Текст книги "If You Dare"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 36

Present

JessReilly19: something’s up with Jeremy

HackOffMyCock: in what way?

JessReilly19: he’s not answering my calls or texts. His phone is going straight to voicemail

HackOffMyCock: for how long?

JessReilly19: two days. Plus he isn’t delivering my packages. Some new guy showed up.

HackOffMyCock: I’m sure that went well.

JessReilly19: well, you know me

HackOffMyCock: give me 20 mins, let me see if I can track him down

JessReilly19: thx babe

HackOffMyCock: anything for you

HackOffMyCock: u there?

JessReilly19: yep

HackOffMyCock: when did you say the cops came by?

JessReilly19: Monday

HackOffMyCock: well… his truck’s at his house. It hasn’t moved in days. And the last place his cell pinged was near your place.

JessReilly19: meaning what?

HackOffMyCock: who the fuck knows? It’s weird. When’s the last time you talked to him?

JessReilly19: Sunday night. I think we got in a fight.

HackOffMyCock: a normal girl guy fight? Or…

JessReilly19: Maybe Or… I don’t know. Everything is really strange right now.

HackOffMyCock: think the cops are talking to you about Jeremy?

JessReilly19: I hadn’t even considered that. But now… I don’t know. You think something happened to him?

HackOffMyCock: maybe

JessReilly19: well that’s definitive. Thx

HackOffMyCock: its hard for me to know anything from Massachusetts.

JessReilly19: I have 2 go. Need to think.

HackOffMyCock: ok

JessReilly19: bye

–CHAT ENDED: JessReilly19 has left

CHAPTER 37

Present

“MS. EVANS, I understand that you work for the department in Forensics, is that correct?”

“It is. I started three weeks ago.”

“Did you work the Jeremy Pacer scene?”

“Yes. I was called to the scene when the body was discovered. My notes are in the file.”

“But you also know Jeremy Pacer?”

“Yes. We met about the time I started with the department.”

“And you’ve also met Deanna Madden?”

“Yes. The same day I met Jeremy.”

“And what was your impression of Deanna?”

“Hostile. Unfriendly. She and Jeremy seemed to have… a very strange relationship.”

“Please elaborate.”

“A lot of fighting. Mostly her screaming, him trying to calm her. She seemed to fly off the handle over every little thing. And it seemed to be the norm. I mean, he wasn’t surprised by it, best I could tell.”

“And what was your impression of Jeremy Pacer?”

“A nice guy. Kind of the strong silent type. I’m pretty surprised…”

“Surprised by what?”

“Well… that she could do that much damage to him. She’s so tiny. He… there was just so much blood.”

“But you do think she’s guilty?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d bet my life on it. There’s… well, you’ve met her. Almost an evil about her.”

CHAPTER 38

Present

MY APARTMENT’S FLOORS are concrete, painted over thirty-some years ago with white latex paint. In some places, the paint peels. In others, it’s worn through, a dirty tan shade beneath. I kneel on the floor and scrub, a green Scotch-Brite pad in each yellow-gloved hand, protection that extends up to my elbows. The concrete is hard, my knees damp against my jeans, and I work my way from one side of the apartment to the other.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

I stop every three or four feet to pour down more bleach and to wipe up behind me.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

I open the window and stick my head out. Sunday night’s rip of cardboard making today’s to-do list one step shorter. Inhale to clear my lungs. Look down a hundred feet, at the crumpled mess of dirt, grass, and trash, and get dizzy. Pull in a breath and my head, walk back, and get back on my knees. If I wasn’t hiding evidence, I’d turn on my webcam and do this naked. Get a few thousand bucks richer in the six hours this is taking.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

And this is only step one. Step two will involve powder, then solution. Step three will involve another round of bleach. The floors, then the walls, then the windows. Somewhere in the corner of my mind, Lil Jon gets crunk.

“Move in with me.”

