The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Read online

  “Sergeant Maddocks?” Inspector Frank Fitzsimmons called out in his scratchy, high-pitched voice, his hand on the door handle. Behind him loomed a skinny man in a bad suit—someone Maddocks did not recognize. “A word in my office, please, Sergeant?”

  All attention in the room swung onto Maddocks and his bruised and bandaged face. His stomach muscles tensed.

  “What I freaking tell you, man?” Holgersen muttered as Maddocks pushed back his seat, came to his feet, and smoothed down his tie.

  “Good luck,” Holgersen said, standing up himself.

  Then, as Maddocks started toward the door, Holgersen murmured under his breath, “Guess Leo was also smacked by a boom Wednesday night, eh?”

  And it struck Maddocks like a bolt—Holgersen had seen Angie, him, and Leo fighting outside the Flying Pig. He’d probably been lurking under the eaves, out of the rain, smoking in the dark shadows. He’d seen him and Angie kiss.

  And he was warning Maddocks, too, not just Angie, that maybe the information was out there. And was going to be used.

  Or was he playing some other dark game entirely?

  CHAPTER 50

  “This is Sergeant Charles Tillerman from internal,” Fitz said, holding his tie against his stomach as he bent to take the seat behind his desk. Tillerman seated himself to Fitz’s side. Maddocks took the lone remaining chair, positioned directly in front of Fitz’s desk.

  Fitz had shut the door behind them. Blinds were drawn against observation from the bullpens.

  “Tillerman was originally Vancouver PD,” Fitz offered. “Maybe you two knew of each other, given you both worked the greater Vancouver area.”

  “I was RCMP, integrated homicide, and while iHit does partner with VPD, we have not met.” He glanced at Tillerman, who sat stony-faced and still.

  “I see,” Fitz said in his reedy voice, and Maddocks sensed he was being played, measured. His walls of caution went up higher. Silently, he half-thanked Holgersen for the warning, if that’s what it was.

  “What happened to your face, Sergeant Maddocks?” Fitz said.

  He repeated the boom story.

  “I see.”

  Maddocks waited in silence. People underrated silence.

  Fitz cleared his throat. “And your partner, Detective Pallorino, she called in sick today?”

  Tension ratcheted higher. “I’ve not yet been informed.”

  “Food poisoning.” He waved his hand. “Or some such. Left a message on Sergeant Buziak’s phone.”

  “I see,” Maddocks said, mirroring Fitz, whose eyes flickered.

  “Sir, all due respect, but if you could let me know why I’m here, I could expedite things for you. Otherwise, I need to be ready to present my aspect of the investigation at Buziak’s briefing.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In six minutes.”

  “Yes. Well.” Fitz rubbed his chin. “You, with Detective Pallorino on occasion, have been having private meetings with Buziak. Apart from the task force team.”

  Leo, Maddocks thought. It had to be him—Leo had opened the door on the three of them once.

  “Correct. If that’s all?” Maddocks made to get up.

  Fitz raised his palm, motioning him to remain seated. “What was the subject of these private meetings?”

  Maddocks met Fitz’s beady eyes. “Again, due respect, sir, but why am I being asked these questions in front of an internal investigations officer when you could ask my superior, Buziak, himself? Unless of course I’m under investigation, in which case, I’d—”

  “Oh no, no. Nothing at all like that.” He flashed a tight smile. “I called you in because I’d like you to take over Sergeant Buziak’s briefing this morning.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Fitz leaned forward and clasped his hands atop his desk blotter. “In fact, I’d like to offer you the position as temporary task force lead.”

  “Where’s Buziak?”

  Fitz glanced at Tillerman. The man remained poker-faced but gave a small nod. Fitz continued. “Sergeant Buziak is on a temporary leave of absence pending the outcome of an aspect of the internal investigation.”

  “You think he’s the deep throat? Giving away details of his own case?”

  Fitz rubbed the side of his beaky nose. “Confidentially, there is … how shall we say … possible internal collusion occurring among old-guard MVPD officers to undermine the organization.”

