What Doesn’t Kill Her (15 page)

“I knew her in high school,” Mark said. “Ten years ago. I doubt she remembers me. Anyway, she’s been in St. Dimpna’s for ten years and she’s not talking to anyone about anything. She’s some kind of catatonic or something. Detective Grant, I wouldn’t do any better than you would.”

“Call me Mo.” He smiled again and it was awful. “She’s out. And she’s talking. Just not to us.”

The words slapped Mark. “What?
What?
”

“Been out for a while now. Month or so. She’s got an apartment not far from that mental hospital.”

Somehow he always thought he would know when she got out, or be informed about it or something. But that was a ridiculous notion. Why would anyone do that?

He said, “You’ve tried to interview her?”

“And failed,” Grant said. “Lynch and me, outside her apartment. She wouldn’t talk to us, said it was ‘too painful.’ Pretty much told us to fuck off.”

“I see.”

“We thought…
I
thought… maybe you, having known her, could reach out to her. Get her to sit down for an interview with us. If not us, then maybe she’d talk to you. Old school friend kind of deal.”

Emotions roiled within the young detective. “You’re asking me to do this behind Kelley’s back?”

Grant said nothing, which spoke volumes.

Of course, the homicide man had no way of knowing that Mark was already looking into the Rivera murders on a sub-rosa basis with the captain’s blessing. And he wasn’t about to reveal it.

What would seeing her again be like, after all these years, and so much pain?

Suppose she did consent to talk to him, and had some small sense of who he was, who he’d been, back in high school days. After she found out what he
really
wanted to talk about… well…
then
what? Would she still talk to him? Or would she tell
him
to ef off, too? And, if she did, could he stand it?

He sighed. Only one way to find out. He looked at the other detective with a steady, unintimidated gaze. “Captain Kelley finds out, you step up, understand? You don’t leave me with my tail hanging out with my boss.”

Grant’s nod was solemn.

Then he offered a hand and Mark shook it.

The older detective and his partner were drifting off and Mark had his car door open when Grant turned and called, “Oh. One other thing.…”

The pecking order meant Mark would have to close his car door and walk over to Grant. He did.

“We caught a homicide,” Grant said, reaching in his inside suit coat pocket, “a brutal thing in the Rivera girl’s neighborhood. Waitress. She got around, did some hooking.”

Grant handed Mark the photo, a morgue shot. She’d been a nice-looking woman, a little hard maybe, dark hair.

Mark asked, “How was she killed?”

“Multiple stab wounds. We’re looking at a married guy she was seeing. She had an abortion not long ago. Maybe it was his, or maybe it was one of half a dozen other guys’.”

“And?”

“You think our dead waitress looks familiar?”

Mark studied the photo. “Maybe… vaguely like Jordan. It’s not striking.”

“Her part of town. Could there be a connection?”

Not his man’s style. Not even vaguely the MO.

“No,” Mark said, handed it back, and went on his way.

Though a skimpy eater, Jordan found herself making frequent trips to the neighborhood grocery store. She could only manage so many bags on the Vespa, so every couple of days she went to Alvaro’s Market.

She was in the produce aisle, trying to find the perfect shallot, when he just seemed to appear out of nowhere, like he’d popped out of her memory—
Mark Pryor
. Same perfect blond hair, a little shorter, clear complexion but with the shadow of shaving, a few lines starting around the blue eyes, the sensitive mouth maybe just a touch fuller, but still, there he was—the boy she had dreamed about in high school. And there was that wide, white smile of his! Flashing at her as he approached.

Like they were in the high school hallway and he’d spotted her and now was smiling at her, coming over to say hello, with the promise of a relationship that had never had a chance to even get off the ground.

Only they were both in a grocery lane pushing carts, his with just a few more items than hers—was he a light eater, too? As Mark neared, Jordan regretted having piled her long black hair in a loose bun under an Indians baseball cap. For the first time in ten years, wearing no makeup made her feel self-conscious. And couldn’t she have thrown on something better than loose sweatpants and a Maroon 5 T-shirt?

Annoyed with herself for such girly thoughts, she felt her smile fade as Mark pulled almost even with her cart, coming the opposite direction. He was casually dressed, too—white sneakers, jeans, and a navy blue T-shirt with the letters CPD stenciled in gold across the chest, defined below as
CLEVELAND POLICE DEPARTMENT
.

Suddenly this didn’t feel like a happy accident.

“Jordan,” he said. “Hello.”

“Mark, isn’t it? Pryor?”

“Yes. High school. You haven’t changed.”

He had that much wrong.

“Nice to see you,” she said coolly, and began rolling off, but he reached out and stopped her cart. She frowned at him.

“Sorry,” he said, but his grip on the steel grillwork of the cart remained. “Couldn’t we talk for a minute? It’s been a long time. Ten years.”

“We’re blocking the aisle.”

He gestured. “Let’s go over to the coffee shop area, by the deli counter. And catch up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please,”
he said, still holding on to her cart.

There something urgent and needy in that, his eyes begging her.

She swallowed. Nodded.

She allowed him to buy her some apple juice and he had a soft drink, and they found a booth near the front window.

“I heard you were… back,” he said.

“Released from the nuthouse, yes.”

“Are you… adjusting okay?”

“You know, Mark, we really didn’t know each other all that well. We
almost
went out for a date. If you’re thinking about picking up where we left off, we missed homecoming.”

He shook his head, averting her stare. “I’m sorry this is so awkward. I really don’t know what to say, Jordan. But I want to help.”

“Really? You’re not going to pretend this is a coincidence?”

“What?”

“Running into me. Grocery shopping.” She raised her can of apple juice as if in toast, but was indicating the CPD on his chest. “You’re on the Cleveland PD.”

“I am.”