I looked up from the magazine, my elbows on the bed, belly flat, feet kicked up to the ceiling. “I can’t.” Not that I hadn’t thought about it. I had. Thought, envisioned, fantasized. It’d be great. We’d do laundry together, have impromptu sex, make late-night brownies, and pick out throw pillows. Then I’d kill him, and the fantasy would be over.

“Come on… it’s got two bedrooms. You could have a separate one if you wanted.”

“And leave all this?” I tossed a sloppy hand out, sweeping it around in a gesture that encompassed all of the grandeur of the Mulholland Oaks apartment building.

He laughed, putting a knee next to me on the bed and sitting down, his hand rolling me over onto my back, then lifting me up and toward him until my head rested in his lap. “Yes. Leave all this. The new house is gorgeous… but it’s lonely. It needs you.”

I made a face. “I saw the pics. The new house needs nothing. You’re a big boy. Fill it with masculinity and fishing pictures.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and stared down at me. “Please?”

I sighed, looking up and meeting his eyes. God, those eyes haunted me. They were golden retriever eyes, the kind that begged while putting all of their trust in you. “I can’t. You know that. I like it here. This… this is my safe place.”

“I want to be your safe place.”

“You’re not. You’re… you’re the door to everything that isn’t safe. And it’s okay. It’s what I love about you, but it’s also what scares me.”

“Just say it again.” His thumb was soft when it brushed across my mouth.

“I love you.”

He smiled. “Think about it.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

But I never would have moved. I knew that. He had to, deep inside, know it too.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

I got up and moved the table, dragging it over to my cam bedroom. Then I went back and got each of the chairs.

“I don’t need that.” I watched him carry in each of the chairs, my brows raised. I don’t have room for chairs. I know every foot of this place and use it all. Chairs and a table are something I’ll have to navigate around. I’ll trip. Bruise myself.

“Yes you do. Everyone needs a table.”

“I’ve done perfectly fine without one for three years. Haven’t missed one once. I could have ordered this myself, you know.” I was beginning to get irritated, especially as he carried in the large box, a toolbox balanced on top. “Is this going to take long? I’ve got appointments in an hour.”

“It’ll take twenty minutes, tops. Just stop bitching. If you hate them in a week, I’ll carry the set out.”

“And put it where?” I grumbled, flopping onto the floor and watching him. His eyes smiled when they looked at me, and I could hear the point his mind was making, but I liked sitting on the floor. Eating on the floor. This floor was the blueprint to my life.

I scooted back to the wall and leaned against it, watching him work. He moved with easy efficiency, ignoring the folded directions, his hands quick as he put pieces together and used a drill. When he bore down on the wood, his muscles clenched beneath the fabric of his uniform. When he concentrated, his forehead pinched, mouth firmed, eyes narrowed. It was surprisingly arousing, watching him work, some inner cavewoman instinct stirring in me. I see man. He works well. I want man. When he lifted the table up and flipped it over, the round piece settling on the floor evenly and without a wobble, I hoisted myself to my feet. Stood beside him and surveyed his work. “I guess you’re pretty proud of yourself, huh?”

He looked over, his eyes darkening as they dropped to my face, his hands falling from his hips. “Not yet.” He bent, his hands settling on my hips, and spun me up and onto the table, my knees opening, his body pushing in, his hands sliding to and gripping my ass, pulling me to the edge of the table. “But I’m about to be.”

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

CHAPTER 39

Present

“MR. MALCOVE, PLEASE tell us about Jeremy’s girlfriend.”

“Deanna? Not much to tell.”

“Because?”

“Because we never met her. It’s pretty strange. You see, the five of us all hang out together, all the time. And the girls are always part of that. Some of my girl’s best friends are the other guys’ girls. That’s just how it is, when you’ve been friends as long as we have. But this chick… she was different from the beginning. Jeremy never said much about her, and has avoided bringing her by, for anything.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Did we ask him about it? Man… yes. Hell yes. All the time. It’s our main thing to pick at him about. Thought he had a quadriplegic or bug-eyed girl, or some other crazy shit he was keeping from us. But then he showed us her pictures and, well… we shut up after that. He wants to keep that smokin’ hottie to himself, then whatever. I mean, he’s probably worried she’ll get tempted. I was prom king, you know that? Senior year, Altoma High School. 2003. I can send you a copy of the yearbook page if you want it.”

