The Many (21 page)

15

McElroy ripped off the sheet of paper in front of him and crushed it in his hand. The brainstorming session was two hours old and he was no closer to a breakthrough. What did he have? Vague theories about debauched sex orgies in the woods? A money motive for Maxine that assumed the participants paid a fee, and possibly a sadistic sex motive for the doctor?

McElroy wasn’t convinced by any of it. He was searching for answers when he wasn’t sure of the right questions yet. No wonder he was tying his brain in knots.

There were now three angry balls of paper on his desk, mocking him. His vision was starting to blur – a sure sign he needed a break. And some food. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worked through lunch.

But McElroy was reluctant to move. He knew if he went out and treated himself to a lamb kebab from the Turkish cafe over the road, he’d come back to the same problem. It wasn’t a fresh perspective he needed: it was information. He needed hard data to make sense of Stacey and Isobel’s deaths.

He stared at his desk phone, wondering if it was time. He knew Karl and Stacey would be able to help, but he also knew the shitstorm he’d stir up if he reached out to them. He needed to keep his distance – as much for their safety as his own.

McElroy pulled his eyes away from the phone, fighting back the temptation. He hadn’t hit a dead-end just yet. There was still Virgil.

Fucking Virgil.

McElroy snatched the receiver and dialed the detective’s cell again. He knew the number by heart now, and he wasn’t surprised when the call went through to voicemail. McElroy hung up, tired of leaving messages. He couldn’t be bothered trying Virgil’s office line again, knowing it would net the same result. For the first time since he’d started calling, McElroy wondered if Virgil was okay. He’d assumed Virgil was hitting the bottle hard again, in which case there was nothing to worry about. Virgil would emerge in a few days, looking like shit and vowing to never touch a drop of liquor again. But whether it was Virgil’s link to the Stacey Morgan case or just a random attack of paranoia, McElroy suddenly had a bad feeling about the unanswered calls. A really bad feeling.

He rose and pulled on his coat, heading for the station exit. There were only a handful of cops working at their desks everyone else had called it a day or was out on night patrol. Just as he was nearing the door to the lobby, a loud voice stopped his heart.

“Walt, hold up.”

McElroy took a calming breath before turning around. Captain Vance had come out of his office, phone in hand, like he was in the middle of important business. His voice had sounded urgent, but now he was wearing a broad smile. The kind of smile he reserved for people he pretended to like.

“Can I have a word?” Vance said.

“I was just on my way out.”

“A quick word,” Vance said with a little more authority.

McElroy stifled a sigh, realizing he was trapped. He couldn’t say no to the captain without rousing suspicion. He dutifully entered the office and took a chair in front of Vance’s desk, screwing up his nose when he whiffed the vanilla air deodorizer. Everything about the captain’s office made his stomach churn. The paper-free desk that implied Vance never did a lick of actual police work. The uncomfortable, wobbly-backed chairs that squeaked when you moved. And most of all, the framed photos on the wall – Vance shaking hands with the Governor, the Mayor, and an assortment of businessmen at fundraising dinners. Like he was some kind of celebrity.

“
I wanted to apologize,” Vance said, closing the door and returning to his desk. “I wasn’t entirely honest about my reasons for shutting you down the other day.”

McElroy pretended to look confused.

“The Isobel Flint case?”

“Oh, right. Well, I’m sure you had you reasons.”

“I did, but I shouldn’t have chewed you out in the process.” Vance glanced over McElroy’s shoulder, as if checking they were alone. He looked back at McElroy with a pained expression. “The truth is, it’s a delicate situation. The Feds are involved.”

McElroy could no longer feign disinterest. “The Feds?”

“Yeah. I found out just before I talked to you.” Vance looked down at the phone in his hand, as if checking a text, but McElroy noticed the screen was blank. Vance said, “They’re investigating a number of sexual assaults from online dating sites. It’s been happening up and down the West Coast. They think an organized group is responsible, and they’re close to making arrests.”

McElroy frowned. “What organized group?”

“I don’t know the details. All I know is that the Feds want you to back off. They’ve been building a case against this group for over a year, and if you’re running around talking to witnesses and washed-up investigators, you could send everyone scurrying back under their rocks.”

“So the Feds have been sitting back and taking notes while women are being abused?”

