“I’m not the one calling the shots here,” I insist, though I don’t know why I bother.
“Door is closed,” she whimpers. “No getting out from the inside. I tried, I tried, I tried. There is only the dark. And bad things happen in the dark.”
“You ever spend time in a pine coffin?”
The girl doesn’t answer.
“We can all survive more than we think,” I inform her. “And I don’t plan on being a victim ever again.”
Not when I can be the monster.
I position my cuffs over the hooked mattress spring and get down to business.
It takes me several tries. In this case, it doesn’t matter that I can’t see because I’ve practiced enough times with my hands behind my back; I’m used to going by feel, not by sight. I’m accustomed to the key being smaller, however, not fixed in place, and that takes some getting used to.
But handcuffs aren’t the most sophisticated locks in the world. And I am a girl who’s really, really practiced.
With a click, the first bracelet releases. Faster this time, I undo the second. And then, for the first time in I don’t know how long, my hands are my own. I lift them up, massage my wrists. It feels wonderfully strange to separate my arms, move them independently.
I can feel the girl watching me in the dark. I know she can’t see my movements, but must surely hear something. Or maybe simply sense the wonder of this small improvement in our circumstance.
“Would you like your hands free?” I ask.
“Wh-wh-what?”
“Would you like your cuffs removed? I can take them off.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Crawl over here.”
“That’s . . . that’s . . . it?”
“Just move toward the sound of my voice. I’ll help you.”
She hesitates. She fears me. With good reason? I don’t know. I can’t make sense out of all this. There are things I don’t get. How did I go from my apartment to here? Was there really an intruder in my doorway? And how did I end up trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, putting up no resistance, no fight, not even awareness, as someone opened the door to this room and delivered not one but two pine coffins?
How did someone as smart as me become that stupid?
The girl moves toward me in the dark. I can hear her, slow and shuffling. I catch her sharp hiss of breath as she moves wrong, aggravating her injury. The one I gave to her.
Then she arrives, so close to me I can feel her breath. I reach out, take her hands, feel the line of her metal cuffs with my thumbs.
“Just hold still,” I tell her. I adjust her wrists over the hooked coil and, closing my eyes for concentration, work on guiding my makeshift lock pick into the tiny holes on each metal cuff.
It’s not smooth or simple or brilliant. But eventually, I get the job done.
The handcuffs fall away. I can feel her lifting her hands, twisting her arms this way and that.
It’s true, what I’d suspected. You don’t need eyes to experience wonder. You can feel it, even in the dark.
“Why?” she asks, her favorite question of the day.
I tell her the truth. “Because we’re getting out of here.”
Chapter 34
I’M GOING TO VISIT TONIC this afternoon. Samuel said I should tell you.”
“Excuse me?” Sitting at her desk, D.D. adjusted the phone against her ear, certain she’d heard wrong.
Rosa Dane continued: “That’s the last place my daughter went. I would like to see it.”
“Did you find something in her apartment? Some lead we missed involving her search for Stacey Summers?”
“No. But I spoke to Colin this morning. He admitted Flora had taken a personal interest in his daughter’s case. Given that . . . There has to be a reason Flora went to Tonic on Friday night. My daughter wouldn’t have just gone out to a bar.”
D.D. took a deep breath, forced herself to process. She didn’t disagree with Rosa Dane; Tonic was definitely a place of interest, as just discussed by the task force. Having said that, cops didn’t like civilians meddling in their investigations. Especially not a case as red-hot as this one, and with so many moving parts. D.D. had returned from the lunch meeting to find a report from the lab on her desk. The stain in Devon Goulding’s garage had tested positive for human blood. Furthermore, it matched Kristy Kilker’s blood type.
Conclusive, no. That would take DNA testing. But getting more and more interesting. Goulding almost certainly had something to do with at least one woman’s, if not two women’s, disappearance. Given that Flora was actively looking for Stacey Summers, how coincidental could it be that she’d ended up in his garage herself?
Which brought D.D. back to why civilians shouldn’t be involved in police investigations: Flora’s actions Friday night had led to Goulding’s death, eliminating the police’s best source of answers. Detectives knew better than to burn a person of interest alive. Apparently, vigilantes didn’t.
“Tonic is a nightclub, I doubt it’s even open this afternoon,” D.D. hedged, while she tried to decide if Rosa’s proposed visit was the best or worst idea she’d ever heard.
“I spoke to the manager. She’s agreed to meet me there at four.”
Rosa had called the bar’s manager. But of course. “And you reviewed this plan with Dr. Keynes?”
“I asked him to come with me. He has insight into my daughter that I value.”
Sure, insight into the daughter, D.D. thought cynically. Except the moment she thought that, she found herself uncomfortable again. Keynes had feelings for Rosa, D.D. was positive. Spoken, unspoken, returned, unreturned, who knew. But did that alone explain his level of involvement?
“Samuel recommended that I contact you as well,” Rosa was saying over the phone. “Something about how territorial local detectives can be. How you might not view my actions as helpful but threatening. He advised me to be respectful. I’m going with honest.”
“Apparently.”