  “A conspiracy?”

  Silence.

  Jesus.

  “Additionally, we’d like you to formally evaluate Detective Pallorino’s performance over the next few weeks, as she continues to work under you. We’d like a fortnightly briefing. Here in my office. She’s had performance issues, including an incident that resulted in the recent death of her senior partner. Sergeant Hash Hashowsky was one of our longest-serving, most highly respected, and well-liked detectives. I called him a friend.”

  So that was Fitz’s motive? He was a revenge guy—he blamed Angie for Hash’s death. As Leo did. And some others. And Fitz wanted payback. He was taking her down, vigilante style, however he could, and he was going to use this internal investigation—and Maddocks himself—to find something, anything, he could use against Angie.

  This was nothing like Buziak asking Maddocks to informally evaluate Angie for possible inclusion into the homicide unit. It was retribution. Unjustified. And possibly misogynistic to the core.

  No wonder she was paranoid. She had reason. No wonder she was fighting that psych eval.

  This guy was a viper.

  Maddocks cleared his throat and said dispassionately, “I understood Pallorino was cleared of any breach of MVPD protocol.”

  “Officially.” Fitz moistened his lips. “However, there remains contention that Detective Pallorino, a less experienced and junior investigative officer, made errors of judgment under stress, which cost her partner’s life.”

  Shit.

  If they now discovered that he was hiding Angie’s recent breakdown on the job, covering for her … if they learned that he’d confiscated her knife and service weapon for fear that she’d kill him—yet another one of her partners—or use it on someone else … Conflict, sharp, stabbed down through his insides. With it came a fierce stab of protectiveness, a determination to stand by her. And it was coupled with pure-white hatred for this beaky, squeaky, reedy, ball-less, insecure little man who had a penchant for titles and couldn’t just call anyone by their names. He needed to contact Angie. Stat. Tell her to sort herself and get back in here before Tillerman came looking for her. And nailed him in the process, too.

  “Acceptable to you?” Fitz said. “To take over from Buziak until further course of action is determined? Salary, of course, shall be commensurate. Your résumé shows that you successfully assumed similar administrative roles in the past, within a larger force, and have worked on serial cases. You’re ideally suited.” He flashed another quick smile.

  Maddocks’s brain reeled as it weighed possible avenues of action, searching for ways out. This man was dangerous. He’d probably never trusted a soul in his life. The guys on the Limpet team were going to resent Maddocks, the new guy on the block, stepping into Buziak’s shoes ahead of any one of them. For being in bed with Inspector Frank Fitzsimmons and internal. Christ … and then there was him being asked to spy on Angie, the woman he’d been sleeping with and for whom he was covering … talk about a no-win situation.

  “Or … is there something I should know about?”

  “Acceptable,” Maddocks said, standing up. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get down to take over that briefing.”

  “Good, good. Pending outcome, there’s always a potential for the position to become more permanent. I think we will work well together.”

  “Sir,” Maddocks said with a benign nod. He made for the door. But just before leaving, he turned and said, “One condition. I’m not exclusively a pen pusher. I go out into the field with officers, as warranted. I get a better handle on my team that way.”

&nbs
p; Fitz’s beady eyes bored into him for a moment too long. “Fine,” he said slowly. “Sergeant Tillerman and I will see you again in this office in two weeks, seven a.m., for your first report on Detective Pallorino. Unless, of course, something arises that needs to be brought to our attention earlier.”

  “One other thing,” Maddocks said. “I’ll need you to announce the news to the team about Buziak, and to introduce me as a temporary standin until he returns. I’ll delay the briefing by forty-five minutes so we can both prepare.” He waited a beat, watching Fitz’s features. “The news would be better received coming from you, sir. I need the support of the Limpet investigators.”

  “Fair enough. Oh, before you go—there was a BOLO put out on the black Lexus, which was found to be registered to developer Ray Norton-Wells, husband of the assistant deputy attorney general.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the Lexus has since been reported to have been stolen.”

