking around. They were on a quiet road in an isolated part of Sedalia, sixty miles southwest of Denver, Colorado. She was there only to check out a venue for her sister’s surprise fortieth. She had just crossed it off her list.
The woman didn’t reply.
Amanda took a step away from her, then crouched down to gather the parts of her phone, putting them back together with a shaky hand.
Kurt Vine was driving along Crooked Trail Lane, in his 1984 cream and brown pickup with the camper shell, radio off, cigarette burning down in the ashtray, running through the events of the previous night. He was on Level 9 of Hufuki, a video game with a great Japanese-sounding name that all the players understood was really an abbreviation of Hunt, Fuck, Kill. You just couldn’t say it out loud. Kurt had hunted down, raped and murdered forty-two victims to get to Level 9 out of 10. It was getting exciting. He had missed a few obvious traps in the last session. He should have known better. Some twelve-year-old kid in Ohio had beaten him. It was embarrassing. But Kurt was undeterred – no one had officially reached Level 10. There was a rumor that once you unlocked that world, real girls played the victims. You chased their avatar, but the screams were real, live, and you could see their faces in the right-hand corner of the screen, see their fear. Whether anything was being done to these girls to elicit these reactions was not something Kurt Vine considered. They were in a distant universe. They were the unreal real.
Every night, Kurt heard voices from all over the world in his ear, every accent imaginable, the tower of fucking Babel coming through the internet into his headset. When a player pissed him off, beat him, humiliated him, he would mimic them on the walk from the sofa to the bathroom or the bedroom or the kitchen. But only if he had ever heard their reactions when they knew it was game over, man. Loser sounds. Who wants to mimic the soundtrack to a rival’s victory?
Winning was important to Kurt Vine. He had a narrow focus, a regular grip on just a few small things … a games console, a camera, a bottle of Diet Coke, and his dick.
The camera was for taking photos of old buildings that he uploaded to his website, ForTheForgotten.net ‘To honor those who lived and worked within these walls’, wherever those crumbling walls may have been.
At the bottom of the site, he had a DONATE NOW button, a low-key ‘If you like my work, please consider contributing to my film, development, and print costs’. He was thinking of setting up an online store to sell some of his work, he was thinking of offering his services to corporations, or news organizations or stock photo agencies. Kurt thought about a lot of things. But mainly he thought about easy things, things that required no effort.
Kurt Vine had inherited most of his grandfather’s estate – including thousands of sprawling acres in Sedalia that were dotted with brush and ruins. The land and buildings were Kurt’s outright, but the remainder of his inheritance – the cash part – was dwindling fast. The donations were his only real income, and they were typically small. Sometimes he felt guilty that a lot of his donors were visual arts students, who likely couldn’t spare the money but wanted to reward him for his talent, probably in the hope that the same kindness would be offered them when they were spat out into the world after graduation.
Despite the modest student endowments, there was a new Nikon on the passenger seat beside him. Nine months earlier, an email had come into his inbox. YOU HAVE A DONATION. He clicked on it, expecting the usual ten or twenty dollars. This was different. This was $10,000. He looked at it for a while, and he mistrusted it for a while longer. And then he spent most of it. And, six months after the donation came in, he got the knock on his cabin door. The man who stood there smiled and said: ‘I’ve come to collect my debt.’
Weird shit always happens to me, thought Kurt, as he ran through the woods of his fantasy land, chasing screaming women.
He got hard just thinking about it. Kurt was always alone when he got hard.
Amanda Petrie dialed 911, her heart pounding.
‘Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?’
‘Police, ambulance?’ said Amanda. ‘I’d like to report … a lady here, who’s in a state of extreme neglect, I think. She’s … very thin, very wasted.’
‘Ma’am, what number are you calling from?’
‘My number is 555-360-9597. That’s my cell phone. My name is Amanda Petrie.’
‘And what is your location, ma’am?’
‘We’re in Sedalia, Douglas County … um … I pulled in to the side of the road to take some pictures. The last place I remember is Crooked Trail Lane? I’m about a five-minute drive from there.’
‘Can you give me any more details, ma’am?’
‘Can’t you track my location?’ said Amanda.
‘We don’t have that facility here, ma’am.’
‘Oh,’ said Amanda. ‘Well, I can’t really say. I’m just seeing road and trees, a couple of barns. I think I’ve driven about seven miles from an inn called Russell’s?’
‘Ma’am, is the woman you are with in need of medical attention?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re going to send help right away for you, ma’am, and I’m going to keep you on the line with me, get some more details from you. Are you in a position to stay with her while we send help?’
‘Yes, yes, I can,’ said Amanda. ‘Please hurry, though. Please hurry. She’s very distressed.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. Can you tell me the name of the woman please?’
Amanda turned to the woman, whose eyes appeared to be growing larger in her skeletal face. Her lips were dried out, cracked, ringed with deep lines. She pressed them together.
‘What’s your name?’ said Amanda. ‘Can you tell me your name?’
The woman’s lips parted. She began rocking back and forth. But instead of speaking, she quietly croaked a tuneless song, her voice flat, broken, her eyes now scrunched closed: ‘Needle’s pointing to your heart, now I know the way we’ll part, needle’s pointing to your heart, now I know the way we’ll part, needle’s pointing to your heart, now I know the way we’ll part.’
Her arm shot out, and she slapped the phone out of Amanda Petrie’s hand.
Kurt Vine was busy shunting memories of bad men and bad game plays out of his mind when he saw two women standing by the roadside. He looked around, for a moment thinking he was driving through a movie set. Or a game. There was a cute girl and an old lady who looked like she had been dug up from a grave. This was some kind of a two-woman zombie apocalypse situation.
Weird shit just keeps on happening to me, he thought. He watched as the old woman suddenly slapped the girl’s hand. He pulled over, parked the pickup, and climbed down.
‘Ladies!’ he said, moving as quickly as he could toward them, wiping the sweat that always flowed so readily. ‘How can I be of assistance?’ It was a line from Hufuki, but he figured it was appropriate.
Douglas County Undersheriff Cole Rodeal stood in the ambulance bay of the Sky Ridge Medical Center, tuning out his wife, Edie, the EMS Coordinator. As soon as she had used the expression ‘me time’, he was gone. Maybe that was because he didn’t love Edie any more, and hated himself for it. Really, it was because he was depressed and hadn’t realized it. He wanted to be home, in his den, with a box set from a time when women had never heard the expression ‘me time’. He was jolted from his thoughts by the screech of tires and a small scream from the wife he really did love. He turned to where she was looking.
Oh, fuck.
Kurt Vine liked being part of this emergency that he knew, in his heart, wasn’t a true emergency. He was driving like he had a siren, but he knew this crazy lady in the nightgown was going to be all right. She was starved and beaten and she smelled like shit, but she wasn’t dying, as far as he could tell.
He was finally easing off the gas as they approached the ambulance bay at Sky Ridge.
‘What is that smell?’ he said. He looked into the back seat. ‘Holy shit! She’s on fire! She’s on fucking fire!’
Amanda Petrie turned around at the same time and screamed. Small flames were rising from the terrified woman’s chest and shoulders. Her nightgown was melting into her skin, her hair shriveling.
‘Holy fucking shit!’ said Kurt, slamming his foot on the accelerator instead of the brake, sending the pickup shooting toward a group of EMTs, until he yanked the steering wheel hard and plowed instead into the side wall of the hospital.
On impact, the old lady said: ‘I did something real bad. Something terrible brought me here.’
1 (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
‘That lady died.’ Special Agent Ren Bryce turned to Everett King, one of her newest colleagues, an ex-trader, financial and IT expert, and quick, firm friend. ‘The one from the crash at Sky Ridge Medical Center. No one came forward to claim her, no match with any missing persons …’ She shook her head. ‘Rodeal reckons she was held captive somewhere for months at the very least: she had rope burns on her wrists, bruises on her ankles as if she’d been shackled, she was starved, beaten. But they found nothing in the neighborhood canvas. They ran her details through the system – nothing. Imagine that’s your life … tortured and neglected to death.’
‘Like your liver,’ said Everett.
Ren was shaking a bottle of Fiji to help dissolve the two Alka-Seltzer she had broken into it.
‘My liver is well tended to,’ said Ren.
‘Like a captor tends to his captee.’
‘Stockholm Syndrome.’ She took a drink. She had already drunk a bottle of freshly squeezed pineapple juice. Hangover Cure Supreme. The Alka-Seltzer was a rarely required second step. The previous night was a blur of bright lights, colorful drinks, and dancing on chairs and half-empty dance floors with two girls she had met at her bipolar support group two weeks earlier. They had presumed that, like them, she was unlucky enough to be a bipolar-loved-one wrangler, not the wranglee. That was often the case. Ren didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to correct them. She just wanted to party. The women were at the support group to learn how not to enable their loved one. Instead, they were fine-tuning the art of enabling a stranger. But there was no law against it. Ren smiled to herself: there should, in fact, be laws to fully support it.
Ren had been off her meds for three months.
‘Did you see the video of the crash?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Rodeal was quite the hero – dived for his wife, totally saved her life, broke his arm in the fall. Sexism in Emergencies: it’s not all bad when a man thinks women need to be saved.’
‘It was his wife …’
‘I’ve dealt with him, work-wise,’ said Ren. ‘I walk away with a twitch in my eye. Sometimes I think he expects me to be the one serving the refreshments.’
‘Oh, baby girl, you always servin’ up the refreshment!’
‘And you keep topping up those glasses, handsome man.’
‘God help this guy,’ said Everett, nodding toward the glass panel of the interview room where murder suspect Jonathan Briar was perfectly framed. Briar’s fiancée, twenty-three-year-old Hope Coulson, had now been missing from their Denver apartment for twenty-eight days. Briar had ignited public suspicion with the first dopey words out of his mouth when asked about her on live television: ‘Aww … I’m sure she’ll be back,’ he said, smiling like an idiot, next to Hope Coulson’s weeping parents.
‘He doesn’t yet know that he meets a lot of the criteria for the Ren Bryce Book of Wrong,’ said Everett. ‘Stoner – check! Skinny dreads – check! Mouth too small – check! And my second favorite: rat-colored hair – check! I mean, rats are gray. His hair is mousey.’
‘Rats are creepier.’
‘And my all-time-favorite,’ said Everett. ‘Eyes overly almond: check!’
‘Because I like almond-shaped eyes,’ said Ren. ‘Too almond, though – that’s a problem.’ She looked at Everett. ‘I’m a nightmare. I know. Judgey McJudgicles.’
‘On the upside of his issues,’ said Everett, ‘every time he appears on screen or in print, the line of volunteer searchers grows.’
Hope Coulson had captured the public’s hearts. She was a sweet, blonde, kind-hearted kindergarten teacher, a volunteer for everything from painting the ladies’ nails at her local retirement home to delivering Meals on Wheels to the housebound, to being stationed at First-Aid tents at community events. At one time, Jonathan Briar looked like nothing more harmful than a guy who was batting above his weight. Now, he was looking like a killer.
Ren drank the rest of the Alka-Seltzer, then held a hand to her stomach.
Ooh. Not good. Drank too quickly, despite best efforts.
‘You drank that way too fast,’ said Everett.
‘Ugh.’ She threw the empty bottle in the garbage. ‘OK. Shall we dance?’
‘We always do.’ He turned the door knob and let Ren go first.
Jonathan Briar almost jumped from his seat. ‘Did you find her?’
So dramatic.So forced.
Ren shook her head. ‘No, Jonathan. No, we did not. Not yet.’She sat down. ‘Jonathan, I’m Special Agent Ren Bryce, and this is my colleague, Special Agent Everett King. How are you holding up?’
Briar shrugged. ‘I’m OK … I guess.’
‘Let me explain who we are,’ said Ren. ‘Agent King and I are members of the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. Not to alarm you – we do handle all kinds of crimes – but we are technically a violent crime squad. We’re multi-agency, meaning there are FBI agents like us, and there are detectives from DPD – that’s Denver PD, along with members of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, Aurora PD, etc.
‘We have to consider that Hope may have been the victim of a violent crime. Of course, we don’t know that yet. I understand you’ve been questioned by DPD—’
‘Every day!’ said Jonathan. ‘Every day since she left.’
‘Left?’ said Ren.
He shrugged. ‘It’s exhausting.’
Not my point. ‘You said “left”,’ said Ren. ‘Do you think Hope just left?’
Jonathan looked away, shrugging again. ‘It’s better than thinking anything else.’
‘Back to what I was saying,’ said Ren.‘We’re talking to you today at the request of Detective Glenn Buddy at Denver PD, and because some new evidence has come to light.’
‘What evidence?’ said Jonathan.
‘I want to show you a photograph of your fiancée, Hope,’ said Ren, ignoring the question. She set it down on the table. ‘Well, actually it’s a photo of you and Hope. When was this taken?’
Jonathan swallowed. ‘Christmas just gone. At my mom’s house. Why?’
‘You look really happy,’ said Ren.
‘We were,’ he said, nodding.
Were: past tense.
Jonathan blinked, but there were no tears.
‘Now, here’s another photo,’ said Ren. She set down an aerial photo of a landfill site.
‘Do you know Fyron Industries?’ said Everett, shifting forward in his seat. ‘They manage this landfill site. It’s off of I-70. The dumpster by your house – that’s where that goes.’
Jonathan looked at Everett as if he had just crawled from a dumpster himself.
Everett took out a red Sharpie and drew a large box on the photo. ‘This area here,’ he said, ‘is three acres square. The garbage runs twenty feet deep if we’re to go back almost a month to when Hope went missing …’
Jonathan recoiled. ‘What the hell are you showing me this for? What do you mean “go back almost a month”?’
Don’t look at me for answers. That’s not how this goes.
‘To search this area, we’re calling in all the favors we can,’ said Everett. ‘Law enforcement across a lot of different agencies, along with volunteer civilians. That’s the effect Hope has had on people. They’re coming from all over to offer to search a stinking hellhole for her, to suit up and go right in there to look for your missing fiancée. If we can in any way limit all that searching … or if we knew, for example, that we were wasting our time, or anyone else’s time … or if there’s somewhere else we should be looking …’
As Everett spoke, Ren was studying Jonathan Briar. You are a dull-eyed dope-smoking moron. I have little time for dope-smoking morons.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’ said Ren.
‘No!’ said Jonathan. ‘No. Except that you are wasting your time: thinking I did this!’ There was no anger, just a whining, pleading exhaustion.
‘Everyone in your position tells us we’re wasting our time,’ said Ren, ‘but, as you know, a lot of the time we’re not. The odds are not in your favor. Before we go in here,’ she pointed to the landfill photo, ‘before we bring people into this wonderland, we’d like to know the truth.’
‘I’ve told you the truth!’ said Jonathan. ‘I’ve told you a million times. I’m innocent! Last time I saw Hope she was alive and well. What more can I tell you? That’s my story.’
‘Story?’ said Ren.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Jonathan. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘Were you and Hope happy?’ said Ren.
‘Yes!’ said Jonathan. ‘Fucking leave me alone with the happiness bullshit! I don’t think I can take this any more! I feel like I’m losing my mind, here. All you people looking at me! It’s fucking driving me insane!’
Snap. Snap. Show your hand.
‘Jonathan, we found traces of Hope’s blood in the living room,’ said Ren. ‘Do you know how that got there?’
‘She cut her finger, I don’t know. Were they drops, smears, spatters?’
Go, CSI.
‘If they were drops or smears,’ he said, ‘then she cut her finger a while back. If they were spatters, then, I guess, someone might have killed her at home, right? Is that your point?’
How Not to Talk to Law Enforcement 101.
Ren looked at Everett.
Jonathan started to cry. ‘I love Hope. I always have. From when I was nine years old. I wouldn’t lay a finger on her. All I ever want to do is protect her.’ He cried harder. ‘What if you find her and she’s dead?’
Wow. Have you really only thought about that now?
He kept talking. ‘What if she’s there in all that garbage and she’s dead? Then what happens? Then do you just, like, assume it’s me? What evidence is going to be on that body at that stage? I’m terrified of what’s going to go down. I want Hope found, but I also don’t want her to be just pulled out of some garbage. I mean, I know what you’re thinking, it’s disgusting anyway, it’s a murder, who gives a shit, but I do.’ He went quiet. ‘I do, because Hope would. She wouldn’t want anyone seeing her that way.’
‘What way?’ said Ren, keeping her tone neutral.
Jonathan leapt from his seat. ‘Dead on a garbage heap! What do you think I mean? Why do you people always think I mean something I don’t mean?’
Because you say weird shit. Because your answers are weird. Your phraseology. Your language. Your focus.
‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Ren.
Jonathan sat down, but kept talking, the words speedy and tumbling. ‘Dead after weeks, rotting away and all that other shit. Jesus! Who would ever want anyone to see them that way? I know I never would. But what happens then? I say nothing to you today because I know nothing and then you arrest me? Like, will I look suspicious to you because of that? I mean, I’ll say anything not to come across as someone shady. I wasn’t there that night at the time you’re talking about. I was working! I’m not thinking about how Hope looks because I killed her in some horrible way. I’m thinking about what a fucked-up mess dead bodies are after all that time.’
2 (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
Ren closed the door behind her and walked with Everett into the bullpen – the open-plan office the task force worked out of. Their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Gary Dettling, had his own office. The admin team had theirs. There were two interview rooms, two conference rooms, an A/V room, two cells, rest rooms, a creaky elevator, a haunted basement – everything brought together under the roof of one of Denver’s oldest buildings, The Livestock Exchange Building – an icon of cowboy heritage.
‘Well?’ said Gary, looking up, hands on his hips. He was a fit and handsome man of few words.
I am tiring of you, Gary. The look that says ‘impress me’, ‘prove yourself to me’ every time. Your smart-ass bullshit. Everything.
‘Early morning landfill search it is!’ said Ren.
Gary’s face said it all.
Ren looked at Everett. ‘I don’t know about you, but is Briar just a dumb asshole?’
‘That’s in no doubt,’ said Everett.
‘I get that he doesn’t have a face for TV,’ said Ren, ‘and that indefinably weird shit falls out of his mouth, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Does he say things that raise my suspicion because he is guilty or because he is just dumb, dumb, dumb? Because he has no filter? Because he cannot understand that in an interview with a Fed, you might want to not say some of the shit your low-flying brain fires out? I mean, even if you just imagine the physical distance between your brain and your mouth – that’s time to pause, isn’t it? Pause while it’s at your nostrils or something. God, do you ever feel like the world is just populated with a lot of really dumb people? His face! I want to slap it.’
She drew breath.
You are all looking at me funny. Am I talking too fast again? Keep up, bitches. Jesus.
‘So, here’s what we know,’ said Ren. ‘Hope Coulson was last seen, alone, at eight thirty p.m. leaving Good Shepherd Church on East 7th Avenue where she’d gone to host a youth meeting. Everyone else had left ahead of her – a person walking by ID’d her. She was to drive right home – that’s what she told Jonathan. He was out working at the pizza place, her last text to him at eight fifteen p.m. was “See you at home, kiss kiss”. That’s it. We have no witnesses. There are no HALO cams in the immediate vicinity.’
Denver had over one hundred HALO – High Activity Location Observation – cameras, all monitored from a central location by DPD.
‘Hope Coulson’s car was still in the church parking lot the next morning,’ said Ren. ‘Did she leave her car because she was planning on drinking? Wouldn’t she need her car to get to work the next morning? Was she having an affair? In that case, again, why wouldn’t she drive home if she was planning to take a guy back there? Unless she was going back to his place.’ She shrugged. ‘And if she was going for a drink alone, wouldn’t she have chosen somewhere near her apartment? She was a twenty-minute drive from there. So she either walked a route with no HALO cams, or someone drove by and picked her up. But this can’t have been pre-arranged on her phone, because there were no calls or texts to indicate that. And nothing came up with friends, family, acquaintances, work, church members, etc. The neighborhood canvas came up empty. We have a list of vehicles and owners with no priors.’
‘Could something have happened at the church?’ said Everett. ‘I don’t know – someone made a pass at her. Maybe she needed to go have a drink, calm down … she decided to have another …’ He paused. ‘Yet, no one from the local bars ID’d her. Her face has been everywhere. At this point, we would have heard something.’
‘My gut is just not liking Jonathan Briar for this,’ said Ren.
‘How many times has the partner killed the wife or girlfriend in the house at night, then claimed they never made it home?’ said Gary.
‘Many, many times,’ said Ren. ‘Just this is not one of them.’
As everyone dispersed, Ren sat down at her desk and dragged her keyboard toward her. She started typing up her notes, super speedy. Her phone rang.
Go away.
She kept typing.
Fuck. Off.
The phone kept ringing.
Her cell phone beeped.
Jesus Christ.
She glanced at the text. It was from Gary: Pick up.
She picked up. ‘Hi.’
‘Can you come into my office, please?’
‘Sure,’ said Ren. ‘What’s the emergency? Nothing you can say over the phone?’
Silence.
Alrighty then.
She walked into Gary’s office.
‘You stink,’ said Gary.
‘Wait ’til you smell me after the landfill search,’ said Ren, sitting down.
Gary was staring at her.
‘Hold on – are you serious?’ said Ren. ‘What do you mean stink? Literally?’
‘In a way that tells me if I don’t open a window, I’ll have to check my own blood-alcohol level.’
Oh.
Shit.
‘Please tell me,’ said Gary, ‘that you did not go drinking last night with some lost soul you picked up at your meeting.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘I didn’t even have a meeting last night.’ Which is the truth.
‘Just remember you’re not there to make friends,’ said Gary. ‘Or even eye contact. The rule is you walk in there alone, you walk out alone.’
‘That’s me – Renegade.’ She fired an imaginary gun. She paused. ‘Was that your way of trying to find out if I’m going to my meetings?’
He eyeballed her. ‘Lose the tone. This is about my concern that you are over the blood-alcohol level this morning.’
‘I apologize for my tone,’ said Ren. ‘And yes, I did drink last night. As people often do after work, meeting or no meeting. Is that forbidden? Is the whole of Safe Streets fired?’ Stop. Talking.
Gary dared her to hold eye contact with him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren.
‘Go.’
Eight hours later, Ren and Everett were six drinks down in a new bar off Sixteenth Street.
‘Do not let me drink tonight,’ said Ren.
They laughed. Ren looked around her. ‘There is nothing more unattractive to me than a group of men in their late forties in leisurewear on a night out,’ said Ren. ‘Especially the ones who were once hot, you can see the traces, and now they’re just beat-down and filled with loss and white carbs.’
‘Jesus, Ren.’ Everett craned his neck. ‘I need to see who you are savaging. “Filled with loss and white carbs” …’
‘I know, I know,’ said Ren. ‘And, really, can something be filled with loss? Like, with an absence of something. But why abandon all hope at that age? You’ve half your life left. Go to the fucking gym.’ Like Ben. Like Gary.Like you. ‘And I say this while not actually finding super-buff bodies attractive.’
‘Which makes no sense,’ said Everett.
‘I maintain that a lot of unhappiness in life is caused by people trying to make sense of things,’ said Ren. ‘Try this: for one week when someone says something strange to you, just say to yourself “interesting and senseless, goodbye”. Like, goodbye to considering it any further.’
‘If I did that, I don’t think I could actually carry out my job,’ said Everett.
‘OK – maybe restrict it just to things I say.’
‘The things I can do with those reclaimed hours,’ said Everett. ‘Go to the gym, for example.’
‘Shall we dance?’ said Ren. ‘It’s filthy rap.’
‘Yes, we shall,’ said Everett.
They hit the empty dance floor and immediately drew attention. Everett was clean-cut, dark-haired, side-parted kind of handsome. Ren had an exotic look of wild abandon.
‘And so they danced, and the eyes of the onlookers fell upon them!’ said Ren into his ear.
This is high-larious!
Everett was laughing at her, but when he really started to move, Ren was the one who had to fall away to the side she was laughing so hard. He was an excellent dancer.
They went back to the bar and slumped into their seats.
I am soooo shitfaced. ‘I think I look like a whore when I dance the way I really want to dance.’
‘I agree,’ said Everett. ‘Don’t ever change.’
‘And you dance like no one is looking,’ said Ren. ‘Pinterest gold.’
At two a.m., a cab with Ren in it pulled up outside the home of Annie Lowell, a dear Bryce family friend, who had allowed Ren to house-sit her beautiful, historic home while she was touring Europe.
‘This is me!’ said Ren, reaching forward and handing the driver twenty dollars.
She looked out the window. Then back at the driver.
‘Oh, shit,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t live here any more.’
3 (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
It was a beautiful ninety-degree morning in Denver: the landfill site sweltered under the same sun that was giving everyone else’s day a glorious start. Ren was sitting in the passenger seat of her Jeep.
This cannot be my life.
Outside, the rest of Safe Streets were already dressed in white Tyvek suits, Kevlar gloves, and black half-face masks, sharing a range of looks that covered misery, repulsion, sorrow, and panic.
The panic was flickering in the eyes of Janine Hooks, Ren’s closest friend, and ex-Jefferson County cold case detective. Janine had joined Safe Streets three months earlier. She was a brilliant, thorough investigator with a sharp, wise mind and a heart of gold. Ren was certain Janine had an eating disorder, but had never dared to raise it.
It breaks my heart how tiny you look inside your suit.
Janine was staring down at her feet, lining the tips of her boots up.
Terrified about wearing a mask. Or shy around Robbie.
Robbie Truax was ex-Aurora PD, with Safe Streets from the beginning. Janine had met him first through Ren, and was comfortable liking him from afar, a little less so now that they were up-close colleagues.
Everett came into Ren’s line of vision, walking her way. He pulled open the door of the Jeep.
‘How’s my girl?’
‘Seriously,’ said Ren, ‘I have zero idea how I got into the apartment I did not remember I lived in.’
‘Too much grammar in that sentence …’
‘But you look fine – that’s not fair,’ said Ren. ‘I don’t think I can go through with this.’
‘You can. You can always puke into the mask.’
‘Jesus Christ. Thanks. My ultimate nightmare.’
Fifteen minutes and one fake urgent phone call later, Ren was suited up with the others.
I made it.
They stood in a group, still apart from the other searchers.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s go through the hand signals again …’
Everyone looked at her. She pushed her hand into the circle, low down, and raised her middle finger. ‘Fuck. This.’
The others smiled.
And fuck this heat.
Ren surveyed the landscape ahead of them: rotting food, filthy diapers, decaying animals … stop the inventory of this hellhole.
‘Stretched out before us,’ said Ren, ‘is a landscape that looks like how my mouth feels. There may be a cadaver in both. May your masks serve and protect you.’
She walked toward the rest of the searchers: Denver PD detectives, Sheriff’s Office investigators, landfill site workers, and volunteers.
