The Body Reader (17 page)

“Not really.” She tucked the can in the back pocket of her jeans and grabbed her beer. “Follow me.”

He followed her up the cramped stairwell and onto the roof, where the sun was going down and the sky was blushing pink.

“You’ve got a roof,” he said.

Without looking at him, she adjusted one of the white plastic chairs, placing her beer on the deck. “I sleep up here if it’s not raining. It’s why I rented this place. It might be risky to live here, but it wasn’t about the location. It was about the roof.”

He dragged a chair closer to hers, but not too close. “And the cat? I want to know about the cat.”

She tugged the can of cat food from her pocket and peeled back the metal top. “It climbs that tree over there and sleeps up here at night. It’s feral, as far as I can tell.” She walked across the tar paper and put the can down near a bowl of water and the thin branch that hung over the roof.

“You seem more like a dog person.”

“I used to be a dog person. I don’t know what I am now.”

She picked up her beer and sat down beside him.

“I’m sorry about what’s-his-name,” Uriah said.

“In a way, I’m glad it happened. I can let it go for good. No wondering. No what-ifs.”

“Hey, look.” He pointed with the hand that held the beer.

Like an animal tracking a mouse, the cat was slinking along the roof, belly low, movements ranging from slow to frozen.

“Does it have a name?” Uriah asked.

“No.”

“You should name it.”

“It’s just a cat. Just a yellow roof cat.”

“I’ll bet we could catch him.”

“He’s doing okay.”

“Winter will be coming. You could catch him, have a vet check him out, and let him live in your apartment.”

“Why?”

“Maybe you could use a friend.”

“I don’t need a friend.”

“Sure about that?”

“I’m incapable of a relationship. Even one with a cat.”

“Okay, then.” He finished his bottle. “I’m gonna take off. I’ll leave the beer. Consider it a retroactive housewarming gift. Don’t get too drunk—we have another task-force meeting early tomorrow morning.”

“Uriah.”

It was getting too dark to see his face. “Yeah?”

“I was talking about a domestic relationship. I didn’t mean a partnership was impossible.”

“I know.”

“Thanks for helping me move back.”

CHAPTER 36

S
hortly after Uriah left, Jude settled in for the night, settling in being the sleeping bag and pillow on the roof, gun and phone beside her as she found herself comforted by the faint sound of far-off music and the smell of grilling meat from the corner bar.

A few hours into the night, cold rain began to pelt her face. Once she woke up enough to realize what was happening, she gathered the sleeping bag and pillow and ducked inside the stairwell. Back in her apartment, the claustrophobia overshadowed her need for sleep. She gave up, put the kettle on the stove, and began going through the boxes left on the floor of the living room.

She wasn’t sure if there was anything she wanted to keep; it all reminded her of a life that now seemed incredibly false. How could that be, when this life felt like the shadow life? And more disturbing, the only things that felt real and solid were her days in that basement. Some philosopher said the darkest place you ever live will be etched forever in your soul and you will look back on those days with a twisted sort of fondness. Those words rang with a truth she hated to validate with thought. From now on, would anything ever feel like the life she should be living? Or was that kind of existence over for her? That ability to embrace the present and allow herself to be fooled by it? To be convinced that someone like Eric was right for her?

The lamp. Should she keep it? It was a vintage design that she and Eric had picked up at Everyday People in Saint Paul. It had an orange corrugated plastic shade and three wooden legs. Not a knockoff, but the real thing. Even the bulb was vintage. When she plugged it in and turned the little knob, she was surprised to find that it worked.

She liked it; she’d keep it. If she found it made her feel bad whenever she looked at it, she’d get rid of it.

She emptied two boxes, designating one for trash, the other for Goodwill. Most of the clothes went into the Goodwill box, although she kept two pairs of faded jeans. Jeans were jeans. Neutral. She wasn’t sure about the pantsuits she’d worn for work. Would she ever wear such things again? Reminders of that person she used to be? Back when she’d thought she was not only a good detective, but maybe even a great one too? Great detectives didn’t get caught and held captive for three years.