“No, no of course not. They learn about the crimes after the fact…”

“But if they’re close to making arrests, they must have people under surveillance. Isobel Flint only went missing two weeks ago. How could they not have…”

“I don’t know, Walt,” Vance groaned, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Jesus. I only heard about this shit two days ago. And before you go shooting your mouth off, they want to talk to you. That’s why I asked you in here. They know you spoke to the daughter, and they want your feedback.”

“Great. Well, they know where to find me.”

“Tonight, Walt. They want to speak to you tonight.” He thumbed and swiped his phone. “Eighty-nine-one-six, Curtis Ave.”

“Kenton?”

“Yeah, that’s where they’re based. It’s a foreclosure. The suspects live nearby.”

“Can you write down that address?”

Vance’s eyes narrowed. He repeated slowly, “Eight-nine-one-six, Curtis Ave. Don’t tell me the Alzheimer’s has set in already.” He looked down at his phone and clicked his tongue. “Damn it, I can’t wait on this call. Just go the address – they’re expecting you.”

“Can I at least get a name?”

The phone was already at Vance’s ear. “Mitch? Talk to me,” he said, angrily waving McElroy out of the office. \

McElroy’s hands clenched on his kneecaps. There were a hundred things screwy about what Captain Vance had just said. The vague reference to an organized group. The sudden urgency of the Feds to meet with him. And the meeting place – an obscure address in a less-than-salubrious neighborhood. Not to mention Vance’s manner – smiles and apologies one minute, and then dismissive the next.

McElroy could’ve called bullshit on a number of counts, but he knew the smart move was to nod politely and quietly take his leave. As he closed the office door, Vance was saying banal things like “of course, yeah,” and “okay, that’s fine” in between long pauses. McElroy knew a fake phone conversation when he heard one.
The fucker couldn’t wait to get him out of his office.

A heavy feeling followed McElroy out of the station and into his car. He paused before turning the ignition. Should he check in with the Feds in North Portland? Part of him was curious, but an even bigger part of him was apprehensive. Why had Vance been so reluctant to write the address down? And why hadn’t the Feds been in contact with him directly?

He shook his head, frustrated. It wasn’t like him to be thinking like this. What was he imagining that his life was in danger if he knocked on the door at 8916 Curtis Ave? That Vance was sending him to his death?

McElroy chuckled to himself. He was being ridiculous. He would visit Curtis Ave right after he checked on Virgil. Hopefully the FBI could give him some answers. But as he started the engine and pulled into traffic, mapping out the quickest route to Virgil’s house in rush hour, his face froze.

Captain Vance had warned him about talking to private investigators. Yet McElroy had never mentioned Virgil to anyone at the station. How could Vance have known Virgil was involved?

McElroy’s paranoia came rushing back. It was as if Vance knew where he was heading, and he was desperate to steer him off course.

Nice fucking try.

McElroy put the siren on his roof and threw his foot down.

There was no response to the buzzer at Virgil’s SE Portland residence, so McElroy flashed his badge and asked the super to let him in. The air was glacial inside the apartment, like no one had turned on the heat for days. Switching on the lights revealed a cramped, careworn living room. Shabbily furnished, but basically clean and tidy. His daughter’s influence, McElroy guessed.

He went to the bedroom and found pulled shades, an unmade bed and pajama bottoms on the floor. The single closet was stuffed with shirts and cheap suits. Nothing irregular – it looked like Virgil had left for work like any other day.

McElroy shivered, soaking up the unremarkable scene. His bones knew what his eyes couldn’t see. There was finality to the layout of the bedroom, like it was frozen in time. He used to get the same feeling when he visited murder victims’ bedrooms. A bookmark in a paperback or some loose change on the nightstand often said more about the sadness of death than the crime scene itself.

He left the apartment, telling the super not to let anyone else in. He had one more stop to make.

16

Le Canard was on a roomy avenue lined with industrial-chic bars, five star restaurants and fashion boutiques. Valets shivered underneath canvas awnings, bar-hopping young men braved the cobblestone sidewalks in suits and ties, and every café or restaurant seemed to have beautiful women on display in their front windows, as if they were department store mannequins. Dawn would’ve been intimidated by the scene even if she wasn’t meeting a creepy psychotic doctor for dinner.

There were no parking spots on the street so Karl drove by the restaurant and double-parked beside a Maserati. Dawn had caught a glimpse of white tablecloths and soft lighting through Le Canard’s front window. She took in gulps of air, her heart galloping.

“We’ve got a few minutes,” Karl said, gesturing to the dashboard clock. It was 7:56.               “Did you see him in there?” she asked, trying to lubricate her throat.