Volunteers, you extraordinary people. Have you no place else to be? God bless you all.
They moved in and began the search. It was as hot, foul and arduous as they expected. Two days later, they were back. Four days. Five. On day six, the body of Hope Coulson, hanging from black plastic coming undone, was hoisted from a stinking mound of life’s waste and set on the ground at the feet of the Safe Streets’ team. Janine Hooks’ eagle eye had spotted the bag, the Duck tape wrapped around it at each end with extra at the center.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Everett, Janine and four DPD detectives stayed with the body until the coroner arrived. Ren called for Robbie and they moved quickly toward her Jeep. They stripped out of their filthy Tyvek suits, balled them into a bag in the back, and hopped in.
You have gained quite a bit of weight, Robbie Truax, which I feel mean noticing.
‘So, how’ve you been?’ he said, as he strapped himself in.
Ren looked at him. We’re together almost every day …
She started the engine, and drove.
‘I mean – we only see each other at work these days,’ said Robbie.
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘It’s been crazy. And you’ve missed some nights out. A lot of nights out. Is everything OK?’
They both understood the silence that followed. Robbie, the blond, fresh-faced, boy-scout Mormon, was in treatment for porn addiction, a problem that had been going on for months before he finally told Ren, the sole guardian of his secret.
He shrugged. ‘I … was wondering if you were so … horrified by what I told you, that … you were trying to create distance.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Ren. ‘Please tell me you don’t mean that. Did I seem horrified to you? Jesus – I’d have no friends if I distanced myself from people with porn and promiscuity issues. And how could I distance myself from myself?’
Robbie smiled. ‘I guess I just miss hanging out, you coming over, or staying around after work. Just having pizza or whatever.’
But not drinking. Which isn’t seeming like fun to me right now. Sorry!
‘You and Everett,’ said Robbie, ‘you’re—’
Ren’s heart sank.
And now we have hit the real problem. You think I have abandoned you for Everett.
After three months, Robbie was struggling to get along with Everett, and it was making for some awkward moments.
But, you’re right. I have abandoned you. Everett is more fun. Everett drinks. He dances. I can’t hurt Everett. I could hurt you, sensitive man.
Robbie had once admitted to Ren that he loved her, and she had told him that she saw him more as a brother. Their friendship was strong, they had recovered from it, but Ren couldn’t help feeling that a responsibility had come with the admission: if he loves you, if he ever did, you could still hurt him.
I never want to hurt you, Robbie Truax. You mean too much to me.
‘I’m sorry if you feel like I haven’t been around,’ said Ren. ‘You’re right. I’ve just been party, party, party. I think it’s moving into the apartment, everything … I can’t settle. I feel like I’m jumping out of my skin.’
‘That’s how I feel when I’m …’ He stared out the window. ‘Treatment is hard.’
‘I didn’t want to ask,’ said Ren. ‘It’s so personal.’
He turned to her, his eyes bright with sincerity. ‘But you’re the only person in the world I can talk to about personal things.’
Ren reached out and squeezed his forearm. ‘I love you, Robbie Truax. I’m so sorry. Please talk to me. I know it’s probably like—’
‘Trying to catch a wild horse?’
‘Blindfolded.’
Robbie raised a hand in mock-defiance. ‘His eyes filled, nevertheless, with hope …’
Ren pictured the smiling face of Hope Coulson.
Jonathan Briar, here we come. And this time, we have Hope.
When Jonathan Briar heard that his fiancée’s body had been found, his knees buckled, and he cried out with such force, Ren was startled. She had been standing with Robbie in the living room of the apartment Jonathan and Hope had shared for the previous two years. Ren caught Jonathan as he went down. Now she was on her knees, and he was limp and weeping in her arms.
This was not my vision.
Ren glanced up at Robbie, who had been temporarily immobilized.Eventually, he kicked into action and helped Jonathan Briar onto the sofa. Ren took a seat opposite and looked around the room. It was her first time there.
This is a beautiful place. Cozy and cute. Seems like the home of two people in love. This is … so strange. There is nothing cold here. No sense of death or darkness.
‘How could this happen?’ wailed Jonathan. ‘How? I thought she was alive! She’s … Hope isn’t someone … just she wouldn’t be murdered. By anyone! She was in the garbage, just like that? She didn’t belong there. Jesus Christ! I just thought she was alive!’
‘Where did you think she was?’ said Ren. Seriously. It’s been almost five weeks.
Jonathan stopped sobbing. ‘I couldn’t even bring myself to think about that.’ His hair was standing on end. ‘I just couldn’t go there. Where did I think she was? I was thinking nothing. I was thinking nothing bad. I was—’
In shock. All this time. You weren’t an emotionless asshole. You were resisting being forced to think of a horrific ending. It was the last thing you wanted to think of for your sweet, beautiful, caring Hope.
Jonathan Briar locked eyes with Ren.
The pain. You can’t fake that. That agony cannot be faked. Can it?
4 (#ulink_ef96d2ac-e75b-589f-b6ec-341a3b790789)
Hope Coulson’s autopsy revealed that she had been strangled, and it likely happened not long after she had gone missing. She had been raped with something green and ceramic that had broken, and left shards behind, one of which had a partial fingerprint that matched Jonathan Briar’s. Her father identified her body. Jonathan Briar identified the shards as parts of a tall green ceramic sculpture – an engagement gift they had been given – that he had failed to notice was missing from their living room.
‘Well, being raped with one of your engagement gifts would be a serious fuck-you if you cheated on your fiancé,’ said Ren. She was sitting at the edge of her desk in the bullpen, where most of the squad was gathered. ‘Yet no one in all the interviews has suggested that Briar was anything other than kind and loving toward her. But, of course, behind closed doors … who knows. However, if he raped her with that in the apartment and it broke, which it clearly did, there should be more blood there. And it’s highly unlikely there would be no evidence of the sculpture. Unless he raped her on something that he took away and destroyed. His car was clean. Nothing was found with her in the landfill. The black plastic used has no connection to any product found in their home, which doesn’t mean much. Then there’s the issue – if we are to believe he was the rapist and it didn’t happen in their home – he would’ve had to have taken her somewhere to carry it out, and he would also have had to carefully package up the sculpture and bring it with them. Would someone do that? I don’t think so.’
‘Who gave them the gift?’ said Everett. ‘That could be significant.’
‘If that guy’s innocent, I would be amazed,’ said Gary.
‘Prepare to be amazed,’ said Ren.
Gary stared at her. As Gary often did.
‘We also have to consider the fact that she was raped with a foreign object,’ said Ren. ‘That’s typically carried out by a man with sexual problems, which, again, there is no evidence of in Briar’s case.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ said Gary. ‘He could have had a problem for months not being able to get it up. He’s a young guy, too embarrassed to go to the doctor, she’s too embarrassed to mention it to anyone, thinks it’s her fault … and, maybe, she goes elsewhere to get what she’s not getting at home …’
He has made up his mind.
‘Can you really see a kindergarten teacher having that attitude?’ Ren paused. ‘You should go talk to Briar …’ Open your mind.
They stared each other down.
‘How about we go through the night of her disappearance again?’ said Ren. ‘And how Briar was at work for the entire evening—’
‘And out making deliveries,’ said Gary.
‘All of which he appeared to have made in a reasonable time frame,’ said Ren. ‘Unless he has a cape somewhere …’
‘That entire shift was made up of his dope-smoking, mouth-breather friends,’ said Gary.
‘And we have video to back up most of his comings and goings,’ said Ren.
‘Most,’ said Gary. ‘And they’re in over-sized jackets and baseball caps, faces not very clear …’
Grrrrr.
The meeting broke up, and everyone returned to their desks through the haze of tension. Ren fired up her computer. A rubber band flew through the air and whipped her hair off her face. She looked up. Robbie was standing in the center of the room with a wooden gun. Ren laughed.
‘Beautiful shot.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robbie, blowing imaginary smoke from the top of the barrel.
‘But you do know you are now dead,’ said Ren. ‘There’s a price on your head. Fifty per cent off.’ She slid open her drawer to take her own wooden gun out.
No ammo. Shit.
Ren’s email pinged. She glanced at it. Gary.
Subject: BP support
Oh, here we go …
Tonight. Henderson Hotel.
Control explosion.
Ren went to Gary’s office. Her fist was poised to knock on the door, until she heard his rising voice.
‘Nothing!’ said Gary. ‘Nothing is wrong, Karen! Jesus Christ, I’m going to record it on a loop.’
Gary Dettling was calm, cool, rational, in control. He could rein in any emotion … until it came to his wife. He loved that she was crazy, he hated that she was crazy, she made him crazy.
But Ren knew that in some small way, Karen Dettling was bound to have made Gary more sympathetic to Ren’s own brand of crazy.
‘No, good. Go ahead!’ said Gary. He slammed the phone down hard.
Ren let out the breath she had been holding.
Fuckity fuck.
She knocked.
‘Yes!’ said Gary.
Ren opened the door and walked in. ‘Do you have any rubber bands?’
Gary frowned. ‘Yes.’
Ren walked over to his stash. ‘Can I just say I hate these passive-aggressive emails about meetings and appointments?’
‘They’re active-aggressive,’ said Gary. ‘And I can get even more active …’
Ren grabbed a fistful of rubber bands and walked out.
Why do you even keep them in here? You asshole.
When Ren went back to the bullpen, Janine and Everett were huddled together. They looked up.
‘Was he shouting at you?’ said Everett.
‘You could hear that out here?’ said Ren. ‘No – it wasn’t me. For once.’
‘Are you coming out tonight?’ said Janine.
‘No,’ said Everett, ‘she’s checking into a facility …’
‘You may be right,’ said Ren. ‘No, Janine. I was out last night, and the night before. I think even I need a break every now and then.’
‘Well, I’m ready to strap on my drinking boots,’ said Janine.
‘As am I,’ said Everett.
‘Damn you both!’ said Ren. ‘Well, if you’re going, Janine, would you like to stay in my place? Save your drinking money.’
‘Even better, thank you,’ said Janine.
‘I will try not to be bitter,’ said Ren.
‘Robbie’s going to come too,’ said Janine.
D’oh! Everett’s face …
Only Ren noticed. And only she could see the sparkle in Janine’s eyes.
Ren sat at her desk and thought about Hope Coulson – how she hadn’t driven home, how that likely meant that she had met with someone unexpectedly, that something had changed her plans.
‘I think someone was watching Hope Coulson,’ said Ren. ‘I think she was taken from right outside the church.’
‘Like she was bundled into the back of a van?’ said Everett.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Who knew where she was going to be? Was it someone close enough to her that they knew her routine? Was it a member of the congregation? Someone who was served Meals on Wheels by her? A relative of one of the elderly people she visited? Maybe one of the fathers whose kids go to her school. Maybe someone she trusted …’
‘Maybe some creepy guy who had a thing for her,’ said Everett. ‘Or maybe it was an opportunistic thing – some guy who lived near the church?’
‘There are ten registered sex offenders in the area,’ said Janine. ‘According to DPD’s notes, they were all cleared.’
‘Every sex offender was, once upon a time, unregistered,’ said Ren. ‘And every killer had a clean record before their fairy tale ended.’
5 (#ulink_29b3a0e7-68ec-5274-a157-43109863bf1e)
After work, Ren took the five-minute walk to the River North Arts District, RiNo, where her boxing gym defiantly stood – fierce and battered, like a prizefighter – between two shiny rookies: a pristine artisan coffee shop, and a crafts store/ceramics studio. The area was slowly regenerating, with warehouses being renovated and new buildings going up in what were once abandoned, overgrown lots.
The filthy man-gym was scattered with bulked-up men working on bags, sparring in the four rings. Ren went to the token lady area, and got changed into black shorts and a black tank. She put in her EarPods, cranked up her beat-the-shit-out-of-people playlist. She strapped up her hands, put on her gloves and got to work.
Jab. Jab. Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Jab. Jab. Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Rinse. Repeat.
She moved over to the speed bag, did ten minutes on that, left, hot and sweaty, and took a shower in the quiet after-work calm of a hushed Safe Streets.
Ren drove home, walked into the hallway of the apartment building, went over to the wall of mailboxes and took out her mail.
Bill. Bill. Bill. Store card. Bill. Bill. Store card. Bill.
A woman wheeling a mountain bike came in behind her. She looked like the type who described herself as ‘wacky’ in her online dating profile. Thirtyish, hair in pigtails, a tie-dyed T-shirt, full lips, blaring red lipstick, XL plaid shirt as a cover-up.
I have zero interest in meeting bikes in the hallway when I get home from work. Or wacky people. I am maladjusting to apartment living.
‘Hi,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Lorrie, are you new?’
‘Hi, Lorrie,’ said Ren. ‘Yes. I’m Ren. Nice to meet you.’
I have dead-body photos in a folder under my arm right now. Be on your way.
Ren had moved in two months earlier, just days before Annie Lowell returned from her travels. She had clung to the hope that Annie would extend her trip as she had done before. The move was painful, and sad, and already blocked out. Annie’s house was a home. The apartment was a base. It never drew her in in the same way. Instead, mania and the night drew her out, bars and bright, shiny things. Bright shiny people.
Ren had decided not to rush into renting somewhere she didn’t adore. So she sucked it up, even though it meant handing over her beloved black-and-white border collie, Misty, to her dog-walker, Devin, to look after until she found a proper place for both of them. If only she had the time to look. Devin was a smart and bubbly young student who lived across the street from Annie, and adored Misty as much as Ren and Janine did.
‘If you need anything, just ring my bell,’ said Lorrie. ‘I’m 28A.’
‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘Thank you.’
Never gonna happen.
Ren took the elevator alone to the fifth floor. She unlocked the door to her apartment, and went in, hit with the smell of paint.
At least I have fresh new walls. There are positives.
She dropped her briefcase in the hallway and went to the kitchen. She took out a St Émilion red, uncorked it, poured a glass. She opened the refrigerator. There was a bag of arugula, a block of parmesan, some fillet steak.
Not hungry enough to make great effort.
She threw together a salad of arugula and parmesan, cracked some black pepper over it, soaked it in balsamic vinegar and a dash of olive oil and sat back on the sofa to eat.
Her phone beeped with a text from her boyfriend. She had been going out with Ben Rader for ten months. He was an FBI Agent in D.C., keen to make a bigger commitment than Ren was willing to. She had deflected his offer to look for a transfer to Denver so they could move in together. He hadn’t even made the suggestion that she move to D.C. But she loved him, and he loved her. It was only the lying about the meds that stood between them. One giant pharmaceutical wall.
Ren ate half the salad before she set it aside. She pulled a bright red cushion onto her lap, set her laptop on it and opened Hope Coulson’s Facebook account. She spent over an hour going through it. She was struck by one thing: Hope always posted photos from her nights out, throughout the night, and always commented on the event the following day: Blast in XYZ bar with m’girls! or Me&J in XYZ’s. Except for one Friday night, two weeks before she went missing.
Hmm. Why the deviation?
That day, Facebook showed that Hope Coulson went for a late lunch with her girlfriends for one of their birthdays, and posted photos over the course of the afternoon. The next photo uploaded was at 7 p.m., taken in a sports bar – a loved-up selfie with Jonathan. The next photo, in a different bar, was taken at 10 p.m. and was just of Jonathan. And that was it; no comment on the night the following day. And the next post was on Monday afternoon, when she had finished work.
Something about that isn’t right. She was drinking at lunch, kept going when she went to meet Jonathan, didn’t appear in a photo herself. Because she was too drunk? She had a kindergarten-teacher reputation to uphold. Or maybe something happened. Did they have a fight? Maybe whatever happened that night sent her into hiding the following day. Maybe the night was not a night worth writing about for whatever reason …
Ren put down the glass of wine.
She texted Janine. FOMO. Fear of Missing Out.
She got a text right back: You know where to find me. Robbie left early on. Everett just gone . . .
Four hours later, Ren was leaning into the mirror in the ladies’ room of Gaffney’s, her makeup bag open on the wet tiles.
Why can’t there be raised shelves away from the sinks? How hard can that be, people?
Janine arrived, passing two girls who had been taking selfies together before they left.
‘I’m so old,’ said Ren. ‘The idea of constantly updating social media when I’m trying to get hammered is hellish. I hate even being around people who do that. Relax, everyone. And get the fuck out of my face.’
‘I know,’ said Janine. ‘But at least it helps us do our job … suckers!’
‘Speaking of which – Hope Coulson was out two weeks before she went missing, then thirty-six hours disappeared into a black social media hole, which was not her style. I’m just wondering, did something happen? And we know I don’t like to wonder for too long. I like to go out there and find the fuck out.’ She ran her finger under each eye to tidy up her mascara. ‘I need to speak with Briar again.’
‘You heard he’s lawyered up, though …’
Ren turned to her.
‘Oh, I know that face,’ said Janine. ‘Don’t go there without the lawyer.’
‘I just have a couple of tiny questions …’
‘Oh, they’re cool with the tiny ones … phew.’
‘But I don’t think he’s a suspect,’ said Ren.
‘Not the point. Don’t risk it. Gary will go apeshit. And speaking of risking shit, whatever you’re about to do here, don’t.’
‘I was about to put some lip gloss on,’ said Ren. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Janine. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you and that guy out there, but …’
‘I’m fine,’ said Ren. ‘Don’t worry. I have zero interest in him.’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure he feels the same way.’
‘That’s his problem.’
Janine studied her in the mirror.
‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ said Ren. ‘The guy’s not even drinking.’
‘I don’t think a man needs to be drinking to make a move on you,’ said Janine. She paused. ‘Anyhoo, I think I’m about ready to call it a night.’
‘Noooo,’ said Ren.
Janine nodded. ‘I’m exhausted. Do you mind?’
‘No, but I’m wiiide awake – do you mind if I stay?’
‘Not at all,’ said Janine. ‘I’ll see you back at the ranch.’ She hugged Ren, and pulled back. ‘I know Gary’s not actually here, but you seem to be in his crosshairs. I’m not sure it’s to do with all this partying, but—’
‘Fuck Gary!’
6 (#ulink_0ac1bab2-0eca-5fef-b752-a8f715989663)
Ren was dancing hard and fast, bright-eyed and soaring, wild of heart and intentions. The people around her were happy and free and smiling and a reflection of her. They moved together, buoyant and powerful. Two guys joined her on the dance floor – one in front, one behind.
I may be old enough to be the front guy’s mother. He has no clue. Or does he?
He was smiling at her with his gorgeous, perfect teeth.
Ren smiled back.
Boom-boom-BOOM. Boom-boom-BOOM. Boom-boom-BOOOOOM.
I wonder what Ben would make of this? I mean, it’s all perfectly innocent, but still. Would I like to see him in a girl sandwich? I don’t know … Yes you do. You’d kill him.
Ren backed into the other guy, and the front guy moved forward. They all moved with instinctive rhythm.
‘We’re good at this!’ said Ren.
‘We are!’ said the front guy.
She could feel the back guy’s breath on her neck.
Ew.Garlic stranger breath.
She squeezed her way out from between them. ‘Thank you, gentle men!’
‘Don’t go!’ said one.
‘Stay!’ said the other.
‘Bar!’ said Ren. I’m way too sober for these shenanigans. I’ve sweated out the alcohol.
Half an hour later, Ren was back with her original group of strange men. Her phone buzzed in her purse. She took it out.
It was a text from Janine. She could barely focus on it.
I can’t find the key! Stranded outside apartment …!
Shitttt. I don’t want to leeeave. Fuck. Maybe Janine can go back to her house. Don’t be an asshole.
‘Excuse me, gentle men,’ said Ren. ‘I’m going to have to go.’
‘What? Why?’ said one of them.
‘My friend is locked out of my apartment.’
‘Is it far?’ said the guy.
‘Ten minutes in a cab,’ said Ren.
‘I can drive you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been drinking.’
Ren felt a small spike of sobriety. He could be a psycho. Lots of psychos don’t drink or do drugs because they don’t want to lose control. Jesus. Worst-Case Scenario Girl strikes again.
‘That means I can drive you back here after,’ said the guy. ‘Keep the party going!’
I hate that expression. ‘OK! That’s an excellent idea! What’s your name again?’
‘JD.’
‘Thank you, JD!’
They pushed through the hot, crowded bar onto the street. The night was warm. There was only a gentle breeze, but it hit her like a slap.
Whoa. My head.
She called Janine. She picked up right away.
‘Are you OK?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Janine.
‘I’m on my way,’ said Ren. ‘One of the guys is giving me a ride.’
‘What?’ said Janine. ‘Get a cab. Who is he? Has he been drinking?’
‘Nope,’ said Ren. ‘He’s tonight’s designated driver. With a name like JD that’s a bit cruel, isn’t it?’
JD laughed. He unlocked the car door.
‘He’s going to bring me back to the bar after, too,’ said Ren.
Pause. ‘Really?’ said Janine.
What’s with that tone of voice? ‘Yes. Would you like me to call one of my neighbors, see if they’ll buzz you in, make sure you’re safe?’
‘Ren, it’s almost two a.m.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ren. ‘It’s very late to be hanging around—’
‘Ren? Ren, listen to me: do not call your neighbors. I’ll be fine.’
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘See you in ten.’
Janine was waiting on the steps outside the apartment.
‘There she is!’ said Ren. ‘Safe!’ She jumped out of the car, with the key already in her hand. ‘Here.’
‘I’m so sorry about this,’ said Janine.
‘It’s fine!’ said Ren. ‘Don’t worry. Will you be OK?’
‘No,’ said Janine.
‘What?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Janine. ‘Come with me. I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.’
Nowww? Ren glanced over at JD. He was a blur standing by his car. The streetlights were glowing, everything was glowing. Ren turned back to Janine, struggling to focus.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘OK.’ She ran back down the steps. ‘Thank you, JD! But I’m going to stay, now that I’m here.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the ride.’
‘Aw, that’s a shame,’ said JD. ‘Are you sure? I just got a text from one of the guys – party at his place.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Ren, ‘but I better not. I don’t want to leave Janine.’
JD looked up at Janine with an expression that said killjoy.
Inside the apartment, Ren went looking for vodka, Janine went looking for water and Vitamin C tablets.
‘Here,’ she said, putting them down in front of Ren.
‘What is this?’ said Ren. ‘The drinking is not over yet. What would you like?’
‘I’m good, thank you,’ said Janine.
‘So,’ said Ren, ‘what do you need to talk about? Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘I … just wanted you to stop what you were doing.’
Um, what?
‘I know you said you were fine,’ said Janine, ‘but I was afraid you were going to do something you would regret.’
‘Like what?’ said Ren.
‘Come on,’ said Janine. ‘JD, he’s a good-looking guy. You two were flirting.’
‘Jesus Christ, why does everyone think I’m flirting when I’m just having fun?’
‘It seemed like more than that to me,’ said Janine, ‘and definitely to him. Why else would he offer you a ride home? A guy wouldn’t do that unless he wanted something in return.’
‘Cynic!’ said Ren. ‘And I think you over-estimate my attractiveness.’
Janine shook her head. ‘I don’t. I’ve seen it enough times. When you focus on people you focus on them, it’s so lovely, it really is, but you know men … they want the world to revolve around them, and you make it so.’
Oh, God, I’ve heard that before. ‘I was just having fun!’ I don’t have a dial to regulate the attention I pay.
‘I know,’ said Janine, ‘but I know that it wouldn’t be fun at all if you cheated on Ben. You’d never forgive yourself. I wasn’t sure you were in control of all that tonight, and I didn’t want to wake up to an empty apartment or – worse – have you wake up to a different man to the one who loves you. The one you love.’
Damn it. ‘I wouldn’t have done anything.’
‘Another drink might have changed all that,’ said Janine. ‘I had a bad vibe.’
‘Well,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks for caring.’
Janine laughed. ‘Once more with feeling.’
Ren got into bed and texted Ben. Love you. XX
7 (#ulink_f4a714c4-d820-5239-859f-1a9ad42b3aab)
Ren woke at eight thirty the next morning. Oooh. Where am I? Oh, I’m home. Thank God. Alone. Phew. OK. Janine stayed here. How did I get here? Cab. OK. No – a guy called JD. Nice guy. Nothing happened. That’s a positive. There’s hope for me.
Hope. Victims should never be called Hope. What happened to you, Hope Coulson? Did you get drunk in a bar, take a ride home with a stranger?
Ren got up and stuck her head into the living room.
No Janine. Why didn’t she call me? She hates me. I’m a liability on nights out.
Ren turned on the radio and went into the bathroom. She stepped onto the scales: one hundred and nineteen pounds. Thank you. Don’t ever change. She went to the toilet, washed her hands, dried them, then stepped on the scales again: still one hundred and nineteen pounds. So, I didn’t drink that much.
I’m high-larious.
She looked in the mirror. Ooh: not a good look, though a familiar one. I like the cheekbones, though.
She jumped in the shower and used every energizing product and scrub she could find to startle her awake. She dressed in gray, high-waisted straight-leg pants, a starched white shirt, a pale gold necklace with two pendants: one shaped like a crescent moon, the other shaped like a star. She did a quick makeup job, left her hair wet, and ran.
Fifteen minutes later, she parked outside the Livestock Exchange Building. She began to jog up the steps, but her pounding head slowed her march. She walked through the doors, her footsteps echoing across the polished marble floor. She headed for the wide central staircase instead of the elevator. The staircase led onto a landing, then left or right for more steps to the next floor, and the same all the way to the top. She could hear a man above loudly announce, ‘This is not safe!’
Ren looked up. He was rattling a clearly unstable guardrail along the second floor balcony.
And who the fuck might you be?
‘Is this even forty-two inches high, I have to wonder,’ he was saying.
Really? Do you?
He made his way up to the fourth floor.
The Safe Streets floor.
Ren recognized the woman rushing up the stairs behind him as Valerie, the real estate agent – giving him a tour. There were four office spaces to rent in the building.
On other floors.
Oh – Valerie! She might help me and Misty find a home!
Ren continued up the stairs. ‘Sir, this is not the floor with the vacant space,’ Valerie was saying. She looked down at Ren, exasperated.
‘That’s not the point!’ said the man. ‘How well maintained is this building is what I’m thinking.’ He tried to rattle the guardrail on the fourth floor, but it held firm. He looked disappointed.
Ren smiled at him as she passed by to walk through the door into Safe Streets. He was standing about four feet to her right. She paused. ‘We don’t walk out around there,’ said Ren, pointing down to the second floor balcony. ‘No one does, so, we’ve never noticed the problem. That’s a dummy door at the end. The elevator bank is down the other way. However, I’m sure we can get the guardrail that you will never use fixed for you in no time, so that when you never use it, it will be safe, and you won’t plunge down if you never fall from a place where you will never again be going.’
