City of the Lost (6 page)

I take out my phone to call 911. Her eye opens. One eye, the other swollen shut. One bloodshot eye that looks up at me as she whispers, “No.”

Diana won’t let me call 911. I help her into the living room, set her on the couch, and try to argue, but she’s crying, verging on sobs, shaking her head so vehemently that blood and tears fleck the sofa.

“You need a hospital,” I say.

“I’m fine,” she says, and shudders as she gets her crying under control.

“You were passed out on the goddamn—”

Her flinch asks me not to swear.

“You passed out on the floor, Di.”

“No, my head was hurting, so I lay down. I didn’t fall.”

“And that makes a difference? A blow to the head means a concussion—”

“Which we have some experience treating, don’t we?” She tries for a smile and her face crumples instead. “I can’t do it, Casey. I know you want me to be stronger, but I’m just so tired of this. The police won’t believe me, and I can’t keep defending myself. Nothing good comes of it.”

“Whatever your attacker said, don’t listen. It’s not about Graham this time. It’s my problem. I’ll fix it.”

Her face screws up. “You?”

“Leo Saratori found me,” I said. “It was that therapist. That goddamn therapist.”

Diana continues to stare in confusion. “Therapist?”

“She must have looked up my story and told someone and somehow it got back to Saratori. But it’s definitely him, so no matter what your attacker said—”

“Casey, it was Graham.”

“He said it was Graham?”

“No, this.” She waved at herself. “It was Graham. He did this.”

Is it possible to screw up more than I have in the last few days? First I tell a stranger my deepest secret and expect client–therapist privilege to cover it. Next I’m stalked in the parking garage and dismiss it. Then I go to my lover’s and lead my stalker to him. And, finally, I believe my best friend is safe because her psycho ex checked out of his hotel.

I screwed up. People suffered. People I care about.

Diana tells me that Graham came by around midnight. He must have figured out she was there and, not seeing my car in the garage, hoped I wasn’t.

“I did open the door,” she says. “But I was holding it. I only wanted to get rid of him. I had my phone out to call you if he wouldn’t leave, and the next thing I knew, he was inside and he had my phone.”

“We’re calling the police. There’s video this time. The lobby has surveillance. It’ll show Graham coming and going, and there’s going to be blood on him when he leaves. We’ve got him, Di. We’ve finally got him.”

The superintendent knows I’m a cop, which is damned inconvenient most times—I’m the tenant she calls when she has a question about anything from eviction to parking enforcement. But I’ve been patient and polite, and it pays off now.

The security tapes show Graham arriving at 11:48 p.m. Twenty minutes later, he’s walking out. Both times, he’s wearing a jacket.

“He took it off,” Diana says. “When I answered the door, he had it over his arm.”

Of course he did. Easier to punch without a jacket restricting your swing. Also easy to put it on afterward and hide the blood.

Graham looks at the camera. He smiles. He mouths, “Hi, Casey,” winks, and continues on.

“He said something,” Diana whispers. “Right to the camera. Did you see that?”

I nod.

“Can you make out what he said?”

I shake my head. What would I say?
I did this. I’m sorry, Di. I was trying to fix the problem. Desperately trying to fix it, and I made a mistake. All he had to do was switch hotels and lie low for a day, and I sauntered off to spend the night with Kurt, convinced I’d scared Graham away.

I hadn’t spooked him. I’d only pissed him off.

I watch the video three more times, searching for even a smear of blood, but the quality is too poor, and he’s too careful. He’s done it again, and I’ve failed her. Again.

It’s dawn when Diana begs me to let her look into her impossible town.
For both of us. Just let me ask my contact. You don’t have to do a thing. I won’t tell anyone your real story. We’ll make something up. I’d never put you in danger, Casey. Never. I know it’s a risk, but … Graham. And now Leo Saratori. I need to be safe, Casey. I need you to be safe, too.

I know this town isn’t real. But the only way she’ll accept that is to find out for herself.

I say yes.

By the next day, Diana has found a phone number to contact these people. That seems too easy—shouldn’t we need to provide details, prove ourselves first?—so I insist on being the one to make contact, and she doesn’t argue.