“We don’t want it.”

“Well, I can. If you change your mind. Just let me know. Anyway, Jeremy’s our pretty boy and all, but sometimes the girls like a man that’s a little rougher. Like me. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t ever brought her around. Or maybe… maybe she ain’t real after all. I mean, shit, have you seen her pictures? Girl could be one of those Victoria’s Secret models, seriously.”

“Did they fight a lot?”

“Fight? Man, I don’t know. Like I said, he’s all tight-lipped about that girl. But I know he’s whipped. Seriously whipped. When she calls, he jumps. And he doesn’t give two shits what we think about it. That’s… I’ve known that kid twelve years and this is the only time he’s ever been like this over a girl.”

“Thank you for your time. We’ll call you with any further questions.”

“What’s this about, anyway? J in some kind trouble with the girl?”

“Would that surprise you?”

“J’s clean. Always has been. He wouldn’t get involved with anything shady.”

“What if she asked him to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s whipped, but he isn’t stupid.”

“Again, thank you for your time.”

“Wait—you never said what was up.”

“We’re not at liberty to discuss this with you, Mr. Malcove.”

“Well that’s some bullshit. I had to leave work for this.”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’m sure you’ll find out more soon. If you are, after all, good friends.”

“Who do I talk to about validating my parking?”

CHAPTER 40

Present

WE SHOULD MOVE for a warrant.” Brenda pushes an energy bar into her mouth and balls up the foil, stuffing it into a pocket of the car door.

“Too early. We won’t get it.”

“Mort will. If we get him late in the afternoon. Nap time. Brosky said she approached him then, and he all but gave her his firstborn grandchild just to get rid of her.” The words tumble out through granola, a speck of matter flying out and landing on the center console.

“For God’s sake, Brenda.” He glares at the piece of food. She lets it sit there. “You really think this girl’s got it in her?”

“I can’t believe you don’t. You’re letting her pretty face turn you stupid.”

“And you’ve been wanting a female killer since you lost the Howard case. You gonna clean that off?” He shifts in his seat, his feet stretching out, hand reaching for the glove compartment for a wet wipe. This is why she drives. No one can maintain his level of cleanliness and stay sane. Or married. The man has two ex-wives to prove it.

She swallows the last bit of granola down with a swig of bottled water. “I still say that bitch did it. You men don’t understand the depths of our psyche. Hell, I come close to killing you about three times a day.” She smiles at him and rescrews the lid to her water, flicking at the piece of food and watching it bound toward the floorboard. Beside her, David lets out an irritated sigh, a wet wipe finally in hand. Pansy.

“You talk to Chelsea Evans yet?” He glances over as he asks the question.

“Yeah, questioned her yesterday. It’s in the file. Why?”

“Had a voice mail from her this morning, wanting an update.” He balls up the dirty wipe.

She shrugs. “She’s a rookie. Doesn’t know the ropes yet. I’d bet you it was her first time ever being questioned. She probably just wants to make sure we got everything.”

“Well, you call her back. Last thing I need is a newbie crushing on me.”

She laughs in response. “That newbie might be the key that cracks Deanna Madden wide open.”

“We got bigger shit to deal with than this chick. You know that, right?”

“Talk to me about that at Jeremy Pacer’s funeral, when we still don’t have an arrest.”

He looks out the window, across the street and to the apartment building, a prostitute on the front steps raising a middle finger in greeting. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

“That’s your job, optimist. I’ll stick to reality. And the reality is, this girl’s guilty.” Putting the car into drive, she glances over. “You done sitting here? I’m starving.”