She walked through the door. She could hear Valerie rambling about the fourth floor being a federal area.
‘And there’s no security in the building?’ said the man. ‘No scanners? Nothing?’
‘This is not the FBI’s main federal building in Denver,’ Valerie was saying. ‘Would you really want to have to be scanned every morning coming to work, Rodney, really? Emptying your pockets? Taking out your phone, your coins, having your bags searched?’
Ren was smiling as she walked down the hallway. No, Rodney, you would not. I wouldn’t want that myself. God bless our compact little squad in our beautiful historic home.
Ren’s cell phone rang.
Ben!
She picked up. ‘Hey, baby.’
‘Hey,’ said Ben. ‘Thought I’d catch you before work. How you doing? How was your night?’
‘Great,’ said Ren. ‘Just let me take off my jacket, sit down. Yes, great night. We met some hilarious guys at the bar … one of them gave me a ride home. Janine forgot her keys—’
‘Who was this guy?’ said Ben.
‘Just a guy called JD,’ said Ren. ‘Why?’
‘Why? I don’t know – rides home with strange guys and I can’t ask who he is?’
‘“Strange guys” … one guy. A regular guy, not strange. Janine met him.’ And tried to keep me away from him. ‘He was fine.’
‘Good to know.’ He paused. ‘Aren’t you exhausted? All these nights out?’
‘No, Mom. I’m good.’
‘Fine, I’ll let you get back to work,’ said Ben.
‘Great,’ said Ren. ‘Talk to you later.’
‘Don’t call me late.’
‘I won’t.’
Bo. Ring.
Everett came into the bullpen with two mugs of coffee and put one on Ren’s desk. ‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘God bless you and the caffeine I’ll ride out on.’
Ren opened up her laptop again, and went back to Hope Coulson’s Facebook page.
Something is not right here.
She filled Everett in on what she had read the previous night. ‘I need to pay a visit to Jonathan Briar,’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Everett, ‘news just in: he’s lawyered up.’
‘No, I know,’ said Ren. ‘Janine told me. I just want to ask him about that one night.’
Everett shook his head. ‘Not without his lawyer … who, by the way, is well aware of the lack of hard evidence against his client.’
‘As am I,’ said Ren. She leaned in. ‘Has Gary mentioned to you his exact theory on what happened to Hope Coulson?’
‘No,’ said Everett, ‘but doesn’t he seem a little … distracted to you?’
Ren nodded. ‘Yup. I don’t think he’s himself right now.’ Something is rotten in the state of his marriage.
‘I don’t know him well enough to know what “hisself” is,’ said Everett.
‘I know him too well,’ said Ren. ‘And he’s still a fucking mystery.’ She looked up. ‘Speaking of mysteries …’
‘Hello, flatmate,’ said Janine, walking in.
‘Where did you get to this morning?’ said Ren.
‘I took Misty for a run.’
‘Oh my God – you took my dog for a run. Bad mom, bad mom.’
‘That’s not how it works,’ said Janine. ‘You are hungover. I needed a run, Misty did too: win-win.’
‘How is my baby?’ Whom I haven’t seen in four days.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Janine.
‘How’s Devin?’ said Ren.
‘As happy as ever. Is she not one of the cheeriest people on the planet?’
‘I swear she doesn’t have a bad thought in her head,’ said Ren.
‘Everyone has bad thoughts,’ said Everett. ‘Don’t be idolizing.’
I do idolize, he’s right. Everyone is better than me.
Robbie walked into the bullpen with a stack of files up to his chin. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘Just don’t.’
‘I’m sorry I missed you last night,’ said Ren.
‘You came out in the end?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘We’re going to have to coordinate better …’
She sat down at her desk. Something was tugging at her. Something that had just been said.
What? Idolizing? Bad thoughts?
She opened up Google and stared at it blankly.
Win-win! That’s what it is! Stephanie Wingerter.
Ren jumped up from her desk and went to the file cabinet. She pulled out the file on the rape and murder of Stephanie Wingerter, a twenty-three-year-old meth-addicted prostitute who went by the name of Win-Win. She had disappeared in late June and was found a week later in a shallow grave in Devil’s Head, Douglas County. Ren laid out the photos on her desk. The first was a mug shot – Stephanie’s blank eyes in a skinny, washed-out face dotted with scabs. Her mouth was half-open, showing gaps where two teeth should have been. Her thin, punky blonde hair was a mess, her eyebrows over-plucked.
The next photos were of where she was found, left to decompose in the beautiful July sunshine. Stephanie Wingerter’s face and body had been ravaged by drugs before any killer had gotten near it, but when he did … her right eye socket was impacted, as was her nose, both left swollen and caked in blood. Her upper and lower lips were split, and there was no pale skin visible – it was all shades of blue, purple, red and black. Dried blood darkened her hair. Her throat had been cut. Much of the lower half of her body was burned down to her ankles.
Ren read the autopsy report. Cause of death was exsanguination. Accelerant had been poured on her, post-mortem, then lit.
You poor, tragic soul. Why do some people have to live such miserable lives and die such horrible deaths?
There were photos of a younger Stephanie from before she became an addict, and she was not unlike Hope Coulson: slim, pretty and bright-eyed.
Everyone in Colorado knew who Hope Coulson was. Stephanie Wingerter, visible in life only to those in her shadowy underworld, had scarcely registered in the media. She was the type to be considered a victim-in-waiting by people who could never see her as a young woman struggling to survive or desperately feeding a habit that was never on her list of life’s goals, but was, instead, a marker on a gene.
Ren went through the last photos – what had remained of Stephanie Wingerter’s tiny clothes, filthy, torn and bloodied.
8 (#ulink_2203610f-e7b7-5f5c-ab56-fcd2d3497c2b)
After work, Ren went to visit Misty, and met with Janine for coffee afterwards in Crema on Larimer Street.
‘The sooner I get a house the better,’ said Ren. ‘I miss my girl.’
‘Did she go insane when she saw you?’ said Janine.
‘She did,’ said Ren. ‘It was adorable.’ She stared down at her coffee. ‘I hope she won’t need therapy after me deserting her.’
‘You haven’t deserted her,’ said Janine. ‘You’ve made a major sacrifice, so she can stay in an area she’s familiar with, with someone else who loves her. I visit her, you visit her. Misty is beloved!’
Ren smiled. ‘She is.’ Sometimes, though, I can’t even raise my game to see her. I’m so hungover, I just want to get back to the apartment after work. Or a bar. Or I can’t face getting up early enough to see her before work.
‘Are you being neg?’ said Janine.
Ren laughed. ‘Maybe …’
‘That’s just the alcohol in your system.’
‘Why do we do it?’
‘Because it’s fun.’
Ren let out a breath.
‘Are you OK?’ said Janine. She put a hand on her forearm.
Just tell her.
No.
Do.
‘Thanks for looking out for me last night,’ said Ren. ‘God. I was so wasted.’
Janine laughed. ‘Nooo.’
‘Was I an embarrassment?’
‘No! Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Ugh. I think you’re just being nice.’
‘No. Honestly.’
‘Look, I just wanted to let you know something,’ said Ren. ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with last night. But … I suppose, I just haven’t told you and now it seems weird after all this time. I’m … bipolar.’ Ugh, still hate it.
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘You mean you guessed already!’ said Ren.
Janine laughed. ‘Not exactly. I figured … there was something there.’
‘Something wrong, you mean. When? Why didn’t you say?’
‘It’s not exactly something I’m going to throw out there …’
‘True. Anyway, there it is, my sorry tale.’
‘It doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m concerned,’ said Janine. ‘But, yes, I’m glad you told me.’
‘Well, now that we’re working together …’
Janine frowned. ‘Now that we’re working together?’ She paused. ‘Are you trying to tell me I can’t rely on you?’ She was half-smiling. ‘That if we were in a gun battle you might be across the room dancing to “Happy”?’
Ren laughed. I love you, Janine Hooks. ‘Thanks.’
‘All I will say is please talk to me if you’re struggling … or if there’s anything on your mind.’
‘Of course,’ said Ren. ‘And you can talk to me too.’
Now, have you anything you’d like to tell me? Like about your possible eating disorder?
There was a sparkle of the onset of tears in Janine’s eyes. She blinked and they were gone, swallowed up.
Just like that.Talk to me. Or do you think I’m just not the right kind of friend?
‘Gary makes me go to these bullshit support groups every two weeks,’ said Ren. ‘In that shit-ass Henderson Hotel. It’s enough to make you blow your brains out. Shit – I was supposed to be at one last night.’
‘Don’t the meetings help at all?’ said Janine.
Not right now. At all.Ooh. You, troubled lady, need to know support groups help. ‘They do help,’ said Ren. ‘Just sometimes they remind me that there’s something wrong with me. And, like, I feel great. I could go there in the best humor ever, and someone’s up at the lectern talking about killing themselves or getting injected in the ass with clozapine and I’m like “that is not my life”.’
‘Of course that’s not your life,’ said Janine. ‘I mean, look at you.’
Yes. Seconds from a clozapine shot at all times. Ooh: that’s a great idea. Shots called Clozapine. I’ll have a round of Clozapines. Like Mind Erasers. Mind Numbers. With a silent ‘b’. The pharmaceutical company probably wouldn’t allow a brand name to be used. Obviously.
She let out a breath.
‘And, Ren, I want you to know I can’t be your friend in half-measures. Like, I don’t half-care about people. I’m all in. Which I hope explains why I was the way I was last night. So if that doesn’t sit well with you …’
‘It’s just …’
‘What?’ said Janine.
I hate my behavior being scrutinized. I hate being watched. I hate being stopped. I hate my fun being curtailed. I shouldn’t have told her. Now I have another person in my life with a worried look on their face. Fuck that.
‘Just … thanks,’ said Ren.
Ren started the drive back to her apartment. She kept thinking of Hope Coulson’s party pictures.
I am missing something. I need to talk to Jonathan Briar.
Fuck his lawyer.
You really don’t want to do that.
Gary will go—
La la la la la …
Ren rang the buzzer outside Jonathan Briar’s apartment building, waiting patiently for him to pick up.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Jonathan, it’s Ren Bryce here from Safe Streets …’
Silence.
‘I was looking at Hope’s Facebook page and there’s something I need to ask you.’
‘I have a lawyer now,’ said Jonathan.
‘This will take five minutes,’ said Ren. ‘Please. You want to find out who did this to Hope, don’t you? You’re not a suspect. I just have a couple of questions.’
‘What about her Facebook page?’ said Jonathan.
‘Something doesn’t add up,’ said Ren. ‘Please – can I come up? I’ll show you.’
Silence.
Then the buzzer.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
9 (#ulink_005708df-daa6-58f7-84a1-af0993a75738)
The apartment was a mess. Ren pushed aside cushions, a hoodie and two dirty plates to sit on the sofa. Jonathan went into the kitchen to make coffee. Ren could see him through the doorway, leaning against the countertop, gripping it, his head bowed. She got up and went in after him. There were fast-food wrappers, Styrofoam boxes, empty soda cans, empty chip packages, all across the countertops. The bin was overflowing.
‘Why don’t you sit down on the sofa,’ said Ren, putting a hand on Jonathan’s back. ‘I’ll take care of this.’
He looked up, tears welling in his eyes. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ren.
‘Thank you,’ said Jonathan. ‘Thanks.’
Ren opened the cupboard under the sink, took out a garbage bag and started to fill it up. Then she loaded the dishwasher, washed down the countertops and put the kettle on. As she waited for it to boil, she looked around the kitchen. The side of the refrigerator still had notes signed by Hope, and a calendar that had been turned to the new month. Ren went over and flipped it up. Every Monday from the beginning to the end of the year, read: Good Shepherd, 6 p.m.
Eerie. A schedule that would never be followed through on …
Ren took out her cell phone and photographed all the months of the calendar.
Just in case …
The kettle boiled, Ren made coffee and went back in to sit with Jonathan Briar. He had made a half-assed attempt to tidy the living room, but he appeared to have stalled.
‘Thank you for cleaning up,’ he said.
‘Not a problem,’ said Ren.
‘I told everyone to stay away,’ he said. ‘People offered to help …’
‘It’s not easy having people around when you’re grieving,’ said Ren. ‘Sometimes you just want the whole world to go away.’
He nodded.
‘I lost my older brother to suicide when I was thirteen years old,’ said Ren.
‘Really?’ said Jonathan.
‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘His name was Beau. He was only seventeen.’
‘Man …’ said Jonathan. ‘Do you ever get over that?’
‘No. But it does get easier, and there’s the cliché that I know you won’t believe applies to you … until it does.’
‘I can’t imagine … getting past this.’
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘And you don’t have to. Just take each day at a time.’
‘Each day sucks.’
‘Jonathan, I wanted to talk to you about a Friday night two weeks before Hope’s disappearance.’ Ren took her laptop out of her bag and opened it to Hope’s Facebook page.
‘Hope didn’t update Facebook for thirty-six hours,’ said Ren, ‘which is kind of unlike her, right?’
She studied Jonathan’s face. He was lost in the photos.
Shit. I should have prepared him.
He started to cry again.
Fuck.
‘I’m sorry if this is upsetting,’ said Ren, ‘but I just wanted to find out, did anything happen that night?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
Ooh. I don’t believe you.
‘Are you sure?’ said Ren. ‘Hope was drinking all afternoon … she continued when you joined her. She could well have been very drunk that night … Did you guys have an argument?’
‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘But, yeah, she was really drunk. But she never got mean or anything, like some girls do. We didn’t have an argument.’
‘Did you come home together?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Jonathan.
‘How did you get home?’ said Ren.
‘Uh … we … got a cab.’
Once more with feeling.
Ren glanced down at the screen. ‘From this bar? The Irish Hound?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘How long did that take?’ said Ren.
‘Five or ten minutes?’
Love that guessing tone of voice.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else?’
He nodded. ‘Positive.’
Positively lie-telling.
Ren got back to her apartment, changed, and went up to her second gym of choice – the top-floor glamor gym of her apartment building. Its glass windows looked out over the twinkling lights of Denver and made her feel like she was in a hotel. It was blessedly empty.
Woo-hoo. No stranger sweat.
Proud to be here: drank only coffee earlier. Albeit the ninth mug of the day. But not alcohol. That makes me a winner.
She pushed in her EarPods, hit buttons and set the treadmill speed to low. She started with a one-minute walk, then cranked it up.
Run, run, run.
Music pounded in her ears, loud and piercing, and hammering. She cranked it up again.
I am alive. I am alive. I am alive. My mind is a wide-open space. Everything is possible.
She thought of Hope Coulson. The face of Stephanie Wingerter quickly slid in beside her.
I know you are connected. You look so … alike. You were both brutalized, discarded. Just … I know you’re connected. I know it.
What the fuck are you lying about, Jonathan Briar? I told you I don’t think you’re a suspect.
Ren ran for forty-five minutes, finally slamming her hand on the Stop button, slowing to a walk. She was hot, but barely sweating. She breathed deep.
I will find you, killer. I will run after you. I will be fitter and better and stronger than you. I will not fail.
She went back to her apartment. I need Ben. I need to fuck him. I need to fuck. I need to fuck now. She took a shower, then went into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. She dialed Ben’s number. He picked up right away.
‘Are you alone?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
She lay back on the bed. ‘I need you to talk me through something …’
She lay there afterwards, staring at the ceiling, her left arm up over her head, her right hand holding the phone.
‘It was fun while it lasted,’ she said. ‘Now we’re just alone, which sucks.’
‘I’m at the supermarket …’
Ren laughed. ‘Ben … I’m sorry about earlier. I was hungover and cranky.’
‘That’s OK, baby.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m good, busy. How about you?’
‘We’ve got that murder case – the Hope Coulson one, and I’m thinking … there are similarities to another rape/murder from two months ago.’
‘I thought the fiancé was looking good for the Coulson case …’
‘Trial by media, yes. And Gary.’
‘You’re still having issues with him …’
‘Has he said anything to you?’
Ben and Gary had been friends for years – Gary trained Ben in the Undercover Program, as he had trained Ren.
‘No, but I doubt he would,’ said Ben.
Paranoia. ‘So, anyway, I got to thinking about serial killers—’
‘Whoa, what? You think this is a serial killer?’
‘Well … I think the same guy may have raped and killed two women – does that count?’
‘Technically? No.’
‘OK – forget that,’ said Ren. ‘In general, though, how do you feel about the following? A problem with the wiring of the brain results in: me. And: serial killers.’
Patient pause.
‘I’m serious,’ said Ren.
‘What exactly are you saying?’ said Ben. ‘Are you trying to relate the two things? You and serial killers?’
‘What I’m saying is – I have something in common with serial killers.’
‘That’s just nuts,’ said Ben.
That’s not a very nice thing to say.
‘Is that what you’re actually thinking?’ said Ben.
‘No.’ Yes.
‘Ren, I know you don’t like me reading up on these things, but I know that bipolar people can sometimes think everything is their fault. Like, they see a natural disaster on the other side of the world, and can manage to feel guilt on some level about that. This sounds to me like a version of skewed thinking.’
‘But … think about it,’ said Ren; ‘a serial killer goes around thinking things that no one knows about. He has these internal thoughts that he can’t say out loud because people would know. They would know.’ She paused. ‘And I have thoughts like that.’
‘All thoughts are internal,’ said Ben.
Oh, yeah.
‘And your thoughts are not about raping and murdering people … That makes a serial killer just that little bit different.’
‘I like how your mind works.’
‘It’s pretty much how most people’s minds work.’
Ouch.
‘I didn’t mean it like that, before you get weird.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m going to stop talking now.’
Ren laughed. ‘I think that would be very wise.’
10 (#ulink_33a3ac56-5d34-57c4-8650-5b63769a513b)
Donna Darisse reached out of the shower, grabbed a faded towel from the hook on the wall, and wrapped it around her slender body. She stepped onto the tiled floor of the tiny bathroom, grabbed a second towel and quickly dried her fine, wispy dark hair. She looked in the mirror. She sometimes expected to see her pre-chemo hair – this fragile, but fighting hair still had the power to startle her.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
‘Mommy, can I come in?’
‘Just give me a moment, Cam,’ said Donna. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes! I just wanted to say hi!’
Donna smiled. ‘Hi yourself,’ she said. ‘Now, you go back in to your movie, I’ll be out in a little while.’
‘I wish you weren’t going to work,’ said Cam as she walked away.
It was Donna’s first week back since her treatment. She was high on guilt, low on options. She listened for the DVD player to kick in, and she went into her bedroom. She went straight for the drawer and the wig hidden at the back. She couldn’t bear to tell Cam – she was only six years old. So Donna always wore the wig unless Cam was staying with her father. Five of Donna’s friends had their heads shaved in solidarity when she lost her hair. Cam just thought they’d all gone crazy.
Donna pulled out a red dress she had often had to diet to fit into. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, pulling at the loose fabric. She had made remarks about skinny people in the past – they needed fat on their bones, they needed a burger, a home-cooked meal. She felt a little differently since she became one of them. She had never known the stories of the people she judged.
Donna walked into the living room with a smile on her face. ‘Mommy loves someone very much,’ she said. ‘And Mommy thinks that person is right here in this room. Do you have any idea who that could be?’
‘Me!’ said Cam. ‘Me!’ She leapt up from her cushion on the floor, ran across the room and dived into her mother’s arms.
The doorbell rang, and Donna carried Cam to the door and let the babysitter in.
‘Now,’ said Donna, letting Cam down, ‘you be good, and you enjoy your play date this afternoon. I’ll see you for supper.’
‘Yes!’ said Cam. ‘You look so beautiful, Mama. And I like your white cowboy boots!’
‘You look beautiful too … Belle. I wish I had such a pretty yellow dress. I would dance around the room all day and all night.’
‘Your dress is the prettiest dress in the whole wide world,’ said Cam. ‘You might meet a prince!’
He sat in the car watching the street hookers making their way up and down Colfax Avenue.
Fuck that Hope Coulson bitch. Fuck her and her kindergarten smile and her lines of volunteers.
He turned his attention back to the street.
People only line up for you pathetic whoring bitches when you’re alive. Only so’s you can suck their cocks.
He couldn’t see anything he liked in the parade before him.
Fuck the landfill site. Fuck Denver PD. Fuck the sheriffs. Fuck the Feds. Fuck today’s miserable luncheon buffet. No man could get full on that.
Just as he was about to drive away, he saw one, just the way he liked them.
Hold up, scrawny lady! You’re about to be crowned winner of today’s pitiful pussy pageant!
He drove alongside her.
Donna Darisse leaned down, spoke into the driver’s side.
‘How are you, handsome man?’
‘Well, that’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you hear that all the time …’ said Donna.
He wondered if all the conversations taking place along that strip were the same as his, loading and unloading a whole pile of bullshit every time the trick opened her mouth, every time the john did.
‘Well, you’re a Texan, right?’ she said. ‘You like to keep your boots on? I like that.’ She smiled. ‘How do you like my boots? Do you approve?’
‘I like them very much,’ he said. I’d like to slam them over and over into your face.
‘And how do you like your women?’ she said.
‘Satisfied,’ he said. ‘Hop on in.’
‘Just so you know, I don’t do anal.’
Ha. Ha. Ha.
‘Where are you going to take me?’ said Donna.
‘Right through the gates of heaven,’ he said.
He glanced across at her. He could see a tiny flash of something in her eyes, and how she smiled quickly to try to bury it. His dick swelled. He closed his eyes, breathed in, loved this, loved the anticipation, had trained himself not to rush through to the end, but to savor every part of what was about to unfold.
‘Tell me more,’ she said.
‘Show don’t tell is my motto,’ he said.
‘Do you have a name?’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am. You can call me Harris.’
‘Short for Harrison?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s what I long for that matters …’
She laughed. ‘You on business here in Denver?’
‘Serious business.’
Donna reached over and slid her hand from his knee all the way up. ‘Me too, sweetheart.’ She smiled and he got a little softer, and all that ever brought was confusion. Confusion angered him.
He had done his research. It wasn’t difficult to find a map online of the HALO cam locations. He chose a route from East Colfax that would circumvent them all. Even though he knew, without a vehicle description, the cops wouldn’t have a clue what to look for. And he was making sure to take her to an area that had untouched corners. He liked violating what was untouched.
Donna turned toward him, reached out for him again.
And you – you’ve been touched by every motherfucker the length and breadth of Colfax, you sick-looking, dick-sucking bitch.
‘Not here,’ he said.
Donna followed his gaze to a wall lined with dumpsters.
‘I’m sure we can pick somewhere prettier than this,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a nice car here we could get comfortable in.’
‘Sweetheart, never in my life have I considered comfort in any decision I’ve ever made.’
And I sure as hell have never connected it with fucking.
‘So, we’re going to do this outside,’ he said, ‘then I’ll drive you on back to your friends.’ He smiled.
Donna relaxed a little. They got out of the car and she walked toward the wall. Harris still hadn’t gotten hard when he turned her around and pushed her up against it, when he pressed himself against her. There was a moment of stillness.
‘I’m kidding,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to do it here. My office is inside.’
He could feel her reaction – confusion, relief, the desperate optimism that made her want to believe that the person her every cell was telling her was so very wrong, was really OK, that the evil she was sensing was not real. He had an office!
He unlocked the door and pushed her inside an empty, cavernous warehouse.
‘Hey,’ said Donna, half-turning, ‘you never asked how much I charge.’
Harris laughed as he slammed the door behind them. He grabbed her by the wrist and flung her to the ground. ‘Oh, honey, you’re the one paying.’
‘Wh—’
‘With your life.’ He laughed, a short crazy laugh as if this had been such an obvious thing for her to have not considered.
Donna screamed, and it echoed around the vast, black space. ‘No!’ she said. ‘No – please.’
He was holding a knife with a long blade that was catching the scant moonlight from the row of windows at the top of the room.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he said. ‘All of them.’
‘Please don’t do this,’ said Donna.
‘Don’t say please to me.’ He walked a step closer, patient, and dead-eyed.
She did as he asked, and stood trembling, naked, trying to cover herself.
He looked her up and down, stopped with his eyes locked on hers.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fair, I’ll be fair – I’m gonna give you a chance to get away.’
She stared at him. He nodded.
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’
She frowned, but within seconds, she bolted into the gloom. He gave her time, then followed her. She cried out as her feet struck glass, but she kept running, left and right, wildly panicked, thrilling him. He gained on her, with little effort, reaching out to her, grabbing her hair, but pulling the wig from her head. He recoiled, threw it to one side, but barely broke his stride. He grabbed her arm this time, yanked her toward him, flung her to the ground. He tied her wrists with cable ties behind her back.
He knelt down in front of her, pushing her limp legs open. ‘I’m doing you a favor,’ he hissed. ‘Is this the life you want for yourself? What do you think those milked-dry titties are gonna do for a man like me? Flat little saving-up-for-fake-ones kind of titties? Your stretch marks. All of that tells me you’ve got kids at home and you’re out streetwalking. You’re nothing but a rodent bitch looking for someone to prey on her bony ass. Well, you got me. You got me. And how do you like it?’
He grabbed her thigh hard, burying his fingertips into it, and with his other hand, pushed the blade inside her, over and over.
Donna screamed and screamed, but had no power against his weight. He pressed the side of her face hard against the damp, stinking concrete.
‘You asked me how I like my women,’ he said. ‘Face down in the dirt and dying!’
He laughed hysterically. Donna was disoriented, struggling to breathe, trying to get her head from under his hand, which he released only to punch her jaw hard. He heard a crack. After that, it was just moaning.
Face down in the dirt and dying.
He felt something sink inside him.
Face down in the dirt and dying. Dirt: not here, not on a cold concrete floor.
It’s not enough, is it? It’s not enough. You need to fly again. You need to fly. Nothing else matters now. You need to fly. You need to fly.
11 (#ulink_985d486e-0d2a-5aad-a5fc-b83c59fe9c4d)
Ren sat at her desk with a Danish in front of her that she had taken one bite out of.
Why did I bring this in here? It is just looking like fatness to me. How could I ever have eaten so many of these?
She opened up a document and wrote the date of the night that Jonathan Briar was lying about.
Why was he lying?
Ren looked up the Irish Hound bar on Google Maps. It was the last stop on Hope and Jonathan’s night out.
His ‘cab’ answer was the least convincing.
Would they have gotten a cab for such a short trip if Hope Coulson was as hammered as I believe she was? Wouldn’t they have gone for some fresh air in their lungs?
Ren called the Irish Hound for the video from that night. They had aready erased it.
Shit.
She went back to the map and marked out three separate routes they could have taken home … if they had walked. From that, she put together a list of businesses and homes that they may have passed, and who may have captured them on CCTV cameras.
