Red (24 page)
Authors: Kate Kinsey
“I’m not a bad guy,” Paul insisted. “I love my wife and my kids. I don’t want to see them hurt. Can’t you cut me some slack? Man-to-man?”
Griggs and Hanson exchanged looks. Griggs shrugged. Hanson sighed.
“You can waive police protection,” Hanson said, taking Paul’s elbow and pulling him to his feet. “We can stick with the story about the hit-and-run, for now. But if we found out you lied to us, we’ll have to tell her everything.”
Paul gushed his thanks pathetically, until he realized they were following him back to the room.
“We’ve got to confirm your alibi,” Griggs said. “No way around it.”
Joanna wasn’t happy to see any of them. She listened to their questions with steely eyes and both arms crossed over her chest.
“Of course I can vouch for his whereabouts.” She bristled. “I’m sure Chip’s soccer coach can verify it, too. The man has a real attitude problem about parents being late for pick-up.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Joanna said, squaring her shoulders, “I need to finish getting ready and Paul needs to get in the shower.”
Griggs waited until she turned her back and handed Paul his card.
“If you think of anything else, you call us. And if we call you, you better answer the phone, understand?”
“Thank you,” Paul said in a low rush, as if he’d been holding his breath. “I will, I promise I will.”
Paul shut the door so quickly it scuffed the back of Hanson’s heel.
“What a piece of work,” Griggs muttered as they went down the stairs. “He still coulda done her, but I don’t think he’s got the balls.”
“We could try putting him with a sketch artist,” Hanson said.
“Yeah, we’d get a picture of a ball cap,” Griggs grunted wearily. “Maybe with a mustache or maybe not.”
“Still, it’s a lead. If you wanted to hang around someplace, pretending you were a maintenance guy would be a good way to do it.”
“Everybody sees the suit, nobody thinks nothing,” Griggs agreed.
“A jumpsuit would keep the blood off his clothes. He unzips and walks away, all nice and clean . . . You checked the parking garage’s trash cans, right?”
“Yeah, asshole! This ain’t my first rodeo. We didn’t find anything but empty Starbucks cups and fast-food wrappers.”
Hanson’s phone beeped. It was Gina.
“Yeah, we talked to him, and his wife.” Hanson filled her in on the important details.
“So we’ve got a lead at least,” she said. “A shitty lead, but it’s something.”
“If the techno geeks don’t call me with something tomorrow on Kerberos’s e-mails,” Hanson said, “I’m gonna go down there and kick their asses.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “I’ve been trolling around online, but no bites.”
“So . . .” Hanson glanced at Griggs, who wasn’t even pretending not to eavesdrop, and bit the bullet. “You gonna be up for a while? I can come by . . .”
“I’m really beat, Hanson, and I’ve got an appointment early tomorrow—”
“Sure, I understand,” he said quickly.
Damn it.
Was she having second thoughts about last night, or had it not really meant anything?
Damn it.
Was she having second thoughts about last night, or had it not really meant anything?
“Don’t freak out,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Seriously. I want to see you. Just not tonight, okay?”
“Okay.” Hanson took a deep breath, held it a second, then released it. He didn’t want to screw this up, and neither did he want to want to blow the case. Suddenly it seemed like they were one and the same.
Griggs looked at him as he put the phone away.
“She blew you off, didn’t she?” he asked.
“Don’t start.”
“Hey, I don’t blame you for wanting to hit that, Hanson. But don’t go letting your dick do all your thinking.”
“I’m supposed to take this advice from you?”
“God gave us two heads, man. I’m just saying, use both of ’em.”
Chapter 25
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
—L
ORD
B
YRON
ORD
B
YRON
C
herry hadn’t realized just how much her secret had been weighing her down until she’d told her story to the detectives. It was as if a heavy stone had been rolled off her back and her lungs could fully inflate for the first time in weeks.
herry hadn’t realized just how much her secret had been weighing her down until she’d told her story to the detectives. It was as if a heavy stone had been rolled off her back and her lungs could fully inflate for the first time in weeks.
The police car out front helped some, too. Whenever they changed shifts, two new officers would come to the door and introduce themselves.
But she still couldn’t sleep more than a few hours at a time. She found herself wandering to the window without even being conscious of it, just to reassure herself they were still there. Sometimes she would stand there for several minutes, just looking, grateful for the presence of another soul.
Even last night, sometime just after three a.m., she had peered out the blinds and watched until she saw one of them move. She had been so afraid—so certain—they had fallen asleep.
Tonight it was Officers Bowers and Hill again. Bowers was in his forties, with thick iron-colored hair and a barrel-shaped body; his manner was businesslike almost to the point of brusqueness, and the way he looked at her made Cherry feel as if he were judging her. She wondered if he knew all the details of her situation. God, she hoped he didn’t. She didn’t mind his curtness, though; in a strange way, it made her feel safer, as if his mind were too completely absorbed with the job to spare any energy for pleasantries.