She kept the two pantsuits. She’d need them for the times she’d be required to testify in court. And like the lamp, she’d get rid of them if she found they served as uncomfortable reminders of a past life. But maybe the ghosts of that life would fade and the suits and lamp would become a part of this life.

The books she’d give to Uriah.

Novels and movies no longer made sense to her. Stories that weren’t true. Stories about people doing bad things to one another, or stories about people falling in love. None of that was for her.

The final box contained purses and shoes. She checked the purses—pockets, zippers—shaking them upside down, the typical dredge sifting out. Something red and bigger than a paper clip hit the floor.

A flash drive. No writing on it, not even a logo.

She picked it up but didn’t recognize it. But then a flash drive was a little like finding a pencil or a pen. Before she tossed it in the trash, she wanted to make sure it didn’t contain private information, like a report she’d filed way back when. She opened up her laptop and inserted the drive into the USB port.

The drive contained a single MP4 file. She hovered and clicked. QuickTime opened, and she played the video. Five minutes in, she hit “Pause,” grabbed her phone, and called Uriah. When he answered, she said, “You need to come over to my place. Right now.”

CHAPTER 37

J
ude buzzed Uriah in. Seconds later she heard his feet pounding up the stairs to the fourth floor. She opened the door before he knocked.

He burst into the apartment, shoulders wet from the rain, out of breath. She read the thoughts that crossed his face, saw him think about touching her to make sure she was okay.

He didn’t touch her. Instead, he gave her a quick visual as he closed the door behind him. The concern on his face was replaced with relief at finding her unharmed, then annoyance at finding her unharmed. She hadn’t thought that her call might imply that something had happened.

“I take it you’re okay.” His face was sleep-bleary, and his wet hair hung over his forehead.

“You sound disappointed.”

“A little. I ran two red lights to get here.” As if the trip had robbed him of all strength, he collapsed on the couch, arms limp. “I’m not someone who wakes up very fast. Explorer Roald Amundsen called it morning peevishness.”

“Proof that language today isn’t what it used to be.” She lifted her cup with its paper tea-bag tag. “Want some caffeine?”

“Got any coffee?”

“No. Sorry.”

“What kind of tea? Not any of that herbal stuff, I hope.”

“Earl Grey.”

He rubbed his face. “That sounds as appealing as infant formula, but I’ll give it a shot.”

In the adjoining kitchen, she poured hot water into a mug, added the tea bag, and returned to the living room. She felt like such a hostess.

“I want to know what was so important that you called me here”—he pulled out his phone and checked the screen—“at three a.m. Maybe you don’t do anything by the clock. Maybe you don’t need sleep to function, but I kinda do.”

He dipped the tea bag up and down, took a sip, made a face. “This is like drinking perfume. Makes me wonder if the Boston Tea Party wasn’t really about taxes at all.”

“Could you bitch any more?”

“I told you, I don’t wake up easily.”

“Not a good thing for a cop. There’s still beer. You want a beer?”

“I’ll suffer through. I didn’t like broccoli as a kid, but I ate it anyway.” He took another sip of the tea, made another face.

“I want to show you something.” She sat next to him on the couch and pulled her laptop close so it was between them on the coffee table. “I was going through my old things and found a flash drive in a purse.” She clicked several keys, then hit “Play.”

The footage was dark, and at first it was hard to tell what they were looking at, but it soon became apparent from the splashing sounds mixed with echoing laughter that it was people frolicking in a pool.

“You brought me here to watch a pool party?”

“Wait.”

The person holding the camera was positioned at a shallow end of a rectangular pool, the focus on five girls as they laughed and splashed one another. A minute later, two of the girls began making out, and the camera zoomed in for close-ups of bare breasts. Nude girls. Obviously wasted girls.

Uriah leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “They’re awfully young.”

“Right,” Jude said. “None of them look over sixteen.”

As they watched, one of the girls waded toward the person holding the camera. The girl moved up the steps, her body slowly emerging from the water. The camera lens examined her, from the patch of hair between her thighs, to her flushed face and red lips, her glassy eyes. She tilted her head and gave the videographer a sly smile.

The screen went black. End of footage.

“I think the person at the end might be Octavia Germaine,” Jude said.