Her phone rang. She looked down and saw the flashing name of Glenn Buddy, DPD.
She picked up. ‘Hey, Glenn. Before you say anything, I didn’t get a chance to ask you last time – how’s Brenda doing?’
Glenn was close friends with Cliff and Brenda James. Cliff was Ren’s adored big-bear JeffCo colleague who Janine had replaced. His wife, Brenda, was undergoing cancer treatment and had been given just months to live. Cliff had gone back to work at JeffCo Sheriff’s Department to be closer to home.
‘It’s not good,’ said Glenn. ‘But they’re holding up, they’re holding up.’
‘I haven’t spoken to Cliff in weeks,’ said Ren. ‘I’m afraid to bother him.’
‘I know, I know – time is precious, but I’m sure he’d appreciate a call. You cheer him up, Ren.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You do. Now, I’m about to not cheer you up. We’ve got reports of a missing prostitute. Name’s Donna Darisse. We brought her in a few times. Real nice lady. She’s a cancer survivor.’
The word survivor sounded stark when side by side with Brenda James’s prognosis.
‘She’s got a six-year-old girl,’ said Glenn. ‘It was Donna’s first day back on the job after treatment. The daughter’s friend’s mom called it in this morning – Donna never came back to pick her up after a play date at six p.m. yesterday. That was totally out of character for her. But the friend’s mom figured she had to work late – she thought Donna was a waitress – and that her battery had died. She took her to school this morning, then nothing. The school hasn’t heard from her either. The friend’s mom knew that Donna would never do something like that.’
‘Please let her have fallen asleep in some luxury hotel suite with Edward Lewis.’
Silence.
‘Pretty Woman …’ said Ren.
‘I’ll go with that,’ said Glenn. ‘According to some of the other girls, she was last seen on East Colfax, getting into a dark sedan. No description of the driver. We’re going through the HALO cams now, see if we see anything. Her last cell phone signal was picked up in that area, then nothing.’
‘Is she a user?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Glenn.
‘Do you have a photo of her?’
‘Yup,’ said Glenn. ‘Emailing it through.’
‘OK.’ Ren got off the phone, opened the email, and saved the image. Donna Darisse had a thick head of chestnut hair that fell past her shoulders. She had a warm smile, good teeth. She looked healthy. She didn’t look like a street hooker.
I’m finding comfort in that. If the skinny blonde is his type, and not just a coincidence.
Shit.Cancer … she had cancer.
Ren called Glenn back. ‘Sorry, again, Glenn – had Donna Darisse dropped a lot of weight?’
‘Oh – yes, according to one of the other girls.’
‘And did she lose her hair?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Glenn. ‘Shit, I didn’t think of that. Let me see if I can’t get a more recent photo.’
Twenty minutes later, a new photo of Donna Darisse hit Ren’s inbox. She was holding a little girl in her arms. Both of them were laughing. The girl had her hand in the air, having just placed a tiny gold plastic tiara on her mother’s head.
Oh. Shit. Hollow cheeks, blonde hair … blonde wig.
Stephanie Wingerter, Hope Coulson, Donna Darisse. These women look too alike for this to be a coincidence.
Donna Darisse, I think you wore the wrong-colored wig. That is fucked up.
Ren opened a document and typed: prostitute / teacher / prostitute.
Did you return to what you knew best? Women who were easier to take? Did the media attention on Hope Coulson send you back under your rock? Well, we care about all of them, you fucking reptile.
Everett came into the bullpen. ‘What’s going on in your world?’
She filled him in on Donna Darisse.
‘Shit,’ said Everett.
‘I know.’
They both turned as they heard footsteps rushing down the hallway.
‘Where is she?’ a woman was roaring. ‘Where is she?’
No security in the building …
Everett and Ren both got up, drew their weapons, ran to the door. Gary rushed out of his office past them toward the woman. He had no weapon drawn.
‘Don’t do this,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’
What the …?
The woman almost growled, struggled to make herself seen around Gary. Ren saw a flash of blonde hair.
‘Where the fuck is she, Gary?’ she shouted.
That’s Gary’s wife! What the fuck?
Ren put her weapon back into her shoulder holster. She turned to Everett, shaking her head silently, letting him know to put his away. They started to back into the bullpen.
‘Ren!’ Karen was screaming. ‘Ren!’
Me?!!
But Gary was wrestling Karen down the hallway toward the conference room.
Everett turned to Ren. ‘What the hell is that all about?’
Ren made a face. ‘That’s Karen Dettling – Gary’s wife. And I have no idea.’
‘Is she nuts?’ said Everett. ‘And why was she looking for you? Are you guys friends? Was she pissed at you? Or looking for your help? What’s going on with those two?’
Ren turned to him. ‘Jesus, you sound like a girl.’
‘What the hell, though?’
‘I know.’
‘Ren!’ Karen was coming back toward the bullpen.
‘Karen, get into the conference room,’ said Gary. ‘Do not say another word. Ren … in the conference room now.’
Me? What the fuck is this shitshow?
Ren followed Gary and Karen into the conference room. Karen turned to Ren.
‘You bitch!’ she said. ‘How could you do this to us?’
Am I hallucinating?
Still drunk?
Starring in Punk’d?
‘Do what?’ said Ren. She looked at Gary. He was warning her with his eyes.
What IS this?
‘You came to our home, you taught Claire Spanish!’ said Karen. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘What?’ said Ren. ‘Oh my God.’ She thinks—
‘Did you spend all night together or did you just fuck her and leave?’ said Karen, stabbing a finger into Gary’s chest. She turned to Ren. ‘Did you wake up in my husband’s arms?’
Oh. Jesus. Christ. Don’t laugh. Don’t do your nervous fucking laugh.
Ren started laughing.
Karen looked fit to explode. ‘How dare you? You—’
‘I’m sorry – I’m nervous – but we’re not having an affair!’ said Ren. She turned to Gary. ‘Gary!’
‘We’re not,’ said Gary. ‘Jesus, Karen.’
So casual, while I’m getting attacked. What the fuck?
‘Where are you getting this from?’ said Ren. ‘Gary wouldn’t dream of cheating on you. Gary adores you! Everyone knows that.’ And the fact that you drive each other nuts, but still.
Karen was stalled. She looked from Ren to Gary. Mortification started seeping into her face.
‘Karen,’ said Ren, ‘Gary’s my boss, he loves you. And I’m with Ben.’ Have you lost your mind? Gary, say something, for fuck’s sake. Why am I getting all this shit?
‘Gary!’ said Ren. Wake the fuck up!
‘Karen,’ said Gary, ‘I’m not having an affair with Ren.’
Jesus, even I’m not sure I believe that …
‘We’re on an important case,’ said Gary. ‘So, please … just go home.’
Go home? She’s distraught, you fuckwit. Go home? That’s it? Get your wife out of here. Go with her. Get her help.
Karen slumped into a chair. ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she said. She started to cry.
‘I’m going to give you some privacy,’ said Ren.
‘Don’t go,’ said Karen. ‘I’m so sorry. I … I’m not feeling great right now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Ren. ‘But, really, I don’t think it’s my place to be here.’ She gave Karen a hug. ‘Gary is not cheating on you.’ He’s too fucking straight! He sees me as evidence of why not to cheat!
Not that I haven’t thought about fucking your husband, but still …
Ren looked at Gary. He gave her a nod of permission to leave. He looked worn out. Ren closed the door behind her.
What the effin’ crap?
12 (#ulink_0df1eab4-6ad4-501a-a279-f618a53b8f13)
Ren went back into the bullpen, sat quietly at her desk, shuffled papers.
‘That’s it?’ said Everett.
‘That’s it,’ said Ren.
‘You’re killing me …’
‘Let’s just leave it at “Well, that was surreal”.’
‘Did you trade blows?’ His eyes were sparkling.
‘I’m a lover, not a fighter.’ NOT a lover, in fact. ‘What did I miss?’
‘The media has gotten hold of the Donna Darisse story – they’re not revealing she’s a prostitute, but they are saying she was last seen on Colfax. They have already interviewed some fantastic creatures there. Some will be viral by close of business.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ren.
‘Oh, yes. One woman was so high … it was just cruel to put her in front of a camera.’
‘I hate that shit.’
‘That would be like filming you in Gaffney’s.’
‘Jesus, the idea of watching my vulnerable self …’
‘Is vulnerable the new euphemism?’ said Everett. ‘Oh my God, I was so vulnerable last night. Where’s my pineapple juice?’ He grabbed the remote control. ‘It’s on again,’ he said. He turned up the television. ‘Check out this goddess.’
‘This is a very safe area!’ the woman was saying. ‘Always has been! Now I’m afraid of my life.’
‘Ahm afeardamalaff too,’ said Ren.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Everett, nodding toward the door.
They laughed loud, then turned their attention back to the screen.
‘Donna Darisse was last seen at lunchtime yesterday on Colfax Avenue. If you know anything about Ms Darisse’s whereabouts, please contact Denver PD …’
‘Fuckerooni,’ said Ren.
She went back into Stephanie Wingerter’s file. ‘Stephanie Wingerter disappeared at night. This was lunchtime. So, does he have a nine-to-five job he has to work around? Or does he cruise whenever he feels like it?’
‘You’re sticking to the one killer theory,’ said Everett.
‘I am. I’m not afeardamalaff to do that.’
‘Agent Bryce was always so brave,’ said Everett. ‘Even – no, no especially – on the dance floor.’
They looked up. Gary was in the doorway, his face set.
Not the time to bring up serial killing.
‘I have an appointment this afternoon,’ he said. ‘My calls will be redirected to you, Ren.’
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘See you tomorrow.’ I hope your life isn’t imploding.
Ren called Glenn Buddy.
‘Glenn, have you got many statements from today’s canvas on Colfax?’
‘I’ll have some tomorrow,’ said Glenn. ‘I don’t know what you guys are equipped with over there, but my guys have one pair of hands each to type with.’
‘Fair point,’ said Ren. ‘Have you got any names of johns who—’
‘Ren, what I got is five live homicide cases giving me a pain in my ass. Which victim will I swap for the missing hooker – the dead child or the other dead child?’
‘Glenn, I think this is a serial case …’
‘I have no doubt you do,’ said Glenn. ‘You’re like one of those people who sees dead people.’
‘Are you saying I’m imagining this?’
‘No,’ said Glenn. ‘I believe in ghosts. I just need to see a body first. I need a pin in a map before I can make a network with my red string to the next pin.’
‘You don’t do that.’
‘I do not. Stay safe.’
That night, Ren lined up photos of the victims on her kitchen table:
Stephanie Wingerter. Hope Coulson. Donna Darisse.
Sorry, Donna. I know we haven’t found you yet. But I know we will.
Underneath, she laid down printouts of the bullet points of the cases she had made at the office earlier.
I need a beer.
Her phone rang. Janine.
‘Hello, lovely lady,’ said Ren. She went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Coors Light.
‘What happened today?’ said Janine. ‘I believe I missed some action.’
‘You don’t want to know, trust me,’ said Ren. ‘A Dettling domestic. They’ve happened before. Though not quite with such dramz.’ She opened the beer.
‘I heard from admin that she called you a bitch. What was that about?’
Shiiiiit. It’s out there. ‘Ugh. She thought I was having an affair with Gary. Please don’t say that to anyone.’
‘I won’t, don’t be ridiculous, but … shit.’ She started laughing.
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘But the worst part about it was that I have been really attracted to him lately even though he’s a total asshole to me.’
‘Oh, God – don’t be that girl.’
‘No, I’m not, that’s the thing. I like being treated well. Anyway, I’d never act on it.’
‘Neither would he,’ said Janine.
‘I know that,’ said Ren, laughing. ‘It’s embarrassing, though. I hope Karen didn’t get that vibe off me.’
The doorbell rang. She checked the intercom screen.
‘Holy shit,’ said Ren. ‘That’s him at my door.’
‘Gary?’ said Janine. ‘Maybe Karen planted the idea in his head …’
‘Stop!’ said Ren. ‘You brat. Call you later.’
‘Behave.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Oh, and don’t call tonight,’ said Janine. ‘I have serious lady pain. I’m planning to be unconscious.’
‘Aw, you poor thing. Hot-water bottle. Lots of love.’
Gary rang the bell again.
Yikes. I don’t think he has ever been in any of my homes. Weirdness.
Ren buzzed him in.
She poured the beer down the sink, and put the empty bottle in the cabinet underneath. She put on the kettle. She tidied away the photos and pages on the table, put a magazine on top of them.
Gary walked right past her into the apartment, and into the living room without saying a word.
This place is so tiny.You look so big.
‘Nice place,’ he said.
‘Sit down,’ said Ren.
Gary nodded. ‘Ren, look, I know this is inappropriate.’
‘No it’s not—’
Oh, you’re not talking about calling in here.
‘I need you to do something for me,’ said Gary. ‘It’s … just … Karen was obviously wrong about you and me, but …’
Oh, no.
He nodded.
Jesus Christ, Gary.
‘And you need me to cover for you,’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Gary. ‘I wouldn’t ask—’
Well, fuck that. I like Karen. We get along. I like Claire. I … respected you. Respected. Shit, Gary, you’re the moral one. Don’t make me lose faith in humanity. I didn’t realize how much I respected you until I stopped … round about two seconds ago.
‘Why would she have thought it was me, though?’ said Ren.
Gary gave her a patient look. ‘I know you enough to know you’re not a homewrecker,’ he said. ‘But, not all women see you that way.’
That’s not very fair. Though I am, even now, thinking about fucking you. What is wrong with me? But I never would. So, yes, it is unfair.
‘But I get along with Karen,’ said Ren. ‘I like her a lot.’
‘I know,’ said Gary, ‘she’s obviously not thinking straight right now.’
‘How come you didn’t cover your tracks better?’ said Ren. ‘What did she find out?’
‘My saving grace is your love of champagne …’ said Gary.
‘It’s my saving grace too,’ said Ren.
Gary shot out a laugh of relief. ‘A champagne cork … ended up in my overnight bag …’
La la la la la la la …
‘Karen found it,’ said Gary. ‘I needed an explanation. And you were the quickest one I thought of.’
‘So, I’ve already helped you on this …’ said Ren.
‘Yes …’ said Gary.
‘What do you need me to do?’ said Ren.
‘Back me up,’ said Gary. ‘Call her.’
This is grim.
‘So – let me get this straight,’ said Ren. ‘You said what exactly? That we were—’
‘In Breck,’ said Gary. ‘We had a bottle of champagne in the room, where my bag was open, but nothing happened between us. I hate champagne, she knows that. You were a safe and logical choice to be the person drinking it.’
‘Me, safe, logical and champagne …’ How have these words come together?
‘Well, it backfired anyway,’ said Gary. ‘She still thought something was going on.’
‘I’m kind of offended …’
‘Don’t be,’ said Gary. ‘She’s a wife who found a champagne cork in her husband’s overnight bag …’
‘I’d have a hard time believing anything after that.’
‘So, can you call her?’ said Gary.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Ren. ‘But … fuck.’
‘I know,’ said Gary.
‘If I’m going to do this very wrong thing,’ said Ren, ‘I’m going to do it right. You need to arm me with all the facts, so I don’t fuck up. There is no going back if I fuck this up. For either of us.’
Gary nodded. ‘Thanks.’
The fucking pressure.
‘Dates and times, please,’ said Ren. ‘And you’ll have to tell me who this woman is. I don’t want to know, that’s your business. But I need to know.’
‘I ended it,’ said Gary. ‘It’s over.’
‘Promise m—’
‘It’s over.’ He pulled out a notebook and tore out a page with a list of dates.
Alrighty, then.
‘Thanks, Ren. I appreciate this.’ He stood up.
I don’t want to do a quid pro quo, but …
‘Before you go,’ said Ren, ‘I want to run something by you …’
She got up and gathered together the photos she had brought home from the office.
‘Did you print these at Safe Streets?’ said Gary. ‘In color?’
Ren nodded.
‘Stop wasting ink and paper.’
Internal eye roll. ‘On an unrelated note – here are three victims of a violent rapist and murderer … can you see how similar they look?’
Gary looked across the line of photos. He looked back at Ren. ‘Yes.’
‘Three victims … that makes a serial killer, official definition. I’d like to call a meeting with DPD, see if we can—’
‘Who’s this third one?’ said Gary.
‘Donna Darisse, a prostitute reported missing this morning.’
‘So she’s not dead.’
‘Not found. She’s been missing since yesterday afternoon. Didn’t show up to collect her six-year-old from a play date. Apparently, that was totally out of character.’
Gary stared at her. ‘Let me know when you have a body.’
‘There will be a body,’ said Ren. Mark my words!
‘I’m not doing this unless you’re one hundred per cent,’ said Gary.
‘OK – who …’ the fuck ‘could be one hundred per cent about something like this?’ Seriously.
‘At the very least, a body is a one hundred per cent guarantee of a death.’
High-larious. ‘I want Donna Darisse to be safe and well,’ said Ren. ‘I just don’t feel in my gut that she is.’
‘Let me know when you have a body.’
I heard you the first time.
‘There’s another thing,’ said Ren, ‘I spoke with Jonathan Briar, and—’
‘And his lawyer, I hope …’
Not so much. ‘Well, I just had a few little—’
‘Ren, for crying out loud! What were you thinking? He’ll never let us talk to him again if you—’
‘It was fine,’ said Ren. ‘We got along OK. I helped him out in his apartment. He answered my questions, but … he was lying about something, about a night out they had two weeks before Hope Coulson disappeared.’
‘If you think he was lying,’ said Gary, ‘that he’s got something to hide, then the next time we might need him for something, that lawyer won’t let us within a mile of him. Jesus Christ, Ren. You know this. Why are we having this conversation?’
Gary’s phone beeped. He checked it. He turned the screen to Ren.
‘Looks like you’ve got your one hundred per cent guarantee,’ said Ren.
13 (#ulink_ec822cbe-585e-554b-8aa5-4d5159cfde10)
Ren and Gary drove through the city of Arvada and ten miles along Highway 72 into the unincorporated part of Jefferson County.
And another jurisdiction joins the party.
The flashing lights of the police cruisers led them to the small collection of warehouses where Donna Darisse’s body had been found by a carload of college kids looking for nothing other than an out-of-the-way place to go through a few six-packs.
Cliff James was standing sentry.
‘Hey,’ said Ren, hugging him.
He held her extra long.
‘How’s Brenda doing?’ said Gary.
‘We’re doing good,’ said Cliff. He smiled, but his eyes were sad. ‘It’s not a pretty sight back there.’
Donna Darisse lay beside a row of dumpsters, outside one of the warehouses.
Robbie, Everett and Janine were gathered a distance away from the body.
Poor Janine. So much for her plan to be unconscious.
Ren and Gary went straight to Donna Darisse’s body. She was naked, except for her bloodstained white cowboy boots, lying on her stomach, facing away from the wall, her arms behind her back, her wrists bound with cable ties. Her face was swollen to twice its size, the flesh bursting and cut and oozing. Her red dress and tiny red lace G-string were discarded ten feet away, along with a blonde wig. Cheap glamor, transformed into something poignant and tragic when met with such boundless savagery.
Ren looked for a moment at the stars above, and breathed in and out, in and out, until she could face looking back down.
This is beyond horrific.
From her lower back, down her bare buttocks, and between Donna Darisse’s legs was a terrible mess that could have been nothing other than the result of a chemical burn.
Acid.
Ren felt like her body was liquefying inside. She felt spikes of pain in the same places where Donna Darisse had been brutalized. Her stomach churned.
I have no words.
They went over to join the others. Everyone looked grim-faced and tired.
‘Dr Tolman is on vacation,’ said Janine. ‘We have a stand-in …’
A hooting laugh broke out. They all looked up, knowing that it meant who that stand-in was: Dr Mark Gaston, the new Medical Examiner for the 18th Judicial District, which covered Arapahoe, Douglas, Elbert and Lincoln Counties. Gaston was forty-five, but looked early thirties. His pouting lips were his most striking feature, followed by the prince-from-an-animation hair: light brown, thick, and wavy, the type of hair that marked out generations of the same family, the type that was celebrated in portraits.
Arrogant hair. Book of Wrong.
Gaston walked toward them.
Ren leaned into the others. ‘Gaston always looks like he’s been called away from seducing a nineteen-year-old. “OMG – you’re a Medical Examiner! So hot!”’
Gaston was too close for them to laugh.
‘Is that a dead hooker on the ground or are you making excuses to see me?’ said Gaston, smiling at Ren. He crouched down beside Donna Darisse. ‘Yes, she is dead. Despite all signs to the contrary.’ He stood up. ‘And that’s acid. That’s a man who’s going all out not to leave any swimmers behind. Die, boys, die!’
Swimmers … ugh.
‘How long’s she been missing?’ said Gaston.
‘About forty-eight hours,’ said Ren.
‘I’m guessing she was killed not long after that,’ said Gaston. ‘Not here, though. The scene is too clean. But you don’t need me to tell you that. Let me do my thang and I’ll let your boys in. Stand back, bitches. Dr G is here.’
Dear.
God.
‘I’m going to do you a favor here,’ he said, when he was finished. ‘I’m going to prioritize this little lady. So, if you want to meet me at the autopsy suite at seven a.m., I’ll bump her to the top of my list.’
He’s a hooker with a heart.
‘Appreciate it,’ said Gary.
‘Ren?’ said Gaston. ‘You up for the early-morning autopsy?’ He almost winked.
‘Yes,’ said Gary. He turned to Ren. ‘I gotta go – can I leave this with you? I need to get back.’
To whom?
‘No problem,’ said Ren. She looked at Gaston. ‘You won’t be too tired?’
‘I’ve done a ton of coke,’ said Gaston. ‘I was expecting a different night.’ He laughed loud.
‘Everett?’ said Ren. ‘You up for it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She turned to Janine. Her face was white, her eyes narrowed in pain. ‘Janine, you go home, sleep,’ said Ren. ‘Robbie, we’ll notify the next-of-kin. Everett – here are the keys to my place. We’ll join you there right after.’
‘What?’ said Everett.
‘I don’t want to waste any time,’ said Ren. ‘You can sleep on the sofa for a half hour. And I promise you high-end coffee on our return.’
Ren and Robbie arrived back to the apartment at four a.m. and woke Everett up.
‘That was suitably grim,’ said Ren.
‘Your sofa, on the other hand, was not,’ said Everett, stretching out his legs, standing up, and walking around the living room. ‘You promised high-end coffee, remember.’
‘A promise I am following through on,’ Ren called from the kitchen. ‘God, though, this apartment depresses me. And this micro-kitchen. I love cooking, and I don’t even cook here. Most of my kitchen stuff’s all packed away in boxes in Annie’s attic. I’ve got all their crappy utensils, blunt knives, shady-looking forks. It’s like the whole place is designed to guide you to the microwave so you can stand – alone – and watch your meal-for-one perform a tragic pirouette.’
‘You are not alone tonight,’ said Robbie.
‘This morning,’ said Everett. ‘Need us to come in there and make the kitchen feel like it’s hopping?’
‘You just concentrate on squeezing yourselves around that table, leaving enough room for me and my expansive mind.’
She came in and set the tray down at the center of the table.
‘I hate glass tables,’ said Ren. ‘I need a tablecloth. But I’m not a big fan of tablecloths either. Actually, that’s wrong – it’s the pressure of keeping them clean that bothers me. I love tablecloths.’ She put a coffee mug in front of each of them.
‘No cookies?’ said Everett, forlorn.
‘Much as I’d love to soften the blow of mutilated genitals, I have nothing,’ said Ren.
‘Toast even?’ said Robbie.
‘I have arugula,’ said Ren. ‘And an angry inch of parmesan.’
‘Mind if I order in?’ said Robbie.
Inward narrowing of eyes. You are replacing sex with food, Robbie Truax. Jesus … does anyone not have an issue with food?
‘You order whatever you like,’ said Ren. ‘As I deliver an apology for the bare cupboards.’
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Alex Barclay
Dark times lie ahead for Special Agent Ren Bryce and the Rocky Mountains Safe Streets Task Force in the heart-stopping new thriller from the bestselling author of DARKHOUSE and BLOOD LOSS.In the game of vengeance, he holds a killer hand.In her most shocking case yet, FBI Special Agent Ren Bryce takes on a depraved serial killer fuelled by a warped sense of justice.A master of evasion, each life he takes ramps up Ren’s obsession with finding him. Then one victim changes everything and brings Ren face to face with a detective whose life was destroyed by the same pursuit.Together, can they defeat this monster? Or will he take them both down?
Copyright (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Copyright © Alex Barclay 2015
Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Cover photographs © Tony Watson/Arcangel Images (subway); Eliada Toska/Getty Images (woman running); Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) (wing)
Alex Barclay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
Source ISBN: 9780007494545
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2015 ISBN: 9780007494552
Version 2015-03-04
Praise for Alex Barclay: (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
‘The rising star of the hard-boiled crime fiction world, combining wild characters, surprising plots and massive backdrops with a touch of dry humour’
Mirror
‘Tense, no-punches-pulled thriller that will have you on the edge of your deckchair’
Woman and Home
‘Explosive’
Company
‘Darkhouse is a terrific debut by an exciting new writer’
Independent on Sunday
‘Compelling’
Glamour
‘Excellent summer reading … Barclay has the confidence to move her story along slowly, and deftly explores the relationships between her characters’
Sunday Telegraph
‘The thriller of the summer’
Irish Independent
‘If you haven’t discovered Alex Barclay, it’s time to jump on the bandwagon’
Image Magazine
Dedication (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
To Moira Reilly,
Thank you for being your warm, wise, and wonderful self.
With you here, the book begins on the perfect note.
