Excerpt
Chapter One
Long after she moved on, she would remember the smells. Her eyes, she kept closed—she’d never been a watcher, and most of the time there wasn’t anything worth looking at. But the smells were always there. Sometimes she made a game out of it. She could usually tag them by their aftershave. Brut. Old Spice. The man who reeked of Opium. Those were easy. It was when they didn’t bother to clean up, when their greasy hair or body odor or foul breath made her gag, that it got hard. Then she stopped playing the game and took shallow breaths through her mouth.
There was also the dusty smell of the blankets. The starchy scent of the sheets. The faint residue of smoke in the rug and curtains. In nicer hotels, she might catch a lingering trace of disinfectant.
But the smell of sex—that was always the same. It didn’t matter whether the man was white or black or Asian. It didn’t matter the state of his personal hygiene. Sex gave off that slightly chemical, briny odor. Sometimes yeasty. Sometimes flavored with sweat. It wasn’t offensive. Just different.
As she rolled off his body, his aftershave cut through the smell of sex. Spicy but sweet. She didn’t recognize it, but she knew it was expensive. She sat up. The room was large and elegantly furnished. Late afternoon sun spilled through wooden window slats. He always brought her to nice hotels. And he paid well. They never haggled over price.
She grabbed the small towel she’d left at the end of the bed and gently rubbed his cock. He moaned and stretched out his arms. He claimed he liked to clean up right away, but she knew he just wanted some extra attention.
She kept rubbing. “How we doing?”
He kept his eyes shut, but a smile tickled his lips, and he angled his pelvis up toward the towel. “Mmmm.”
Men were so predictable. But this was what made it worthwhile. Besides the money. She loved the moment when they reached the edge of passion and couldn’t hold on any longer. When they shot into her, relinquishing everything. The feeling of power at that moment was incredible. And addictive.
She massaged him for another minute, then stopped. Always leave them wanting, she’d learned. Sometimes it meant another round. And more money. This time, though, he didn’t move. He lay so still she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She hoped not. She had another appointment.
She bunched up the towel and lobbed it across the room. It landed on her black leather mini-skirt. Damn. She’d paid nearly two hundred dollars for it, another two for the jacket. No way she’d let it get ruined by a sex-stained towel. She got out of bed, picked up the clothes and the Coach bag lying nearby. She remembered when she bought the bag. How she handed over the three hundred dollar bills with a blasé expression, trying not to show how proud she was to have that kind of cash. How the sales clerk at Old Orchard Mall squinted, trying to hide her envy. Yes, it was worth it.
She headed into the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open. He liked to watch her get dressed. She tried to remember if he’d always been that way. She thought not. Of course, things were different then. She smiled to herself. If he only knew. She cleaned herself up and put on the skirt, then the filmy see-through blouse. She checked herself out in the mirror, pirouetting left then right. She’d lost a few pounds over the summer, and she liked her new lean look. She’d be shopping for winter clothes soon. That would be fun.
She was reapplying her make-up, thinking about Prada boots and Versace sweaters when his cell chirped. She heard him curse, then fumble around for his jacket. She heard the metallic click as he flipped the phone open.
“Yeah?”
She studied her hair in the mirror. It had come down, and her blond waves and curls framed her face. But she had another job, so she rolled it back up into a twist. With her hair, her make-up and clothes, no one recognized her. Including “Charlie.” She almost giggled. Charlie. What kind of name was that for a john? He should have been more creative. Sometimes she said her name was Stella. The object of desire. Better than that stupid streetcar.
“I’m in a meeting,” he said into the cell.
She couldn’t hear who he was talking to, but the long exhalation that followed told her he wasn’t going to be hanging up.
“That’s what we’re meeting about.” A pause. “The funeral’s at Christ Church up here. She refuses to go back to the old neighborhood.” Another pause. “Memorial Park.”
She stopped fiddling with her hair.
“I told you. I don’t want to talk about it. This wasn’t my idea. I told you I would handle Fred. But you couldn’t wait. Now we’re both up shit creek.”
Fred? She dropped her arms and slowly turned around. He sat on the edge of the bed, his profile to her. His cell was glued to his ear, and he was trying to pull up his pants with his free hand. She leaned against the bathroom door.
“Of course, she’s upset.” He snapped the button of his trousers. “He’s the only one in the family she talked to. For him to die—alone—in a fire—she’s devastated. Everyone is. I told you not to jump the gun. We were practically there.”
She bit her lip, trying to piece it together. When she thought she had it, she sucked in a breath.
He twisted around and stared at her. The anger that ran hard across his face disappeared, and his expression grew puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’ll call you back.” He released the cell from his ear and snapped it closed.
She looked down. But not fast enough.
Chapter Two
A Princess. That’s what she looked like to him. A fairy princess.
Shh. Quiet. Don’t make a sound. Have to watch the silky, golden-haired girl. See her twist and twirl in the clearing.
