Deja Who (17 page)

C
lusterfuck!

Total, utter clusterfuck. And all Archer could do was sort of stare, horrified, and be pulled in—sucked in—like Leah's rage and hurt was the damned tide and he was the hapless swimmer. And that made Detective Preston Jaws.

She'd been a block of ice once she recovered from her “it's not a faint, dammit!” It was funny that the one thing in all this awfulness, the one thing about the murder that threw Leah and freaked her out was the realization that her mom, the poster mom for selfish maternity, tried to
warn
her only daughter as she was dying.

Her mother's dying act had been selfless and Archer could see the exact second Leah made the connection; the color just
fell
out of her face and her eyes rolled up and then he was moving and sort of walking her out of the room, into the piano room. She never lost her feet but she wasn't exactly all there, either.

He'd made her sit on the nearest bench and just sort of held her wrist to check her pulse (ninety-plus, yikes) and stroked her hair away from her face until her eyes came back and she was glaring at him and batting his hands away. Relief? Putting it mildly. It had been damn near joyful to have Leah back to her old grumpy chilly self.

And then shit got
really
weird. Even for a murder scene. Even for a murder scene when your
mom
had been murdered with your Emmy from when you were a resentful, talented child actor. That Preston cop was telling her all sorts of awful things, things that would have made anyone else throw up or cry or both, and Leah just got icier and icier. Archer wanted nothing more than to get her the hell out of there, back to his house, where he could comfort her and maybe even get her to laugh and kiss her until they were dizzy, which probably wasn't the best way to deal with grief (if that's what Leah was even feeling) but it wasn't the worst, either.

And then it was like she was going out of her way to make the cop think she had guilty knowledge, when Archer
knew
she didn't. And she kept calling the cop Aaron for some reason, and then made a whole bunch of guesses about him, except they probably weren't guesses because by the time she was done Preston had the cuffs out.

“You can't arrest her for making you mad!” he yelped, torn between taking a swing at a cop and getting his own set of cuffs, or trying to stay calm so he could bail Leah out.

“No, but he can arrest me because I have motive, means, and opportunity,” Leah told him, and the horrible hilarity of it was, she was trying to soothe him.

“But you were with me!”

“Yes, but we're each other's alibi.” Soothe, soothe. “If one of us is the killer—”

“
What
?”

“—my alibi is worthless. Oh, and so is yours. Plus I was recently here; my prints will be here somewhere.”

“You were her daughter! Of course your prints are here!”

He tried to beg her with his eyes. Leah liked his freak mismatched eyes, so he stared at her and thought really really hard:
Do something! Come on, Leah, be your brilliant self and read my mind.

And she did.

“I do not deny it: I wanted her dead.”

Just not the way he expected.

“Wanting her dead is not a motive!” Archer howled.

She blinked. “I'm pretty sure it is. Also, my mother died in the picture of health. If someone hadn't coshed her over the head with my Emmy, she could have lived for decades. Perhaps I was after her money. Which, the police will soon discover, is my money. She spent her life robbing me and my resentment is a matter of public record. I knew I should have told that stupid judge he used to be Lavinia Fisher.”

“Leah, stop it!”

“What? I haven't said one thing that isn't the complete truth. The judge was stupid, and he did used to be the first female mass murderer. And of course, all the things I said about Nellie, and my relationship to her, are true.”

“
Don't be . . .”
He stopped, tried to calm down, tried again, softer. “Don't be stupid.”

“I'll be stupid whenever I like!” she snapped, a crack in her control showing at last. “You don't get to decide when I'm
stupid. I decide when I'm stupid. You are not the boss of how and when I am stupid!”

“Do you hear yourself? This is nuts. Tell him you didn't kill her.”

And I thought it was weird when she stabbed me. That was the most normal interaction I've had with this woman. The stabbing!

“Oh, that reminds me, the murder weapon: my Emmy. Come on.” She glanced over her shoulder at Preston, who was cuffing her. “That's pretty indicative, don't you think? Symbolic of my crushing resentment, which I then used to crush her skull? It's pretty perfect.”

“You have the right to remain silent,” Preston said, but he was talking like he wasn't at all sure what he was saying. In fact, Preston looked like someone had hit
him
over the head with an Emmy. Just not repeatedly. There were three dangerous adults in the room (well, two at least) and none of them seemed to know what they were doing. Leah had that effect on people.

“Don't feel bad, Aaron.” Leah actually sounded comforting now, instead of chilly. “It's not your fault that the Boston Strangler was able to kill many more women because you were an ineffectual crybaby.”

“
Leah!
” Archer screamed, fingers plunging into his hair and yanking, hard.