“The T-shirt’s a nice touch. Casual way to let me know and maybe help keep my guard down.”

He shrugged, sipped his soft drink. “You don’t have to keep your guard down around me, Jordan. We’re old friends.”

“No. Not really. I covered that. Weren’t you listening? That black cop—what’s his name… Grant?
He
sent you, didn’t he?”

Mark lowered his gaze again, but this time his eyes still met hers. “Yeah.”

“Figured as much. What makes you think I’ll tell you anything I wouldn’t tell him?”

“Grant prompted this, but I would have come looking for you, anyway. He’s how I found out that you weren’t in St. Dimpna’s anymore.”

“So he’s using us both, then. Send Pryor, why don’t we?
He
knew the fucked-up little ditz back in high school—maybe
he
can get her to talk.”

“It’s not like that,” he said.

“How
is
it then?”

He frowned.

She grunted something that was not quite a laugh, then sipped her juice. “High school was a lifetime ago, Mark. Let it go.”

He touched her hand. Her spine stiffened, but she didn’t draw away. His was a light touch, gentle, warm, not grasping, just fingers on the back of her hand.

“I wanted to see you,” he said, holding her eyes despite a shyness in his. “You must think I was horrible, not coming to see you, after what happened to your folks and your brother.”

Now she withdrew her hand, but in a fashion as gentle as his touch had been.

“But I was just a kid,” he said, with an embarrassed shrug. “I was afraid. You’re right—we didn’t really know each other that well. But I
knew
there was… something between us, or that maybe there could be. When I tried to visit you at St. Dimpna’s, I got turned away, ’cause of my age.”

“You got older.”

“Yeah. I got older, and went to college, and…”

“You got busy. Life went on. You moved on.”

“There’s truth in that. I won’t deny it. But I never forgot you, Jordan, or what happened to you. How… helpless I felt, not being able to do anything for you. My parents found out about your… condition. You’re, uh… cured? You’re not catatonic anymore, obviously.”

“I was never catatonic.”

“You didn’t talk for ten years.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

Then, for several moments, neither did they.

“I was weak,” he said quietly, “not coming to see you. Not dealing with you in the… state you were in. I let you down.”

She had some more juice. “Mark, really. How many times do I have to say it? We weren’t a couple. We were two kids who nodded at each other in the hall.”

He smiled, just a little. “I know. This is the longest conversation we ever had.”

She smiled, just a little, too. For a moment.

Mark sighed, seemed to be summoning courage, then said, “Yes, I came here to see you today, to see if you would talk about what happened. No,
not
what happened—but about the case.”

“How did you know I shopped here?”

“Grant gave me your schedule. They’ve been watching you.”

“Are they still?”

“I don’t think so. They’re not really investigating your case as much as they’re looking into a similar crime in Strongsville.”

She didn’t say that she was very aware of that crime. Instead she asked, “Why aren’t the Strongsville police handling it? Grant’s a Cleveland cop, like you, right?”

“Right. But Grant’s a big-time homicide detective, and Strongsville’s a bedroom community and they requested the help.”

“What kind of cop are you?”

He frowned, wondering if that was sarcastic or an insult, perhaps. “Pardon?”

“A detective, like Grant, but newer to the force? Maybe you’re in uniform when you aren’t stalking old high school girlfriends in grocery aisles.”

He frowned deeper, not sure if she was kidding him or giving him a dig. She wasn’t sure herself.

“I just made detective.” He swallowed, flicked a smile, then his expression turned sober. “Jordan, I became a cop because of what happened to your family.”

Jordan tried to find words to respond to that, but couldn’t.

“So this meeting up with you today,” he said, “is more about me wanting to help than doing some kind of favor for Grant, who I barely know, frankly.” He had a gulp of the pop. “I’m just a newbie nobody to him. If it wasn’t for the coincidence that you and I knew each other in high school, I would never have been on his radar.”

“But you did come to see me to talk about the case.”

“Yes. But I’d also like to reconnect, get to know you as an adult. Not to pick up where we left off, no, but—”

“Not going to happen,” she said.

“… Why?”

“Not right now, anyway. I’m just trying to get to know myself. I’m still in therapy. It’s a day-at-a-time thing for me. After what happened, I don’t have any desire to have any man in my life. Even my old high school crush.”

The latter had put a small smile in the midst of a largely sad expression. “And you’re not going to talk to me about what happened to your family, either, are you?”

“I’m not,” she said. “I don’t talk to anybody about that. Not even my shrink.”

He nodded slowly. “I can understand that. But like you said: ‘right now.’ Things will change for you, Jordan. They
are
changing. I’d like to be a part of that, even a small part.”

She just shrugged. She began to rise, saying, “Thank you for the apple juice.”

He took her gently by the arm and this time she did jerk away, and glare at him. Then he motioned calmly, with both hands, for her to sit back down.

For some reason, she did.

Glancing around, not wanting to be overheard, he almost whispered, “Jordan, I think what happened to your family was just one of a number of terrible crimes committed by the same monster.”

“You do.”

“I do. It sounds like something from TV or the movies, I know, but serial killers are real, from Jack the Ripper to Ted Bundy. I believe a serial killer took your family from you, and I think he’s still out there… worse, I think he’s taking other families and leaving a single family member behind. To suffer, maybe. Or to keep his horror alive somehow.… I’m sorry. I know this must be disturbing to you.…”

She was sitting there frozen. Had he read her mind? How much did he know? Did he somehow know her intentions? Nothing she’d said could have tipped him.

“I studied the case all through high school and college,” he said. “The deeper I dug, the more crimes I found that were similar to what you and your family suffered.”

“You
studied
us?”

“Not in any kind of… clinical way. I care about you and your family. From the start, I was just trying to understand something that seemed incomprehensible.”