"Mmm, you make a very sexy sheriff, Casey. Shall we set a time, then? High noon or pistols at twenty paces?"
"It's well past noon. Let's say six. Or ..." I open my bag, take out a file folder, and drop it beside him on the coffee table.
He opens it. And he stops smiling.
"Britnee Spencer. Sister of one of the boys you coached in basketball while you were with Diana. You went over to give him some private lessons and ended up giving her some, too. In a whole different kind of sport."
"Who told you--?"
"I'm a detective, remember? She was fifteen. That makes it stat rape, and I have what I need to see charges pressed. The evidence is in there. Keep it. I have copies."
"This is bullshit," he says. "She told me she was eighteen."
"You can explain that to the police. Six o'clock, Graham. Better pack fast."
As I drive, I grip the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking. I haven't threatened Graham with that file before because it's 50 percent bullshit. When Diana left Graham, one of the reasons was that she suspected he'd fooled around with Britnee. Last year, when Graham found Diana's last number and started harassing her, I'd contacted Britnee ... who'd told me to go to hell. If I did take the case to the police, she'd deny everything.
When my phone rings, I look down to see Private Caller, and I'm sure it's Graham calling my bluff. I steel myself and hit Answer on my Bluetooth.
"Detective Duncan? It's Stefan." A pause. "Stefan Ricci?" His voice rises, as if he's uncertain of his own name.
"Yes?"
"I want to talk more about the, uh, victim interview. You brought her right around, and I ..." A strained chuckle. "I have no idea how to do that. I mentioned drinks earlier, and I didn't get a chance to ask again, so I'm asking now. I just finished my shift. Can I take you out? To talk about, uh, your interview techniques."
I stifle a sigh. You seem like a sweet kid, Ricci. Really you do. And I'd be more than happy to discuss interview techniques with you. But that's not what you're asking, is it?
"I need to meet a friend for dinner," I say, which is technically true.
"Oh, okay. Maybe after? Or--"
"How about coffee tomorrow? At the Grounds."
It's the shop right beside the station, which means this will be business only, and his voice drops as he says, "Uh, I guess so?"
"Totally up to you. If you want to, just pop by my desk."
I sign off and turn on CBC, hoping to distract myself. It's midway through a story about one woman's hike across Alaska, and as I listen, I imagine myself doing that, and I'm swept away by a feeling that is so normal for others and so rare for me--that little thing called daydreaming.
I pull into the station's underground lot and park my little Honda. It's the first car I bought, almost a decade ago, and it was well used when I got it. The guys in the department prod me to buy something newer, safer, with air bags and ABS brakes. It's not like I can't afford it. My parents left me with a seven-figure bank account. But the car runs. When it doesn't, I'll replace it.
I get about five steps when I realize someone's watching me from the shadows. I don't see him. Don't even hear him. I just know he's there.
I stop mid-stride and take a long, slow survey of my surroundings. On the return sweep, I spot an arm poking from behind a van. Then, slowly, the arm withdraws, the figure vanishing entirely.
I walk toward the van until I can see him through the window. The image is blurry, but I can tell it's a guy. Late twenties. Short, curly dark hair. Looks Italian. Also looks familiar.
"Ricci?" I say.
He drops from sight as if ducking.
"Hey!" I say. "If that's you, Ricci, this really isn't the way to get my--"
I hear a scuffle and realize, three seconds too late, that he didn't just duck--he bolted. I jog after him, but when I get to the exit, there's no sign of anyone. I shake my head and continue up to the station.
Five
At seven, I call Graham's hotel, and I'm told he checked out early. That's a good sign, but I still don't dare spend the night with Kurt. I really need a break, though, and Diana's going stir-crazy enough in my apartment to agree to return to Kurt's bar.
Kurt doesn't seem happy to see me. I think at first it's because I'm with Diana. But the looks he keeps shooting me suggest he has something to say ... and it's not good. I realize what's coming. The point of having a regular hookup is the "regular" part, and I've been too busy, and as nice a guy as he is, he's realized it's time to move on.
"Just a sec," I say to Diana, who's on her second lemon drop. "I'm going to talk to Kurt."