Table of Contents
Cover (#uddb1895a-6e68-51e8-91a9-7fb8bbba9984)
Title Page (#ubf94ed82-f2a8-5a4a-bec8-9aca2788fc34)
Copyright (#u842af017-bfd7-5df9-84b5-1bbedde33c38)
Praise for Alex Barclay (#u99173b15-2bba-52f8-adad-7fd952bbe2ef)
Dedication (#u7310678f-0dd1-50d0-93d8-f39b49ded778)
Prologue (#uf52a21b7-285a-523d-9fef-d32ce16dfb37)
Chapter 1 (#u93aa5502-48b1-52fd-b5df-11b62197fa92)
Chapter 2 (#ubdcb7a85-169f-5f67-9aa1-e70fbfae75ba)
Chapter 3 (#uf6bccfd3-513e-5c81-ab15-28fedbfb96fc)
Chapter 4 (#u1bb38216-ee98-5e9a-a297-11744657613d)
Chapter 5 (#ubc562aa0-5a67-5694-bdb1-c622f2fe3f37)
Chapter 6 (#u8bd41164-33ab-5275-ba1d-5c9baf5865b6)
Chapter 7 (#u9f94d01c-60bd-5292-898f-ecd89ebd9688)
Chapter 8 (#u70a21fc1-3208-5d02-b385-7f6790aa7ec8)
Chapter 9 (#u49af57b8-c0f5-517f-a5ef-98e90a82818f)
Chapter 10 (#uab925227-4e32-5278-9e37-025deb7da4b6)
Chapter 11 (#u7769ac3f-0575-5c41-859b-2ac92e3db758)
Chapter 12 (#u97aba2b3-cf17-5dd8-a8e9-805f4ff20502)
Chapter 13 (#ubd7f91e3-e01b-5fc7-8017-e4bbe3e8a274)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 65 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 66 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Alex Barclay (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
Amanda Petrie stopped dead in front of the skeletal wreck of a creature stumbling toward her on legs like knotted spindles. The woman looked to be in her sixties, bruised, wounded and terrified. She was dressed in a faded blue nightgown draped no differently than if it was on a hanger in a store, except that it was caked in filth of all kinds, and it stank like something inhuman. Her matted gray hair grew between bald patches, she was missing teeth, she was hollow-cheeked, she was a shell.
Amanda dropped her cell phone, didn’t even notice how it bounced and cracked and spat out its battery, how the binder she’d been holding struck the ground, broke open, sent loose pages from magazines sliding across the concrete.
From the awful silence that followed, Amanda began to hear something – a soft pit, pit, pit. She looked down. A bright photo of a rainbow-themed garden party had floated from the binder and landed between the old woman’s dirty feet. Maggots were dropping onto it – pit, pit, pit – from under her nightgown.
Amanda turned away, heaving. She pressed her hand tightly over her mouth. Her eyes bulged and watered. Slowly, she turned back to the woman.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Are you OK? I mean … do you need help? Obviously you need help …’
The woman stood before her, wide-eyed, not a blink. And from this desolation, Amanda noticed eyes the most incredible shade of blue, and was suddenly struck with an image of a baby girl in a bassinet smiling up at her parents, innocent, expectant, hopeful, years from this.
‘Where did you come from?’ said Amanda, looking around. They were on a quiet road in an isolated part of Sedalia, sixty miles southwest of Denver, Colorado. She was there only to check out a venue for her sister’s surprise fortieth. She had just crossed it off her list.
The woman didn’t reply.
Amanda took a step away from her, then crouched down to gather the parts of her phone, putting them back together with a shaky hand.
Kurt Vine was driving along Crooked Trail Lane, in his 1984 cream and brown pickup with the camper shell, radio off, cigarette burning down in the ashtray, running through the events of the previous night. He was on Level 9 of Hufuki, a video game with a great Japanese-sounding name that all the players understood was really an abbreviation of Hunt, Fuck, Kill. You just couldn’t say it out loud. Kurt had hunted down, raped and murdered forty-two victims to get to Level 9 out of 10. It was getting exciting. He had missed a few obvious traps in the last session. He should have known better. Some twelve-year-old kid in Ohio had beaten him. It was embarrassing. But Kurt was undeterred – no one had officially reached Level 10. There was a rumor that once you unlocked that world, real girls played the victims. You chased their avatar, but the screams were real, live, and you could see their faces in the right-hand corner of the screen, see their fear. Whether anything was being done to these girls to elicit these reactions was not something Kurt Vine considered. They were in a distant universe. They were the unreal real.
Every night, Kurt heard voices from all over the world in his ear, every accent imaginable, the tower of fucking Babel coming through the internet into his headset. When a player pissed him off, beat him, humiliated him, he would mimic them on the walk from the sofa to the bathroom or the bedroom or the kitchen. But only if he had ever heard their reactions when they knew it was game over, man. Loser sounds. Who wants to mimic the soundtrack to a rival’s victory?
Winning was important to Kurt Vine. He had a narrow focus, a regular grip on just a few small things … a games console, a camera, a bottle of Diet Coke, and his dick.
The camera was for taking photos of old buildings that he uploaded to his website, ForTheForgotten.net ‘To honor those who lived and worked within these walls’, wherever those crumbling walls may have been.
At the bottom of the site, he had a DONATE NOW button, a low-key ‘If you like my work, please consider contributing to my film, development, and print costs’. He was thinking of setting up an online store to sell some of his work, he was thinking of offering his services to corporations, or news organizations or stock photo agencies. Kurt thought about a lot of things. But mainly he thought about easy things, things that required no effort.
Kurt Vine had inherited most of his grandfather’s estate – including thousands of sprawling acres in Sedalia that were dotted with brush and ruins. The land and buildings were Kurt’s outright, but the remainder of his inheritance – the cash part – was dwindling fast. The donations were his only real income, and they were typically small. Sometimes he felt guilty that a lot of his donors were visual arts students, who likely couldn’t spare the money but wanted to reward him for his talent, probably in the hope that the same kindness would be offered them when they were spat out into the world after graduation.
Despite the modest student endowments, there was a new Nikon on the passenger seat beside him. Nine months earlier, an email had come into his inbox. YOU HAVE A DONATION. He clicked on it, expecting the usual ten or twenty dollars. This was different. This was $10,000. He looked at it for a while, and he mistrusted it for a while longer. And then he spent most of it. And, six months after the donation came in, he got the knock on his cabin door. The man who stood there smiled and said: ‘I’ve come to collect my debt.’
Weird shit always happens to me, thought Kurt, as he ran through the woods of his fantasy land, chasing screaming women.
He got hard just thinking about it. Kurt was always alone when he got hard.
Amanda Petrie dialed 911, her heart pounding.
‘Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?’
‘Police, ambulance?’ said Amanda. ‘I’d like to report … a lady here, who’s in a state of extreme neglect, I think. She’s … very thin, very wasted.’
‘Ma’am, what number are you calling from?’
‘My number is 555-360-9597. That’s my cell phone. My name is Amanda Petrie.’
‘And what is your location, ma’am?’
‘We’re in Sedalia, Douglas County … um … I pulled in to the side of the road to take some pictures. The last place I remember is Crooked Trail Lane? I’m about a five-minute drive from there.’
‘Can you give me any more details, ma’am?’
‘Can’t you track my location?’ said Amanda.
‘We don’t have that facility here, ma’am.’
‘Oh,’ said Amanda. ‘Well, I can’t really say. I’m just seeing road and trees, a couple of barns. I think I’ve driven about seven miles from an inn called Russell’s?’
‘Ma’am, is the woman you are with in need of medical attention?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re going to send help right away for you, ma’am, and I’m going to keep you on the line with me, get some more details from you. Are you in a position to stay with her while we send help?’
‘Yes, yes, I can,’ said Amanda. ‘Please hurry, though. Please hurry. She’s very distressed.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. Can you tell me the name of the woman please?’
Amanda turned to the woman, whose eyes appeared to be growing larger in her skeletal face. Her lips were dried out, cracked, ringed with deep lines. She pressed them together.
‘What’s your name?’ said Amanda. ‘Can you tell me your name?’
The woman’s lips parted. She began rocking back and forth. But instead of speaking, she quietly croaked a tuneless song, her voice flat, broken, her eyes now scrunched closed: ‘Needle’s pointing to your heart, now I know the way we’ll part, needle’s pointing to your heart, now I know the way we’ll part, needle’s pointing to your heart, now I know the way we’ll part.’
Her arm shot out, and she slapped the phone out of Amanda Petrie’s hand.
Kurt Vine was busy shunting memories of bad men and bad game plays out of his mind when he saw two women standing by the roadside. He looked around, for a moment thinking he was driving through a movie set. Or a game. There was a cute girl and an old lady who looked like she had been dug up from a grave. This was some kind of a two-woman zombie apocalypse situation.
Weird shit just keeps on happening to me, he thought. He watched as the old woman suddenly slapped the girl’s hand. He pulled over, parked the pickup, and climbed down.
‘Ladies!’ he said, moving as quickly as he could toward them, wiping the sweat that always flowed so readily. ‘How can I be of assistance?’ It was a line from Hufuki, but he figured it was appropriate.
Douglas County Undersheriff Cole Rodeal stood in the ambulance bay of the Sky Ridge Medical Center, tuning out his wife, Edie, the EMS Coordinator. As soon as she had used the expression ‘me time’, he was gone. Maybe that was because he didn’t love Edie any more, and hated himself for it. Really, it was because he was depressed and hadn’t realized it. He wanted to be home, in his den, with a box set from a time when women had never heard the expression ‘me time’. He was jolted from his thoughts by the screech of tires and a small scream from the wife he really did love. He turned to where she was looking.
Oh, fuck.
Kurt Vine liked being part of this emergency that he knew, in his heart, wasn’t a true emergency. He was driving like he had a siren, but he knew this crazy lady in the nightgown was going to be all right. She was starved and beaten and she smelled like shit, but she wasn’t dying, as far as he could tell.
He was finally easing off the gas as they approached the ambulance bay at Sky Ridge.
‘What is that smell?’ he said. He looked into the back seat. ‘Holy shit! She’s on fire! She’s on fucking fire!’
Amanda Petrie turned around at the same time and screamed. Small flames were rising from the terrified woman’s chest and shoulders. Her nightgown was melting into her skin, her hair shriveling.
‘Holy fucking shit!’ said Kurt, slamming his foot on the accelerator instead of the brake, sending the pickup shooting toward a group of EMTs, until he yanked the steering wheel hard and plowed instead into the side wall of the hospital.
On impact, the old lady said: ‘I did something real bad. Something terrible brought me here.’
1 (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
‘That lady died.’ Special Agent Ren Bryce turned to Everett King, one of her newest colleagues, an ex-trader, financial and IT expert, and quick, firm friend. ‘The one from the crash at Sky Ridge Medical Center. No one came forward to claim her, no match with any missing persons …’ She shook her head. ‘Rodeal reckons she was held captive somewhere for months at the very least: she had rope burns on her wrists, bruises on her ankles as if she’d been shackled, she was starved, beaten. But they found nothing in the neighborhood canvas. They ran her details through the system – nothing. Imagine that’s your life … tortured and neglected to death.’
‘Like your liver,’ said Everett.
Ren was shaking a bottle of Fiji to help dissolve the two Alka-Seltzer she had broken into it.
‘My liver is well tended to,’ said Ren.
‘Like a captor tends to his captee.’
‘Stockholm Syndrome.’ She took a drink. She had already drunk a bottle of freshly squeezed pineapple juice. Hangover Cure Supreme. The Alka-Seltzer was a rarely required second step. The previous night was a blur of bright lights, colorful drinks, and dancing on chairs and half-empty dance floors with two girls she had met at her bipolar support group two weeks earlier. They had presumed that, like them, she was unlucky enough to be a bipolar-loved-one wrangler, not the wranglee. That was often the case. Ren didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to correct them. She just wanted to party. The women were at the support group to learn how not to enable their loved one. Instead, they were fine-tuning the art of enabling a stranger. But there was no law against it. Ren smiled to herself: there should, in fact, be laws to fully support it.
Ren had been off her meds for three months.
‘Did you see the video of the crash?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Rodeal was quite the hero – dived for his wife, totally saved her life, broke his arm in the fall. Sexism in Emergencies: it’s not all bad when a man thinks women need to be saved.’
‘It was his wife …’
‘I’ve dealt with him, work-wise,’ said Ren. ‘I walk away with a twitch in my eye. Sometimes I think he expects me to be the one serving the refreshments.’
‘Oh, baby girl, you always servin’ up the refreshment!’
‘And you keep topping up those glasses, handsome man.’
‘God help this guy,’ said Everett, nodding toward the glass panel of the interview room where murder suspect Jonathan Briar was perfectly framed. Briar’s fiancée, twenty-three-year-old Hope Coulson, had now been missing from their Denver apartment for twenty-eight days. Briar had ignited public suspicion with the first dopey words out of his mouth when asked about her on live television: ‘Aww … I’m sure she’ll be back,’ he said, smiling like an idiot, next to Hope Coulson’s weeping parents.
‘He doesn’t yet know that he meets a lot of the criteria for the Ren Bryce Book of Wrong,’ said Everett. ‘Stoner – check! Skinny dreads – check! Mouth too small – check! And my second favorite: rat-colored hair – check! I mean, rats are gray. His hair is mousey.’
‘Rats are creepier.’
‘And my all-time-favorite,’ said Everett. ‘Eyes overly almond: check!’
‘Because I like almond-shaped eyes,’ said Ren. ‘Too almond, though – that’s a problem.’ She looked at Everett. ‘I’m a nightmare. I know. Judgey McJudgicles.’
‘On the upside of his issues,’ said Everett, ‘every time he appears on screen or in print, the line of volunteer searchers grows.’
Hope Coulson had captured the public’s hearts. She was a sweet, blonde, kind-hearted kindergarten teacher, a volunteer for everything from painting the ladies’ nails at her local retirement home to delivering Meals on Wheels to the housebound, to being stationed at First-Aid tents at community events. At one time, Jonathan Briar looked like nothing more harmful than a guy who was batting above his weight. Now, he was looking like a killer.
Ren drank the rest of the Alka-Seltzer, then held a hand to her stomach.
Ooh. Not good. Drank too quickly, despite best efforts.
‘You drank that way too fast,’ said Everett.
‘Ugh.’ She threw the empty bottle in the garbage. ‘OK. Shall we dance?’
‘We always do.’ He turned the door knob and let Ren go first.
Jonathan Briar almost jumped from his seat. ‘Did you find her?’
So dramatic.So forced.
Ren shook her head. ‘No, Jonathan. No, we did not. Not yet.’She sat down. ‘Jonathan, I’m Special Agent Ren Bryce, and this is my colleague, Special Agent Everett King. How are you holding up?’
Briar shrugged. ‘I’m OK … I guess.’
‘Let me explain who we are,’ said Ren. ‘Agent King and I are members of the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. Not to alarm you – we do handle all kinds of crimes – but we are technically a violent crime squad. We’re multi-agency, meaning there are FBI agents like us, and there are detectives from DPD – that’s Denver PD, along with members of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, Aurora PD, etc.
‘We have to consider that Hope may have been the victim of a violent crime. Of course, we don’t know that yet. I understand you’ve been questioned by DPD—’
‘Every day!’ said Jonathan. ‘Every day since she left.’
‘Left?’ said Ren.
He shrugged. ‘It’s exhausting.’
Not my point. ‘You said “left”,’ said Ren. ‘Do you think Hope just left?’
Jonathan looked away, shrugging again. ‘It’s better than thinking anything else.’
‘Back to what I was saying,’ said Ren.‘We’re talking to you today at the request of Detective Glenn Buddy at Denver PD, and because some new evidence has come to light.’
‘What evidence?’ said Jonathan.
‘I want to show you a photograph of your fiancée, Hope,’ said Ren, ignoring the question. She set it down on the table. ‘Well, actually it’s a photo of you and Hope. When was this taken?’
Jonathan swallowed. ‘Christmas just gone. At my mom’s house. Why?’
‘You look really happy,’ said Ren.
‘We were,’ he said, nodding.
Were: past tense.
Jonathan blinked, but there were no tears.
‘Now, here’s another photo,’ said Ren. She set down an aerial photo of a landfill site.
‘Do you know Fyron Industries?’ said Everett, shifting forward in his seat. ‘They manage this landfill site. It’s off of I-70. The dumpster by your house – that’s where that goes.’
Jonathan looked at Everett as if he had just crawled from a dumpster himself.
Everett took out a red Sharpie and drew a large box on the photo. ‘This area here,’ he said, ‘is three acres square. The garbage runs twenty feet deep if we’re to go back almost a month to when Hope went missing …’
Jonathan recoiled. ‘What the hell are you showing me this for? What do you mean “go back almost a month”?’
Don’t look at me for answers. That’s not how this goes.
‘To search this area, we’re calling in all the favors we can,’ said Everett. ‘Law enforcement across a lot of different agencies, along with volunteer civilians. That’s the effect Hope has had on people. They’re coming from all over to offer to search a stinking hellhole for her, to suit up and go right in there to look for your missing fiancée. If we can in any way limit all that searching … or if we knew, for example, that we were wasting our time, or anyone else’s time … or if there’s somewhere else we should be looking …’
As Everett spoke, Ren was studying Jonathan Briar. You are a dull-eyed dope-smoking moron. I have little time for dope-smoking morons.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’ said Ren.
‘No!’ said Jonathan. ‘No. Except that you are wasting your time: thinking I did this!’ There was no anger, just a whining, pleading exhaustion.
‘Everyone in your position tells us we’re wasting our time,’ said Ren, ‘but, as you know, a lot of the time we’re not. The odds are not in your favor. Before we go in here,’ she pointed to the landfill photo, ‘before we bring people into this wonderland, we’d like to know the truth.’
‘I’ve told you the truth!’ said Jonathan. ‘I’ve told you a million times. I’m innocent! Last time I saw Hope she was alive and well. What more can I tell you? That’s my story.’
‘Story?’ said Ren.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Jonathan. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘Were you and Hope happy?’ said Ren.
‘Yes!’ said Jonathan. ‘Fucking leave me alone with the happiness bullshit! I don’t think I can take this any more! I feel like I’m losing my mind, here. All you people looking at me! It’s fucking driving me insane!’
Snap. Snap. Show your hand.
‘Jonathan, we found traces of Hope’s blood in the living room,’ said Ren. ‘Do you know how that got there?’
‘She cut her finger, I don’t know. Were they drops, smears, spatters?’
Go, CSI.
‘If they were drops or smears,’ he said, ‘then she cut her finger a while back. If they were spatters, then, I guess, someone might have killed her at home, right? Is that your point?’
How Not to Talk to Law Enforcement 101.
Ren looked at Everett.
Jonathan started to cry. ‘I love Hope. I always have. From when I was nine years old. I wouldn’t lay a finger on her. All I ever want to do is protect her.’ He cried harder. ‘What if you find her and she’s dead?’
Wow. Have you really only thought about that now?
He kept talking. ‘What if she’s there in all that garbage and she’s dead? Then what happens? Then do you just, like, assume it’s me? What evidence is going to be on that body at that stage? I’m terrified of what’s going to go down. I want Hope found, but I also don’t want her to be just pulled out of some garbage. I mean, I know what you’re thinking, it’s disgusting anyway, it’s a murder, who gives a shit, but I do.’ He went quiet. ‘I do, because Hope would. She wouldn’t want anyone seeing her that way.’
‘What way?’ said Ren, keeping her tone neutral.
Jonathan leapt from his seat. ‘Dead on a garbage heap! What do you think I mean? Why do you people always think I mean something I don’t mean?’
Because you say weird shit. Because your answers are weird. Your phraseology. Your language. Your focus.
‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Ren.
Jonathan sat down, but kept talking, the words speedy and tumbling. ‘Dead after weeks, rotting away and all that other shit. Jesus! Who would ever want anyone to see them that way? I know I never would. But what happens then? I say nothing to you today because I know nothing and then you arrest me? Like, will I look suspicious to you because of that? I mean, I’ll say anything not to come across as someone shady. I wasn’t there that night at the time you’re talking about. I was working! I’m not thinking about how Hope looks because I killed her in some horrible way. I’m thinking about what a fucked-up mess dead bodies are after all that time.’
2 (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
Ren closed the door behind her and walked with Everett into the bullpen – the open-plan office the task force worked out of. Their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Gary Dettling, had his own office. The admin team had theirs. There were two interview rooms, two conference rooms, an A/V room, two cells, rest rooms, a creaky elevator, a haunted basement – everything brought together under the roof of one of Denver’s oldest buildings, The Livestock Exchange Building – an icon of cowboy heritage.
‘Well?’ said Gary, looking up, hands on his hips. He was a fit and handsome man of few words.
I am tiring of you, Gary. The look that says ‘impress me’, ‘prove yourself to me’ every time. Your smart-ass bullshit. Everything.
‘Early morning landfill search it is!’ said Ren.
Gary’s face said it all.
Ren looked at Everett. ‘I don’t know about you, but is Briar just a dumb asshole?’
‘That’s in no doubt,’ said Everett.
‘I get that he doesn’t have a face for TV,’ said Ren, ‘and that indefinably weird shit falls out of his mouth, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Does he say things that raise my suspicion because he is guilty or because he is just dumb, dumb, dumb? Because he has no filter? Because he cannot understand that in an interview with a Fed, you might want to not say some of the shit your low-flying brain fires out? I mean, even if you just imagine the physical distance between your brain and your mouth – that’s time to pause, isn’t it? Pause while it’s at your nostrils or something. God, do you ever feel like the world is just populated with a lot of really dumb people? His face! I want to slap it.’
She drew breath.
You are all looking at me funny. Am I talking too fast again? Keep up, bitches. Jesus.
‘So, here’s what we know,’ said Ren. ‘Hope Coulson was last seen, alone, at eight thirty p.m. leaving Good Shepherd Church on East 7th Avenue where she’d gone to host a youth meeting. Everyone else had left ahead of her – a person walking by ID’d her. She was to drive right home – that’s what she told Jonathan. He was out working at the pizza place, her last text to him at eight fifteen p.m. was “See you at home, kiss kiss”. That’s it. We have no witnesses. There are no HALO cams in the immediate vicinity.’
Denver had over one hundred HALO – High Activity Location Observation – cameras, all monitored from a central location by DPD.
‘Hope Coulson’s car was still in the church parking lot the next morning,’ said Ren. ‘Did she leave her car because she was planning on drinking? Wouldn’t she need her car to get to work the next morning? Was she having an affair? In that case, again, why wouldn’t she drive home if she was planning to take a guy back there? Unless she was going back to his place.’ She shrugged. ‘And if she was going for a drink alone, wouldn’t she have chosen somewhere near her apartment? She was a twenty-minute drive from there. So she either walked a route with no HALO cams, or someone drove by and picked her up. But this can’t have been pre-arranged on her phone, because there were no calls or texts to indicate that. And nothing came up with friends, family, acquaintances, work, church members, etc. The neighborhood canvas came up empty. We have a list of vehicles and owners with no priors.’
‘Could something have happened at the church?’ said Everett. ‘I don’t know – someone made a pass at her. Maybe she needed to go have a drink, calm down … she decided to have another …’ He paused. ‘Yet, no one from the local bars ID’d her. Her face has been everywhere. At this point, we would have heard something.’
‘My gut is just not liking Jonathan Briar for this,’ said Ren.
‘How many times has the partner killed the wife or girlfriend in the house at night, then claimed they never made it home?’ said Gary.
‘Many, many times,’ said Ren. ‘Just this is not one of them.’
As everyone dispersed, Ren sat down at her desk and dragged her keyboard toward her. She started typing up her notes, super speedy. Her phone rang.
Go away.
She kept typing.
Fuck. Off.
The phone kept ringing.
Her cell phone beeped.
Jesus Christ.
She glanced at the text. It was from Gary: Pick up.
She picked up. ‘Hi.’
‘Can you come into my office, please?’
‘Sure,’ said Ren. ‘What’s the emergency? Nothing you can say over the phone?’
Silence.
Alrighty then.
She walked into Gary’s office.
‘You stink,’ said Gary.
‘Wait ’til you smell me after the landfill search,’ said Ren, sitting down.
Gary was staring at her.
‘Hold on – are you serious?’ said Ren. ‘What do you mean stink? Literally?’
‘In a way that tells me if I don’t open a window, I’ll have to check my own blood-alcohol level.’
Oh.
Shit.
‘Please tell me,’ said Gary, ‘that you did not go drinking last night with some lost soul you picked up at your meeting.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘I didn’t even have a meeting last night.’ Which is the truth.
‘Just remember you’re not there to make friends,’ said Gary. ‘Or even eye contact. The rule is you walk in there alone, you walk out alone.’
‘That’s me – Renegade.’ She fired an imaginary gun. She paused. ‘Was that your way of trying to find out if I’m going to my meetings?’
He eyeballed her. ‘Lose the tone. This is about my concern that you are over the blood-alcohol level this morning.’
‘I apologize for my tone,’ said Ren. ‘And yes, I did drink last night. As people often do after work, meeting or no meeting. Is that forbidden? Is the whole of Safe Streets fired?’ Stop. Talking.
Gary dared her to hold eye contact with him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren.
‘Go.’
Eight hours later, Ren and Everett were six drinks down in a new bar off Sixteenth Street.
‘Do not let me drink tonight,’ said Ren.
They laughed. Ren looked around her. ‘There is nothing more unattractive to me than a group of men in their late forties in leisurewear on a night out,’ said Ren. ‘Especially the ones who were once hot, you can see the traces, and now they’re just beat-down and filled with loss and white carbs.’
‘Jesus, Ren.’ Everett craned his neck. ‘I need to see who you are savaging. “Filled with loss and white carbs” …’
‘I know, I know,’ said Ren. ‘And, really, can something be filled with loss? Like, with an absence of something. But why abandon all hope at that age? You’ve half your life left. Go to the fucking gym.’ Like Ben. Like Gary.Like you. ‘And I say this while not actually finding super-buff bodies attractive.’
‘Which makes no sense,’ said Everett.
‘I maintain that a lot of unhappiness in life is caused by people trying to make sense of things,’ said Ren. ‘Try this: for one week when someone says something strange to you, just say to yourself “interesting and senseless, goodbye”. Like, goodbye to considering it any further.’
‘If I did that, I don’t think I could actually carry out my job,’ said Everett.
‘OK – maybe restrict it just to things I say.’
‘The things I can do with those reclaimed hours,’ said Everett. ‘Go to the gym, for example.’
‘Shall we dance?’ said Ren. ‘It’s filthy rap.’
‘Yes, we shall,’ said Everett.
They hit the empty dance floor and immediately drew attention. Everett was clean-cut, dark-haired, side-parted kind of handsome. Ren had an exotic look of wild abandon.
‘And so they danced, and the eyes of the onlookers fell upon them!’ said Ren into his ear.
This is high-larious!
Everett was laughing at her, but when he really started to move, Ren was the one who had to fall away to the side she was laughing so hard. He was an excellent dancer.
They went back to the bar and slumped into their seats.
I am soooo shitfaced. ‘I think I look like a whore when I dance the way I really want to dance.’
‘I agree,’ said Everett. ‘Don’t ever change.’
‘And you dance like no one is looking,’ said Ren. ‘Pinterest gold.’
At two a.m., a cab with Ren in it pulled up outside the home of Annie Lowell, a dear Bryce family friend, who had allowed Ren to house-sit her beautiful, historic home while she was touring Europe.
‘This is me!’ said Ren, reaching forward and handing the driver twenty dollars.
She looked out the window. Then back at the driver.
‘Oh, shit,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t live here any more.’
