The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Page 10

  He looks up from the headline. “What missing woman?”

  “UVic student. Eighteen years old. Clean vanished off campus and into the blue about two weeks ago. Annelise … Janssen, that was it.”

  He takes the paper from the rack, reads the first paragraph, then studies closely the black-and-white photo of the two detectives from the Metro PD sex crimes unit. They look like haunted things in the swirling snowflakes under the glare of the flash. Behind them, a shadowy gargoyle face is carved into the stone wall.

  “Those officers look as scary as the bad guys they hunt, eh?” Tam says. “You want that copy?”

  “Yeah.” He places the paper on the counter. “And a pack of menthol lights.”

  “You should tell her to stop smoking those things,” Tam says with a smile as he reaches behind him for a packet of cigarettes and plunks it on the counter.

  He meets Tam’s gaze and returns the man’s smile with a big, high-wattage grin of his own—his is a smile that makes people trust him. Forced or not, it comes with dimples that can melt the logic in a certain kind of young woman’s brains. He has a keen radar for that kind of woman. Something … needy in them. “That’ll be the day that she listens to me,” he tells Tam. “Oh, and I’ll take a lotto Quick Pick.” The sign outside the store declares the prize is up to fifteen million this week. He could do with winning a few million, especially given his work situation now.

  Tam rings up the total and hands over the lottery ticket. “Tell your mom I say hi.”

  “Yeah, I will.” He picks up his bags.

  The walk home is blustery and cold. When he returns to his mother’s neatly painted little early nineteen hundreds house, he shakes out his coat, hangs it carefully on one of the hooks near the front door before unpacking his bags. He then lights the fire, puts the television onto a recorded episode of Coronation Street, and he sits down to read the paper.

  So, she was found alive.

  That was a bad slip. He supposes he panicked a little, thought she was dead when he left her in the cemetery. He’ll have to make certain next time.

  Sloppy Johnny, stupid peeping Tommy, stupid, stupid child …

  He gets up, paces, clenching and unclenching his fists. He picks up the paper again and peruses the story further, taking note of the detectives’ names. Angie Pallorino and Kjel Holgersen. He tries pronouncing their names out loud. Kell? Key-yell? Kay-gel?

  Angie. That one’s easy.

  A kind of power, arousal, spreads through him.

  Game is on, detectives … you can’t catch Johnny, watch Johnny run, no one has caught Johnny, peeping Tommy, because for years Johnny’s had fun …

  But it’s more than fun now. It’s a calling. Now he has a higher purpose.

  Save the Bad Girls, Johnny … make them Good Girls, Tommy …

  He reaches for the new tube of lipstick on the table, opens it, and applies the color carefully to his lips. He then opens the new packet of menthol cigarettes, puts one between his lips, lights it, then balances it at the edge of an ashtray on the kitchen table where it continues to burn, releasing a tendril of smoke like incense into the air. Atmosphere. It arouses him. He fetches the sewing box from downstairs and places it upon the kitchen table, where he seats himself before opening the box. Inside are spools of colored thread, needles, buttons. A small bottle of resin. His ultraviolet pen flashlight.

  Beneath the bottom tray is the lock of hair he was too tired to fix last night.

  He removes it. A lovely walnutty brown.

  Humming to himself, he opens his bottle of UV resin and dips the end of the lock into it. The strong scent makes his eyes water and his nasal passages burn. He shines his ultraviolet flashlight onto the resin to dry it, and the tip of the lock goes smooth and shiny-hard within three seconds. This will ensure the hairs stay nicely together. Until recently he used clear nail varnish to finish his trophies, but then he had to find a way to clamp the locks of hair so that the varnish could air-dry. It took time, and it sometimes got messy and stuck to surfaces. Then he saw this fly-tying documentary on the sports channel where the angler used UV resin for his flies. It works like a charm.

  The scent of the resin itself is becoming a trigger now, a delicious neural shortcut firing straight from his nose to his groin. He’s going hard already, and he opens his thighs wider to better enjoy the sensation. He picks a spool of mauve embroidery thread from his mother’s sewing box, and he ties a tiny bow around the fixed lock of hair.

