Agnes Hahn (2 page)

Didier pulled on her right wrist, but Agnes resisted, looking the officer in the eyes. Just last week, Officer Didier had brought in a critically wounded beagle mix, peppered with buckshot. Agnes had cried with Didier when the vet gave the prognosis, and they had comforted each other when the euthanasia solution was administered.

“Relax, Miss Hahn,” Didier said. “Don’t make us use force.”

Agnes blinked back tears. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” Her right hand met her left and another click sent a ring of pain around her right wrist.

Hands touched her, down her sides, around her waist, down her thighs. She closed her eyes tight.

Fight.

Her eyes shot open. She looked left, right. Who said that? And why hadn’t anyone responded?

Wilson reached into his pocket and pulled out a laminated card. He turned Agnes to face him. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Fight what? What is happening?

Wilson’s voice droned, like it was coming through a cheap speaker, strings of words without punctuation. “Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you? Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”

Agnes looked at Janie again, then at the far doorway where her other co-workers crowded, staring.

“Why? I haven’t done anything.” Her throat constricted, threatening to choke her. She needed to calm down. Maybe it was a joke. Of course it was a joke. She didn’t press the speed limit and she always stopped at yellow lights. What could she possibly be arrested for?

“Do you understand your rights, Miss Hahn?” Wilson grabbed her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Miss Hahn? Do you understand your rights?”

But jokes shouldn’t be so painful. And no one was laughing.

“Miss Hahn? Do you—?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Come on.” He pulled on her left elbow, directing her toward the front door.

“But why? What did I do?”

Didier stepped alongside the two. She glanced at Janie, then at the far doorway. Her voice was low. “We’ll explain at the station.”

Agnes stopped and twisted her arm from Wilson’s grip. “Tell me now. What did I do?”

“Not now.” Wilson hooked his arm in hers and started her walking again.

Didier stepped ahead and pulled open the front door.

Fight.

Agnes jolted again, then shook her arm free and turned to face Wilson. “No. I won’t go until you tell me what I’ve done.” Her voice was loud, shrill. “What are you arresting me for?”

Wilson shoved her through the open door and swung around to face her. He pushed his face close to hers, his lower teeth showing through his lips. “Murder,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Three of them.”

W
HAT DID THE TWERP WANT THIS TIME?
A
COMMAND
to appear in Mulvaney’s office never sat well with Jason Powers, particularly when it came like today’s: “Get your ass in here right away.”

Jason sank into the fake leather easy chair and mouthed a curse when the worn springs dropped his hips several inches below his knees. The armrests boxed him in to shoulder height so he pinched his elbows against his sides. The Mulvaney straightjacket.

Christian Mulvaney lit a cigarette from the last flickering glow of the previous one. He paced behind his desk, dwarfed by it.

In the six years Jason had worked at the
Santa Rosa Press Democrat,
he’d seldom seen his boss sit in the high-backed chair behind the oversized desk. Mulvaney paced when he talked. Paced when he read. Paced when he was on the telephone. Seven ashtrays were positioned around the office, and he used every one of them.

“I hate to say this, Powers, but your seniority is about to go in the toilet. You need to show me something right away or I’ll have to send you back to the daily room.”

Jason shifted his six-foot frame as much as the chair allowed. “You have a problem with my stories?”

“Your stories are fine. But for the last several months you’ve been slow with them.”

“I’m slow because I’m thorough.”

Mulvaney tapped a half-inch ash into an ashtray on a small table by the window. He lifted his leg and swung one hip up onto the edge of his desk. His next drag consumed nearly one-fourth of the remaining white paper of the cigarette.

Jason pulled his ankle up to cross his knee, but it wouldn’t stay there. He returned the foot to the floor. Sitting, Mulvaney disrupted the equilibrium in the room. It felt like the earth’s magnetic field was in the middle of a reversal.

“Let me put it this way, Powers. You’re an excellent investigative reporter. Trouble is, you need to be a good investigative reporter.” Mulvaney paused for another long drag. “Know what I mean?”

Jason shifted in the chair again. No sense answering. An explanation followed each of Mulvaney’s stingers, whether or not comprehension was acknowledged.