“Don't mind him,” Leah told the cop as he dragged her away. “He thinks I have it in me to be a good person. Isn't that hilarious?”

“Actually,” Preston replied in a low voice, carefully steering her out of the room, “yeah.”

“I
've never had to do this before.”

“What?”

“Bail someone out of jail.”

Cat shrugged. “It's easy. It's just paperwork, right down to the money part. How much do you need?”

Appalled, Archer stood—no, practically leaped off the park bench. He'd watched them haul a weirdly cheerful Leah away, asked questions of the cops remaining at the scene, then came to the park to tell Leah's only friend what had happened. “I'm not here for a loan.”

“Oh yeah?” She squinted up at him, deep brown eyes narrowed, one side of her mouth tipping up in a smirk. “You've got . . . hmm, let's see . . . fifteen percent of a six-figure bail bond to piss away?”

“Uh . . .”
Oh, shit.
“Six figures?”

“If they arrested her for aggravated homicide, which it sounds like they did, yep.”

“Okay, I guess I
am
here for a loan.”

“Mmmm. Might not need it. I'm betting that detective's boss is gonna look over the paperwork and have a chat with—what's his name?”

“Preston. Except Leah kept calling him Aaron. I guess he used to be related to the Boston Strangler.”

“Trust Leah to
not
keep that to herself,” Cat said dryly, and Archer barked laughter. “Okay, well. Here's how it goes: they would've arrested her and hauled her to jail, booked her. They would have taken her before the magistrate, but that's assuming they're really gonna stick with the homicide snatch. I don't think they will.”

“Why? You weren't there, Cat. She practically dared them to arrest her.”

Cat waved that away, then dug in one of her many sizeable tote bags and extracted a bag of carrots from the depths. She offered them to Archer, who declined with a head shake, then helped herself. Crunching, she continued. “Yeah, but they can't afford to piss off the Insighters. Leah's not popular, but she's generally acknowledged as the best. Her colleagues will get pissy about it, and that's gonna put pressure on the suits. The suits will pressure the cops, and shit flows downhill. The detective might let her go, or he'll knock the homicide charge down to disturbing the peace or some horseshit like that. In which case, bail's gonna be much cheaper. Since she was born here—”

“She was? But she lived in Hollywood all those years.”

“Her mom was born here, Leah was born here. It was only after people kept telling Nellie how pretty her baby was that she
hauled them to L.A. When Nellie's career went into the shitter, she came back. And that's important, because it might mean no bail is needed. Either way, you go to the jail, find out what the charges are, or if she's even still under arrest—it's too bad her phone's broke, but there's nothin' to be done about that right now—and if you can bail her out, you've just gotta sign a bunch of paperwork. You're legally responsible for getting her home, and for making sure she shows up for her court date. If there is one. Which hopefully not. I mean, she didn't kill her mom, right?”

“Right.” At Cat's long, inscrutable look, he repeated himself. “Right! She honestly didn't, Cat. She was with me.”

“All night?”

“I wish,” he sighed. Then, “Her mom called Leah while she was dying. Leah didn't do it.”

“That's interesting.”

“Why?”

“Well. Who did? It wasn't you, and it wasn't me. You'll have to take my word on that one,” she added dryly. “Or not . . . last night I was at the Four Seasons, and I had dinner in the hotel restaurant. The receipt will be time-stamped. Depending on what the ME decides is the TOD, that might clear me.”

“We don't think it was you,” Archer said, horrified.

“No? That's not very smart, Arch.” Cat's dark gaze was cool, almost clinical. “You liked me right away, but people always do. It's why I went into politics. Some people, they can
make
you like them. It's a knack, like being able to raise one eyebrow. I can do that. But you don't know the real me. You know what you've seen and heard, which isn't much, and you know whatever Leah told you.”

“Did you really lose your job because you weren't a bigot?”

“Yeah. Check the headlines from back then if you've got
nothing better to do with your life. Anyway, it's foolish to dismiss suspects because you like them. But you're right, I didn't do it. Although I don't give much of a rat's ass that she's dead. In fact, if she'd been murdered a decade or two earlier, your would-be girlfriend wouldn't be the fucked-up future recluse we know and love.”

“Okay.” Archer was thinking that he needed to spend a lot more time in the park listening to Cat's Theories of Life and Politics. And yeah—he
did
like her. He just hadn't known Cat had
made
him like her. “What else?”

“It wasn't me, it wasn't you, it wasn't the agent. It wasn't Leah. So who'd kill a has-been B-list actress? And in such a wicked nasty way? Maybe it's the guy who keeps killing Leah. Maybe he's trying something new this life. Or maybe he can't find Leah, so he—no, that doesn't make sense, if he could find It, he could find Leah.”