On the other hand, Officer Hill—Tony—was about her own age, and he seemed very sympathetic. She hoped he didn’t know the whole story for a different set of reasons.
He had a shy, slow smile that started at one side of his mouth, almost a dimple but not quite, and spread to the other whenever he knocked on the door. She knew the difference in their knocks even before she peeked through the viewer: Tony’s was three soft, almost tentative, raps, while Bowers’s was a rapid staccato hard enough to make her jump.
Bowers never said anything beyond the bare bones: was she okay, did she need anything? But Tony—Officer Hill, she reminded herself—would sometimes comment on the weather outside, or the music she was listening to. Once or twice he lingered to pet Gunther and didn’t even seem to mind the cat hair clinging to his dark pants.
She was pathetically happy when Tony knocked on the door and asked to use the bathroom. She didn’t know if she was just desperate for company, or if she was actually attracted to him, but she took a deep breath and took a chance.
“There are some steaks in the freezer. Are you allowed to come in for dinner?”
“We’re not supposed to,” Tony Hill said. “Regulations, you know—”
His eyes met her gaze and held it long enough that Cherry felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Then his smile finally reached the other side of his mouth and shone fully in his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—” How could she be so stupid? Of course they weren’t allowed to just come in and hang out like regular people. What had she been thinking?
“No, it’s okay,” he said quickly, sensing her embarrassment. He looked down at his feet and shifted his weight. “It’s real nice of you to offer. Nobody’s ever asked me to dinner on the job before.”
“Do you—I mean, have you—worked a lot of assignments like this? Protecting people like me?”
Again that slow, almost lazy smile.
“Naw,” he admitted. “You’re my first . . .”
He stopped, and this time it was his face that flushed with heat. She brought a hand to her mouth, but not in time to stop the nervous giggle from popping out.
“That didn’t come out right,” he said sheepishly.
“It’s okay,” she said. “But I could make some sandwiches and bring them out to you . . . Is that allowed?”
“Sure, I guess so. Be a whole lot better than the bag of pretzels I was gonna eat. Thanks a lot, Miss Gavin.”
“Call me Cherry, please. If that’s allowed, I mean.”
He smiled again, and her heart fluttered.
“I reckon that can be our little secret,” he said. And he winked.
She shut the door but kept her eye pressed to the viewer and watched as he walked back to the cruiser. Nice butt, she thought, then giggled as she realized that for five whole minutes, she had forgotten to be afraid.
Then Gunther came zooming into the room, past her feet, and out again in a furry blur. She jumped.
“Damn it, Gunther! You scared the bejesus out of me! Stop doing that!”
She went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Marla had brought by enough food for an army the day before, including a smorgasbord of cold cuts and cheeses from Whole Foods. It must be nice, she thought, to have enough money to be able to shop at a place like that. She would make Tony the most awesome sandwich ever. And one for Officer Bowers, too, of course.
Having the police outside helped, but in a way, also made it worse. It made what was happening more real, somehow.
When she’d heard about Roger’s murder, she had never dreamed it could possibly be connected to what had happened—what was still happening—to her. Even when the collar arrived with the newspaper clipping, she had wanted to believe Marla’s reassurances: that it was merely a gruesome coincidence. She kept telling herself to stop being paranoid, that the whole world did not revolve around her and her problems. Things like this just didn’t happen.
But now Kitty and Lady Cassandra—and Randy, someone she’d never even met—were dead, too. The detectives seemed to think Kerberos might be the one who’d killed them.
Not merely killed them. Beaten them to death. Butchered them.
Thinking of Kitty made her want to throw up. She hadn’t even gone to Kitty’s funeral. She knew Kitty’s parents and would have been welcome—though, of course, Kitty’s parents had no idea what their daughter had been into, and Cherry would have had to be careful to refer to her as Robyn, not Kitty. She had just been too afraid to go.
She had thought the rape and beating was the worst thing that could happen to her. Now she realized there was far worse lurking out there, maybe even looking for her right now.
Her nightmares had escalated. She hadn’t thought that was possible. But before they had all been about the hotel room, in terrible detail: the feel of the carpet beneath her knees and the faint taste of shoe polish on her tongue as she licked Kerberos’s shoe, just before that first explosive shock to her backside. Pain radiating everywhere, and the blows that just kept falling no matter how she twisted and begged. Feeling the hair pull from her scalp as he dragged her across the floor . . .
He had raped her anally, too; that was something she hadn’t told the detectives, because she didn’t see how it could possibly matter now. That had been the worst pain she’d ever known. Like being torn in two—no, worse, being
certain
that you were being torn in two, because surely nothing else could hurt so badly. Worse even than the blows to her face that made a static haze of stars dance across her darkening vision.
certain
that you were being torn in two, because surely nothing else could hurt so badly. Worse even than the blows to her face that made a static haze of stars dance across her darkening vision.