She drains her glass and wordlessly hands it to me. I take it to Kurt.
"Everything okay?" I whisper as I slide onto a bar stool.
He shrugs and makes the lemon drop. Then he says, "If I knew you were coming by, I'd have told you not to."
I force myself to say, "Okay," as casually as I can. "You want me to just ... stop coming by, then?"
"Huh?" He catches my look. "You think I'm--Hell, no." He leans forward, his forearms on the bar, his face coming down to mine. "I'd like to think if I decided to end it, I'd do it with a little more class than that."
His fingers hook mine, a discreet bit of physical contact. "When I said I'd have told you not to come by, it's because I got a couple calls earlier. A guy phoned the bar and asked for me by a name I don't use anymore."
From the old days, he meant. Kurt had grown up in the kind of neighbourhood where making a name for yourself almost certainly entailed jail time. He'd dropped out of high school and worked as an enforcer for a local "businessman." After his second stint in prison, he cleaned up his act before a third strike stole his last chance.
"Someone trying to pull you back in?" I ask.
"Dunno. Can't imagine why. I've been out too long, but maybe someone got my name, figured I might be tired of the straight life, looking to make some fast money. I said I don't know anyone who goes by that name anymore. Hour later, I get the same call to my cell. I delivered the same message. That's why I was going to suggest you stay away for a few days. Give me time to sort this. I don't want you getting involved."
"I'm a cop. I can handle it."
"Right. You're a cop ... which is why we've been keeping this on the down-low." He casts a meaningful glance over at a table of detectives in the corner. "You don't need the bullshit of dating an ex-con. I get that."
"Umm, no," I say. "If I'm discreet, it's because I'm always discreet. I save my energy for private displays of affection."
His grin sparks then. "Which I totally appreciate."
"Glad to hear it. However, if you want, I could make an exception right now."
I reach and wrap my hand in his shirt. He grins but shakes his head and jerks his chin toward the back hall. I lead him into the single-occupancy ladies' room and show him how much I've missed him. It doesn't go beyond kissing, though. A quickie in the bathroom isn't our style. Given that he might not want me coming by for a while, though, I consider making an exception. When I tell him this, he chuckles.
"If you're okay dealing with my shit, you can come by any time you like."
He leans into me. I'm sitting on the counter, my legs around him, and he presses closer, murmuring, "No pressure, but ... what are my chances for tomorrow?"
"About fifty-fifty. Diana--"
He cuts me off with a kiss, a deep one that makes me temporarily forget what we're talking about.
"Your friend's having trouble," he says. "She comes first. But if you can get away tomorrow, I promise I'll take your mind off that ... and everything else that's bugging you. I'd like your phone number, though. Again, not pushing, but I should have it in case there's a problem."
I never gave him my number? Shit. I hadn't realized that, and of course he hadn't asked. I pull out my phone. "Give me yours."
"Um, pretty sure I did already. Twice."
He had. The first night I came by, with some guys from work, Kurt left his number
on my napkin. I hadn't kept it. I returned a week later, though, and he gave it to me again after I spent the night. At the time, I still hadn't been prepared to save it, and then ... well ...
When I'm slow to answer, he shakes his head and rattles it off. I text him my cell number, work number, and home address. His phone buzzes in his back pocket. When he reads the message, he grins like I've handed him the keys to my apartment, my car, and my safe deposit box.
I see that grin, and I feel a prickle of guilt. I tell myself we keep things casual by mutual agreement. We both have busy, complicated lives. If he doesn't get annoyed when I don't make contact for a week, that only proves he feels the same way I do. Or that he's a sweetheart of a guy who's taking what he can get. What I can give.
"About Diana," I say as I slide off the counter. "It's an ex who hasn't accepted that he's an ex. He's been quiet for months, but he made contact again yesterday. That's why I had to take off last night. She told me while we were here."
"This guy have a name?" Kurt doesn't actually flex his biceps--he'd never be so trite--but he shifts, muscles bunching, telling me exactly what he has in mind.
"Tempting ..." I murmur.
"Just give me a name. He doesn't understand it's over? I can drive home the message."