  Maddocks felt his bile rise. He suddenly saw where this was going. “Yes.”

  “We’re after that thief, Sergeant Maddocks. This has nothing to do with Ray Norton-Wells or his family. Correct?”

  Maddocks’s gaze bored back into those beady black hawk eyes. “There are sensitive aspects to the investigation, yes. Hence our closed-door meetings, especially given that we still have a leak.”

  “Hmm. I see. Well, let’s keep those doors closed, then, shall we? And nothing happens on that front without my say. Understood?”

  “I see,” Maddocks said. He exited, shut the door quietly behind him, took a deep breath, then strode fast toward the fire escape stairwell. As he took the stairs down to the bowels of the station two at a time, he dialed Angie.

  She did not pick up. His call went to voicemail.

  At the bottom of the concrete stairwell, he tried again.

  Voicemail. He hesitated before wording his message, acutely aware now that he was using a police-issue phone and was probably under scrutiny himself, he said, “Pallorino, it’s Sergeant Maddocks. I heard you called in sick. Check in and update me as soon as you are able.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Angie’s lungs burned raw as she thumped on her treadmill, feet pounding, arms pumping, sweat soaking her shirt. She was about six klicks into her run, hadn’t dropped the pace for an instant.

  Her mind looped back to Gracie Drummond, Faith Hocking, how she’d been forced to call in sick, how she was locked out of one of the biggest investigations at the MVPD, and what this mess in her head was going to mean for her in the long run. She could only imagine what Leo and Holgersen and the others were speculating, because only once before in her career had she been too sick to come into work, and that was the day after Hash died. And it was only for a day.

  Run. Flee. Run … uciekaj, uciekaj …

  She hit the speed button, making the tread move yet faster as she tried to outrace those wretched Polish words which she could not put into context.

  Her phone rang again on the kitchen counter, and she slowed the machine gradually, sweat burning into her eyes. She dropped to a walking pace. Her calves ached. Her hips hurt. Her shoulders were painfully tight. Angie stepped off the treadmill and snagged her phone from the kitchen counter and checked the last incoming number.

  Maddocks again.

  She couldn’t speak to him—not until she’d figured this out and gotten her narrative all straight in her head.

  The earlier calls had been from Holgersen. Not on her life was she going to talk to him, either. She’d left a message on Buziak’s phone, calling in sick, and that was it.

  She shut her phone off and got back onto her treadmill, ramping up the speed quickly, and this time also increasing the incline. She went faster and faster. Higher. She felt like she was going to throw up. And went yet harder. Steeper.

  Nausea washed through her and up into her throat. Struggling to keep down her stomach contents, she jumped off the treadmill and staggered to the bathroom. She clasped her hands on the sides of her toilet bowl, hanging her head down, gagging.

  How much more could she push?

  How had she come to this place?

  When had it actually all started?

  What all was she in self-denial about?

  She cursed and gave another dry retch. She hurt. Bad. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally—deep inside her heart. It pained her to think about her mom. And her dad so alone. Hash, gone. She thought about what she’d done to Maddocks—how close she’d come to killing or critically injuring him. She couldn’t do this anymore—she could no longer try to numb this shit with the chilled vodka in her freezer or mindless fucks at the club.

  She owed Maddocks, too. And he was now the gatekeeper to her job, her continued involvement in the investigation, and it was killing her to be cut out of it. Policing was her life. Pure and simple.

  Angie pushed herself upright from the toilet bowl and hobbled over to her sliding glass door that looked out over the Gorge. She opened it and stepped out into the cold air on her tiny balcony. Gripping the railing, she turned her face up toward the pale winter sun and closed her eyes.

  Slowly, in the warming sun, listening to the sounds of the city and the waterway below—boats coming in, gulls squabbling, the keeee of an eagle up high, the blare of horns, the yells of coxswains giving orders to shells filled with rowers—she realized this was it.

  She wanted to live. Really live. Be alive in this city. Be present.

  She wanted her job.