CHAPTER 41

Present

RUN THIS BY me one more time. What you have on the girl.” Judge Thomas Mort sits back, the chair creaking, his eyes falling on the desk clock. The clock is dead. Its arms haven’t moved in years, the dust layer dulling the brass top. The pen, stuck in its side, also dead. He should throw it out. No one would notice; his grandchildren never visit anyway. He closes his eyes, linking his fingers on his chest and dropping his head back. He’d seen the pose in a movie once, Robert Duvall assuming the position, and it had looked intelligent, like a deep meditative thought on whatever fate was being decided. The pose has the added benefit of hiding whenever said decision making led to a short nap, a frequent reprieve when one deals, as he does, with so many heavy topics each day. Why did these clowns insist on coming in the afternoon, right after his lunch? This is the third pop-in this week.

Somewhere from the right, the female detective speaks. “She’s the girlfriend, for one.”

“Which means nothing,” he barks, his eyes still closed. “That’s why you investigate her, not a motive for any crime.” Hell, if love and sex are suspicious, he’d be arrested a hundred times over.

“Well she’s a girlfriend he seemed to hide from everyone. Maybe she got sick of it. Didn’t want to be put in the corner any more.”

Those lines of stupidity come from the left, from the man, and it’s a dumb enough statement to crack an eye open for. He arches a brow in response before letting his head fall back to the headrest. “Tell me you didn’t come here and waste my time over circumstantial theories my eight-year-old grandson could poke holes in. You guys know the drill. Stop massaging my balls and get on with it.”

“Deanna Madden has a familial history of psychosis. Her mother murdered her father, along with her two younger siblings.”

“She ever, herself, demonstrate any violence?”

“Hints of it, sir. Chelsea Evans, a new hire in the department, lives a few doors down from her. Madden attacked her once, in jealousy over Jeremy Pacer.”

“Define attack.”

“Shoved her onto the floor and climbed on top of her. Evans says she tried to strangle her.”

Now he opens his eyes, sits up enough to see the woman’s face. “She put that on the record?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman flips a few pages in the file and slides it forward. He pulls his reading glasses onto his nose and skims the passage, then looks up.

“Is this it?”

The male detective leans forward. “Also, the proximity of where the body was found to where Madden lives. It’s less than three blocks away. Pacer’s house is up in Bethany Park… so the crime scene is most likely Madden’s apartment. Give us the warrant, and we can make a big move either toward or away from this girl. If we’re wrong and she’s innocent?” He spreads his hands out. “Then we’re out of her hair. No more bothering her.”

The judge flips through the file, glimpses of the girl’s face, direct and unsmiling, peeking through the passing pages. He turns pages forward, then back, then forward. Finally, he snaps the file shut and tosses it across the desk.

“Limited search. Luminol up the place, poke around a bit, then get out of her hair. I don’t want a lawsuit coming out of this, you hear?”

“Thanks, Judge.” They stand as one and the woman leans over, pushing a form forward.

He scrawls his name across the bottom, then looks up. Nods somberly and waits for them to leave. Wonders if he’ll have time for a nap before his next interruption.

CHAPTER 42

Past

MY APARTMENT WAS pitch dark when someone knocked on my door. When I opened my eyes, I didn’t move. I was on my back, one leg kicked free of the covers, the other toasty warm. The right side of my face was sticky and I lifted a hand, wiping at the drool at the corner of my mouth. I rolled onto my side and slid a hand under the pillow.

Knock knock knock.

I sat straight up, my heart beating, a pause passing before I scrambled from the covers, my ankle tangling, my body pitching forward, and I rolled off the bed, trying to find my bearings and wondering what time it was. So dark in the apartment. I moved to the door and grabbed the handle, pushing to my tiptoes and looking through the peephole.

Simon had a hand on the door, his weight on it, his chin lifted up, eyes on the peephole. Something caught his attention and he turned his head, said something too soft for me to hear. He made a fist and pounded on the door, and I waited. Thought. Waded through the final layers of sleep.

“Simon.” I called his name during the fourth set of knocks.

“Deanna?”

“Stop fucking knocking.”

“Okay.” Simon. Such a polite little waker.

“What time is it?”

“Uh… four something.”