D.D. frowned, glanced again at the lab report on her desk. “Fine,” she said abruptly. Rosa wanted to visit Tonic. Well, so did D.D. So why not kill two birds with one stone? Visit the nightclub Flora had been investigating while also spending more time with the girl’s mother.
“I’ll meet you there at four. Bring Dr. Keynes as well. He can offer more of his professional insights.”
Rosa didn’t say good-bye or thank you. She simply hung up. As she’d said, not ready for respectful but at least being honest.
D.D. grabbed her jacket, headed out.
* * *
D.D. HAD NEVER BEEN a nightclub sort of girl. A good Irish bar she appreciated. But blackout surfaces, strobe lights, loud music, not really her style even when she’d been young and, supposedly, hip.
It was always interesting, she thought, to visit such places by the bright light of day. Sort of like catching a movie star without her makeup on. At night, with the lighting just so and the floor crammed with writhing bodies and the stage dominated by the next up-and-coming band, the place probably felt electric.
Four P.M. on a Monday, it reminded her more of a college student with a hangover. The floor was sticky and covered in shredded cocktail napkins. The dark-painted walls were scratched and dinged, the bar area tired. The place looked like it could use a refurbishment, or at least a break from its high-risk lifestyle.
Rosa and Keynes had arrived first, and were already talking to a woman near the back. They made quite a trio. Rosa in her usual yoga grunge, Keynes in his classic gray suit, and the manager in nightclub black-on-black.
Currently, the dark-haired manager had her eyes locked on Keynes. He wasn’t even talking, and she still stared at him, entranced. Apparently, Keynes’s cheekbones worked even on a woman surrounded by pretty and even prettier staff.
D.D. walked up. She flashed her c
redentials, purely to establish dominance. Because, yes, she was that petty.
No dice. The manager kept her attention fixed on Keynes. On the other hand, Keynes smiled slightly, as if he knew exactly what D.D. was doing and appreciated the effort.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. spoke up crisply, never one to back down from a fight.
The manager finally dragged her attention away. “Jocelyne. Jocelyne Ethier.”
“You’re the manager?”
“Yes. I’ve worked here five years.”
“Were you here Friday night?”
“Yes. I split my time between the back office and, of course, making frequent tours of the floor, just to make sure things are going smoothly. I, um, I recognize the picture of her daughter.” She flickered a sad, nervous glance at Rosa. “I noticed her at the end of the night, when things were winding down. She was out on the floor, still dancing.”
“Did you happen to see who she was with?” D.D. asked.
The manager shrugged. “There was some guy holding a beer, watching her. I assumed they were together. She was out of his league, I can tell you that, but . . .” She shrugged again.
“What did the guy look like?”
“Average. Khakis, long-sleeve, light blue button-up. Like a wannabe finance guy or something. Not really much to look at.”
D.D. nodded. That was consistent with what they knew thus far. “I understand Devon had worked here for the past three years.”
“Yes.” The manager’s face shuttered. “Um. Devon. Excellent bartender. Reliable, which is tough enough around here. But also . . . he had the look. We’re a nightclub. Appearances matter.”
“He worked out,” D.D. supplied neutrally.
“He did. His chest . . . Women and men lined up for at least one more drink.” The manager still didn’t look up. Uncomfortable about talking about a recently deceased employee? Or something else?
“He mind the male attention?” D.D. asked.
“Not that I could tell. My impression was that he worked pretty hard to look the way he looked and he enjoyed showing it off.”
“He have a girlfriend?”
“Not that I knew of.”
“And you and he . . .” D.D. let her voice do the asking.
“No,” the manager said flatly. “I run the asylum; I don’t frequent with the inmates.”
There was an edge to her voice, however, that spoke of a lesson learned the hard way. A woman scorned.
“What about Natalie Draga?” D.D. switched gears.
“Natalie . . . She worked here. Briefly. I think I showed her file to one of your other detectives.”
“Did she know Devon?”
“Would’ve been hard not to. He was one of our regular bartenders, she was around for at least a couple months. As for fraternizing . . . Back-room staff hookups are about as common as front-room players. Anything’s possible.”
“What about Kristy Kilker?”
“Who?”
D.D. flashed a photo. The manager shook her head. “I don’t recognize her. The volume of people who pass through here on any given night, however . . . I’m only familiar with the regulars.”
“You didn’t know Stacey Summers,” Rosa spoke up.
“No.”
“But that doesn’t mean she didn’t come here on occasion,” Rosa supplied.
“It’s possible. Like I said, the volume of people in a night . . .” The manager shifted uncomfortably again. “Of course, what happened to her, that video of her abduction on the news. It’s every manager’s nightmare. We made some changes to our procedures immediately.”
“Really?” D.D. interjected sharply. “Because given what your own bartender did on Friday night . . .”
Ethier stiffened, her expression turning wary. “I didn’t know, okay? Is that what this is about? Because I’ve already told all this to the first detective you sent over. No, I didn’t suspect my own bartender was a rapist. No, I didn’t realize Devon had ambushed some girl on Friday. He left abruptly. Didn’t come back. Was I pissed? Yes. But did I think, did I imagine . . .” She thinned her lips. “This is a hard job. The amount of turnover in staff, vendors, customers. I don’t know everything that goes on. No matter how hard I try, I can’t know everything that goes on.”
