The Body Reader (14 page)

CHAPTER 29

J
ude halted in the middle of the sidewalk, surprised to see that Kennedy Broder was more girl than woman. Short, wearing skinny jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a purple beret on her chin-length red hair.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you ever since I heard you were alive,” the young woman said.

Jude was a master when it came to evading the press and curiosity seekers. This person was just one of hundreds who’d apparently tried to reach her after her escape.

“Back when you disappeared,” Kennedy said, “I tried to tell the cops about my boyfriend, tried to tell them there was some connection, but nobody listened.”

Jude urged the girl out of foot traffic. A short distance away, people waited in line for the noon food truck.

“I remember him now,” Jude said when they reached the shade of a towering stone building. She and Ian Caldwell had met at a coffee shop in Uptown. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

Here was another person seeking closure, looking for answers, looking to make sense of a thing that would never make sense—the death of a loved one. And yet Jude felt the need to say something that would give the young woman a clear picture of that day. “We grabbed a coffee and sat down,” Jude said. “As soon as he introduced himself, his phone rang. He said he had to go, and he left. That’s all there was to it. We didn’t even have time for a conversation.” She gestured and shook her head in an attempt to drive home the lack of conversation they’d had. “I’m surprised I even remember him.”

Jude glanced down the sidewalk, saw Uriah moving through the crowd, a question in his eyes.

“You never knew why he wanted to meet with you?”

“No.”

The girl stared, unwilling or maybe unable to accept what she was hearing. She’d had so much riding on this moment, and she’d been waiting for so long. “I kept hoping you might know something. He was investigating a missing girl named Octavia Germaine.”

Octavia Germaine
. . . Why did that name sound familiar?

“I don’t know much about the case, but she’s never been found. I always wondered if his murder had something to do with her.”

“I don’t even deal with missing persons,” Jude said. It didn’t make sense. Kennedy must have been confused. “How did he die?”

“He was beaten and robbed.”

Highly unlikely that it had any connection to his meeting with Jude. People were beaten and robbed in Minneapolis every single day, and young males were often the targets.

“They never found who did it,” the girl said. “I
want
them to find who did it. And I always had this idea—this
hope
—that you might know.” Her eyes glistened and she bit her lip. “I wasn’t even around when it happened. I feel horrible about that. We were taking a break from each other, and I was in Portland staying with friends.”

“I’m sorry,” Jude said. “I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

The girl produced a missing person flyer and handed it to Jude. Octavia Germaine was a pretty girl, about sixteen, with straight dark-blond hair. And now Jude remembered why the name sounded familiar. Germaine’s photo had been in her desk. And was now locked in the evidence room.

“I don’t know why I even brought it,” Kennedy said, then turned and walked away.

Uriah strolled up, a red-and-white fast-food container cradled in one hand, paper bag in the other. “I got extra for you.” Then, “What was that about?” He pointed behind him where Kennedy’s purple beret could still be seen, much smaller now as she melted into the crowd.

Jude told him, folding the photo of Octavia Germaine and sticking it in the pocket of her jacket.

“You’ve said you don’t remember your abduction. I’m wondering if you’re missing more of that day. Maybe missing pieces of your visit with this Caldwell guy.”

“That’s what I’m wondering too.”

“You don’t know why he wanted to talk to you?”

“No, but I do know you were right. I shouldn’t be here. In Homicide.” What happened in there with her father had once again brought home the fact that her history, long ago and recent, was compromising their investigation. The press wasn’t going to forget her story or who she was. “And I’m pretty sure Ortega is thinking about letting me go. I don’t blame her.”

She expected him to agree.

“Are you afraid?” he asked. “Is that what’s really going on? Because fear is nothing to be ashamed of. Fear will keep you alive.
Lack of fear?
That’ll kill you. You were attacked. You found a head in your helmet. I mean, come on. That’s some messed-up stuff.”

At least he didn’t say it had happened on top of everything else. “I
am
afraid,” she said. “But not for the reasons you think. We have a girl who might be dead because of us.
That
scares me.”

“We were doing our job. Being a cop means collateral damage.”

“I’m not one of those people who thinks one or two deaths is worth it as long as you save twenty lives in the process,” she said. “One death is one too many. One death is unacceptable and unforgivable. And a young girl—a young, sixteen-year-old girl? We should have put a watch on her.”