3 (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)
It was a beautiful ninety-degree morning in Denver: the landfill site sweltered under the same sun that was giving everyone else’s day a glorious start. Ren was sitting in the passenger seat of her Jeep.
This cannot be my life.
Outside, the rest of Safe Streets were already dressed in white Tyvek suits, Kevlar gloves, and black half-face masks, sharing a range of looks that covered misery, repulsion, sorrow, and panic.
The panic was flickering in the eyes of Janine Hooks, Ren’s closest friend, and ex-Jefferson County cold case detective. Janine had joined Safe Streets three months earlier. She was a brilliant, thorough investigator with a sharp, wise mind and a heart of gold. Ren was certain Janine had an eating disorder, but had never dared to raise it.
It breaks my heart how tiny you look inside your suit.
Janine was staring down at her feet, lining the tips of her boots up.
Terrified about wearing a mask. Or shy around Robbie.
Robbie Truax was ex-Aurora PD, with Safe Streets from the beginning. Janine had met him first through Ren, and was comfortable liking him from afar, a little less so now that they were up-close colleagues.
Everett came into Ren’s line of vision, walking her way. He pulled open the door of the Jeep.
‘How’s my girl?’
‘Seriously,’ said Ren, ‘I have zero idea how I got into the apartment I did not remember I lived in.’
‘Too much grammar in that sentence …’
‘But you look fine – that’s not fair,’ said Ren. ‘I don’t think I can go through with this.’
‘You can. You can always puke into the mask.’
‘Jesus Christ. Thanks. My ultimate nightmare.’
Fifteen minutes and one fake urgent phone call later, Ren was suited up with the others.
I made it.
They stood in a group, still apart from the other searchers.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s go through the hand signals again …’
Everyone looked at her. She pushed her hand into the circle, low down, and raised her middle finger. ‘Fuck. This.’
The others smiled.
And fuck this heat.
Ren surveyed the landscape ahead of them: rotting food, filthy diapers, decaying animals … stop the inventory of this hellhole.
‘Stretched out before us,’ said Ren, ‘is a landscape that looks like how my mouth feels. There may be a cadaver in both. May your masks serve and protect you.’
She walked toward the rest of the searchers: Denver PD detectives, Sheriff’s Office investigators, landfill site workers, and volunteers.
Volunteers, you extraordinary people. Have you no place else to be? God bless you all.
They moved in and began the search. It was as hot, foul and arduous as they expected. Two days later, they were back. Four days. Five. On day six, the body of Hope Coulson, hanging from black plastic coming undone, was hoisted from a stinking mound of life’s waste and set on the ground at the feet of the Safe Streets’ team. Janine Hooks’ eagle eye had spotted the bag, the Duck tape wrapped around it at each end with extra at the center.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Everett, Janine and four DPD detectives stayed with the body until the coroner arrived. Ren called for Robbie and they moved quickly toward her Jeep. They stripped out of their filthy Tyvek suits, balled them into a bag in the back, and hopped in.
You have gained quite a bit of weight, Robbie Truax, which I feel mean noticing.
‘So, how’ve you been?’ he said, as he strapped himself in.
Ren looked at him. We’re together almost every day …
She started the engine, and drove.
‘I mean – we only see each other at work these days,’ said Robbie.
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘It’s been crazy. And you’ve missed some nights out. A lot of nights out. Is everything OK?’
They both understood the silence that followed. Robbie, the blond, fresh-faced, boy-scout Mormon, was in treatment for porn addiction, a problem that had been going on for months before he finally told Ren, the sole guardian of his secret.
He shrugged. ‘I … was wondering if you were so … horrified by what I told you, that … you were trying to create distance.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Ren. ‘Please tell me you don’t mean that. Did I seem horrified to you? Jesus – I’d have no friends if I distanced myself from people with porn and promiscuity issues. And how could I distance myself from myself?’
Robbie smiled. ‘I guess I just miss hanging out, you coming over, or staying around after work. Just having pizza or whatever.’
But not drinking. Which isn’t seeming like fun to me right now. Sorry!
‘You and Everett,’ said Robbie, ‘you’re—’
Ren’s heart sank.
And now we have hit the real problem. You think I have abandoned you for Everett.
After three months, Robbie was struggling to get along with Everett, and it was making for some awkward moments.
But, you’re right. I have abandoned you. Everett is more fun. Everett drinks. He dances. I can’t hurt Everett. I could hurt you, sensitive man.
Robbie had once admitted to Ren that he loved her, and she had told him that she saw him more as a brother. Their friendship was strong, they had recovered from it, but Ren couldn’t help feeling that a responsibility had come with the admission: if he loves you, if he ever did, you could still hurt him.
I never want to hurt you, Robbie Truax. You mean too much to me.
‘I’m sorry if you feel like I haven’t been around,’ said Ren. ‘You’re right. I’ve just been party, party, party. I think it’s moving into the apartment, everything … I can’t settle. I feel like I’m jumping out of my skin.’
‘That’s how I feel when I’m …’ He stared out the window. ‘Treatment is hard.’
‘I didn’t want to ask,’ said Ren. ‘It’s so personal.’
He turned to her, his eyes bright with sincerity. ‘But you’re the only person in the world I can talk to about personal things.’
Ren reached out and squeezed his forearm. ‘I love you, Robbie Truax. I’m so sorry. Please talk to me. I know it’s probably like—’
‘Trying to catch a wild horse?’
‘Blindfolded.’
Robbie raised a hand in mock-defiance. ‘His eyes filled, nevertheless, with hope …’
Ren pictured the smiling face of Hope Coulson.
Jonathan Briar, here we come. And this time, we have Hope.
When Jonathan Briar heard that his fiancée’s body had been found, his knees buckled, and he cried out with such force, Ren was startled. She had been standing with Robbie in the living room of the apartment Jonathan and Hope had shared for the previous two years. Ren caught Jonathan as he went down. Now she was on her knees, and he was limp and weeping in her arms.
This was not my vision.
Ren glanced up at Robbie, who had been temporarily immobilized.Eventually, he kicked into action and helped Jonathan Briar onto the sofa. Ren took a seat opposite and looked around the room. It was her first time there.
This is a beautiful place. Cozy and cute. Seems like the home of two people in love. This is … so strange. There is nothing cold here. No sense of death or darkness.
‘How could this happen?’ wailed Jonathan. ‘How? I thought she was alive! She’s … Hope isn’t someone … just she wouldn’t be murdered. By anyone! She was in the garbage, just like that? She didn’t belong there. Jesus Christ! I just thought she was alive!’
‘Where did you think she was?’ said Ren. Seriously. It’s been almost five weeks.
Jonathan stopped sobbing. ‘I couldn’t even bring myself to think about that.’ His hair was standing on end. ‘I just couldn’t go there. Where did I think she was? I was thinking nothing. I was thinking nothing bad. I was—’
In shock. All this time. You weren’t an emotionless asshole. You were resisting being forced to think of a horrific ending. It was the last thing you wanted to think of for your sweet, beautiful, caring Hope.
Jonathan Briar locked eyes with Ren.
The pain. You can’t fake that. That agony cannot be faked. Can it?
4 (#ulink_ef96d2ac-e75b-589f-b6ec-341a3b790789)
Hope Coulson’s autopsy revealed that she had been strangled, and it likely happened not long after she had gone missing. She had been raped with something green and ceramic that had broken, and left shards behind, one of which had a partial fingerprint that matched Jonathan Briar’s. Her father identified her body. Jonathan Briar identified the shards as parts of a tall green ceramic sculpture – an engagement gift they had been given – that he had failed to notice was missing from their living room.
‘Well, being raped with one of your engagement gifts would be a serious fuck-you if you cheated on your fiancé,’ said Ren. She was sitting at the edge of her desk in the bullpen, where most of the squad was gathered. ‘Yet no one in all the interviews has suggested that Briar was anything other than kind and loving toward her. But, of course, behind closed doors … who knows. However, if he raped her with that in the apartment and it broke, which it clearly did, there should be more blood there. And it’s highly unlikely there would be no evidence of the sculpture. Unless he raped her on something that he took away and destroyed. His car was clean. Nothing was found with her in the landfill. The black plastic used has no connection to any product found in their home, which doesn’t mean much. Then there’s the issue – if we are to believe he was the rapist and it didn’t happen in their home – he would’ve had to have taken her somewhere to carry it out, and he would also have had to carefully package up the sculpture and bring it with them. Would someone do that? I don’t think so.’
‘Who gave them the gift?’ said Everett. ‘That could be significant.’
‘If that guy’s innocent, I would be amazed,’ said Gary.
‘Prepare to be amazed,’ said Ren.
Gary stared at her. As Gary often did.
‘We also have to consider the fact that she was raped with a foreign object,’ said Ren. ‘That’s typically carried out by a man with sexual problems, which, again, there is no evidence of in Briar’s case.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ said Gary. ‘He could have had a problem for months not being able to get it up. He’s a young guy, too embarrassed to go to the doctor, she’s too embarrassed to mention it to anyone, thinks it’s her fault … and, maybe, she goes elsewhere to get what she’s not getting at home …’
He has made up his mind.
‘Can you really see a kindergarten teacher having that attitude?’ Ren paused. ‘You should go talk to Briar …’ Open your mind.
They stared each other down.
‘How about we go through the night of her disappearance again?’ said Ren. ‘And how Briar was at work for the entire evening—’
‘And out making deliveries,’ said Gary.
‘All of which he appeared to have made in a reasonable time frame,’ said Ren. ‘Unless he has a cape somewhere …’
‘That entire shift was made up of his dope-smoking, mouth-breather friends,’ said Gary.
‘And we have video to back up most of his comings and goings,’ said Ren.
‘Most,’ said Gary. ‘And they’re in over-sized jackets and baseball caps, faces not very clear …’
Grrrrr.
The meeting broke up, and everyone returned to their desks through the haze of tension. Ren fired up her computer. A rubber band flew through the air and whipped her hair off her face. She looked up. Robbie was standing in the center of the room with a wooden gun. Ren laughed.
‘Beautiful shot.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robbie, blowing imaginary smoke from the top of the barrel.
‘But you do know you are now dead,’ said Ren. ‘There’s a price on your head. Fifty per cent off.’ She slid open her drawer to take her own wooden gun out.
No ammo. Shit.
Ren’s email pinged. She glanced at it. Gary.
Subject: BP support
Oh, here we go …
Tonight. Henderson Hotel.
Control explosion.
Ren went to Gary’s office. Her fist was poised to knock on the door, until she heard his rising voice.
‘Nothing!’ said Gary. ‘Nothing is wrong, Karen! Jesus Christ, I’m going to record it on a loop.’
Gary Dettling was calm, cool, rational, in control. He could rein in any emotion … until it came to his wife. He loved that she was crazy, he hated that she was crazy, she made him crazy.
But Ren knew that in some small way, Karen Dettling was bound to have made Gary more sympathetic to Ren’s own brand of crazy.
‘No, good. Go ahead!’ said Gary. He slammed the phone down hard.
Ren let out the breath she had been holding.
Fuckity fuck.
She knocked.
‘Yes!’ said Gary.
Ren opened the door and walked in. ‘Do you have any rubber bands?’
Gary frowned. ‘Yes.’
Ren walked over to his stash. ‘Can I just say I hate these passive-aggressive emails about meetings and appointments?’
‘They’re active-aggressive,’ said Gary. ‘And I can get even more active …’
Ren grabbed a fistful of rubber bands and walked out.
Why do you even keep them in here? You asshole.
When Ren went back to the bullpen, Janine and Everett were huddled together. They looked up.
‘Was he shouting at you?’ said Everett.
‘You could hear that out here?’ said Ren. ‘No – it wasn’t me. For once.’
‘Are you coming out tonight?’ said Janine.
‘No,’ said Everett, ‘she’s checking into a facility …’
‘You may be right,’ said Ren. ‘No, Janine. I was out last night, and the night before. I think even I need a break every now and then.’
‘Well, I’m ready to strap on my drinking boots,’ said Janine.
‘As am I,’ said Everett.
‘Damn you both!’ said Ren. ‘Well, if you’re going, Janine, would you like to stay in my place? Save your drinking money.’
‘Even better, thank you,’ said Janine.
‘I will try not to be bitter,’ said Ren.
‘Robbie’s going to come too,’ said Janine.
D’oh! Everett’s face …
Only Ren noticed. And only she could see the sparkle in Janine’s eyes.
Ren sat at her desk and thought about Hope Coulson – how she hadn’t driven home, how that likely meant that she had met with someone unexpectedly, that something had changed her plans.
‘I think someone was watching Hope Coulson,’ said Ren. ‘I think she was taken from right outside the church.’
‘Like she was bundled into the back of a van?’ said Everett.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Who knew where she was going to be? Was it someone close enough to her that they knew her routine? Was it a member of the congregation? Someone who was served Meals on Wheels by her? A relative of one of the elderly people she visited? Maybe one of the fathers whose kids go to her school. Maybe someone she trusted …’
‘Maybe some creepy guy who had a thing for her,’ said Everett. ‘Or maybe it was an opportunistic thing – some guy who lived near the church?’
‘There are ten registered sex offenders in the area,’ said Janine. ‘According to DPD’s notes, they were all cleared.’
‘Every sex offender was, once upon a time, unregistered,’ said Ren. ‘And every killer had a clean record before their fairy tale ended.’
5 (#ulink_29b3a0e7-68ec-5274-a157-43109863bf1e)
After work, Ren took the five-minute walk to the River North Arts District, RiNo, where her boxing gym defiantly stood – fierce and battered, like a prizefighter – between two shiny rookies: a pristine artisan coffee shop, and a crafts store/ceramics studio. The area was slowly regenerating, with warehouses being renovated and new buildings going up in what were once abandoned, overgrown lots.
The filthy man-gym was scattered with bulked-up men working on bags, sparring in the four rings. Ren went to the token lady area, and got changed into black shorts and a black tank. She put in her EarPods, cranked up her beat-the-shit-out-of-people playlist. She strapped up her hands, put on her gloves and got to work.
Jab. Jab. Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Jab. Jab. Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Rinse. Repeat.
She moved over to the speed bag, did ten minutes on that, left, hot and sweaty, and took a shower in the quiet after-work calm of a hushed Safe Streets.
Ren drove home, walked into the hallway of the apartment building, went over to the wall of mailboxes and took out her mail.
Bill. Bill. Bill. Store card. Bill. Bill. Store card. Bill.
A woman wheeling a mountain bike came in behind her. She looked like the type who described herself as ‘wacky’ in her online dating profile. Thirtyish, hair in pigtails, a tie-dyed T-shirt, full lips, blaring red lipstick, XL plaid shirt as a cover-up.
I have zero interest in meeting bikes in the hallway when I get home from work. Or wacky people. I am maladjusting to apartment living.
‘Hi,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Lorrie, are you new?’
‘Hi, Lorrie,’ said Ren. ‘Yes. I’m Ren. Nice to meet you.’
I have dead-body photos in a folder under my arm right now. Be on your way.
Ren had moved in two months earlier, just days before Annie Lowell returned from her travels. She had clung to the hope that Annie would extend her trip as she had done before. The move was painful, and sad, and already blocked out. Annie’s house was a home. The apartment was a base. It never drew her in in the same way. Instead, mania and the night drew her out, bars and bright, shiny things. Bright shiny people.
Ren had decided not to rush into renting somewhere she didn’t adore. So she sucked it up, even though it meant handing over her beloved black-and-white border collie, Misty, to her dog-walker, Devin, to look after until she found a proper place for both of them. If only she had the time to look. Devin was a smart and bubbly young student who lived across the street from Annie, and adored Misty as much as Ren and Janine did.
‘If you need anything, just ring my bell,’ said Lorrie. ‘I’m 28A.’
‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘Thank you.’
Never gonna happen.
Ren took the elevator alone to the fifth floor. She unlocked the door to her apartment, and went in, hit with the smell of paint.
At least I have fresh new walls. There are positives.
She dropped her briefcase in the hallway and went to the kitchen. She took out a St Émilion red, uncorked it, poured a glass. She opened the refrigerator. There was a bag of arugula, a block of parmesan, some fillet steak.
Not hungry enough to make great effort.
She threw together a salad of arugula and parmesan, cracked some black pepper over it, soaked it in balsamic vinegar and a dash of olive oil and sat back on the sofa to eat.
Her phone beeped with a text from her boyfriend. She had been going out with Ben Rader for ten months. He was an FBI Agent in D.C., keen to make a bigger commitment than Ren was willing to. She had deflected his offer to look for a transfer to Denver so they could move in together. He hadn’t even made the suggestion that she move to D.C. But she loved him, and he loved her. It was only the lying about the meds that stood between them. One giant pharmaceutical wall.
Ren ate half the salad before she set it aside. She pulled a bright red cushion onto her lap, set her laptop on it and opened Hope Coulson’s Facebook account. She spent over an hour going through it. She was struck by one thing: Hope always posted photos from her nights out, throughout the night, and always commented on the event the following day: Blast in XYZ bar with m’girls! or Me&J in XYZ’s. Except for one Friday night, two weeks before she went missing.
Hmm. Why the deviation?
That day, Facebook showed that Hope Coulson went for a late lunch with her girlfriends for one of their birthdays, and posted photos over the course of the afternoon. The next photo uploaded was at 7 p.m., taken in a sports bar – a loved-up selfie with Jonathan. The next photo, in a different bar, was taken at 10 p.m. and was just of Jonathan. And that was it; no comment on the night the following day. And the next post was on Monday afternoon, when she had finished work.
Something about that isn’t right. She was drinking at lunch, kept going when she went to meet Jonathan, didn’t appear in a photo herself. Because she was too drunk? She had a kindergarten-teacher reputation to uphold. Or maybe something happened. Did they have a fight? Maybe whatever happened that night sent her into hiding the following day. Maybe the night was not a night worth writing about for whatever reason …
Ren put down the glass of wine.
She texted Janine. FOMO. Fear of Missing Out.
She got a text right back: You know where to find me. Robbie left early on. Everett just gone . . .
Four hours later, Ren was leaning into the mirror in the ladies’ room of Gaffney’s, her makeup bag open on the wet tiles.
Why can’t there be raised shelves away from the sinks? How hard can that be, people?
Janine arrived, passing two girls who had been taking selfies together before they left.
‘I’m so old,’ said Ren. ‘The idea of constantly updating social media when I’m trying to get hammered is hellish. I hate even being around people who do that. Relax, everyone. And get the fuck out of my face.’
‘I know,’ said Janine. ‘But at least it helps us do our job … suckers!’
‘Speaking of which – Hope Coulson was out two weeks before she went missing, then thirty-six hours disappeared into a black social media hole, which was not her style. I’m just wondering, did something happen? And we know I don’t like to wonder for too long. I like to go out there and find the fuck out.’ She ran her finger under each eye to tidy up her mascara. ‘I need to speak with Briar again.’
‘You heard he’s lawyered up, though …’
Ren turned to her.
‘Oh, I know that face,’ said Janine. ‘Don’t go there without the lawyer.’
‘I just have a couple of tiny questions …’
‘Oh, they’re cool with the tiny ones … phew.’
‘But I don’t think he’s a suspect,’ said Ren.
‘Not the point. Don’t risk it. Gary will go apeshit. And speaking of risking shit, whatever you’re about to do here, don’t.’
‘I was about to put some lip gloss on,’ said Ren. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Janine. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you and that guy out there, but …’
‘I’m fine,’ said Ren. ‘Don’t worry. I have zero interest in him.’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure he feels the same way.’
‘That’s his problem.’
Janine studied her in the mirror.
‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ said Ren. ‘The guy’s not even drinking.’
‘I don’t think a man needs to be drinking to make a move on you,’ said Janine. She paused. ‘Anyhoo, I think I’m about ready to call it a night.’
‘Noooo,’ said Ren.
Janine nodded. ‘I’m exhausted. Do you mind?’
‘No, but I’m wiiide awake – do you mind if I stay?’
‘Not at all,’ said Janine. ‘I’ll see you back at the ranch.’ She hugged Ren, and pulled back. ‘I know Gary’s not actually here, but you seem to be in his crosshairs. I’m not sure it’s to do with all this partying, but—’
‘Fuck Gary!’
6 (#ulink_0ac1bab2-0eca-5fef-b752-a8f715989663)
Ren was dancing hard and fast, bright-eyed and soaring, wild of heart and intentions. The people around her were happy and free and smiling and a reflection of her. They moved together, buoyant and powerful. Two guys joined her on the dance floor – one in front, one behind.
I may be old enough to be the front guy’s mother. He has no clue. Or does he?
He was smiling at her with his gorgeous, perfect teeth.
Ren smiled back.
Boom-boom-BOOM. Boom-boom-BOOM. Boom-boom-BOOOOOM.
I wonder what Ben would make of this? I mean, it’s all perfectly innocent, but still. Would I like to see him in a girl sandwich? I don’t know … Yes you do. You’d kill him.
Ren backed into the other guy, and the front guy moved forward. They all moved with instinctive rhythm.
‘We’re good at this!’ said Ren.
‘We are!’ said the front guy.
She could feel the back guy’s breath on her neck.
Ew.Garlic stranger breath.
She squeezed her way out from between them. ‘Thank you, gentle men!’
‘Don’t go!’ said one.
‘Stay!’ said the other.
‘Bar!’ said Ren. I’m way too sober for these shenanigans. I’ve sweated out the alcohol.
Half an hour later, Ren was back with her original group of strange men. Her phone buzzed in her purse. She took it out.
It was a text from Janine. She could barely focus on it.
I can’t find the key! Stranded outside apartment …!
Shitttt. I don’t want to leeeave. Fuck. Maybe Janine can go back to her house. Don’t be an asshole.
‘Excuse me, gentle men,’ said Ren. ‘I’m going to have to go.’
‘What? Why?’ said one of them.
‘My friend is locked out of my apartment.’
‘Is it far?’ said the guy.
‘Ten minutes in a cab,’ said Ren.
‘I can drive you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been drinking.’
Ren felt a small spike of sobriety. He could be a psycho. Lots of psychos don’t drink or do drugs because they don’t want to lose control. Jesus. Worst-Case Scenario Girl strikes again.
‘That means I can drive you back here after,’ said the guy. ‘Keep the party going!’
I hate that expression. ‘OK! That’s an excellent idea! What’s your name again?’
‘JD.’
‘Thank you, JD!’
They pushed through the hot, crowded bar onto the street. The night was warm. There was only a gentle breeze, but it hit her like a slap.
Whoa. My head.
She called Janine. She picked up right away.
‘Are you OK?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Janine.
‘I’m on my way,’ said Ren. ‘One of the guys is giving me a ride.’
‘What?’ said Janine. ‘Get a cab. Who is he? Has he been drinking?’
‘Nope,’ said Ren. ‘He’s tonight’s designated driver. With a name like JD that’s a bit cruel, isn’t it?’
JD laughed. He unlocked the car door.
‘He’s going to bring me back to the bar after, too,’ said Ren.
Pause. ‘Really?’ said Janine.
What’s with that tone of voice? ‘Yes. Would you like me to call one of my neighbors, see if they’ll buzz you in, make sure you’re safe?’
‘Ren, it’s almost two a.m.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ren. ‘It’s very late to be hanging around—’
‘Ren? Ren, listen to me: do not call your neighbors. I’ll be fine.’
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘See you in ten.’
Janine was waiting on the steps outside the apartment.
‘There she is!’ said Ren. ‘Safe!’ She jumped out of the car, with the key already in her hand. ‘Here.’
‘I’m so sorry about this,’ said Janine.
‘It’s fine!’ said Ren. ‘Don’t worry. Will you be OK?’
‘No,’ said Janine.
‘What?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Janine. ‘Come with me. I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.’
Nowww? Ren glanced over at JD. He was a blur standing by his car. The streetlights were glowing, everything was glowing. Ren turned back to Janine, struggling to focus.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘OK.’ She ran back down the steps. ‘Thank you, JD! But I’m going to stay, now that I’m here.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the ride.’
‘Aw, that’s a shame,’ said JD. ‘Are you sure? I just got a text from one of the guys – party at his place.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Ren, ‘but I better not. I don’t want to leave Janine.’
JD looked up at Janine with an expression that said killjoy.
Inside the apartment, Ren went looking for vodka, Janine went looking for water and Vitamin C tablets.
‘Here,’ she said, putting them down in front of Ren.
‘What is this?’ said Ren. ‘The drinking is not over yet. What would you like?’
‘I’m good, thank you,’ said Janine.
‘So,’ said Ren, ‘what do you need to talk about? Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘I … just wanted you to stop what you were doing.’
Um, what?
‘I know you said you were fine,’ said Janine, ‘but I was afraid you were going to do something you would regret.’
‘Like what?’ said Ren.
‘Come on,’ said Janine. ‘JD, he’s a good-looking guy. You two were flirting.’
‘Jesus Christ, why does everyone think I’m flirting when I’m just having fun?’
‘It seemed like more than that to me,’ said Janine, ‘and definitely to him. Why else would he offer you a ride home? A guy wouldn’t do that unless he wanted something in return.’
‘Cynic!’ said Ren. ‘And I think you over-estimate my attractiveness.’
Janine shook her head. ‘I don’t. I’ve seen it enough times. When you focus on people you focus on them, it’s so lovely, it really is, but you know men … they want the world to revolve around them, and you make it so.’
Oh, God, I’ve heard that before. ‘I was just having fun!’ I don’t have a dial to regulate the attention I pay.
‘I know,’ said Janine, ‘but I know that it wouldn’t be fun at all if you cheated on Ben. You’d never forgive yourself. I wasn’t sure you were in control of all that tonight, and I didn’t want to wake up to an empty apartment or – worse – have you wake up to a different man to the one who loves you. The one you love.’
Damn it. ‘I wouldn’t have done anything.’
‘Another drink might have changed all that,’ said Janine. ‘I had a bad vibe.’
‘Well,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks for caring.’
Janine laughed. ‘Once more with feeling.’
Ren got into bed and texted Ben. Love you. XX
7 (#ulink_f4a714c4-d820-5239-859f-1a9ad42b3aab)
Ren woke at eight thirty the next morning. Oooh. Where am I? Oh, I’m home. Thank God. Alone. Phew. OK. Janine stayed here. How did I get here? Cab. OK. No – a guy called JD. Nice guy. Nothing happened. That’s a positive. There’s hope for me.
Hope. Victims should never be called Hope. What happened to you, Hope Coulson? Did you get drunk in a bar, take a ride home with a stranger?
Ren got up and stuck her head into the living room.
No Janine. Why didn’t she call me? She hates me. I’m a liability on nights out.