“Look at it from my desk. Fewer and fewer people are reading newspapers these days. I don’t know what it is with the younger generation, but they don’t want solid reporting or meaningful comment. They want flashy sound bites and attractive women reading from teleprompters with those fake color contact lenses.”

“And that’s my fault?”

Mulvaney stayed on the desk. “Television and the Internet are the competition. They can get news out as it’s happening. We’re tied to evening deadlines and once-a-day distribution. We report yesterday’s news, so we can’t let it slip any later than that.” He finished off his cigarette, lit another, and walked behind his desk.

Jason leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “The stuff I do isn’t straight news. It doesn’t have the same deadlines. And my writing is good.”

Mulvaney pivoted, throwing ashes from the end of his cigarette. “Yeah, but even the best writing is useless if it’s stale. You still have to be quick and good. Like you were before.”

Before? Jason blew a full breath and inhaled quickly to keep the thick, smoky air from entering his lungs. “Before what? I’ve maintained regular submissions. The bigger stories take time. They need more attention.”

Mulvaney stabbed his half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray and flopped into his chair. He rolled toward the desk and the casters squealed like they’d run over a family of mice.

Jason’s eyes locked on to the source of the rising smoke-snake on the desk. Mulvaney never wasted a butt.

“Jason.” Mulvaney took a deep breath and let it out with a suppressed cough. His voice was soft, missing the usual rasp.

Jason? That was a first.

“Someone needs to say this,” Mulvaney said. “And I know what’s left of your family won’t do it.”

The cigarette continued to smoke itself in the ashtray. What was he up to? A show to motivate him?

“I know what’s been going on. Everyone does.”

Jason raised his elbows toward the armrests but gave up. “Going on with what?”

“Your productivity.” Mulvaney pulled a cigarette from a half-crumpled pack, but he didn’t light it. “Ever since your fiancée walked out on you.”

Eugenia? “That has nothing—”

“Let me finish. I’m worried about you. You’ve always had a bright future in this business, but you’re about to throw it away.”

Jason folded his hands together on his lap. How long was Eugenia going to haunt him? “I’m turning in quality stories.” His voice was near a whisper. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Jason, this newspaper is my life. This isn’t a stepping-stone position for me. You may not realize it, but I’m proud when our reporters move up to a major market. I like to think it’s because of what they’ve learned here. What they’ve learned from me. I have high hopes for you. But you’re about to blow it.”

Jason flicked his hands upward and let them slap back down on his thighs. “How?”

“That’s what’s been bothering me. Ever since … your problem … I don’t know how to say this.” Mulvaney twiddled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Most people would go into a funk, neglect their work. Not you. You’ve been working day and night. Harder than everyone else. But your productivity still has gone down. Think of what I said earlier. I think you’re being too good. You don’t need to triple-or quadruple-verify a source when a double check will do. You don’t have to dig back into everyone’s childhoods to explain their actions. Here’s a good journalistic quote for you: Thoroughness isn’t served by redundancy. You get it now?”

Jason gripped his thighs. Righteous bastard probably never had his heart ripped out with no hope of reattachment.

Mulvaney lit the cigarette and inhaled the tip red. He exhaled the smoke through his nose. “I’m trying to help you here. You have to get back on track. Do you know how much competition there is for positions at the
Chronicle,
or in LA, for the
Times?
You think I’m rough on you? They won’t give you the benefit of an ass chewing.”

“This is an ass chewing?”

Mulvaney stood and walked around the desk. “No. This is an ass nibbling. I’m not good at motivational speeches and rah-rah camaraderie.” He took another drag. “Try this.” Smoke punctuated each word. “You’ve got someone breathing on your heels. She’s sharp as hell. Not bad to look at, either.”

“Yolanda?”

“You could learn from her.”

“I could pierce my belly button, too.”

Mulvaney half-laughed, half-coughed out a cloud of smoke. “Good idea. I could attach a chain and give it a yank when you dally.”

“I don’t dally. I told you, I’m thorough. Maybe she could learn something from me.”