“We can’t put a watch on everybody.”

Realizing they were still standing on the sidewalk, they began moving in the direction of the parking garage and their unmarked car. Uriah offered her the paper bag. She shook her head. “Maybe later.”

“Then take it while I eat this thing,” he said, indicating the falafel in the red-and-white tray.

She took the bag.

“I know it’s none of my business, but want to talk about what’s going on between you and your father?” he asked between bites, eating as they walked. You’d think they were at the state fair.

Seeing her father seemed to have flipped a switch in her brain, and she was surprised at the anger still vibrating in her. And knowing the circus had been partially orchestrated by Ortega? That pissed her off too.

“Weren’t you seven or eight when your mother died?” Uriah asked.

“Old enough for decent recall.”

“Kids get things mixed up all the time. When I think of some of the stuff I believed when I was a kid—”

“You’re just like the rest of them. I was eight, not two or three. An eight-year-old has the ability to understand, especially on an emotional level.”

“I’m just trying to put things together.”

“Don’t overwork your brain. The man is evil. Take my word for it. Or don’t take my word for it. Go back in there and kiss his ass like the rest of the city.”

“Whoa.” He stopped, surprised by her anger. Yeah, seeing her father had definitely lit a fire in her.

“Okay. I’ll tell you what happened so you can dismiss it like everybody else. My parents had a huge fight. A short time later, my mother was dead. I saw my father standing over my dead mother, a gun in his hand, a satisfied smirk on his face.”

“And your brother?”

“He was there. And that’s the story, isn’t it? That he was shooting cans and my mother walked into his line of fire. My dad took the gun from him when he arrived on the scene. Makes sense, right? Don’t tell me people fight. Don’t tell me I was a kid and misread what happened. Or that anguish can sometimes look like a smile. I’ve heard it all before. Now let’s never talk about this again.” She could see he wanted to ask more questions. She could see the disbelief he couldn’t hide from her, along with the compassion.

Their phones buzzed simultaneously, indicating a text. They pulled out the devices and checked their screens. A message from the BCA:
We have a match on the body collected from the basement. Information is being sent to Homicide over your secure network.

“Let’s find some privacy to check the file,” Uriah said once the car was parked and they were on the second floor of the Minneapolis Police Department.

In one of the private meeting rooms, Jude closed the door as Uriah settled himself in front of a computer and logged on to their VPN. Jude stood behind his chair, eyes on the monitor. An authentication password followed by a few key clicks, and a man’s face, along with his rap sheet, filled the screen.

Those eyes . . . Large pupils surrounded by tangled brown hair. Jude reached blindly for something, anything, her hand grabbing at the edge of the table.

“Hey.” Uriah wheeled out a chair. “Sit.”

She dropped into the seat and waited for the blackness to recede. His hand on the back of her neck forced her forward until her head was between her knees. Uriah’s voice finally cut through the roar in her head, and a minute later she straightened, her vision clear, her face and body drenched in sweat.

“I take it that’s him,” Uriah said.

“Yeah.”

Uriah got up and returned with a cup of water. With a trembling hand, she took a long drink. It helped.

He had a name. The man who’d done such awful things to her. He had a name. She looked back at the screen. This time seeing his face didn’t bring on a faint, but it made her heart slam, made her mouth go dry all over again.

Humphrey Salazar. She could read him, feel the anger he’d felt moments before the camera had captured his emotions. She’d been at the receiving end of that anger many times.

Humphrey. She would never have guessed such evil would have a name like Humphrey. Even Salazar seemed innocuous.

“You sure it’s him?” Uriah asked.

“I know that face. Every line, every muscle.”

Uriah leaned back in his chair, one arm on the table. “You did it, Jude. He’s dead. He can’t ever hurt you again. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

“Yes.” Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much of her captor she carried with her. How he’d been living under her skin and in her very marrow. But now, knowing he was no longer a breathing thing—
thing
because he could never be a man, never be human—she could wash him off. No, not for good. Not completely. She would never be completely free until she herself was dead, but what was happening inside her felt almost like a rebirth.

But then she remembered . . .

“What?” Uriah asked.

It seemed she wasn’t the only body reader in the room.