I find a pay phone and place the call. A woman picks up with “J & L Moving Services, how may I help you?” and I almost hang up. Then I process the business name.
Moving services
. Okay …

“I was given this number—”

“—to discuss engaging our services to assist in your move,” she says.

“Yes, but—”

“That’s all we need to discuss at the moment. We run a very confidential service.” In other words,
stop talking. Stop talking now
. “I am unable to answer any questions you might have until we agree to proceed with serious consideration of you as a client. We are very selective. Do you have access to a fax machine?”

“Uh … yes?”

“Please fax us a copy of your passport and driver’s licence along with a number where we may reach you. Thank you for your interest in—”

“There are two of us,” I say.

A pause. “I’m sorry. You have been misinformed. We provide services for single individuals only. We cannot assist in the moving plans of spouses, partners, children—”

“She’s a friend and we both need to move.”

Another pause. “All right then. Send both sets of identification.” She hung up.

I fax the identification and provide the number from a prepaid cell I buy for the purpose. It’s less than twelve hours before I get a call requesting our “reason for moving.”

“Fax us a written note explaining the situation, along with all supporting documentation. We will require proof of your claim.”

“Anything else?” I ask. “Details on us personally.”

The voice takes on a slight edge of amusement. “We have your identification. That is enough for us to retrieve what we need, detective.”

Okay, they’ve already started doing their homework.

“There is also the matter of our fee,” she says. “Five thousand each to cover the costs of the transfer and integrating you into your new home. I trust that’s satisfactory?”

We’d already been warned of this, and I’ve agreed to pay Diana’s fee as well as my own. I say that’s fine and sign off.

I scan and send supporting documentation from Diana’s hospital visits and official complaints against Graham and newspaper articles on my attack and a copy of the police report on Kurt’s shooting.

Her story is the truth. Mine is that those who attacked me in the alley years ago had mistaken me for someone else, and they continued to stalk me, culminating in the attack on Kurt. Do I expect them to believe that? Not really. If there’s any chance this town is legit, I’m hoping that if these people call bullshit on me they’ll still grant Diana admission. She’ll be safe, and that’s what counts. Then I’ll transfer to a new city to protect Kurt, and then … well, whatever. The point is they’ll both be safe.

Again, it’s less than twelve hours before the next call. I’m told we’ve passed the documentation check and are okayed for the next step: the in-person interview. She rattles off a time and an address.

“That’s local?” I say.

“We come to you.”

“And I’ll meet what, a selection committee?”

“You will meet Valerie, our firm’s representative and client liaison.”

“She’ll answer my questions, to verify the legitimacy of your firm?”

Silence. I say, “What I mean is—”

“Yes, I understand your meaning. You wish to make sure we are what we say we are, we can do what we say we can. Most clients don’t bother.” A soft sound that may even be a chuckle. “Valerie will do her best to satisfy your doubt, detective. She cannot get into details—she must put our existing clientele first. But she should be able to satisfy your concerns.”

We meet Valerie at 10 p.m. in a random office building. Yes, an office building. She even looks at home there: middle management, late forties, greying hair cut in no discernible style, decade-old suit.

There’s no small talk, no offer of coffee or tea. She ushers us straight into a meeting room that’s as stark and impersonal as my apartment. Rent-an-office? Never knew there was such a thing. It does come with an interesting feature, though: one-way glass. I walk to the mirror and pretend to fuss with my hair. Then I wave into the mirror and take a seat.

Valerie is pulling a folder from her satchel when the door opens. A guy stands there. He’s around my age with dark blond hair cut short, and a beard somewhere between shadow and scruff. Six feet or so. Rugged build. Tanned face. Steel-grey eyes with a slight squint, crow’s feet already forming at the corners. A guy who spends a lot of time outdoors and doesn’t wear sunglasses or sunscreen as often as he should.

“You,” he says, those grey eyes fixing on me. He jerks his chin to the door.

“We’ve just started—” Valerie begins.

“Separate interviews.”