He slipped behind a tree. As quiet as a mouse. A furry mouse. Mousekeeters. Karen and Cubby.
But the girls with her in the clearing were not quiet. They shouted and laughed. And made the princess spin around in a circle. She stumbled from one to another while they clapped and cheered. They should stop, he thought. Fairy princesses are not meant to fall. Fairy princesses are meant to smile, to soar, to glide. Their wands flicker as they touched the anointed, and the anointed rose up strong and powerful.
No. Must not touch myself. It is bad. Everyone says so.
The branch he’d been holding fell back, but the girls, absorbed in their chanting, didn’t notice. He waited a moment, then lifted the branch again.
The girls had gone. The princess was alone. But she did not flutter from spot to spot, bestowing magic with her wand. She stomped around the clearing, her arms out in front. Long, bare arms, her summer tan not quite faded. He imagined the shapely, tanned legs beneath her jeans. He felt himself stiffen.
She couldn’t see. A white metal bucket covered her head. A foul smell came from the bucket. Fish. Dead fish. How did that happen? She pulled at the bucket, tugging, yanking, trying to take it off. But it would not come off. Her ring made a tinny sound against the metal. A quiet clang. Knock knock. Who’s there? Who’s coming?
“Is anybody there?” He could barely hear her muffled cries. “Please. Help. It’s getting hard to breathe!”
He let the branch fall again. Her ladies-in-waiting had abandoned her. He, the gallant prince, would rescue her. But first he had to attend to the urge. It was strong, his urge. Sometimes it consumed him. It was what he did when he saw beauty. It was the only thing that soothed him. And the fairy princess was very beautiful. He hid behind a tree and dropped his pants. Quiet. Very quiet. Can’t let anyone see.
“Hey. Come on! I need help!”
His heart began to pound. She was calling. I am here, your highness, he wanted to say. I will be there. But first, I need to do this. It will only be a minute. Minute rice. Minute men. Minute. Minute. Minute.
A moment later, he sagged and clung to the tree. He had finished. He peered around. The princess was standing strangely still. Had she heard him? No. How could she? He was always quiet. And she had that bucket on her head.
Bushes rustled on the other side of the clearing. Who was creeping out of the woods toward the princess? Was that a baseball bat in their hands? Or was it his imagination? The doctors kept saying he saw things that weren’t there. Did things he shouldn’t do. Maybe it was him. His father had bought him a Louisville slugger when he was young. Told him about Ted Williams and Harmon Killebrew. Taught him how to swing from his hips. He remembered that day. It was a good one.
Wait. What was happening? The bucket wasn’t a ball. Stop striking the bucket. The princess will get hurt! Already she was swaying from side to side. But the bat kept pounding the metal. Swing and a miss. Strike one. The princess fell to her knees, still clutching the bucket. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down. The princess was down for the count. Ten, nine, eight. One more swing connected with the bucket with a loud clannngggg. The princess dropped to the ground.
Home run. The home team won! Where are the bells? The whistles? The scoreboard lit up like the Fourth of July? A trickle of red seeped under the rim of the bucket onto the ground.
Suddenly it was quiet. Even the crickets stifled their song. He stared at the princess. She wasn’t moving. Oh god, it was good. He was good. His pants were stained. He was wet. Sticky. So was the princess. Have to mop up. Clean us both. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet. Cleaning her curds and whey.
Her sweet, milky neck. The soft, golden hair. Streaked with red now. Did he do this? He was going to be her salvation. The leaves on the trees shivered. He did too.
The Louisville slugger. It lay close to the princess. He had wanted to play Little League. Shortstop, he thought. Stop short. But he didn’t make the team. His father was angry. He remembered that day, too. It hurt. He stood up and raised the bat to his shoulders. Swing and a miss. Strike two.
Screams pierced the silence of the woods. The ladies in waiting were back. Their hands flew to their mouths. Their eyes grew wide with horror. You are too late, he wanted to call out. You could not save your Princess.
He dropped the bat and knelt down next to her body. He touched the bloody rim of the bucket. He wiped his hands on his shirt. The silence of the woods pressed in. He would have cried, if only he knew how.
Chapter Three
“That two-timing bitch,” he spat. “She’s going to pay. Big time.”
Georgia Davis tried to ignore the man’s venom, but the more he talked, the more vicious he grew. A potential client, he’d met her at Starbucks and immediately started to rant about his wife. Georgia listened, hoping she could remain dispassionate. “When did you first suspect she was seeing someone?”
“About six months ago.”
“You waited a long time to act on it.”
“I thought maybe she was telling the truth about the goddammed class. Then I called the school, and they had no fucking record of her registration.” His face grew so crimson, his body so rigid she was afraid he might explode. “She’s a whore. A godammed cheating whore. After all I’ve done for her. She was nothing before she married me.” He bunched his hands into fists. “A fucking nobody!”