"I bet you could. And after dealing with this asshole for years, I'd almost pay to watch."
"Oh, you wouldn't have to pay." A devilish grin. "Not in cash, anyway."
"You have no idea how much I'd like that. The problem is that it would only piss him off, and he'd take it out on her. I'm working on another resolution."
"All right. But if you need muscle for the job, you now have my number. Day or night, I'll be there."
I'm back at the table. I expect Diana to comment, but she barely seems to have noticed I left. When I deposit her third lemon drop, she reaches for it as if it's been there all along. After a sip, she says, "Graham called this afternoon. He said he had to fly back early and wouldn't be able to do dinner. Not that I'd agreed to dinner ..."
She stares across the room, her eyes unfocused.
"That's good, right?" I say tentatively. "That he left?"
She blinks hard before forcing a humourless laugh. "Yes, sorry. Did that sound like regret? Absolutely not. I was just thinking ..." She turns to me. "Is it ever going to end, Casey? He only has to call, and I'm in lockdown again. Do you know what I did today? Checked my life insurance. I wanted to be sure it was paid up so you wouldn't be on the hook if anything happened. Can you believe I even thought that? Me? Miss Happy-Go-Lucky?" Her fingers tighten on the glass. "Not so happy these days. Definitely not so lucky."
"How about a vacation?" I ask. "God knows, I've got a shitload of time banked."
She nods, absently, and I struggle to think of "fun" things to do, but it's like asking a pastry chef to fix a broken carburetor. My idea of a holiday is the guy behind the bar.
"I keep thinking about this place," she blurts. "And don't laugh, okay? Because I know it sounds crazy, and maybe it just proves how desperate I am. But in my therapy group, there's this woman I have coffee with, and we talk about our escape plans, what we'd do if things got too bad. She has a place she'd go."
"A cabin or something?"
"No, a town. For people who need to disappear. A place where no one can find them."
"Like an underground railway for abuse victims?"
"For anyone in trouble. It's an entire town of people who've disappeared."
I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Di, but that's an urban legend. The perfect place, where women can disappear and never have to worry about their abusers again? Think about it logically. An invisible town? In today's world, you're never really off the grid. How would a place like that work? The economy, the security ..."
"I'm not saying I believe in it. The point is that it proves how far I've fallen, Case. I can't stop thinking about it. Obsessing over it. Telling myself maybe, just maybe, it could be real."
"It isn't," I say. "Now, if you want to talk real strategies and escape plans, we can do that. But no fantasy bullshit. It's a real problem; it needs a real solution."
Six
Everything goes fine the next day. Ricci stops by and takes me up on that offer of coffee, and he's all business. I don't mention the parking garage. If it was him, he must have just been trying to work up the nerve to ask for a drink again and changed his mind.
As for Graham, all is silent. I insist on Diana spending another night at my place, but I don't see the need to stay with her.
When I walk into the bar that night, Kurt's washing glasses. He squints against the dim lighting to be sure it's me. Then he smiles, puts down the glass, and has a shot of tequila poured before I reach the bar.
He doesn't say anything. I down the shot and let him pour another. Someone hails him across the room, and he slings the dish towel over his shoulder and walks off, leaving me to take my second shot, slower now, as the burn takes hold.
We barely exchange a dozen words over the next hour. Usually, if I'm here without Diana, we talk. How's work? How's life? Did you see the forecast calls for rain all week? Yep, deep conversation. That's no reflection on Kurt. He's joked that we only have one thing in common: I arrest people and he's been arrested.
Tonight he can tell I'm not in the mood for chatter, and he takes no offence at that, letting me sip my tequila in silence.
The bar should close at two. Kurt shuts it down at one. The only remaining patrons are too drunk to check their watches. I doubt they even own one. He scoots them out the door with a cardboard cup of coffee and a good night. He doesn't bother telling them not to drive. There's little danger of them owning vehicles, either.
By the time he comes back, I have the tables cleared and I'm washing glasses. He nods his thanks and finishes cashing out. He's supposed to make the deposit tonight. He'll get it later. No one's going to break into his apartment for a few hundred bucks. Not when the last guy who jumped him spent a week recuperating in hospital.