“Yeah.” Archer hadn't even had time to consider any of the things Cat had instantly thought of. His respect amped up a few more notches. “Who would? And why kill Nellie at all? She was a threat to exactly nobody. Not even Leah.”

“Yeah, well.” Cat crunched a final carrot and put the bag away. “If you knew why, you'd know who. Get going,” she ordered, “and let me know if you need a wire.”

Ah, yes. I'll let the homeless rich woman in the park know if I need a loan to bail out my future girlfriend for not killing her mother. What has happened to my life?

He didn't know. And there wasn't time to wonder about it now. He took Cat's advice, and got going.

A
rcher was more than a little nervous about walking into the CPD to pick up Leah. Or bail her out. Or maybe only visit her. It brought back memories of his childhood. Of course, his bad memories were the equivalent of skinned knees and neighborhood bullies compared to hers of shattered trust and exploitation and tampon commercials.

Shattered trust and exploitation? You're losing it, pal.

Well, sure. That seemed about right, after the week they'd had. His inner voice always correctly deduced when he was losing it, or when he was cock-blocking himself, but the rest of the time it was unhelpfully silent.

Speaking of unhelpful: the CPD website. Nothing there about how to bail someone out; nothing about which building to go to or department to call. But if he wanted to take the Police Entry Level Exam, he was all set. And if he wanted to
go to a CAPS meeting (whatever that was; the website never really explained), he was good to go. Also, if he wanted to apply for a building permit, he knew exactly how to go about it. The mayor of Boston had been much more helpful.

So here he was, after another Cat consultation, parking his car in the ramp across the street, plunging through the front doors, and nervously following signs directing him to what was euphemistically called the detainee station (which made it sound like they were all waiting together for a bus or something and no laws of any kind had been broken).

Along the way he read posters helpfully explaining that the Chicago Police Department was the second largest (after the NYPD) local law enforcement agency in the country, and also one of the oldest. And also, Sergeant Thomas is starting up another softball league so you should definitely call his cell if you're interested. And it's Patrolman Roger's birthday today and there's cake in the briefing room.

You'd think they'd make a sign that would handle helping citizens bail out other citizens.

He realized he had no actual problem with the Chicago Police; his nerves were getting the better of him. Oh, and also the consistently bad memories of his childhood. And then there was the niggling fear that Leah had pissed off one or two or all of her cellmates and been beaten to death, not unlike her mother.

Leah was charming and likeable, but you kinda had to work for it. It was there. Um, under all the layers of blank hostility.

Oh please please don't let her be dead or battered. Oh, man, they probably took her bra knives. She'd be helpless without her bra knives!

No checks, the posters told him. No money orders. Bank or cashier's checks only, presented during normal banking hours.
Because apparently there was nothing more annoying than being presented with a cashier's check for low five figures at 2:00 a.m. You could pay cash, by which they meant credit card (not cash) or debit card (also not cash, but no one had told the CPD). He had his debit card, and a balance of $614.23. And Cat, who would wire five figures if he called and asked.

(“Of course a homeless rich ex-mayor of Boston has a cell phone,” she'd said irritably when he'd expressed surprise. “Third graders have them. What exactly is your day job again?”)

It would take up to about two hours to complete . . . whatever it was that needed completing. He still wasn't sure if Leah was under arrest for murder or if Detective Preston had been browbeaten by a suit into dropping the charges. He figured, if nothing else, he could at least find that much out.

Ah! Here was the large desk, behind which sat a sergeant of some kind. Behind him, he could see rows of desks, and hear ringing phones, and see people going back and forth, some in uniform and some not, and here and there people were in handcuffs, but most of them weren't, so that was encouraging. It didn't look scary. Just busy, like any office on a weekday.

There wasn't a line, so he could go right up to the desk sergeant, whom TV had led him to believe would be a harried, heavyset, sassy African-American woman who was busy but also cared deep down inside. The reality was a heavyset white guy who looked like an accountant who had just heard the IRS had no interest in any of his clients.

“Well, hi there!” Bright hazel eyes blinked up at him; the man's light brown hair was neatly combed. His uniform was crisp and clean; his badge gleamed. The man radiated good fellowship; Archer was dazzled in spite of himself. “Help you?”

“I hope so. I'm here to see Leah Nazir. Or try to bail her out. Or look at her through plate glass while we press our hands together like they do in prison on TV.” Given his family history, it was absurd how all his prison knowledge came from
Sons of Anarchy
reruns. Ooh, that Gemma! What a wonderful bitch.