Georgia sipped her coffee. The guy had come in as a referral from a PI she hardly knew. The dick worked in the western suburbs, but the client lived on the North Shore, and he thought Georgia would be better suited to the case. She’d gratefully snapped it up, but now she wasn’t so sure. Did the PI know what an asshole this guy was? Maybe she should have grilled him before she jumped.
Except the guy was paying good money. He hadn’t blinked when she gave him her per diem, payable up front, and he agreed to a bonus if she came up with the goods.
“Let me look into it, Mr. Colley,” she put down her coffee. “If it’s true, you’ll have your proof.”
“What, pictures? Videotape? Crap like that?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s gonna have to hold up in court.”
“It will.”
He eyed her skeptically. “Lamont says you’re new to this game.”
Georgia looked him in the eye. “I was a cop for ten years.”
“Where?”
“Up here. On the North Shore.”
“You spent your days tracking down lost bicycles and cats?”
And covered a lot of domestics, she thought. “Among other things.”
“This job—well—it’s not handing out speeding tickets on Happ Road. How do I know you can handle it?”
She leveled another look at him. “”You don’t.” She paused. “But if you have any doubts, you’re free to find someone else.” She lifted her bag off the back of the chair, and hiked it up on her shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.” She stood up and turned around.
“Hold on.” Colley raised his hand. “I’ll write out a check.”
***
Something was off, Georgia realized the next night.
The woman threw her arms around her boyfriend, her face so full of joy and abandon it lit up the motel parking lot. As she pressed against him, he tipped up her chin and kissed her eyes, her nose, her throat. Then he tenderly brushed the side of her cheek. She winced. He wrapped his arms around her, and the two of them clung together, as if they might melt into each other through sheer will. The man fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door to the room. The woman followed him in.
Georgia frowned and stopped her digital camera. They didn’t look like a couple in the throes of a tawdry, furtive affair. They looked like a couple in love, the kind of love that makes old people smile indulgently and causes the envious to avert their eyes. The kind of love that refuses to hide, even when it should. She’d been less than fifty yards away from the motel, filming their every move, and they never bothered to check if anyone was watching.
She curled her fingers around the camera and played back the tape through the view finder. When she got to the part where the man brushed his fingers along his lover’s cheek, Georgia zoomed in. She saw a discolored spot on the woman’s skin. A bruise.
Georgia weighed her options. She could delete the tape. Blame it on a screwed-up camera. Being married to that asshole was punishment enough. Then again, this was her living. She couldn’t afford the luxury of scruples. The domestics, the skip traces, the occasional insurance fraud—they all added up. She panned from the motel to the rear of the woman’s white Mercedes and zoomed in on a shot of her license plate. Then she panned into the rear windshield. One of those dogs with drooping folds at its neck bobbed in the window. A Beagle. With brown and white markings and floppy ears.
Finished, she headed back to her car and put the camera back in its case. She was about to start the engine for the drive back to Evanston when she changed her mind. Sliding out of the car, she made her way to the motel room and tapped lightly on the door.
At least they’d have a day’s head start.
***
Georgia watched the steam swirl around her bathroom as she toweled off the next morning. With all the humidity in here she ought to buy a fern for the window ledge. But she knew she’d never do it. She had a knack for killing things.
The phone rang in the living room. She scrambled to get it. “Davis here.”
“Georgia Davis?” It was a woman’s voice. Soft. Tentative.
“That’s right.”
The woman cleared her throat. “Hello My name is Ruth Jordan and I’m—uh—I’m calling at the suggestion of Sergeant Dan O’Malley.”
“O’Malley. How is the old—er—coot?”
The woman didn’t reply.
“Sorry, he’s a—well, sometimes, I get, well…” Georgia stopped, feeling embarrassed. “How can I help you?”
“I—I don’t quite know how to explain. I think I’m still in shock. But the Sergeant thought you might be able to help.”
O’Malley referring someone to her? That was a first. “Just start at the beginning and go slowly.”
The woman let out a breath. “Yes. Of course. Like I said, my name is Ruth Jordan. I live in Northbrook. I’m calling about my brother, Cameron. Cam, we call him.”
Wrapping the towel around her, Georgia went to her desk and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. “Go on.”
“Cam’s always been—well, how shall I say it—he’s not right in the head. Hasn’t been since—since he was a little boy.” She hesitated. “Not that he’s violent or anything. He’s just—well, they never knew quite how to diagnose him. Autistic, we’re pretty sure. But other things, too. We tried everything, of course. Sometimes he seems better for a while. It’s hard to tell. And now that our parents are gone, well, it’s just the two of us, and I—it’s hard, you know?”
Georgia tapped the pen against the pad of paper. “What’s the problem, Ms. Jordan?”
“Cam—well, Cam is in a lot of trouble.” She cleared her throat again. “He was arrested a few weeks ago, and he’s in jail. They say he killed a teenage girl.”