“That’s not—”

He turns that gaze on her, and she freezes like a new hire caught on an extra coffee break. He doesn’t say another word. Nor does she. I follow him out.

He takes me into the room behind the one-way glass and points to a chair.

“Local law enforcement, I presume?” I say.

He just keeps pointing. Now
I
fidget under his stare, like I’m the misbehaving new hire.

“You’re not getting in,” he says.

“To your town, I presume. Because I don’t take direction well?”

“No, because of Blaine Saratori.”

I sit down. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late. He takes the opposite chair.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?” he says. “You and Saratori get attacked, and he runs, leaving you to get the shit kicked out of you. Then, apparently, the guys who beat you up come back and shoot him … two months after your attack. Which is also a week after you get out of the hospital. And the person who called in the shooting? A young woman. I got hold of the police report. They questioned you but, considering your condition, ruled you out. Which means they were fucking lousy detectives.”

No, I was just a fucking good actor. The broken eighteen-year-old girl who could barely walk, couldn’t even think straight yet, certainly couldn’t plan and get away with murder.

I could deny it. He can’t have proof. But I’m tired of denying it. I just say, “I understand.”

I don’t really. There’s a little part of me that wants to say,
Why?
For the first time ever, I actually want to defend myself—to point out what those thugs did to me because of Blaine, to say I didn’t intend to kill him, to say I’ve punished myself more than Leo Saratori ever could. Instead I only say,
I understand
.

“Good,” he says. “Saves me from a bullshit interview. Now we’ll sit here for twenty minutes.”

I manage two. Then I glance through the one-way glass. Diana is talking to Valerie.

“Will she get in?” I ask.

“No.”

I look at him, startled. “But she needs it. Her ex—”

“I don’t like her story. Not enough supporting evidence. You’re the detective. Would you believe her?”

“Given that I’m the one who’s had to mop up her blood? Yes, I would.”

“You expect me to take your word for that?” He shakes his head before I can answer. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t run a charity camp. Usefulness is as important as need. We don’t have any use for someone in—what is it—accounting?”

“Then she’ll learn a trade. She can sew—she makes most of her own clothes. You must need that.”

When he doesn’t answer, I think about what he’s just said. Two things—that he doesn’t want me in this town, and that they favour those with relevant skills. Now I understand why they rushed to grant us this interview.

“Your town needs a detective,” I say. “And something tells me it’s not because you’re low on your visible-minority quota.”

He frowns, pure incomprehension.

I continue, “Someone who outranks you wants a detective, and you don’t appreciate the insinuation that you—or your force—need help.”

I thought his gaze was steel before. I was wrong. It was stone. Now I get steel, sharp and cold. “No,” he says, enunciating. “I am the one who requested a detective. I just don’t want you.”

“Wrong gender?”

Again, that look of incomprehension. It’s not feigned, either, as if he genuinely doesn’t know why that would be an issue.

“My age, then. I’m too young.”

“You’re two months older than me, and I’m the sheriff. So, no, it’s not age. This isn’t open for debate. I need a detective, but I don’t want you. End of discussion.”

“Is it? Someone made you go through with this meeting, meaning it’s not entirely your decision to make, sheriff.” I look at the one-way glass again. “How about a deal? Take Diana. She won’t go without me, so tell her I’m coming. Tell her that I need training and debriefing before I arrive. After she’s there, I’ll change my mind.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. I don’t want to go; I just want her to.”

He looks at me as if I’m on a dissection table and he’s peeling back layer after layer. At least a minute passes, and he still doesn’t answer.

“One more thing,” I say.

He snorts, as if to say, “I knew it.”

“I don’t believe in Santa Claus,” I say. “Never did. Not in Santa, not the Easter Bunny, not four-leaf clovers. Which is the long way of saying I don’t believe in your town. Give me proof, and you can have Diana.”

“
Have
her? I don’t want—”

“But you don’t want
me
even more. So this is the deal, sheriff … I ask questions, and if I’m convinced your town is plausible, I’ll proceed with my application. You’ll throw your support behind us getting in. Once Diana is safely there, I’ll change my mind. Fair enough?”