He's done first and takes the dishrag from me to finish up. I wait. He tosses the rag in the sink, and I follow him into the back, where stairs lead up to his apartment.
It's a tiny place, half the size of mine. Kurt has two jobs and an ex-girlfriend with a five-year-old son. His son. His responsibility. Not that he plays any role in his child's life. He's just the ATM. His ex has decided her new husband is "daddy." Kurt still insists on paying child support, even if it means working two shitty jobs. He's also saving money. Saving it for what? No fucking idea, he said when I asked. I guess we have that in common, too.
He's locking the door as I walk into the living room. I hear him follow me, but he doesn't say a word, just stands behind me as I stare out the window.
"Casey?"
I turn. He doesn't move. He's trying to gauge my mood, if I've changed my mind about staying. I unbutton my shirt, and he smiles, staying where he is, watching. I left my bra off when I changed to come over, and as my shirt falls open, he sucks in breath. I start toward him.
"You are fucking gorgeous, you know that?" he says.
"Considering what I'm here for, I do believe you're obligated to say that."
"Nope. You're gorgeous, Detective Duncan. Also? Shit at taking compliments."
I laugh, and he crosses the floor to scoop me up in a kiss.
We're in his bed, entwined in the sheets--or what remains of them, most pushed onto the floor.
He leans over to kiss me. "Any chance you're staying?"
"Planning to."
"Good." He squeezes my hip as he slides from bed. "I need to make that bank deposit. You know the drill." As an ex-con, he doesn't dare keep it in his apartment overnight. "But I'll be quick. You want me to stop at the diner?"
I smile up at him, and he says, "Dumb question. Burger and rings and a Diet Coke. Though I don't quite get the point of the diet pop."
"Balance."
He laughs, kisses me again, and heads for the other room, where we left our clothes. I
watch him go. It's a helluva view. Broad, tattooed shoulders. Muscled arms. Great ass. He notices and turns, his gaze moving slowly over me.
"You keep looking at me like that," he says, "I'm not going to make it to the bank."
I pull my knees up in invitation. He starts toward me. I shut my legs and tug the sheet over them.
"Tease," he growls.
"Drop off the money. Bring me onion rings. I'll show my sincere appreciation."
"Sincere appreciation? I like the sounds of that."
He dresses and then leaves. When the door closes, I'm on my phone, zipping through work-related messages before I check in on Diana. I go to hit Speed Dial. Then my gaze shoots to the door.
Phone. Kurt.
Shit, I never asked if he'd had any more weird calls. And now he's taken off on a 2:30 a.m. bank run.
I'm still doing up my shirt as I fly down the stairs. I know I'm overreacting. But it's my way of admitting he's important to me, that I'm not going to get distracted with my own problems when he has his own.
I'm on the street now. Even in the daytime, it's not one of the city's safest neighbourhoods. At this hour, it's unnaturally quiet, as if a predator lurks around every corner, waiting for some foolish prey to break the silence. It's a wet September night, rainwater still dripping from eaves, that plinking the only sound I hear until I catch the slow thump of Kurt's footsteps. Unhurried, deliberate footsteps, ones that tell the world he's here and doesn't give a shit if they know it.
I tear around the corner. He glances over his shoulder, still unhurried, even the pound of footfalls not enough to concern him. He's twenty feet away, under a flickering street light, and he frowns as he sees me.
"Everything okay?" he calls, his voice echoing in the darkness.
I slow to a walk. "I just decided I want a milkshake instead of the burger and Coke."
"You did keep my number, right?"
"I needed the exercise."
He chuckles. "I planned to give you that after I got back."
I laugh. He's waiting under the light, and I'm walking over, the gap closing. Ten feet, nine ...
Movement flickers in the shadows. I don't wait to see what it is. I charge, yelling, "Kurt!"
He turns, and it seems in slow motion. A gun rises. I shout. I hit Kurt in the side, and a gun fires, and he goes down, and I don't know which comes first--the shot or the fall. Then he's hitting the ground, and I'm twisting and there's a guy there. The same one I saw in the parking garage. Not Ricci. A dark-haired stranger. Holding a gun on us.