I’m at work the next day, trying not to worry about Diana. Of course, I do. I’ve felt responsible for her since we met. She’d just moved to my district, and I spotted her in the cafeteria with her tray, looking like a rabbit about to dine among wolves. I’d waved her over to join me and my friends, and I’ve been there for her ever since.
I keep thinking about Graham being in town. About the other times he’s tracked her down and what he did. Got her fired. Trashed her apartment. Beat the shit out of her. And the last time, tried to run her down with his car.
“Detective Duncan?”
I look up from my desk. It’s Ricci, a new detective from Special Victims.
“Are you, uh, busy?” he asks.
I resist the urge to glance at the piles of paperwork on my desk and say instead, “What’s up?”
“Got a, uh, victim in hospital and she’s … She won’t talk to me. My partner’s off with the flu, and she said I could ask you.”
What he means is that he has a rape survivor refusing to speak to a male detective. Our division is small enough that the lines aren’t drawn in permanent ink.
When I hesitate, my partner, Timmons, leans over. “Boy’s giving you the chance to escape paperwork for a few hours, and you’re arguing? Go. I’ve got this.”
* * *
Ricci fills me in on the ride. The young woman kicked out her addict boyfriend a week ago. He came back for his things … and took what didn’t belong to him, raping and strangling her. Or that’s the story given by her roommate, who spotted the ex fleeing the scene. The victim herself insists it was a random home invasion.
As I listen to the story, I try not to think of Diana. I still send her a text, reminding her that she’s supposed to order takeout for lunch and not leave my apartment.
I know the rules, Casey,she replies, and I mentally hear her add, I’m not a child. As an apology, I tap back a note that I’ll grab her a chai latte on my way home.
We arrive at the hospital and take the stairs to the room, which is being guarded by an officer I don’t recognize. He whispers to Ricci, “You aren’t supposed to take anyone else in there. Doctor’s orders.”
“Constable Wiley, this is Detective Duncan,” Ricci says.
I shake his hand. He stares a little too long and then covers it with a laugh that’s a little too loud as he says, “Guess the force doesn’t have height restrictions anymore, huh?”
“They haven’t in years,” Ricci says. “That would be discrimination against gender and race.”
He slides me a look, as if expecting a pat on the head. He’s referring to the fact that I’m also half Asian—my mother was Chinese and Filipino.
“Is Ms. Lang…?” I wave toward the room.
“Uh, right,” Ricci says, and grabs the door for me. As we walk through, he whispers, “Thank you for doing this. I really appreciate it. Maybe we can grab a drink after shift?”
I really hope you’re not hitting on me in the hospital room of a rape survivor,I think, but only murmur something noncommittal. Then I tug back the curtain around the bed and—
It looks like Diana.
It isn’t, of course, but that’s the first thing I think. I see a blond woman wearing pink barrettes that, for a moment, look like pink-tipped hair. Her face is purple and yellow and swollen. A ring of bruises circles her throat. She wears a cast on one arm, has one leg raised, not unlike me twelve years ago.
I imagine Diana here, in a hospital bed, like me and like this girl, beaten and left for dead, and I realize I can’t keep ignoring Graham. I owe it to Diana to make sure she never ends up like this.
Then I push that aside, and I see this girl. Only this girl. Our eyes meet, and there are traces of defiance in hers, but only traces, and she clings to that, as if refusing to turn in her ex is her choice. As if he doesn’t have her so terrified she can’t see any other option.
I move to her bedside, lean over, and whisper, “Let’s make sure he never does this again,” and she starts to cry.
* * *
I bang on Graham’s hotel room door.
“Casey,” Graham says as he opens it, grinning like I’ve brought his favorite takeout. “I was hoping you’d find me. Come on in.”
As I enter, I put my back to him. That’s my way of saying he doesn’t scare me. Only once I sit on the couch do I face him. Graham Berry. Forty years old. Looks like he should be the spokesmodel for some high-end law firm, all white teeth and perfect hair and chiseled jaw. I can still hear Diana’s excited whisper. “Oh my God, Case. You have to meet him. He’s gorgeous, and he’s brilliant, and he’s charming, and he asked me out. Can you believe it?”
I wanted to, because Diana deserved some good in her life, having gone through a string of abusive losers since high school. Except she was right—it was hard to believe a guy as outwardly perfect as Graham Berry was madly in love with Diana. That’s cruel, isn’t it? But there’s a dating hierarchy, and though you can move up or down a notch or two, when you’re attracting the attention of someone a half dozen rungs up? You need to ask yourself why.
In Diana’s case, the answer was that Graham saw the same thing her loser exes had—her deep vulnerability and eagerness to please. Like my parents, Diana’s set a higher standard of expectation than she could reach. Unlike mine, hers vented their displeasure in more than words, and she’d spent her childhood convinced she deserved every beating she got. That made her the perfect target for Graham’s particular brand of sadism.
“You look good, Case,” he says, those white teeth glimmering.
“Knock it off. We both know I’m not your type.”
“Mmm, not so sure about that.” He walks over and sits on the coffee table, right in front of me, so close our knees brush. “How about a deal? You give me a night, and I’ll go home happy. I’ll let you bring the handcuffs. We can arm-wrestle for who wears them.”
“If I ever got you in handcuffs, Graham, I don’t think you’d like where it ended up. I want you to leave Diana alone.”
“Oh, I know, but Diana doesn’t really want me to leave her alone. It’s a game we play. You’ve never understood that.”
“If you hurt her—”
“I never hurt her. Not against her will, anyway. You’ve got me all wrong, Casey. You always have. I love Diana, and if our relationship is a little unconventional, well, that isn’t a crime.”
He smiles. I know exactly what that smile means—that if I’m wired and trying to entrap him, I’ll catch nothing. He’s so damned careful.
“I want you out of town,” I say.
“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 a boy you coached in basketball two years ago. 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. 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 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’ve gone 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 midstride 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.