Ren turned on the radio and went into the bathroom. She stepped onto the scales: one hundred and nineteen pounds. Thank you. Don’t ever change. She went to the toilet, washed her hands, dried them, then stepped on the scales again: still one hundred and nineteen pounds. So, I didn’t drink that much.
I’m high-larious.
She looked in the mirror. Ooh: not a good look, though a familiar one. I like the cheekbones, though.
She jumped in the shower and used every energizing product and scrub she could find to startle her awake. She dressed in gray, high-waisted straight-leg pants, a starched white shirt, a pale gold necklace with two pendants: one shaped like a crescent moon, the other shaped like a star. She did a quick makeup job, left her hair wet, and ran.
Fifteen minutes later, she parked outside the Livestock Exchange Building. She began to jog up the steps, but her pounding head slowed her march. She walked through the doors, her footsteps echoing across the polished marble floor. She headed for the wide central staircase instead of the elevator. The staircase led onto a landing, then left or right for more steps to the next floor, and the same all the way to the top. She could hear a man above loudly announce, ‘This is not safe!’
Ren looked up. He was rattling a clearly unstable guardrail along the second floor balcony.
And who the fuck might you be?
‘Is this even forty-two inches high, I have to wonder,’ he was saying.
Really? Do you?
He made his way up to the fourth floor.
The Safe Streets floor.
Ren recognized the woman rushing up the stairs behind him as Valerie, the real estate agent – giving him a tour. There were four office spaces to rent in the building.
On other floors.
Oh – Valerie! She might help me and Misty find a home!
Ren continued up the stairs. ‘Sir, this is not the floor with the vacant space,’ Valerie was saying. She looked down at Ren, exasperated.
‘That’s not the point!’ said the man. ‘How well maintained is this building is what I’m thinking.’ He tried to rattle the guardrail on the fourth floor, but it held firm. He looked disappointed.
Ren smiled at him as she passed by to walk through the door into Safe Streets. He was standing about four feet to her right. She paused. ‘We don’t walk out around there,’ said Ren, pointing down to the second floor balcony. ‘No one does, so, we’ve never noticed the problem. That’s a dummy door at the end. The elevator bank is down the other way. However, I’m sure we can get the guardrail that you will never use fixed for you in no time, so that when you never use it, it will be safe, and you won’t plunge down if you never fall from a place where you will never again be going.’
She walked through the door. She could hear Valerie rambling about the fourth floor being a federal area.
‘And there’s no security in the building?’ said the man. ‘No scanners? Nothing?’
‘This is not the FBI’s main federal building in Denver,’ Valerie was saying. ‘Would you really want to have to be scanned every morning coming to work, Rodney, really? Emptying your pockets? Taking out your phone, your coins, having your bags searched?’
Ren was smiling as she walked down the hallway. No, Rodney, you would not. I wouldn’t want that myself. God bless our compact little squad in our beautiful historic home.
Ren’s cell phone rang.
Ben!
She picked up. ‘Hey, baby.’
‘Hey,’ said Ben. ‘Thought I’d catch you before work. How you doing? How was your night?’
‘Great,’ said Ren. ‘Just let me take off my jacket, sit down. Yes, great night. We met some hilarious guys at the bar … one of them gave me a ride home. Janine forgot her keys—’
‘Who was this guy?’ said Ben.
‘Just a guy called JD,’ said Ren. ‘Why?’
‘Why? I don’t know – rides home with strange guys and I can’t ask who he is?’
‘“Strange guys” … one guy. A regular guy, not strange. Janine met him.’ And tried to keep me away from him. ‘He was fine.’
‘Good to know.’ He paused. ‘Aren’t you exhausted? All these nights out?’
‘No, Mom. I’m good.’
‘Fine, I’ll let you get back to work,’ said Ben.
‘Great,’ said Ren. ‘Talk to you later.’
‘Don’t call me late.’
‘I won’t.’
Bo. Ring.
Everett came into the bullpen with two mugs of coffee and put one on Ren’s desk. ‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘God bless you and the caffeine I’ll ride out on.’
Ren opened up her laptop again, and went back to Hope Coulson’s Facebook page.
Something is not right here.
She filled Everett in on what she had read the previous night. ‘I need to pay a visit to Jonathan Briar,’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Everett, ‘news just in: he’s lawyered up.’
‘No, I know,’ said Ren. ‘Janine told me. I just want to ask him about that one night.’
Everett shook his head. ‘Not without his lawyer … who, by the way, is well aware of the lack of hard evidence against his client.’
‘As am I,’ said Ren. She leaned in. ‘Has Gary mentioned to you his exact theory on what happened to Hope Coulson?’
‘No,’ said Everett, ‘but doesn’t he seem a little … distracted to you?’
Ren nodded. ‘Yup. I don’t think he’s himself right now.’ Something is rotten in the state of his marriage.
‘I don’t know him well enough to know what “hisself” is,’ said Everett.
‘I know him too well,’ said Ren. ‘And he’s still a fucking mystery.’ She looked up. ‘Speaking of mysteries …’
‘Hello, flatmate,’ said Janine, walking in.
‘Where did you get to this morning?’ said Ren.
‘I took Misty for a run.’
‘Oh my God – you took my dog for a run. Bad mom, bad mom.’
‘That’s not how it works,’ said Janine. ‘You are hungover. I needed a run, Misty did too: win-win.’
‘How is my baby?’ Whom I haven’t seen in four days.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Janine.
‘How’s Devin?’ said Ren.
‘As happy as ever. Is she not one of the cheeriest people on the planet?’
‘I swear she doesn’t have a bad thought in her head,’ said Ren.
‘Everyone has bad thoughts,’ said Everett. ‘Don’t be idolizing.’
I do idolize, he’s right. Everyone is better than me.
Robbie walked into the bullpen with a stack of files up to his chin. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘Just don’t.’
‘I’m sorry I missed you last night,’ said Ren.
‘You came out in the end?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘We’re going to have to coordinate better …’
She sat down at her desk. Something was tugging at her. Something that had just been said.
What? Idolizing? Bad thoughts?
She opened up Google and stared at it blankly.
Win-win! That’s what it is! Stephanie Wingerter.
Ren jumped up from her desk and went to the file cabinet. She pulled out the file on the rape and murder of Stephanie Wingerter, a twenty-three-year-old meth-addicted prostitute who went by the name of Win-Win. She had disappeared in late June and was found a week later in a shallow grave in Devil’s Head, Douglas County. Ren laid out the photos on her desk. The first was a mug shot – Stephanie’s blank eyes in a skinny, washed-out face dotted with scabs. Her mouth was half-open, showing gaps where two teeth should have been. Her thin, punky blonde hair was a mess, her eyebrows over-plucked.
The next photos were of where she was found, left to decompose in the beautiful July sunshine. Stephanie Wingerter’s face and body had been ravaged by drugs before any killer had gotten near it, but when he did … her right eye socket was impacted, as was her nose, both left swollen and caked in blood. Her upper and lower lips were split, and there was no pale skin visible – it was all shades of blue, purple, red and black. Dried blood darkened her hair. Her throat had been cut. Much of the lower half of her body was burned down to her ankles.
Ren read the autopsy report. Cause of death was exsanguination. Accelerant had been poured on her, post-mortem, then lit.
You poor, tragic soul. Why do some people have to live such miserable lives and die such horrible deaths?
There were photos of a younger Stephanie from before she became an addict, and she was not unlike Hope Coulson: slim, pretty and bright-eyed.
Everyone in Colorado knew who Hope Coulson was. Stephanie Wingerter, visible in life only to those in her shadowy underworld, had scarcely registered in the media. She was the type to be considered a victim-in-waiting by people who could never see her as a young woman struggling to survive or desperately feeding a habit that was never on her list of life’s goals, but was, instead, a marker on a gene.
Ren went through the last photos – what had remained of Stephanie Wingerter’s tiny clothes, filthy, torn and bloodied.
8 (#ulink_2203610f-e7b7-5f5c-ab56-fcd2d3497c2b)
After work, Ren went to visit Misty, and met with Janine for coffee afterwards in Crema on Larimer Street.
‘The sooner I get a house the better,’ said Ren. ‘I miss my girl.’
‘Did she go insane when she saw you?’ said Janine.
‘She did,’ said Ren. ‘It was adorable.’ She stared down at her coffee. ‘I hope she won’t need therapy after me deserting her.’
‘You haven’t deserted her,’ said Janine. ‘You’ve made a major sacrifice, so she can stay in an area she’s familiar with, with someone else who loves her. I visit her, you visit her. Misty is beloved!’
Ren smiled. ‘She is.’ Sometimes, though, I can’t even raise my game to see her. I’m so hungover, I just want to get back to the apartment after work. Or a bar. Or I can’t face getting up early enough to see her before work.
‘Are you being neg?’ said Janine.
Ren laughed. ‘Maybe …’
‘That’s just the alcohol in your system.’
‘Why do we do it?’
‘Because it’s fun.’
Ren let out a breath.
‘Are you OK?’ said Janine. She put a hand on her forearm.
Just tell her.
No.
Do.
‘Thanks for looking out for me last night,’ said Ren. ‘God. I was so wasted.’
Janine laughed. ‘Nooo.’
‘Was I an embarrassment?’
‘No! Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Ugh. I think you’re just being nice.’
‘No. Honestly.’
‘Look, I just wanted to let you know something,’ said Ren. ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with last night. But … I suppose, I just haven’t told you and now it seems weird after all this time. I’m … bipolar.’ Ugh, still hate it.
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘You mean you guessed already!’ said Ren.
Janine laughed. ‘Not exactly. I figured … there was something there.’
‘Something wrong, you mean. When? Why didn’t you say?’
‘It’s not exactly something I’m going to throw out there …’
‘True. Anyway, there it is, my sorry tale.’
‘It doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m concerned,’ said Janine. ‘But, yes, I’m glad you told me.’
‘Well, now that we’re working together …’
Janine frowned. ‘Now that we’re working together?’ She paused. ‘Are you trying to tell me I can’t rely on you?’ She was half-smiling. ‘That if we were in a gun battle you might be across the room dancing to “Happy”?’
Ren laughed. I love you, Janine Hooks. ‘Thanks.’
‘All I will say is please talk to me if you’re struggling … or if there’s anything on your mind.’
‘Of course,’ said Ren. ‘And you can talk to me too.’
Now, have you anything you’d like to tell me? Like about your possible eating disorder?
There was a sparkle of the onset of tears in Janine’s eyes. She blinked and they were gone, swallowed up.
Just like that.Talk to me. Or do you think I’m just not the right kind of friend?
‘Gary makes me go to these bullshit support groups every two weeks,’ said Ren. ‘In that shit-ass Henderson Hotel. It’s enough to make you blow your brains out. Shit – I was supposed to be at one last night.’
‘Don’t the meetings help at all?’ said Janine.
Not right now. At all.Ooh. You, troubled lady, need to know support groups help. ‘They do help,’ said Ren. ‘Just sometimes they remind me that there’s something wrong with me. And, like, I feel great. I could go there in the best humor ever, and someone’s up at the lectern talking about killing themselves or getting injected in the ass with clozapine and I’m like “that is not my life”.’
‘Of course that’s not your life,’ said Janine. ‘I mean, look at you.’
Yes. Seconds from a clozapine shot at all times. Ooh: that’s a great idea. Shots called Clozapine. I’ll have a round of Clozapines. Like Mind Erasers. Mind Numbers. With a silent ‘b’. The pharmaceutical company probably wouldn’t allow a brand name to be used. Obviously.
She let out a breath.
‘And, Ren, I want you to know I can’t be your friend in half-measures. Like, I don’t half-care about people. I’m all in. Which I hope explains why I was the way I was last night. So if that doesn’t sit well with you …’
‘It’s just …’
‘What?’ said Janine.
I hate my behavior being scrutinized. I hate being watched. I hate being stopped. I hate my fun being curtailed. I shouldn’t have told her. Now I have another person in my life with a worried look on their face. Fuck that.
‘Just … thanks,’ said Ren.
Ren started the drive back to her apartment. She kept thinking of Hope Coulson’s party pictures.
I am missing something. I need to talk to Jonathan Briar.
Fuck his lawyer.
You really don’t want to do that.
Gary will go—
La la la la la …
Ren rang the buzzer outside Jonathan Briar’s apartment building, waiting patiently for him to pick up.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Jonathan, it’s Ren Bryce here from Safe Streets …’
Silence.
‘I was looking at Hope’s Facebook page and there’s something I need to ask you.’
‘I have a lawyer now,’ said Jonathan.
‘This will take five minutes,’ said Ren. ‘Please. You want to find out who did this to Hope, don’t you? You’re not a suspect. I just have a couple of questions.’
‘What about her Facebook page?’ said Jonathan.
‘Something doesn’t add up,’ said Ren. ‘Please – can I come up? I’ll show you.’
Silence.
Then the buzzer.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
9 (#ulink_005708df-daa6-58f7-84a1-af0993a75738)
The apartment was a mess. Ren pushed aside cushions, a hoodie and two dirty plates to sit on the sofa. Jonathan went into the kitchen to make coffee. Ren could see him through the doorway, leaning against the countertop, gripping it, his head bowed. She got up and went in after him. There were fast-food wrappers, Styrofoam boxes, empty soda cans, empty chip packages, all across the countertops. The bin was overflowing.
‘Why don’t you sit down on the sofa,’ said Ren, putting a hand on Jonathan’s back. ‘I’ll take care of this.’
He looked up, tears welling in his eyes. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ren.
‘Thank you,’ said Jonathan. ‘Thanks.’
Ren opened the cupboard under the sink, took out a garbage bag and started to fill it up. Then she loaded the dishwasher, washed down the countertops and put the kettle on. As she waited for it to boil, she looked around the kitchen. The side of the refrigerator still had notes signed by Hope, and a calendar that had been turned to the new month. Ren went over and flipped it up. Every Monday from the beginning to the end of the year, read: Good Shepherd, 6 p.m.
Eerie. A schedule that would never be followed through on …
Ren took out her cell phone and photographed all the months of the calendar.
Just in case …
The kettle boiled, Ren made coffee and went back in to sit with Jonathan Briar. He had made a half-assed attempt to tidy the living room, but he appeared to have stalled.
‘Thank you for cleaning up,’ he said.
‘Not a problem,’ said Ren.
‘I told everyone to stay away,’ he said. ‘People offered to help …’
‘It’s not easy having people around when you’re grieving,’ said Ren. ‘Sometimes you just want the whole world to go away.’
He nodded.
‘I lost my older brother to suicide when I was thirteen years old,’ said Ren.
‘Really?’ said Jonathan.
‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘His name was Beau. He was only seventeen.’
‘Man …’ said Jonathan. ‘Do you ever get over that?’
‘No. But it does get easier, and there’s the cliché that I know you won’t believe applies to you … until it does.’
‘I can’t imagine … getting past this.’
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘And you don’t have to. Just take each day at a time.’
‘Each day sucks.’
‘Jonathan, I wanted to talk to you about a Friday night two weeks before Hope’s disappearance.’ Ren took her laptop out of her bag and opened it to Hope’s Facebook page.
‘Hope didn’t update Facebook for thirty-six hours,’ said Ren, ‘which is kind of unlike her, right?’
She studied Jonathan’s face. He was lost in the photos.
Shit. I should have prepared him.
He started to cry again.
Fuck.
‘I’m sorry if this is upsetting,’ said Ren, ‘but I just wanted to find out, did anything happen that night?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
Ooh. I don’t believe you.
‘Are you sure?’ said Ren. ‘Hope was drinking all afternoon … she continued when you joined her. She could well have been very drunk that night … Did you guys have an argument?’
‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘But, yeah, she was really drunk. But she never got mean or anything, like some girls do. We didn’t have an argument.’
‘Did you come home together?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Jonathan.
‘How did you get home?’ said Ren.
‘Uh … we … got a cab.’
Once more with feeling.
Ren glanced down at the screen. ‘From this bar? The Irish Hound?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘How long did that take?’ said Ren.
‘Five or ten minutes?’
Love that guessing tone of voice.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else?’
He nodded. ‘Positive.’
Positively lie-telling.
Ren got back to her apartment, changed, and went up to her second gym of choice – the top-floor glamor gym of her apartment building. Its glass windows looked out over the twinkling lights of Denver and made her feel like she was in a hotel. It was blessedly empty.
Woo-hoo. No stranger sweat.
Proud to be here: drank only coffee earlier. Albeit the ninth mug of the day. But not alcohol. That makes me a winner.
She pushed in her EarPods, hit buttons and set the treadmill speed to low. She started with a one-minute walk, then cranked it up.
Run, run, run.
Music pounded in her ears, loud and piercing, and hammering. She cranked it up again.
I am alive. I am alive. I am alive. My mind is a wide-open space. Everything is possible.
She thought of Hope Coulson. The face of Stephanie Wingerter quickly slid in beside her.
I know you are connected. You look so … alike. You were both brutalized, discarded. Just … I know you’re connected. I know it.
What the fuck are you lying about, Jonathan Briar? I told you I don’t think you’re a suspect.
Ren ran for forty-five minutes, finally slamming her hand on the Stop button, slowing to a walk. She was hot, but barely sweating. She breathed deep.
I will find you, killer. I will run after you. I will be fitter and better and stronger than you. I will not fail.
She went back to her apartment. I need Ben. I need to fuck him. I need to fuck. I need to fuck now. She took a shower, then went into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. She dialed Ben’s number. He picked up right away.
‘Are you alone?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
She lay back on the bed. ‘I need you to talk me through something …’
She lay there afterwards, staring at the ceiling, her left arm up over her head, her right hand holding the phone.
‘It was fun while it lasted,’ she said. ‘Now we’re just alone, which sucks.’
‘I’m at the supermarket …’
Ren laughed. ‘Ben … I’m sorry about earlier. I was hungover and cranky.’
‘That’s OK, baby.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m good, busy. How about you?’
‘We’ve got that murder case – the Hope Coulson one, and I’m thinking … there are similarities to another rape/murder from two months ago.’
‘I thought the fiancé was looking good for the Coulson case …’
‘Trial by media, yes. And Gary.’
‘You’re still having issues with him …’
‘Has he said anything to you?’
Ben and Gary had been friends for years – Gary trained Ben in the Undercover Program, as he had trained Ren.
‘No, but I doubt he would,’ said Ben.
Paranoia. ‘So, anyway, I got to thinking about serial killers—’
‘Whoa, what? You think this is a serial killer?’
‘Well … I think the same guy may have raped and killed two women – does that count?’
‘Technically? No.’
‘OK – forget that,’ said Ren. ‘In general, though, how do you feel about the following? A problem with the wiring of the brain results in: me. And: serial killers.’
Patient pause.
‘I’m serious,’ said Ren.
‘What exactly are you saying?’ said Ben. ‘Are you trying to relate the two things? You and serial killers?’
‘What I’m saying is – I have something in common with serial killers.’
‘That’s just nuts,’ said Ben.
That’s not a very nice thing to say.
‘Is that what you’re actually thinking?’ said Ben.
‘No.’ Yes.
‘Ren, I know you don’t like me reading up on these things, but I know that bipolar people can sometimes think everything is their fault. Like, they see a natural disaster on the other side of the world, and can manage to feel guilt on some level about that. This sounds to me like a version of skewed thinking.’
‘But … think about it,’ said Ren; ‘a serial killer goes around thinking things that no one knows about. He has these internal thoughts that he can’t say out loud because people would know. They would know.’ She paused. ‘And I have thoughts like that.’
‘All thoughts are internal,’ said Ben.
Oh, yeah.
‘And your thoughts are not about raping and murdering people … That makes a serial killer just that little bit different.’
‘I like how your mind works.’
‘It’s pretty much how most people’s minds work.’
Ouch.
‘I didn’t mean it like that, before you get weird.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m going to stop talking now.’
Ren laughed. ‘I think that would be very wise.’
10 (#ulink_33a3ac56-5d34-57c4-8650-5b63769a513b)
Donna Darisse reached out of the shower, grabbed a faded towel from the hook on the wall, and wrapped it around her slender body. She stepped onto the tiled floor of the tiny bathroom, grabbed a second towel and quickly dried her fine, wispy dark hair. She looked in the mirror. She sometimes expected to see her pre-chemo hair – this fragile, but fighting hair still had the power to startle her.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
‘Mommy, can I come in?’
‘Just give me a moment, Cam,’ said Donna. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes! I just wanted to say hi!’
Donna smiled. ‘Hi yourself,’ she said. ‘Now, you go back in to your movie, I’ll be out in a little while.’
‘I wish you weren’t going to work,’ said Cam as she walked away.
It was Donna’s first week back since her treatment. She was high on guilt, low on options. She listened for the DVD player to kick in, and she went into her bedroom. She went straight for the drawer and the wig hidden at the back. She couldn’t bear to tell Cam – she was only six years old. So Donna always wore the wig unless Cam was staying with her father. Five of Donna’s friends had their heads shaved in solidarity when she lost her hair. Cam just thought they’d all gone crazy.
Donna pulled out a red dress she had often had to diet to fit into. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, pulling at the loose fabric. She had made remarks about skinny people in the past – they needed fat on their bones, they needed a burger, a home-cooked meal. She felt a little differently since she became one of them. She had never known the stories of the people she judged.
Donna walked into the living room with a smile on her face. ‘Mommy loves someone very much,’ she said. ‘And Mommy thinks that person is right here in this room. Do you have any idea who that could be?’
‘Me!’ said Cam. ‘Me!’ She leapt up from her cushion on the floor, ran across the room and dived into her mother’s arms.
The doorbell rang, and Donna carried Cam to the door and let the babysitter in.
‘Now,’ said Donna, letting Cam down, ‘you be good, and you enjoy your play date this afternoon. I’ll see you for supper.’
‘Yes!’ said Cam. ‘You look so beautiful, Mama. And I like your white cowboy boots!’
‘You look beautiful too … Belle. I wish I had such a pretty yellow dress. I would dance around the room all day and all night.’
‘Your dress is the prettiest dress in the whole wide world,’ said Cam. ‘You might meet a prince!’
He sat in the car watching the street hookers making their way up and down Colfax Avenue.
Fuck that Hope Coulson bitch. Fuck her and her kindergarten smile and her lines of volunteers.
He turned his attention back to the street.
People only line up for you pathetic whoring bitches when you’re alive. Only so’s you can suck their cocks.
He couldn’t see anything he liked in the parade before him.
Fuck the landfill site. Fuck Denver PD. Fuck the sheriffs. Fuck the Feds. Fuck today’s miserable luncheon buffet. No man could get full on that.
Just as he was about to drive away, he saw one, just the way he liked them.
Hold up, scrawny lady! You’re about to be crowned winner of today’s pitiful pussy pageant!
He drove alongside her.
Donna Darisse leaned down, spoke into the driver’s side.
‘How are you, handsome man?’
‘Well, that’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you hear that all the time …’ said Donna.
He wondered if all the conversations taking place along that strip were the same as his, loading and unloading a whole pile of bullshit every time the trick opened her mouth, every time the john did.
‘Well, you’re a Texan, right?’ she said. ‘You like to keep your boots on? I like that.’ She smiled. ‘How do you like my boots? Do you approve?’
‘I like them very much,’ he said. I’d like to slam them over and over into your face.
‘And how do you like your women?’ she said.
‘Satisfied,’ he said. ‘Hop on in.’
‘Just so you know, I don’t do anal.’
Ha. Ha. Ha.
‘Where are you going to take me?’ said Donna.
‘Right through the gates of heaven,’ he said.
He glanced across at her. He could see a tiny flash of something in her eyes, and how she smiled quickly to try to bury it. His dick swelled. He closed his eyes, breathed in, loved this, loved the anticipation, had trained himself not to rush through to the end, but to savor every part of what was about to unfold.
‘Tell me more,’ she said.
‘Show don’t tell is my motto,’ he said.
‘Do you have a name?’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am. You can call me Harris.’
‘Short for Harrison?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s what I long for that matters …’
She laughed. ‘You on business here in Denver?’
‘Serious business.’
Donna reached over and slid her hand from his knee all the way up. ‘Me too, sweetheart.’ She smiled and he got a little softer, and all that ever brought was confusion. Confusion angered him.
He had done his research. It wasn’t difficult to find a map online of the HALO cam locations. He chose a route from East Colfax that would circumvent them all. Even though he knew, without a vehicle description, the cops wouldn’t have a clue what to look for. And he was making sure to take her to an area that had untouched corners. He liked violating what was untouched.
Donna turned toward him, reached out for him again.
And you – you’ve been touched by every motherfucker the length and breadth of Colfax, you sick-looking, dick-sucking bitch.
‘Not here,’ he said.
Donna followed his gaze to a wall lined with dumpsters.
‘I’m sure we can pick somewhere prettier than this,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a nice car here we could get comfortable in.’
‘Sweetheart, never in my life have I considered comfort in any decision I’ve ever made.’
And I sure as hell have never connected it with fucking.
‘So, we’re going to do this outside,’ he said, ‘then I’ll drive you on back to your friends.’ He smiled.
Donna relaxed a little. They got out of the car and she walked toward the wall. Harris still hadn’t gotten hard when he turned her around and pushed her up against it, when he pressed himself against her. There was a moment of stillness.
‘I’m kidding,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to do it here. My office is inside.’
He could feel her reaction – confusion, relief, the desperate optimism that made her want to believe that the person her every cell was telling her was so very wrong, was really OK, that the evil she was sensing was not real. He had an office!
He unlocked the door and pushed her inside an empty, cavernous warehouse.
‘Hey,’ said Donna, half-turning, ‘you never asked how much I charge.’
Harris laughed as he slammed the door behind them. He grabbed her by the wrist and flung her to the ground. ‘Oh, honey, you’re the one paying.’
‘Wh—’
‘With your life.’ He laughed, a short crazy laugh as if this had been such an obvious thing for her to have not considered.
Donna screamed, and it echoed around the vast, black space. ‘No!’ she said. ‘No – please.’
He was holding a knife with a long blade that was catching the scant moonlight from the row of windows at the top of the room.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he said. ‘All of them.’
‘Please don’t do this,’ said Donna.
‘Don’t say please to me.’ He walked a step closer, patient, and dead-eyed.
She did as he asked, and stood trembling, naked, trying to cover herself.
He looked her up and down, stopped with his eyes locked on hers.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fair, I’ll be fair – I’m gonna give you a chance to get away.’
She stared at him. He nodded.
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’
She frowned, but within seconds, she bolted into the gloom. He gave her time, then followed her. She cried out as her feet struck glass, but she kept running, left and right, wildly panicked, thrilling him. He gained on her, with little effort, reaching out to her, grabbing her hair, but pulling the wig from her head. He recoiled, threw it to one side, but barely broke his stride. He grabbed her arm this time, yanked her toward him, flung her to the ground. He tied her wrists with cable ties behind her back.