The cop who looked like a cheerful accountant blinked faster. “Leah Nazir?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

He held up a finger. “Just a moment.” Then he left his desk, something they weren't allowed to do on TV but was apparently okay in real life.

Archer waited by the abandoned desk and fretted. What did “ah” mean, coming from a cop?

“Ah, that Leah Nazir. Yep, she's dead.”

“Ah, Leah? Nazir? I think she escaped, sowing death and destruction on her way out . . . I'll go check.”

“Ah. Hmm. You're a friend? Of Leah Nazir? Yeah, you're under arrest. Come along quietly or we'll all shoot you.”

What if she was fated to meet her killer in a holding pen? What if the whole path of this life was to put her in lockup at just the wrong time with just the wrong person? What if she's bleeding out? What if she's dead? All our stupid little meetings, trying to figure out who her murderer is this time around, playing at detective, and she could be dead right now. And in a way, that would be Nellie's fault this life, too.

He rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes and shook his head. This was useless and worse than useless. The desk sergeant would know where she was. Leah was alive, somewhere in the building. Right? Right.

Come on, buddy. How long does it take to get an update? Hurry up or my paranoia will have its way with me again. Where IS he?

But then! Before the desk sergeant could return! There she was, walking toward him—except she didn't see him. She was walking next to (yikes!) Detective Preston, whose head was bent attentively toward her, clearly soaking in every word.

“. . . for God's sake, he was your beloved big brother. He saved you from countless beatings, he protected you in the face of your mother's helplessness and who
wouldn't
worship someone like that? He never showed you the side his victims saw and he never would. Do you think I would be this fucked up if I'd had a protective older sibling? You can't blame the man you were for the dead; that was on Albert. All of it: on Albert. The man doing the actual murdering. If, in your other life, you had gone to the police and said, ‘Hey, I'm pretty sure my brother is the Boston Strangler,' you
know
what would have happened. They would have had the cuffs on
you
in about five seconds . . . and that's if they believed you at all.”

Detective Preston nodded, but Leah barely noticed.

“You have been carrying all that around, and for what? You're one of the good guys this time. And what if you were a farmer, and not a detective? There still would be nothing to make up for. You could, I don't know, milk your cows in peace. Or whatever you would do if you were a farmer. That old life is done. I insist you stop having nightmares about it immediately.”

Not bothering to listen to his response, Leah looked up and her eyes widened when she saw Archer waiting for her. Then they narrowed, and for a heart-stopping moment Archer thought she didn't want him there.

But that wasn't it. Instead, when they walked right up to him,
Leah again turned to Detective Preston and said, “It was unprofessional and cruel to bring this up outside of a session, in your workplace, in front of other people. I have no excuse. It was unacceptable. I . . .” Archer could almost hear her teeth grinding together. “. . . apologize.”

Preston barely seemed to notice; his thoughts were miles away, possibly imagining his life as a farmer. He nodded almost absently. “That's fine; it was just as inappropriate for me to arrest you. I didn't really think you killed your mother; I was upset by what you said. My boss and your boss are insisting we play nice, so let's just do that.”

“All right.”

“Are you okay?” Archer asked in a low voice. Leah seemed unbeaten. Unstabbed. Un-bleeding. And alive! Even better. In fact, if you didn't know, you wouldn't be able to tell she'd been cooling her heels in the hoosegow for the last few hours. He wondered if it was inappropriate to ask her if any
Chained Heat–
type stuff had gone on. He also thought it was adorable that she still had only the one shoe. He thought the cops might have at least offered her a flip-flop. “Leah?”

“Oh, sure.” She waved it all away: the arrest, booking, brief imprisonment. “It was interesting. I've never been on that side of the bars before. And some of the other women were interesting. I'll have stories to tell my colleagues. Too bad I loathe my colleagues.”

“Mr. Drake.” Detective Preston seemed to notice him for the first time. “Ah.”

What is it with cops and “Ah”? Do they mean to make it sound terrifying?
“Hey. Glad you two worked it out.”

“Yeah.” Preston was staring at him, and given the man was
investigating a horrific murder, Archer found his regard more than a little unnerving. “That's interesting. About your family history.”

“Oh, here we go,” he sighed. He glanced at Leah. “There's really no way to make this not sound awful. And I promise I was going to tell you. You have to admit it's been a crazy week.”

“What?” Leah was looking from him to Preston and back again. “Oh, God. What is it now? What horrific dreadful thing is going to happen now?”

“If this is the Archer Drake, the only son of one William T. Drake—”

“The detective is coyly leading up to the fact that my dad's in federal prison for murder.” After a beat, he added helpfully, “He didn't do it. If that helps.”