  He runs the strands softly across his upper lip. Ticklish, silky. He closes his eyes, and her scent fills him. It’s as if she’s with him again. He can taste her, can see her lashes soft and dark upon the swell of her cheeks, can feel the satiny texture of her skin. He moans quietly as his penis hardens to an exquisite, almost-painful peak. A gentle girl. Who had to be punished before she could be saved …

  The sound of Her voice mingles with the fragrance of menthol smoke, the Coronation Street theme tune playing on the television …

  Save the girls, Johnny …

  Johnny is a bad boy. Peeping Johnny likes to peep like a peeping Tommy … a very bad boy, Johnny, to look at the good girls, to want the girl … we need to scrub Johnny …

  His breathing becomes shallow. His vision narrows. His heart races so fast he’s going dizzy. He lurches up, knocking over the kitchen chair as he hurries to the bathroom to find the exfoliation mitt. Slipping it onto his hand, he unzips his pants and takes himself into his mitted fist. He watches his eyes in the bathroom mirror. Photos of naked Gracie are taped down the sides of the glass. He begins to work the coarse mitt up and down, up and down, in time to Her words, harder, harder, faster, the pain growing into an unbearable pleasure … scrub, scrub, scrub … clean Johnny … his eyes are watering with pain, with pleasure. Braided together. Scrub, scrub, scrub it raw … his vision blurs into scarlet …

  CHAPTER 14

  “Bad timing?” said the cherub-cheeked woman with the snack trolley.

  Maddocks cleared his throat and caught Doc O’Hagan’s eyes. The unspoken subtext—the echoes of the so-called “Cemetery Girl” case—simmered heavily in the dead air between them all. The doc looked up at the clock, clicked off her mike.

  “This one’s going to take a while,” she said. “Shall we break before we open her up, gentlemen? Resume in, say, forty-five?”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Maddocks said quietly, checking his own watch, adrenaline fizzing hot through his veins. “I need to loop Buziak in. Leo, see if you can get anyone to pull some extra hours working the databases for a possible match to the Medusa ink on our DB. There’s a chance something like that could be in the system.”

  And Jack-O was still in his vehicle. He desperately needed to find the animal a sitter while he worked this case. The one he’d arranged for when he was due to start work had fallen through.

  “What you got there for sandwiches, Hannah?” O’Hagan said to the food trolley woman as she snapped off and trashed her gloves, then turned on the tap in the sink to wash her hands. Water drummed against steel.

  “A chicken mayo, a couple of turkey salami and cheese, all on white. And a vegetarian, gluten-free hummus wrap. Sorry, that’s all that’s left.”

  “Always the morgue for last, eh? Dregs,” the doc said, drying her hands. “Bottom of the barrel in the basement.”

  “Hey, it’s hospital food. You say you hate it, anyway.”

  “I do. Just don’t find the time to ever get out of here.”

  “Want me to put it on the counter?” Hannah said, holding up a wrapped sandwich.

  “Thanks, and a coffee—cream, two sugars. And a Snickers bar—got Snickers?”

  Leo, who was using his cell to quickly snap some photos of the Medusa tattoo to send back to the station, crooked up his brow. “Plenty of calories in them Snickers, Doc.”

  “Long night ahead. This job is physical, especially when you start wielding the saw.”

  “How about you guys?” the food woman
said. “Want anything, detectives?”

  Maddocks hesitated at the trolley. “Ah, yeah. I’ll take that turkey salami.”

  She handed him a wrapped sandwich. “On the house,” she said. “Would go to waste anyway. How ’bout you, Detective Leo?”

  “No,” Leo said quickly, his complexion looking a little green as he pocketed his phone and passed the trolley on his way to the exit. “I’ll snag something hot from the cafeteria upstairs.” The automatic doors hissed open, and Maddocks and Leo departed the morgue.

  “How the fuck can she eat in there?” Leo said.