“What do you need?” I squatted down and eyed the door frame’s crack. The dead bolt was in place. At least he’d done something right. My psychosis twitched. Damn him for sticking to the rules.

“I have to go to Oklahoma City. I won’t be back till late tomorrow night. So… uh… you know today, the…”

“You can’t lock me in?”

He looked confused for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh. No. I mean… yes I can’t lock you in tonight but today is the first. So… uh…”

Oh. Right. This wasn’t about concern over my lock-in. This was about his drugs, the day he waited for all month. The trip must be important; the kid scheduled his bowel movements around getting his pills. “The delivery. You want me to hold it?” I could have Jeremy give me the package from Dr. Pat. I could hold it for Simon. No biggie. Let him stop by when he gets home tomorrow night. Could even invite him in. Tie him down and feed every last pill down his throat. Pop some popcorn and watch the excitement. I traced a finger over a dried drip of paint on the door. Scraped my nail over it and watched it drop to the floor. I’ve neglected this door. I used to spend a lot more time here, a piece of me pressed against its cool metal, a TV dinner or laptop on my knees, loneliness my best friend. I almost miss the simplicity of that time. Back then I had no expectations of anything else. No aspirations, no fantasies other than those that involved death. I just existed, worked, breathed, behaved. I was content. And others were safe.

“Just tell the UPS guy to give them to my sister.”

“No.” I’m not having that bitch sit in my hall all day and wait for Jeremy. Not gonna happen. I’m not gonna be able to work all day knowing she’s out there, hearing her giggle. The day before, she sat in the hall on her cell and carried on a twenty-seven-minute conversation. I know that because I timed the damn thing. And I had better things to do with my time than listen to her on the phone. She didn’t even discuss anything relevant. It was the stupidest, most pointless conversation I had ever eavesdropped on, the bulk of the chatter around a House of Cards plotline. After they’d exhausted that topic, and touched on a new OPI polish color (Over the Maroon and Back) and bitched about Delta’s new policy on carry-ons, she finally hung up. Heaven forbid the woman has more friends. More conversations to conduct. More unintelligent chatter that might occur should she have to wait on Jeremy. At least Simon is quiet when he waits. He just leans or sits and plays Bejeweled. Occasionally he’ll groan, or cheer, or pop his gum. Sometimes he paces, an entirely silent activity. But Blondie… She’ll be loud and annoying in her waiting, I have no freakin’ doubt about that.

“Come on… please. I never ask you for anything.”

I frown and turn over the sentence. “You ask me for things all the time.” More pills, more pills, more pills. It’s a freakin’ mantra out of his mouth. Though, to his credit, I never say yes. Does it count as a question if the answer is always no? I think it does. He slammed a hand against the peephole and I flinched, then cursed myself for the weakness. “Back the fuck up, Simon,” I snarled.

He lifted his head and stared at me. “Just give it to my sister. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Jeremy can give it to me, you can pick it up from me. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be here. You’ll get it at the same time as before.”

“But you’ll be locked in.”

“Not if you’re not here to lock me in.” That stopped him and I could see the mental struggle, his stagger as he tried to work through the pieces in his mind. I tried not to be excited, tried to stop my mind as it went to the dark, to all of the possibilities that a night of freedom might mean. How late? I wanted to scream. How late will you be back? Will I have a second night of freedom? Or will you return at the disappointingly early hour of ten? I could feel my breath quicken, the gentle tremor of my fingers.

“I have to lock you in.” He said the words so quietly I almost missed them, his head down, the words not direct. “You’ve always said, it doesn’t matter what you say to me at night, I have to lock you in.”

Damn him. The man fucks up his entire life a hundred different ways a day yet somehow, through the haze of whatever cocktail he’s currently on, remembers the cardinal rule, the one that I’ve spent three years pounding into his brain. I watched him step back, his hand falling off the door. “Please give them to my sister.”

Then, ignoring the scream from my mouth, he turned and headed toward the elevator. I jerked at the knob but it didn’t move.