“No, he wasn’t in the front window. But that’s okay – it looked like a one big dining room. I’ll be able to see you from the street.”

“So you’re just going to hang outside for two hours?”

“Pretty much. I won’t stay in one spot, but you’ll see me walking by.”

“But it’s subzero out there.”

“I’ll be okay,” he said, chuckling softly at her concern. “I might even buy a pack of smokes.”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t – not really. Only when I’m drunk. Or on a winter stakeout.”

Dawn smiled, glancing at the clock.
7:58.
It was warm in the car and she could’ve stayed forever. But she knew it was too late for second thoughts. The wheels were already in motion.

“You want to go over the plan again?” Karl asked.

“No, I got it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll work out fine. Just be ready for my call at eight forty-five. If you don’t pick up, I’ll start to worry.”

“I’ll pick up,” Dawn reassured.

The digital clock melted into 8:00 and they stared at each other meaningfully. Karl gave her a reassuring rub on her shoulder. Dawn’s stomach was in knots, but her pulse had settled down. She was as calm as she’d ever be.

“Well, here goes nothing,” she said, opening the car door.

She allowed the maître d’ to take her coat and show her to her table even though she’d already spotted Dr. Reynolds from the corner of her eye. He was on his feet, smiling winningly, looking like he’d just stepped out of a Hugo Boss catalogue. She acknowledged him shyly, feeling lightheaded as she weaved between tables. Then the maître d’ stepped aside and she found herself staring up at the doctor’s imposingly tall frame.

“Hi, I’m Adam,” he greeted in his sophisticated English accent. “Very glad to meet you.”

“Rosie, and likewise,” she said, quietly pleased at how her voice sounded. It was easier having people chatting around her – she didn’t feel quite as self-conscious. And even thought the restaurant was formally decorated, the rich smells of garlic and butter made the atmosphere more inviting than it appeared from the outside.

She accepted the doctor’s extended hand, grateful he hadn’t leaned in for a kiss. His palm was warm and dry; hers, she suspected, was like melting ice. “Sorry,” she said. “Cold out there.”

“Don’t apologize. You look fantastic, by the way.”

“Thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes as she sat down. “So do you.”

He laughed. “This is just a two-button suit. But that is most definitely a five-star dress.”

Dawn forced herself to laugh at his terrible joke. “I’m sure it cost a lot less than your suit.”

“Taste is more important than money, Rosie. And I can already tell you’re a young woman of taste.”

Jesus
, she groaned inwardly. Was this what adult dates were like? “This is a nice restaurant,” she said. “Did you say it was new?”

“Yes, it opened last month,” Dr. Reynolds confirmed. “The chef is from Marseilles, I believe. Have you ever been to France, Rosie? I remember your profile said you like to travel.”

She felt the blood warming under her skin. She knew she shouldn’t have listed travel as a hobby. “Yes, but I haven’t been very far yet. Only Mexico, Canada and down the East Coast. I plan to travel more when I graduate.”

“So you’ve been to Canada?”

“Well, only Vancouver.”

“Oh right, I love Vancouver. What was your favorite part?”

She’d been six.
“Oh, you know. Everything, really. All of it….” She smoothed the napkin on her lap, her cheeks on fire.
A liar’s blush.
She could feel Dr Reynolds eyes boring into her. He was probably wondering what she was hiding.

Dawn stole a glance to her left, hoping for a glimpse of Karl through the front windows. But she could only see the restaurant reflected back at her, including her own anxious expression. Unless Karl pressed his nose against the pane, she wouldn’t know he was there.

The wine waiter appeared at their table and began filling their water glasses, asking if they wanted pre-dinner drinks. Dawn shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. Willing her face to cool down.

“I’ll see the wine list,” Dr. Reynolds said. “Are you having wine, Rosie?”

“No, I’m fine with water,” she said, braving a glance up. The doctor’s curious squint only made her cheeks flare up again.

“You know, I never did much traveling when I was your age,” he said. “Europe, obviously, but until I was twenty-five, the furthest I’d been was Croatia.”

Dawn nodded, as if she knew where the hell Croatia was. But seeing his oddly sympathetic expression, she realized he was trying to make her feel better. The doctor wasn’t suspicious at all – he just thought she was embarrassed about how little she’d seen of the world. “Yeah, it’s hard when you’re student,” she said, regaining her composure. “I can’t wait to go to Europe, but it’s so expensive.”

“It’s cheaper with the Euro so weak,” the doctor said. “You’ll get there one day, I’m sure.”