He knelt down in front of her, pushing her limp legs open. ‘I’m doing you a favor,’ he hissed. ‘Is this the life you want for yourself? What do you think those milked-dry titties are gonna do for a man like me? Flat little saving-up-for-fake-ones kind of titties? Your stretch marks. All of that tells me you’ve got kids at home and you’re out streetwalking. You’re nothing but a rodent bitch looking for someone to prey on her bony ass. Well, you got me. You got me. And how do you like it?’
He grabbed her thigh hard, burying his fingertips into it, and with his other hand, pushed the blade inside her, over and over.
Donna screamed and screamed, but had no power against his weight. He pressed the side of her face hard against the damp, stinking concrete.
‘You asked me how I like my women,’ he said. ‘Face down in the dirt and dying!’
He laughed hysterically. Donna was disoriented, struggling to breathe, trying to get her head from under his hand, which he released only to punch her jaw hard. He heard a crack. After that, it was just moaning.
Face down in the dirt and dying.
He felt something sink inside him.
Face down in the dirt and dying. Dirt: not here, not on a cold concrete floor.
It’s not enough, is it? It’s not enough. You need to fly again. You need to fly. Nothing else matters now. You need to fly. You need to fly.
11 (#ulink_985d486e-0d2a-5aad-a5fc-b83c59fe9c4d)
Ren sat at her desk with a Danish in front of her that she had taken one bite out of.
Why did I bring this in here? It is just looking like fatness to me. How could I ever have eaten so many of these?
She opened up a document and wrote the date of the night that Jonathan Briar was lying about.
Why was he lying?
Ren looked up the Irish Hound bar on Google Maps. It was the last stop on Hope and Jonathan’s night out.
His ‘cab’ answer was the least convincing.
Would they have gotten a cab for such a short trip if Hope Coulson was as hammered as I believe she was? Wouldn’t they have gone for some fresh air in their lungs?
Ren called the Irish Hound for the video from that night. They had aready erased it.
Shit.
She went back to the map and marked out three separate routes they could have taken home … if they had walked. From that, she put together a list of businesses and homes that they may have passed, and who may have captured them on CCTV cameras.
Her phone rang. She looked down and saw the flashing name of Glenn Buddy, DPD.
She picked up. ‘Hey, Glenn. Before you say anything, I didn’t get a chance to ask you last time – how’s Brenda doing?’
Glenn was close friends with Cliff and Brenda James. Cliff was Ren’s adored big-bear JeffCo colleague who Janine had replaced. His wife, Brenda, was undergoing cancer treatment and had been given just months to live. Cliff had gone back to work at JeffCo Sheriff’s Department to be closer to home.
‘It’s not good,’ said Glenn. ‘But they’re holding up, they’re holding up.’
‘I haven’t spoken to Cliff in weeks,’ said Ren. ‘I’m afraid to bother him.’
‘I know, I know – time is precious, but I’m sure he’d appreciate a call. You cheer him up, Ren.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You do. Now, I’m about to not cheer you up. We’ve got reports of a missing prostitute. Name’s Donna Darisse. We brought her in a few times. Real nice lady. She’s a cancer survivor.’
The word survivor sounded stark when side by side with Brenda James’s prognosis.
‘She’s got a six-year-old girl,’ said Glenn. ‘It was Donna’s first day back on the job after treatment. The daughter’s friend’s mom called it in this morning – Donna never came back to pick her up after a play date at six p.m. yesterday. That was totally out of character for her. But the friend’s mom figured she had to work late – she thought Donna was a waitress – and that her battery had died. She took her to school this morning, then nothing. The school hasn’t heard from her either. The friend’s mom knew that Donna would never do something like that.’
‘Please let her have fallen asleep in some luxury hotel suite with Edward Lewis.’
Silence.
‘Pretty Woman …’ said Ren.
‘I’ll go with that,’ said Glenn. ‘According to some of the other girls, she was last seen on East Colfax, getting into a dark sedan. No description of the driver. We’re going through the HALO cams now, see if we see anything. Her last cell phone signal was picked up in that area, then nothing.’
‘Is she a user?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Glenn.
‘Do you have a photo of her?’
‘Yup,’ said Glenn. ‘Emailing it through.’
‘OK.’ Ren got off the phone, opened the email, and saved the image. Donna Darisse had a thick head of chestnut hair that fell past her shoulders. She had a warm smile, good teeth. She looked healthy. She didn’t look like a street hooker.
I’m finding comfort in that. If the skinny blonde is his type, and not just a coincidence.
Shit.Cancer … she had cancer.
Ren called Glenn back. ‘Sorry, again, Glenn – had Donna Darisse dropped a lot of weight?’
‘Oh – yes, according to one of the other girls.’
‘And did she lose her hair?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Glenn. ‘Shit, I didn’t think of that. Let me see if I can’t get a more recent photo.’
Twenty minutes later, a new photo of Donna Darisse hit Ren’s inbox. She was holding a little girl in her arms. Both of them were laughing. The girl had her hand in the air, having just placed a tiny gold plastic tiara on her mother’s head.
Oh. Shit. Hollow cheeks, blonde hair … blonde wig.
Stephanie Wingerter, Hope Coulson, Donna Darisse. These women look too alike for this to be a coincidence.
Donna Darisse, I think you wore the wrong-colored wig. That is fucked up.
Ren opened a document and typed: prostitute / teacher / prostitute.
Did you return to what you knew best? Women who were easier to take? Did the media attention on Hope Coulson send you back under your rock? Well, we care about all of them, you fucking reptile.
Everett came into the bullpen. ‘What’s going on in your world?’
She filled him in on Donna Darisse.
‘Shit,’ said Everett.
‘I know.’
They both turned as they heard footsteps rushing down the hallway.
‘Where is she?’ a woman was roaring. ‘Where is she?’
No security in the building …
Everett and Ren both got up, drew their weapons, ran to the door. Gary rushed out of his office past them toward the woman. He had no weapon drawn.
‘Don’t do this,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’
What the …?
The woman almost growled, struggled to make herself seen around Gary. Ren saw a flash of blonde hair.
‘Where the fuck is she, Gary?’ she shouted.
That’s Gary’s wife! What the fuck?
Ren put her weapon back into her shoulder holster. She turned to Everett, shaking her head silently, letting him know to put his away. They started to back into the bullpen.
‘Ren!’ Karen was screaming. ‘Ren!’
Me?!!
But Gary was wrestling Karen down the hallway toward the conference room.
Everett turned to Ren. ‘What the hell is that all about?’
Ren made a face. ‘That’s Karen Dettling – Gary’s wife. And I have no idea.’
‘Is she nuts?’ said Everett. ‘And why was she looking for you? Are you guys friends? Was she pissed at you? Or looking for your help? What’s going on with those two?’
Ren turned to him. ‘Jesus, you sound like a girl.’
‘What the hell, though?’
‘I know.’
‘Ren!’ Karen was coming back toward the bullpen.
‘Karen, get into the conference room,’ said Gary. ‘Do not say another word. Ren … in the conference room now.’
Me? What the fuck is this shitshow?
Ren followed Gary and Karen into the conference room. Karen turned to Ren.
‘You bitch!’ she said. ‘How could you do this to us?’
Am I hallucinating?
Still drunk?
Starring in Punk’d?
‘Do what?’ said Ren. She looked at Gary. He was warning her with his eyes.
What IS this?
‘You came to our home, you taught Claire Spanish!’ said Karen. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘What?’ said Ren. ‘Oh my God.’ She thinks—
‘Did you spend all night together or did you just fuck her and leave?’ said Karen, stabbing a finger into Gary’s chest. She turned to Ren. ‘Did you wake up in my husband’s arms?’
Oh. Jesus. Christ. Don’t laugh. Don’t do your nervous fucking laugh.
Ren started laughing.
Karen looked fit to explode. ‘How dare you? You—’
‘I’m sorry – I’m nervous – but we’re not having an affair!’ said Ren. She turned to Gary. ‘Gary!’
‘We’re not,’ said Gary. ‘Jesus, Karen.’
So casual, while I’m getting attacked. What the fuck?
‘Where are you getting this from?’ said Ren. ‘Gary wouldn’t dream of cheating on you. Gary adores you! Everyone knows that.’ And the fact that you drive each other nuts, but still.
Karen was stalled. She looked from Ren to Gary. Mortification started seeping into her face.
‘Karen,’ said Ren, ‘Gary’s my boss, he loves you. And I’m with Ben.’ Have you lost your mind? Gary, say something, for fuck’s sake. Why am I getting all this shit?
‘Gary!’ said Ren. Wake the fuck up!
‘Karen,’ said Gary, ‘I’m not having an affair with Ren.’
Jesus, even I’m not sure I believe that …
‘We’re on an important case,’ said Gary. ‘So, please … just go home.’
Go home? She’s distraught, you fuckwit. Go home? That’s it? Get your wife out of here. Go with her. Get her help.
Karen slumped into a chair. ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she said. She started to cry.
‘I’m going to give you some privacy,’ said Ren.
‘Don’t go,’ said Karen. ‘I’m so sorry. I … I’m not feeling great right now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Ren. ‘But, really, I don’t think it’s my place to be here.’ She gave Karen a hug. ‘Gary is not cheating on you.’ He’s too fucking straight! He sees me as evidence of why not to cheat!
Not that I haven’t thought about fucking your husband, but still …
Ren looked at Gary. He gave her a nod of permission to leave. He looked worn out. Ren closed the door behind her.
What the effin’ crap?
12 (#ulink_0df1eab4-6ad4-501a-a279-f618a53b8f13)
Ren went back into the bullpen, sat quietly at her desk, shuffled papers.
‘That’s it?’ said Everett.
‘That’s it,’ said Ren.
‘You’re killing me …’
‘Let’s just leave it at “Well, that was surreal”.’
‘Did you trade blows?’ His eyes were sparkling.
‘I’m a lover, not a fighter.’ NOT a lover, in fact. ‘What did I miss?’
‘The media has gotten hold of the Donna Darisse story – they’re not revealing she’s a prostitute, but they are saying she was last seen on Colfax. They have already interviewed some fantastic creatures there. Some will be viral by close of business.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ren.
‘Oh, yes. One woman was so high … it was just cruel to put her in front of a camera.’
‘I hate that shit.’
‘That would be like filming you in Gaffney’s.’
‘Jesus, the idea of watching my vulnerable self …’
‘Is vulnerable the new euphemism?’ said Everett. ‘Oh my God, I was so vulnerable last night. Where’s my pineapple juice?’ He grabbed the remote control. ‘It’s on again,’ he said. He turned up the television. ‘Check out this goddess.’
‘This is a very safe area!’ the woman was saying. ‘Always has been! Now I’m afraid of my life.’
‘Ahm afeardamalaff too,’ said Ren.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Everett, nodding toward the door.
They laughed loud, then turned their attention back to the screen.
‘Donna Darisse was last seen at lunchtime yesterday on Colfax Avenue. If you know anything about Ms Darisse’s whereabouts, please contact Denver PD …’
‘Fuckerooni,’ said Ren.
She went back into Stephanie Wingerter’s file. ‘Stephanie Wingerter disappeared at night. This was lunchtime. So, does he have a nine-to-five job he has to work around? Or does he cruise whenever he feels like it?’
‘You’re sticking to the one killer theory,’ said Everett.
‘I am. I’m not afeardamalaff to do that.’
‘Agent Bryce was always so brave,’ said Everett. ‘Even – no, no especially – on the dance floor.’
They looked up. Gary was in the doorway, his face set.
Not the time to bring up serial killing.
‘I have an appointment this afternoon,’ he said. ‘My calls will be redirected to you, Ren.’
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘See you tomorrow.’ I hope your life isn’t imploding.
Ren called Glenn Buddy.
‘Glenn, have you got many statements from today’s canvas on Colfax?’
‘I’ll have some tomorrow,’ said Glenn. ‘I don’t know what you guys are equipped with over there, but my guys have one pair of hands each to type with.’
‘Fair point,’ said Ren. ‘Have you got any names of johns who—’
‘Ren, what I got is five live homicide cases giving me a pain in my ass. Which victim will I swap for the missing hooker – the dead child or the other dead child?’
‘Glenn, I think this is a serial case …’
‘I have no doubt you do,’ said Glenn. ‘You’re like one of those people who sees dead people.’
‘Are you saying I’m imagining this?’
‘No,’ said Glenn. ‘I believe in ghosts. I just need to see a body first. I need a pin in a map before I can make a network with my red string to the next pin.’
‘You don’t do that.’
‘I do not. Stay safe.’
That night, Ren lined up photos of the victims on her kitchen table:
Stephanie Wingerter. Hope Coulson. Donna Darisse.
Sorry, Donna. I know we haven’t found you yet. But I know we will.
Underneath, she laid down printouts of the bullet points of the cases she had made at the office earlier.
I need a beer.
Her phone rang. Janine.
‘Hello, lovely lady,’ said Ren. She went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Coors Light.
‘What happened today?’ said Janine. ‘I believe I missed some action.’
‘You don’t want to know, trust me,’ said Ren. ‘A Dettling domestic. They’ve happened before. Though not quite with such dramz.’ She opened the beer.
‘I heard from admin that she called you a bitch. What was that about?’
Shiiiiit. It’s out there. ‘Ugh. She thought I was having an affair with Gary. Please don’t say that to anyone.’
‘I won’t, don’t be ridiculous, but … shit.’ She started laughing.
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘But the worst part about it was that I have been really attracted to him lately even though he’s a total asshole to me.’
‘Oh, God – don’t be that girl.’
‘No, I’m not, that’s the thing. I like being treated well. Anyway, I’d never act on it.’
‘Neither would he,’ said Janine.
‘I know that,’ said Ren, laughing. ‘It’s embarrassing, though. I hope Karen didn’t get that vibe off me.’
The doorbell rang. She checked the intercom screen.
‘Holy shit,’ said Ren. ‘That’s him at my door.’
‘Gary?’ said Janine. ‘Maybe Karen planted the idea in his head …’
‘Stop!’ said Ren. ‘You brat. Call you later.’
‘Behave.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Oh, and don’t call tonight,’ said Janine. ‘I have serious lady pain. I’m planning to be unconscious.’
‘Aw, you poor thing. Hot-water bottle. Lots of love.’
Gary rang the bell again.
Yikes. I don’t think he has ever been in any of my homes. Weirdness.
Ren buzzed him in.
She poured the beer down the sink, and put the empty bottle in the cabinet underneath. She put on the kettle. She tidied away the photos and pages on the table, put a magazine on top of them.
Gary walked right past her into the apartment, and into the living room without saying a word.
This place is so tiny.You look so big.
‘Nice place,’ he said.
‘Sit down,’ said Ren.
Gary nodded. ‘Ren, look, I know this is inappropriate.’
‘No it’s not—’
Oh, you’re not talking about calling in here.
‘I need you to do something for me,’ said Gary. ‘It’s … just … Karen was obviously wrong about you and me, but …’
Oh, no.
He nodded.
Jesus Christ, Gary.
‘And you need me to cover for you,’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Gary. ‘I wouldn’t ask—’
Well, fuck that. I like Karen. We get along. I like Claire. I … respected you. Respected. Shit, Gary, you’re the moral one. Don’t make me lose faith in humanity. I didn’t realize how much I respected you until I stopped … round about two seconds ago.
‘Why would she have thought it was me, though?’ said Ren.
Gary gave her a patient look. ‘I know you enough to know you’re not a homewrecker,’ he said. ‘But, not all women see you that way.’
That’s not very fair. Though I am, even now, thinking about fucking you. What is wrong with me? But I never would. So, yes, it is unfair.
‘But I get along with Karen,’ said Ren. ‘I like her a lot.’
‘I know,’ said Gary, ‘she’s obviously not thinking straight right now.’
‘How come you didn’t cover your tracks better?’ said Ren. ‘What did she find out?’
‘My saving grace is your love of champagne …’ said Gary.
‘It’s my saving grace too,’ said Ren.
Gary shot out a laugh of relief. ‘A champagne cork … ended up in my overnight bag …’
La la la la la la la …
‘Karen found it,’ said Gary. ‘I needed an explanation. And you were the quickest one I thought of.’
‘So, I’ve already helped you on this …’ said Ren.
‘Yes …’ said Gary.
‘What do you need me to do?’ said Ren.
‘Back me up,’ said Gary. ‘Call her.’
This is grim.
‘So – let me get this straight,’ said Ren. ‘You said what exactly? That we were—’
‘In Breck,’ said Gary. ‘We had a bottle of champagne in the room, where my bag was open, but nothing happened between us. I hate champagne, she knows that. You were a safe and logical choice to be the person drinking it.’
‘Me, safe, logical and champagne …’ How have these words come together?
‘Well, it backfired anyway,’ said Gary. ‘She still thought something was going on.’
‘I’m kind of offended …’
‘Don’t be,’ said Gary. ‘She’s a wife who found a champagne cork in her husband’s overnight bag …’
‘I’d have a hard time believing anything after that.’
‘So, can you call her?’ said Gary.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Ren. ‘But … fuck.’
‘I know,’ said Gary.
‘If I’m going to do this very wrong thing,’ said Ren, ‘I’m going to do it right. You need to arm me with all the facts, so I don’t fuck up. There is no going back if I fuck this up. For either of us.’
Gary nodded. ‘Thanks.’
The fucking pressure.
‘Dates and times, please,’ said Ren. ‘And you’ll have to tell me who this woman is. I don’t want to know, that’s your business. But I need to know.’
‘I ended it,’ said Gary. ‘It’s over.’
‘Promise m—’
‘It’s over.’ He pulled out a notebook and tore out a page with a list of dates.
Alrighty, then.
‘Thanks, Ren. I appreciate this.’ He stood up.
I don’t want to do a quid pro quo, but …
‘Before you go,’ said Ren, ‘I want to run something by you …’
She got up and gathered together the photos she had brought home from the office.
‘Did you print these at Safe Streets?’ said Gary. ‘In color?’
Ren nodded.
‘Stop wasting ink and paper.’
Internal eye roll. ‘On an unrelated note – here are three victims of a violent rapist and murderer … can you see how similar they look?’
Gary looked across the line of photos. He looked back at Ren. ‘Yes.’
‘Three victims … that makes a serial killer, official definition. I’d like to call a meeting with DPD, see if we can—’
‘Who’s this third one?’ said Gary.
‘Donna Darisse, a prostitute reported missing this morning.’
‘So she’s not dead.’
‘Not found. She’s been missing since yesterday afternoon. Didn’t show up to collect her six-year-old from a play date. Apparently, that was totally out of character.’
Gary stared at her. ‘Let me know when you have a body.’
‘There will be a body,’ said Ren. Mark my words!
‘I’m not doing this unless you’re one hundred per cent,’ said Gary.
‘OK – who …’ the fuck ‘could be one hundred per cent about something like this?’ Seriously.
‘At the very least, a body is a one hundred per cent guarantee of a death.’
High-larious. ‘I want Donna Darisse to be safe and well,’ said Ren. ‘I just don’t feel in my gut that she is.’
‘Let me know when you have a body.’
I heard you the first time.
‘There’s another thing,’ said Ren, ‘I spoke with Jonathan Briar, and—’
‘And his lawyer, I hope …’
Not so much. ‘Well, I just had a few little—’
‘Ren, for crying out loud! What were you thinking? He’ll never let us talk to him again if you—’
‘It was fine,’ said Ren. ‘We got along OK. I helped him out in his apartment. He answered my questions, but … he was lying about something, about a night out they had two weeks before Hope Coulson disappeared.’
‘If you think he was lying,’ said Gary, ‘that he’s got something to hide, then the next time we might need him for something, that lawyer won’t let us within a mile of him. Jesus Christ, Ren. You know this. Why are we having this conversation?’
Gary’s phone beeped. He checked it. He turned the screen to Ren.
‘Looks like you’ve got your one hundred per cent guarantee,’ said Ren.
13 (#ulink_ec822cbe-585e-554b-8aa5-4d5159cfde10)
Ren and Gary drove through the city of Arvada and ten miles along Highway 72 into the unincorporated part of Jefferson County.
And another jurisdiction joins the party.
The flashing lights of the police cruisers led them to the small collection of warehouses where Donna Darisse’s body had been found by a carload of college kids looking for nothing other than an out-of-the-way place to go through a few six-packs.
Cliff James was standing sentry.
‘Hey,’ said Ren, hugging him.
He held her extra long.
‘How’s Brenda doing?’ said Gary.
‘We’re doing good,’ said Cliff. He smiled, but his eyes were sad. ‘It’s not a pretty sight back there.’
Donna Darisse lay beside a row of dumpsters, outside one of the warehouses.
Robbie, Everett and Janine were gathered a distance away from the body.
Poor Janine. So much for her plan to be unconscious.
Ren and Gary went straight to Donna Darisse’s body. She was naked, except for her bloodstained white cowboy boots, lying on her stomach, facing away from the wall, her arms behind her back, her wrists bound with cable ties. Her face was swollen to twice its size, the flesh bursting and cut and oozing. Her red dress and tiny red lace G-string were discarded ten feet away, along with a blonde wig. Cheap glamor, transformed into something poignant and tragic when met with such boundless savagery.
Ren looked for a moment at the stars above, and breathed in and out, in and out, until she could face looking back down.
This is beyond horrific.
From her lower back, down her bare buttocks, and between Donna Darisse’s legs was a terrible mess that could have been nothing other than the result of a chemical burn.
Acid.
Ren felt like her body was liquefying inside. She felt spikes of pain in the same places where Donna Darisse had been brutalized. Her stomach churned.
I have no words.
They went over to join the others. Everyone looked grim-faced and tired.
‘Dr Tolman is on vacation,’ said Janine. ‘We have a stand-in …’
A hooting laugh broke out. They all looked up, knowing that it meant who that stand-in was: Dr Mark Gaston, the new Medical Examiner for the 18th Judicial District, which covered Arapahoe, Douglas, Elbert and Lincoln Counties. Gaston was forty-five, but looked early thirties. His pouting lips were his most striking feature, followed by the prince-from-an-animation hair: light brown, thick, and wavy, the type of hair that marked out generations of the same family, the type that was celebrated in portraits.
Arrogant hair. Book of Wrong.
Gaston walked toward them.
Ren leaned into the others. ‘Gaston always looks like he’s been called away from seducing a nineteen-year-old. “OMG – you’re a Medical Examiner! So hot!”’
Gaston was too close for them to laugh.
‘Is that a dead hooker on the ground or are you making excuses to see me?’ said Gaston, smiling at Ren. He crouched down beside Donna Darisse. ‘Yes, she is dead. Despite all signs to the contrary.’ He stood up. ‘And that’s acid. That’s a man who’s going all out not to leave any swimmers behind. Die, boys, die!’
Swimmers … ugh.
‘How long’s she been missing?’ said Gaston.
‘About forty-eight hours,’ said Ren.
‘I’m guessing she was killed not long after that,’ said Gaston. ‘Not here, though. The scene is too clean. But you don’t need me to tell you that. Let me do my thang and I’ll let your boys in. Stand back, bitches. Dr G is here.’
Dear.
God.
‘I’m going to do you a favor here,’ he said, when he was finished. ‘I’m going to prioritize this little lady. So, if you want to meet me at the autopsy suite at seven a.m., I’ll bump her to the top of my list.’
He’s a hooker with a heart.
‘Appreciate it,’ said Gary.
‘Ren?’ said Gaston. ‘You up for the early-morning autopsy?’ He almost winked.
‘Yes,’ said Gary. He turned to Ren. ‘I gotta go – can I leave this with you? I need to get back.’
To whom?
‘No problem,’ said Ren. She looked at Gaston. ‘You won’t be too tired?’
‘I’ve done a ton of coke,’ said Gaston. ‘I was expecting a different night.’ He laughed loud.
‘Everett?’ said Ren. ‘You up for it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She turned to Janine. Her face was white, her eyes narrowed in pain. ‘Janine, you go home, sleep,’ said Ren. ‘Robbie, we’ll notify the next-of-kin. Everett – here are the keys to my place. We’ll join you there right after.’
‘What?’ said Everett.
‘I don’t want to waste any time,’ said Ren. ‘You can sleep on the sofa for a half hour. And I promise you high-end coffee on our return.’
Ren and Robbie arrived back to the apartment at four a.m. and woke Everett up.
‘That was suitably grim,’ said Ren.
‘Your sofa, on the other hand, was not,’ said Everett, stretching out his legs, standing up, and walking around the living room. ‘You promised high-end coffee, remember.’
‘A promise I am following through on,’ Ren called from the kitchen. ‘God, though, this apartment depresses me. And this micro-kitchen. I love cooking, and I don’t even cook here. Most of my kitchen stuff’s all packed away in boxes in Annie’s attic. I’ve got all their crappy utensils, blunt knives, shady-looking forks. It’s like the whole place is designed to guide you to the microwave so you can stand – alone – and watch your meal-for-one perform a tragic pirouette.’
‘You are not alone tonight,’ said Robbie.
‘This morning,’ said Everett. ‘Need us to come in there and make the kitchen feel like it’s hopping?’
‘You just concentrate on squeezing yourselves around that table, leaving enough room for me and my expansive mind.’
She came in and set the tray down at the center of the table.
‘I hate glass tables,’ said Ren. ‘I need a tablecloth. But I’m not a big fan of tablecloths either. Actually, that’s wrong – it’s the pressure of keeping them clean that bothers me. I love tablecloths.’ She put a coffee mug in front of each of them.
‘No cookies?’ said Everett, forlorn.
‘Much as I’d love to soften the blow of mutilated genitals, I have nothing,’ said Ren.
‘Toast even?’ said Robbie.
‘I have arugula,’ said Ren. ‘And an angry inch of parmesan.’
‘Mind if I order in?’ said Robbie.
Inward narrowing of eyes. You are replacing sex with food, Robbie Truax. Jesus … does anyone not have an issue with food?
‘You order whatever you like,’ said Ren. ‘As I deliver an apology for the bare cupboards.’
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Alex Barclay
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: Dark times lie ahead for Special Agent Ren Bryce and the Rocky Mountains Safe Streets Task Force in the heart-stopping new thriller from the bestselling author of DARKHOUSE and BLOOD LOSS.In the game of vengeance, he holds a killer hand.In her most shocking case yet, FBI Special Agent Ren Bryce takes on a depraved serial killer fuelled by a warped sense of justice.A master of evasion, each life he takes ramps up Ren’s obsession with finding him. Then one victim changes everything and brings Ren face to face with a detective whose life was destroyed by the same pursuit.Together, can they defeat this monster? Or will he take them both down?