“The girl the murdered reporter was investigating?”

“And the girl whose photo was found in my desk.” Jude produced the missing person flyer and handed it to Uriah.

“I definitely see a similarity,” he said as he examined the photo of the smiling young woman.

Jude replayed the last few seconds of the video, pausing on the girl’s face. “We’ll have to run it through facial-recognition software to see if it’s a match.”

Uriah put down his cup on the table. “Where’d you get this video, and what significance does it have?”

“I don’t know where I got it. It was behind the torn lining of a bag I think I might have been carrying the day I met with Ian Caldwell.”

“The reporter who was killed?”

“Yeah, but I have no memory of his giving me a flash drive.”

“Could he have dropped it in your bag without your knowing?”

“Maybe.”

“And why would he give it to you and not someone in Missing Persons?”

“I have no idea.”

He frowned. “So let’s say it did come from Caldwell. So we have this reporter who somehow got footage of a missing girl at a pool party. I don’t know if this means anything. Who didn’t get drunk and go skinny-dipping at sixteen?”

“Me.”

“I did it all the time. Not in some fancy pool, but ponds. Quarries. Lakes. It was almost a part of growing up where I lived. I have to admit I’m not sure it merits my dashing over here in the middle of the night. Say the girl
is
Octavia Germaine. That tells us nothing. I’m sorry, but without more information it feels like a dead end.”

“I know it’s a stretch, but I wonder if it could be in any way connected to our current homicide cases. We have high school girls; we have water, probably chlorine.”

“Seems a pretty big coincidence to me. We’ve not seen anything about Octavia Germaine that at all links the cases. And she disappeared over three years ago.”

“Maybe this is it. The link.”

“The video is poor quality. I can’t tell if they’re in a hotel, school, or a private home. I’d like to get an ID on at least one of the other girls so we can bring her in for questioning.”

“I’ll get Trent in tech to enhance it,” Jude said. “See if we can spot anything or anyone recognizable. Also see if any kind of time and date signature can be found. Possibly determine the operating system so we’ll know what it was shot on. Anything.”

Uriah got up from the couch, walked to the kitchen, and put his cup in the sink. “Let’s revisit this tomorrow. I’m going home.”

“Thanks for coming.” She remembered the books, grabbed the box, and handed it to him. “You can have these. There might be something collectable in there.”

He tucked them under his arm. “Because I’m in such dire need of books.” He paused in the doorway. “Still think it could have waited until morning.”

Once Uriah was gone, Jude stretched out on the couch, pillow under her head. Staring up at the ceiling, she realized the scrapbook she’d put together on her mother hadn’t been in her belongings.

Outside, Uriah glanced in the direction of the unmarked car. He knew what this looked like, leaving Jude’s apartment in the middle of the night after being there for not much more than an hour. But it was too risky to stop by the surveillance car to let Vang know the visit had been business. And he probably wouldn’t believe it anyway. Nothing Uriah could really do about that. Hopefully the detective would keep his mouth shut. Maybe it didn’t really matter. Jude existed in a mindspace that was different from the rest of theirs. Truth was, she probably wouldn’t care one way or the other what anybody said about her.

Head down, Uriah ducked from under the awning. Cold rain hit his face and neck.

At home, he couldn’t sleep, so he did what he’d been doing too much lately. He pulled out his laptop and went to his wife’s Facebook page. Not directly to it. First he visited Octavia Germaine’s, where he took some notes and checked to see if she had any friends in common with the Holt and Masters girls. None, but Germaine would have been about three years older.

Then he clicked on his wife’s page.

He knew what he was doing: the pretext of work when his real purpose was to spend the few hours left until dawn going through Ellen’s Facebook photos again. He practically had her page memorized now.

Like always, after looking at everything, he wanted more. Like always, he logged out of his page and tried to log in as Ellen. He could contact Facebook and get her password, but that would take a level of acknowledged obsession he wasn’t comfortable with.

He glanced at the box of books he’d left on the floor near the door; then he tried a new password tactic: titles. His third attempt was the word
Wuthering
for
Wuthering Heights
, one of Ellen’s favorites.

And he was in.