“Do you know the staff at other nightclubs such as Birches?” Keynes spoke up. In contrast to the manager’s heated voice, his tone was perfectly neutral. The woman’s shoulders relaxed marginally. She conceded to meet his gaze.
“Sure. The industry isn’t as big as you think. The bartender fired from Birches today will most likely be asking me for a job tomorrow, so it’s good to be able to compare notes. Nigel is the head manager at Birches. He’s been quite distraught by the Summers case.” Ethier’s voice grew defensive again. “We try to keep an eye on our customers, you know. Bartenders, staff, the door attendees. Everyone is trained to be aware of who’s had too much to drink, who might need a ride home. Something like the Summers case—it’s bad for all of us.”
“You noticed Flora on Friday night.” Keynes again, voice still calm. “You saw her on the dance floor. You paid attention. As you say, that’s your job.”
Ethier didn’t speak.
“And yet, when your bartender exited the door after her—”
“I didn’t see that!”
“Why not?”
“It was two A.M. Closing. There were a million things going on. I wasn’t even out front anymore. I was in the back, working on receipts.”
“What about cameras?” D.D. spoke up. “From your back office, surely you can watch live video streams from the dance floor, bar area, entrances and exits. Standard operating procedure for most clubs.”
The manager flushed, said nothing.
“You do have cameras?” D.D. pressed.
“Of course! But I checked for the first detective who stopped by. The, uh, the cameras weren’t working that night.”
“What do you mean, weren’t working?”
“They were turned off. Shortly before closing.”
“And who did that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean—”
“Ms. Ethier.” Keynes again, working his Zen voice. “Is this the first time the cameras had been turned off?”
The woman shook her head. She looked either guilty or distraught, D.D. couldn’t decide which.
Keynes continued on: “How many times before? And who would have access?”
“I started noticing it around a year ago. A night here, a night there. Except the past few months . . .” Ethier took a deep breath. She glanced at Keynes, as if pleading for understanding. “I was beginning to have suspicions.”
“Suspicions of what?”
“It was too often. Too regularly. I should’ve reported it to HQ, maybe installed a lock on the closet containing the security system. I had my suspicions, maybe drug deals or theft. But not kidnapping. You have to believe me. Not . . . assault, not that. But yes, someone was tampering with our system, I . . . I did know that.”
“You’re a good manager, aren’t you, Ms. Ethier? You can’t see everything, as you said. But you try. So you noticed, you have been noticing, something with your staff was off.”
“Ever since Natalie . . .”
“What about Natalie?”
D.D. let Keynes take over the questioning. Because he’d roped the manager in now. She was making direct eye contact, staring right at him. And D.D. could already tell, what the manager had fed them the first time around regarding Natalie Draga had been the party line. Now, finally, they were honing in on the truth.
“Employees come and go. That’s true. And they don’t always leave forwarding information. But to not pick up a check . . . Who doesn’t pick up a paycheck? And I suspected that she and Devon had a thin
g. Not my business. But again, if she was with him, all the more reason to stay, you know.”
Keynes nodded.
“But she didn’t come in. Left work one day, never showed up again. And Devon . . . he wasn’t sad. Wasn’t distraught. If they had a thing and she suddenly split town, shouldn’t he have been upset?”
Keynes nodded again.
“But he wasn’t. If anything . . . he seemed cheerful.”
“You wondered about Devon Goulding,” Keynes said.
“There was nothing I could do,” the manager expelled in a rush. “I never saw anything wrong, heard him say anything inappropriate. But just . . . his moods, these flashes of rage. I don’t know. Devon . . . Devon didn’t seem like Devon anymore. He seemed darker.”
And that hurt her, D.D. filled in the blanks. Because at one time, Ethier had felt as if she knew him well, intimately. She’d been involved with him, whether she was willing to admit it or not.
“Did Devon have access to the security system?” Keynes asked gently.
“Yes.”
“You believe he was the one who turned it off Friday night.”
Ethier looked at D.D. She exhaled, a confession of sorts. “Yes.”
“You noticed my daughter Friday night,” Rosa spoke up abruptly. “You said you saw her dancing. But you’ve also said you can’t track everything. So why did you watch my daughter?”
Ethier flushed. “The way she was dancing, she was calling attention to herself. But also . . . she seemed alone.”
“You worried about her,” Rosa provided.
Again, that faint hesitation. “I checked in on her. I wanted to make sure she was all right.”
D.D. got it. “You wanted to make sure she hadn’t caught Devon’s eye.”
“She was dancing with another guy. I swear. She was dancing with Mr. Normal. So then, I stopped watching. I counted receipts instead.”
D.D. leaned forward. “Stacey Summers,” she prodded. “Think. Now is the time. When you saw the video of Stacey Summers, did you recognize her as one of your customers? Is there any chance she also knew Devon Goulding?”
“God’s honest truth, Detective: I have no idea. I am so sorry. But I have no idea.”