  “Let me know if you get a hit on the ink,” Maddocks said as he turned to head down the length of the sterile basement corridor toward a fire escape. Fluorescent lights flickered. Air conditioners and other machinery hummed in the bowels of the hospital.

  “Where are you going?” Leo called after him.

  “Stairs. Got to give my dog a bathroom break. I’ll call Buziak from the parking lot.”

  “You got a dog? In your car?”

  Maddocks ignored him and pushed through the fire escape doors. He climbed the stairs two at a time instead of using the elevator, needing to work his muscles and get the cloying scent of death pumping out of his lungs. He shoved out of the hospital doors into brittle air. The sleet had stopped, and Maddocks drank the fresh oxygen down into his lungs as he strode for his Chevy Impala.

  He beeped the lock, opened the door, and peered in. Jack-O lifted his grizzled little head.

  “Hey there, old man,” Maddocks said, reaching in and ruffling Jack-O’s coat. “Com’ere. Let’s get you outside.” He hooked the dog’s lead onto the collar, and he lifted the animal down into the crystalline slush covering the ground.

  The dog hobbled awkwardly on three legs and peed on the left front tire of the Impala.

  Maddocks snorted. “See? You don’t even have to lift your leg now. There’s an upside to everything.”

  He got out his phone and called his superior while Jack-O led him across the parking lot on a little sniffing expedition.

  “Buziak, it’s Maddocks. We could have an active serial on our hands.” Quickly, he briefed his boss on the ominous similarities between his floater case and the cemetery case that was being splashed all over the media.

  Buziak was silent for a long moment. Maddocks looked up at the windows of the hospital building. Christmas tree lights flickered in one.

  “Any sign of a crucifix?” Buziak said.

  “Can’t rule it in or out yet. Couldn’t tell from the preliminary external—facial tissue was severely scavenged by invertebrates. The internal, X-rays, could reveal more.”

  Buziak instructed Maddocks to keep him immediately apprised of any new developments, day or night. Meanwhile, he was going to get authorization to set up a task force and have a dedicated incident room ready first thing in the morning.

  Maddocks killed the call feeling truly energized for the first time in a long, long while. He checked his watch, then lifted Jack-O’s tubby little body up from the snow. He carried him back to the car and got into his Impala with Jack-O. He laid a spare jacket on the passenger seat and set the dog upon it. Temps were dropping as night crawled in. He found the water bottle and bowl he’d tossed into his car this morning, and he filled the bowl, which he placed on the floor on the passenger side. He then unwrapped the turkey salami sandwich. He handfed Jack-O the hospital fare, breaking off pieces and delivering them to the critter’s mouth. The dog’s breath was smelly, and the rascal was clearly starving.

  “So, what’s your story, huh?” Maddocks said to the animal for the hundredth time, as if the three-legged canine might suddenly answer one day. “Should’ve called you John Dog. Like John Doe, eh.” The animal burped.

  “Never mind. You going to be good now? Catch some Zs?” Maddocks smoothed the dog’s head. And be dammed if that funny little tail didn’t thump against the car seat. Maddocks smiled. It was the first time he’d seen Jack-O’s tail wag, and it gave him an odd punch to the heart. It had not been his choice to rescue a dog, but their paths had collided in the dark of one night, and say what one might, it made him feel good to have made a difference, to see Jack-O’s tail finally wag. Maybe that’s all it took to feel human—to know that you’d made a difference in the life of another.

  He shut Jack-O inside, leaving the windows open a crack. He still had enough time to join Leo in the cafeteria, where he might find something hotter and more nourishing than a stale sandwich.

  An extra bite fueled his stride as he made his way toward the hospital entrance. Day one on the new job and he’d landed a doozy of a case, maybe even a serial. Complete with media fireworks. He knew from experience that this kind of thing was a career maker. Or breaker, but he was not about to let that happen. He’d made the right decision coming here. Felt it in his gut.

  He was going to make this work. With Ginny. With everything.