“Maybe after college,” she said with a hopeful smile.

When their waiter came over to run through the specials, Dawn casually reached for her water. She hesitated just before the glass reached her lips, repeating the all-important rules in her head.

Only drink from the waiter’s water jug. Don’t drink anything that’s been left unattended.
Satisfied, she took a measured sip and listened to the French waiter describing foods and sauces and cooking methods she’d never heard of. After he’d left them alone to ponder, Dr. Reynolds said, “Pretty standard fare, wouldn’t you say?”

Dawn shrugged, remembering she wasn’t out to impress. “I wouldn’t know. The only French food I’ve really tried is crepes.”

“Ah, crepes. You’ll only find them on the dessert menu here.”

“Wicked. I might have some blueberry crepes to start, and maybe a bowl of ice cream on the side?”

Dr. Reynolds’s eyebrows arched, and Dawn realized she’d slipped back into her smart-ass ways. Definitely a mistake – especially since the doctor looked like he’d had a sense-of-humor bypass.

“Sorry, bad joke,” she said with a regretful shake of her head.

“Indeed,” Dr. Reynolds said, unimpressed. “College humor’s not really my thing. If you need help reading the menu, just ask.”

Dawn nodded obediently, thinking to herself –
what a fucking asshole
. No wonder he targeted younger girls. Women his own age probably frightened him.

She let her temper simmer beneath the surface. She actually didn’t mind that Dr. Reynolds was a boring, sexist fucktard. Her hatred was steadily overpowering her fear.

She was going to show him.

When their waiter returned, Dawn used the translation in italics to order the fish of the day with French fries on the side. Dr. Reynolds stared at her a half second too long, then self-importantly ordered
salade de magret de canard aux noix
(duck breast salad) followed by
saucisse de Toulouse
(pork sausage). Dawn had hoped to avoid two courses, but it seemed the doctor was determined to drag the evening out – he even ordered a full bottle of wine, claiming there was nothing suitable by the glass. Whatever he had planned for later in the night, he obviously needed a full stomach and a blurry head.

While they waited for the food, Dawn quickly got the hang of making boring conversation. She asked questions that allowed the doctor to gloat – in his case, it was mainly about the importance of quality eye care and his boring charity work rather than money or the size of his house. In exchange, Dawn gave bland answers about her college major (Communications), her family (she borrowed Rebecca’s) and her favorite music (obvious stuff like Beyoncé and Katy Perry). She was getting more into Rosie’s perky-dull character as the evening wore on. 

Dawn periodically checked the time on Dr. Reynolds’s gold watch, and at eight forty-five, her phone rang. She reached down for her shoulder bag and plucked out her cell, grimacing when she read the screen. “It’s my Dad,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Sorry, I better take this.”

Dr. Reynolds couldn’t keep the irritation off of his face. He nodded tightly, pouring himself another glass of red wine.

“Hi Dad,” Dawn said loudly as she hurried to the restrooms at the back of the restaurant.

“Are you okay?” Karl said, the wind whistling in the background.

“Yes, wait a second,” Dawn whispered, pushing open the door to the ladies room. There was no one inside and she went to the nearest of the three cubicles and bolted herself in. “Can you hear me?” she asked. “I’m in the bathroom.”

“Yeah, just. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said, sitting on top of the seat. “It’s fine, actually.”

“What do you mean –
fine?
Christ, you haven’t drunk anything, have you?”

“No, only water from the jug, like we agreed. I just mean I’m handling it. I want to see this through.”

“Okay…well, that’s good, I guess.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m right outside, looking at your table.”

“Is he doing anything?”

“I think he’s about to, hold on. Yeah, he’s looking sideways at the other diners, making sure they’re preoccupied...he’s checking the back, where you just disappeared...now he’s brought his hand up from under the table...
shit, there he goes!
”

“What?”

“He just reached for the wine bottle, but his hand passed over your glass.”

“He dropped something in?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, but that’s what it looked like. Actually, no – that’s definitely what he did.” Pause. “Shit, I’m getting attention from the valet next door. I better walk round the block.”

“Okay, I should get back anyway. I’ll make another bathroom stop just before we leave.”

“You remember the next part?”

“Yes.
Talk later.”

So far, so good
, Dawn thought as she made her way back to the dining room. Her drink was now spiked, the doctor appeared to be buying her act, and Karl was watching over her. She couldn’t relax for a second, though. The riskiest part of the plan was still to come.