That was always how those dreams had ended: feeling the impossible hardness forcing its way into her body, tearing her flesh, making her scream even louder but to no avail because of the gag in her mouth, and the way he simply pushed her face into the pillows on the bed until she could barely breathe.
Now the dreams still held bits of the rape and the beating, but they were also full of things she couldn’t quite remember, and somehow that scared her more. The only images she retained upon waking were blood that was dark and red; the flash of a knife; snapshots of familiar faces distorted and blurred; the sound of screams that were not her own.
She finished the sandwiches—four of them, just to be sure—and cut them into neat diagonals. She placed them on paper plates, added a couple of pickle spears and plenty of napkins, and loaded it all onto a silver tray she’d found in the cupboard.
She’d intended to take the tray right to the car, but as soon as she stepped onto the porch, she froze. It was so dark out there, even with the porch light and two security lights mounted on the side of the house, even with the light from the pole at the end of the driveway . . . She couldn’t move. She just stood there. Even the moon was out tonight, full and bloated with light . . . but darkness was all she could see. Anything could be in that darkness.
By the time Officer Hill reached her, tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“Are you all right?” He took the tray from her, peering into her downcast face. “It’s okay, Cherry. I’m right here.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so stupid,” she said shakily. “I just couldn’t . . . I just—”
“You’re not stupid,” he said softly. “You’re just scared. No one can blame you for that. It’s all right.”
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and managed a weak laugh.
“I hope I didn’t get your sandwich all soggy. Or that you’re not a vegetarian. You’re not, are you? I didn’t even think about that—”
“I am
not
a vegetarian,” he said as if he found the idea appalling. “And Joe will eat anything that doesn’t eat him first.”
not
a vegetarian,” he said as if he found the idea appalling. “And Joe will eat anything that doesn’t eat him first.”
She hiccupped a laugh and wished she could crawl into his arms. That would be the nicest thing in the world. Having safe arms to crawl into.
But she couldn’t have done that, even if he wasn’t holding a tray of sandwiches. Instead, she did the only thing she could do: she opened the screen door and stepped back inside as he thanked her again.
After she cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, she curled up on the sofa with her laptop. It had been a godsend, the only thing that kept her from going completely out of her mind. The lake house had no computer, but it was equipped with Wi-Fi, thank God. She spent a lot of time playing Mahjong, Bejeweled, Blitz, and Farm Town. The games were mindless, numbing, and comforting, full of small, defined tasks in an environment she could control.
She debated with herself, then logged onto FetLife.
She wanted to know what was going on in the world of people who could sleep a whole night through. She wanted to know what her friends in the community were up to, but the local group on FetLife was nothing but talk about the killings.
They rehashed the news and argued about what it meant. Someone was stalking the community; others said it was pure coincidence. Some argued that parties and munches should be canceled until the killer was caught; others refused to go into hiding from a rumored threat.
She even saw a post from someone named LadyG2U:
The police are investigating the murders of four people with ties to this community. At this time, we are specifically looking for any information on a white male using the screen name KERBEROS on Collarme.com. If you have any information, please contact me privately. All information will be handled confidentially.
At this time, we are urging you not to meet with anyone you do not know and trust absolutely. Please, go about your normal routines, but be alert, and aware of your surroundings. Report any suspicious activities or incidents . . .
She had to read it twice before she realized LadyG2U was the woman who’d been with the two detectives. Cherry had thought she was a detective, too.
LadyG2U’s thread was filled with comments, some from people she knew:
What are you doing to protect us?
Why should we trust you?
Do you know why they were killed?
Whoever killed Lady Cassandra should get a medal—
She clicked off the thread. She didn’t want to read any more.
Her incoming box on FetLife showed two messages waiting.
The first was from Dante:
I don’t know if you’re still online, but those detectives were here asking questions, and they told me what you were going through. Don’t worry, they didn’t share this information with anyone else and neither will we.
I just wanted you to know that Kat and I are here if you need us, and we’re lighting a candle for you. Blessed be.
She felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. She didn’t know Dante and his wife that well, so their kindness touched her even more.
There were so many kind and wonderful people out there, and she needed to remember that. Kerberos was just one really rotten apple.
The second message was from a name she didn’t recognize: Theonly14U.
You’ve been a bad girl. I asked you to do something but you haven’t. And you aren’t wearing the collar I sent you.
“Oh, God,” she moaned aloud.
She had deleted her Collarme.com and Alt.com profiles, but had kept the FetLife because Kerberos had never contacted her there; he didn’t even know the name she used on FetLife:
lillamb99.
lillamb99.
Her FetLife account had never had a recognizable photo—just a picture of her wrists, bound behind her back, that Paul had taken. She hadn’t even listed an age, or a specific city location, just the state.
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