Mulvaney massaged his temples. “Okay. Good cop, bad cop time.” He finished off the cigarette and mashed it into an ashtray. He pulled another from the pack. “Don’t go Pulitzer on me. You young hotshots think you know the news. Here’s a flash for you. You ain’t shit. You’re just a grunt doing the fieldwork. Save your dreams for the nights and give me what I want when you’re on the clock. But get that girl out of your mind. She’s gone. It’s over. Move on, damn it.”

Fuck him. Eugenia was everything. Someone like her couldn’t be stubbed out like a cigarette butt.

“I mean it. Forget her.”

Jason scooted to the edge of the chair and saluted.

“Yes, sir. Is that all, boss?”

“No. You just don’t get it. How long are you going to let her ruin your life? She did you dirt, what, four months ago? She’s long gone and you’re letting her do it to you over and over every day. I’m giving you one more chance to get back to where you were. And it’s a good one.” Mulvaney lifted a manila folder from his desk, but didn’t open it. “You’re on the Menstrual Murderer story. Female serial killers are as rare as honest politicians. But don’t slip into redundancy. Don’t try to psychoanalyze everyone and their cousins. I’m throwing you a softball here.”

Jason inched farther forward. “That’d be great if anyone knew where she was, or who she was.”

A smile pulled Mulvaney’s lips tight against his cigarette. He shook the folder. “This is why I like my job. I got a tip. Something just broke on the case. Up in Mendocino. You need to get up there right away.”

Jason covered his face with his hands. Not Mendocino. Anyplace but there. He raised his head. “They don’t like me much in Mendocino.”

“God damn it. I can give the job to Yolanda, if you want.”

Jason shook his head. Mulvaney didn’t have a clue, didn’t remember. All this hadn’t started with Eugenia. It had started in Mendocino. Two years ago. Eugenia had taken his heart, but Mendocino had taken his soul.

“Powers? Do you want the assignment or not?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll get on it.”

“Okay, but if you don’t curl my toes with this one, I’ll yank you like a leashed Chihuahua. If I call you in and you stop to piss, you’ll be working obituaries.” He reached for the cigarette pack. “You got it?”

Jason pushed hard on the armrests and struggled, but stood. “Right in the tailpipe, boss.”

“Good.” Mulvaney tapped the filter end of a cigarette on the desk and turned to the window. “And remember what I said. I want the old Jason back.”

Jason paused at the door and pushed a framed diploma crooked on the wall so a slash of pristine white paint showed against the surrounding yellow. It was a game he played every time he came into the office, and the diploma was always straight on his next visit. He opened, then slammed the door hard enough to keep the pollution in the office, but not hard enough to alert his co-workers down the hall. He dusted his clothes with his hands. His first impulse was to rid himself of Christian Mulvaney. To be the apple that fell far from that tree. But Mulvaney was a master at invoking the laws of Sir Isaac Newton. For good reason—he was right.

Jason pounded his fist against his thigh. Because of Eugenia he had thrown himself into his work, but now he realized it was just to stay busy. That’s why he was so deliberate. What had Mulvaney called it? Redundant. It was all done to keep his mind off of her. Worked really well, huh?

This time he’d do it right. It was time to show Eugenia she couldn’t hurt him any longer. No. To show himself, not her. He would survive Mulvaney and the
Press Democrat.
Survive Eugenia.

Jason relaxed his fist and his hand fell to his side. Surviving Mendocino was another story.

N
IGHTMARES DIDN’T HURT.
B
UT
A
GNES’S WRISTS
stung, even though the handcuffs had come off five minutes ago. Or was it ten? They were on again, off again through the booking. And the whole while, the pain persisted. Not a nightmare. Or was it?

The room was bare, painfully bright, and filled with apprehension. It triggered a brief flicker of a memory—of another room, about the same size. But it was dim, gloomy. And cluttered. Could opposites produce identical feelings of trepidation? At that, her mind turned away as if a heavy door had slammed the second room shut. All that remained was the glare of fluorescent lights, illuminating a stark table and three chairs, and a round clock on the wall that seemed to make a
tsk
sound every time the second hand jumped. And why only three chairs? A table had four sides. Four sides, four chairs.