  He phoned Ginny on his way in, but got voicemail. “Hey, kiddo, just checking to see how the rest of your day went. Sorry about this morning. Landed a whopper of a case. This is going to work out. We … we need to talk about Christmas—plans. Give me a call, okay?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Angie and Holgersen crossed the blue iron bridge over the Gorge and turned into the gentrifying area along the water.

  It was 6:07 p.m. on Sunday, and they’d been pushing sixteen hours straight now, amped on caffeine and junk food. Angie had barely slept since Thursday. Her brain felt odd—light and buzzy. She slowed her Crown Vic as they approached the bus shelter where, according to the driver on shift yesterday evening, Gracie Marie Drummond had gotten off, as usual, for her Saturday night shift at the Blue Badger Bakery.

  Earlier, Angie and Holgersen had visited the bus depot, spoken with the manager, located the Saturday route driver, and gone to his house. Gary Vaughan, a veteran transit operator, had been both helpful and horrified. Angie replayed the driver’s words as she pulled off the road next to the bus stop and came to a halt.

  Gracie was such a nice person, always so friendly, always a smile for everyone. Fairfield is an early stop on my shift. I do the first part of the night on Saturdays. Yes, she got off at the stop nearest the Blue Badger yesterday. Yes, I’m sure.

  “This is it,” said Holgersen, peering through the rain-streaked window. “Vaughan said he made this stop around 6:37 p.m. Saturday.”

  I was running late. I usually am by that point. I always have trouble keeping up to the posted schedule because of constant construction, traffic. The weather. It’s getting close to Christmas—always more congestion on the roads around that time, and on weekends.

  “So,” Holgersen said, “Gracie Marie boards the bus right outside her apartment building in Fairfield. She takes her usual seat, right-hand side of the bus, near the front door, and she has white earbuds in her ears, listening to something on her phone, as she always did, according to the driver.” Holgersen turned to Angie. “Gary Vaughan there seems to have taken real special notice of our Gracie. What you make of him?”

  “Not sure yet.” She mentally replayed more of their interview with Vaughan.

  Did anyone else get off with her at that stop on Saturday?

  Two guys. Wait, no, it was just the one. Week before, I think, it was two guys.

  So this one guy who got off with her on Saturday, he’s a regular?

  Yeah. Usually it’s Gracie Marie and the one guy. He’s on his regular home commute, it seems. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t make eye contact. Short. In his fifties, maybe. Asian looking.

  And the other guy from the week before, what did he look like?

  Tallish. Fit-looking. Dark clothes. Toque pulled low … didn’t really see his face.

  “There’s street lighting—sidewalk is pretty well lit.” Holgersen tugged at his goatee. “Something happened to Gracie between this stop and the door of the Badger. From here, her phone goes dead. The staff call, get no reply. Nada. Vanished. Until she winds up in Ross Bay Cemetery at the f
eet of the Virgin Mary.”

  Techs had been trying during the afternoon to trace Drummond’s cell phone, but no luck. Battery was either dead or removed. They’d acquired her recent call records from her carrier, which was being cooperative, and a tech was presently going through those. Next step would be a visit to the Drummond house and taking into evidence any other electronic equipment she might have used. But the clock was ticking fast. Angie figured she had until tonight to catch a break, because by tomorrow morning this case would probably be in the hands of a homicide team.

  Technically speaking, a primary crime scene was where the victim was found. In this case, the cemetery was the primary scene. However, an assault like this began at the point where a suspect first changed intent into action, and it included any other location where physical or trace evidence might be located. She hoped to find something here.

  Shutting off the engine, she pulled on her skullcap. But as she reached for the door handle, her own cell rang. She checked the ID. Her dad. She let it go to voicemail as they got out of the car.

  “Okay, let’s walk it through.” Angie turned in a slow circle, surveying the surrounding area. Fog was thick, and sleet spat from the low sky. “She gets off the bus here. And the Blue Badger is down by the water over there, around those brick buildings.”

  “Abandoned,” said Holgersen, shining his flashlight along the side of the closest structure. “Derelict gasworks from the eighteen hundreds. About to be redeveloped, according to those rezoning application signs plastered to the walls.”