  And right now she was on the cusp of losing everything. Angie wiped the sweat from her brow, returned inside, and rummaged around in a desk drawer. She found what she was searching for. An old business card. She powered up her phone and punched in the number on the card, wondering if it would still work.

  Angie tensed as it began to ring. She paced up and down her tiny apartment, trying to distract herself with the pain in her body. Her call connected. She caught her breath.

  “Hello?” came the male voice.

  For a second words eluded her. Then she cleared her throat. “Alex? Hey. It’s Angie. Angie Pallorino.”

  “Angie … Pallorino? Christ.” A pause. “How long has it been? How in the hell are you?”

  “Got time for an old friend?” she said.

  “Always.” Another moment of hesitation. “Professional or personal?”

  “I … maybe a bit of both. I don’t know yet. I … just need to talk to someone, sound something out.”

  “Want to come to my home office? I’m out of town at the moment, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow morning would be good.”

  “I can manage early afternoon. How does two thirty sound? I’ll have a pot of tea waiting. Like old times.”

  She smiled, fond memories of her old psychology professor—mentor, academic advisor, and friend—resurfacing, the copious amounts of Darjeeling, Earl Grey, and Ceylon tea consumed during vigorous debates. “You still at the same address?” she said.

  “Same cottage. James Bay. See you then.”

  “Thanks, Alex.” She killed the call. Her heart felt lighter.

  She’d taken the first step.

  CHAPTER 52

  The briefing this morning had gone as Maddocks had expected. A chilly reception to the news of Buziak. Mistrust for him. Audible grumblings from Leo. A sullen mood all around as the investigators headed out on their assignments for the day. Their only consolation was probably the fact that it would be Maddocks—the new guy—who went down as the scapegoat if they all failed spectacularly in their hunt to catch this killer before Christmas.

  This witch hunt of Fitz’s was wreaking the expected damage. The case was stalling because of it. Plus there remained a suspected deep throat among them—Maddocks wasn’t buying that it was Buziak. Or some old-guard Gunnar-supporting conspiracy. Why would the old guard want to leak information that was politically damaging to Gunnar and feeding into Mayor Killion’s clean-sweep-the-old-guard threats?

  Add to this Maddocks’
s Gordian knot of conflicts over Angie and his problems on the home front with Ginny, and he was not a happy camper when he entered the forensics lab late on Friday evening. Head forensic technician Dr. Sunni Padachaya had agreed to meet with him at this late hour to discuss the forensics results that had come in for the hair trace found primarily in the ropes on Thetisby Island.

  Maddocks pushed open the door. The place was empty at this hour, apart from a slight, dark-skinned woman in a lab coat hunched over a microscope at a bench on the far end of the room. She looked up as he entered, and smiled.

  “Detective Maddocks,” she said, coming to her feet and making her way over to him. And yeah, maybe it was because of her sunshiny-sounding name, or because of the genuineness in her smile and the subsequent light it put into her liquid black eyes, or how comical the scientist looked in the translucent blue shower-cap-style protection covering her black hair, but he felt himself returning her smile. This little scientist came with a sterling rep and was far younger than he’d expected.

  “Thank you for staying late to walk me through the analysis,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but—” He nodded to her latex gloves.

  “No worries. I always stay late. No life, obviously.” She peeled off the gloves as she spoke and dumped them in a bin. “Come take a look.”

  She led him over to a light board onto which had been mounted enlarged images of hair shafts taken under the microscope.

  She clicked on the light, bringing the images to vivid life.

  “Since there is such a wide range of interpersonal variation in head and pubic hairs,” she said, “most of the work in forensics to date has been in that area.” She picked up a pointer. “However, we can also tell which parts of the body other hairs originated from, using general morphology—length, shape, size, color, stiffness, curliness, and microscopic appearance all contribute to the determination of body area. So does pigmentation and medullar appearance.

  “So, here we’ve grouped the various sets of hair evidence under Black-Haired Male One—” She pointed. “Black-Haired Male Two. And Blond Male there.”