“Nothing.” Yes, she wanted to think this was it. That it was over. She wanted to think that Salazar was the most evil person she’d ever encounter, but someone was killing young women, decapitating them. It didn’t get much more evil than that.

For some reason, maybe because she didn’t want to ruin this moment of triumph, she decided not to share her thoughts. Instead, she reached for the keyboard and logged out. “I think I’ll have something to eat now.”

Uriah pulled a falafel from the bag, unwrapped it, and slid the paper-lined foil across the table. “Foxy Falafel is the best.”

Jude examined the red cabbage inside the pita bread. “I’ve never had one of these.”

“That’s criminal.”

She took a bite. Her expression must have gone from doubtful to pleased, because Uriah said, “Good, right?”

Jude’s phone vibrated, indicating a text. She checked the screen. It was a message from Evidence. They were releasing her bike, and apparently someone had even repaired the fuel line.

CHAPTER 30

D
own the street from Jude’s apartment, Grant Vang sat in an unmarked car munching on an energy bar while watching people enter and exit her building. His partner in surveillance was a green kid named Craig who was positioned in the alley in another car. Nobody was getting in or out without being seen.

It had been four days since Jude’s attack, and so far they’d spotted no unusual activity unless you counted a drug deal and a couple having sex in a car.

Surveillance was being pulled soon. The money and especially the manpower just wasn’t there. At that point, Jude would have the option to hire someone herself or move to a more secure area—maybe an apartment attached to the skyway, like the place Uriah lived.

Vang was overqualified for surveillance, and Ortega had originally tapped another officer, but when Vang offered, Ortega gave him the job even though he was already stretched with the task force. Maybe she figured he wanted to help keep an eye on one of their own. She was right about that. And he particularly wanted to keep an eye on Jude.

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then back at the apartment building while he blindly hit the “Answer” button. “Hey, Jude.”

His own little lame joke that he’d kept going for years. He wasn’t sure if she’d ever thought it was funny, not even back when she still had a sense of humor. Hard to believe she’d once been one of the craziest in the department. And by crazy, he meant crazy in a fun way.

“I’m inside,” she told him.

Five minutes earlier he’d watched her motorcycle come up the street, turn, and head down the alley, where it entered the building from below. Her instructions were to report to him as soon as she was in her apartment.

Dependable, efficient Jude Fontaine. Definitely a different person from the one he’d known years ago. She’d seemed almost a kid back then. But she’d been a good detective, one of them. She’d joke around and hit the bars after her shift. Hang out. She’d also enjoyed sex, maybe a little too much.

No hanging out or sex going on now. Well, maybe she and Ashby shared a drink or two, but even that idea seemed remote. From what Vang could tell, she went straight home when she got off work. She had no other life. Work, home.

“The space is clear,” she said. “And I’ve locked the dead bolt.”

The building was more secure than it looked. Cameras in the halls, dead bolts on the doors, underground parking that could be accessed only with a code.

He told her good night.

Time dragged, but midnight finally came. A car pulled up behind him and shut off its lights. Vang checked the rearview mirror and recognized his shift replacement. Eager to get the hell out of there, he turned the key in the ignition and took off. Twelve hours straight, hardly moving, peeing in a jug. He wasn’t sure how people did this kind of thing full-time.

Instead of going home, he headed straight for the all-night gym on Lyndale, parked in the lot, swiped his passkey, and went inside. In the locker room he tugged his T-shirt over his head.

Was he putting on weight? he wondered, eying his profile in the full-length mirror. Was that possible? Could a guy put on weight in a few days?

He pinched the flesh on his belly. Nothing worse than flab on a skinny guy. Then he ran his fingers across the scar on his biceps. He’d gotten it when he was sixteen. Gang fight. He’d lived, but his brother had died.

Shortly after that, he’d decided to become a cop. A kid’s stupid idea, but his Hmong mother and grandmother were still so proud that even today he couldn’t admit it had been a mistake. And maybe it wasn’t. It gave him an acceptance he wouldn’t have otherwise.

His phone buzzed and he checked the screen. Not a call this time, but a text from Jude:
Thanks.

She knew he left at midnight.

His reply:
Anytime.

He still had a weakness for Jude Fontaine.