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“You’ve seen that thing I’m married to,” Rudy said, as if reading her mind. “Nothing but a talentless wanna-be who thought I’d be her ticket to the big time. A drunken cow. That’s what I’m reduced to.”

“You aren’t exactly a believer in the sanctity of marriage,” she said, gathering up her coat. “Divorce her if you feel that way.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

“Her father does believe in the sanctity of marriage, and…well, I owe him some money. I owe him a lot of money. He didn’t approve of her marrying me, but he ensured that I can’t dump the bitch.”

“Good-bye Rudy.” She headed for the door.

“Wait, Eliza, please. If you don’t want to get back together, that’s okay. We can still work together, right? It’ll be just like the old days. If you hadn’t walked out on me to take up with some flat-footed cop I would have stayed at the top. We were an invincible team, and we can still be.”

Eliza doubted that, but it was a moot point anyway. She hadn’t been interested in posing for Rudy to begin with and the intensity, the very
neediness
, of him was frightening her. She had her hand on the doorknob, but hesitated at the sound of a drawer opening.

“Look, Eliza, this is how much you mean to me. I’ve carried this around all these years. No matter what bitch I was married to, this is the picture I looked at at night.”

It was that picture. That awful picture. She’d posed for it when they’d first started dating, trying to be alluring, tempting. She’d been darn high. There was nothing sexy about that photograph—it was just pornographic.

She’d slammed the door on her way out.

“He wasn’t trying to blackmail you with it?” John asked.

“Blackmail? Of course not. For some reason he thought I’d be flattered that’s how he remembered me. When I saw you had it, that awful thing, I thought he’d given it to you out of spite, to show you he had some sort of claim over me.” She shuddered.

“I don’t care what you say, I’m getting you a sweater. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

***

Frank Spencer answered the door to Smith’s knock. He had a baby over his shoulder; one of the twins clung to his right leg. The baby screamed and the boy whined. The dog tried to make its escape through the open door. Spencer blocked it with his free leg as if he were a goalie with the Toronto Maple Leafs. He gestured for Smith to come in, and she closed the door behind her while Spencer stickhandled the yapping dog.

“Sorry,” he said with a rueful twist of his mouth. “James was asleep when I called and I’d put the boys to bed so I figured it was a good time to talk. Guess I was wrong.” Upstairs a loud crash, and a child began to cry.

Spencer thrust the crying infant at Smith. “Here,” he said. He ran up the stairs. “Jason, what are you doing up there?”

If Jason was upstairs than it must be Jeremy watching her. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. The baby stopped crying and wide blue eyes stared into hers. “Uh,” she said, “good boy.” He smelled clean and fresh, of baby powder and nuzzling kisses.

“You can take him to your house if you want,” Jeremy said in deep serious tones.

“Back to bed, now,” Frank shouted from upstairs. “Jeremy get up here.”

“Bye,” the boy said.

“Bye,” Smith replied. Jeremy climbed the stairs, clinging to the banister, his short legs barely making the risers. The dog ran on ahead.

Smith stood there with the baby. What would she do if Spencer decided to sneak out the back way? Not that she’d blame him.

“Sorry about that,” he said, taking the child from her arms. “Marianna has one more shift on nights. Hopefully I’ll live that long. Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Don’t let the Spencer family put you off. I wouldn’t give the boys up for anything. Well, maybe for a good night’s sleep.”

“Jeremy said I can keep the baby.”

He laughed, a deep, rich laugh, and kissed the infant’s cheek. When he looked back at Smith he was smiling. “I wanted a hockey team, but I think this one’s the last. Come in. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you. You’ve got your hands full.”

She took off her hat as he led the way into the living room. It looked like a bomb had gone off—a bomb stuffed with toys and baby equipment. There was scarcely an inch of carpet not covered with colored blocks, balls, stuffed animals, baby bottles, dog toys. The room smelled of spilled milk, too much junior testosterone, and love…plenty of love.

“Have a seat.”

She picked up a one-eyed pink dog and sat on a chair. Broken springs sagged and she had a brief memory of smugly hiding behind a door while Lucky yelled at Sam for using the couch as a trampoline.

Spencer put the baby onto the floor and handed it a blue rattle. He discarded the toy immediately and struggled to his feet. A few wobbly steps and he was drooling on Smith’s pant leg.

“You said you’d remembered something, sir?” She prodded Spencer.

“Yes, I did. You were asking me about anything out of the ordinary I’d seen at night. And, as I told you, I hadn’t seen anything in the night. Kind of like the dog who didn’t bark. Nevermind. But I did notice something in the day time. It was about ten days, two weeks ago. Might be nothing, of course, but you said you were interested in anything going on.”

“That’s right.”

“Around six o’clock. I’d picked up the kids and the dog from their respective day cares and was taking everyone for a walk while Marianna fixed dinner. There was a guy taking pictures of the street. I didn’t give it much thought, perhaps someone thinking of buying in the neighborhood, except that there aren’t any houses for sale on this street. None that have a sign up anyway. I didn’t pay him much mind, as I said.” He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “I guess I’m wasting your time, eh?”

“Not at all,” she said, meaning yes, you are. She pulled her hat away from the baby’s reaching fingers. “Can you describe him?”

“Not very well. Average height, on the slight side. He wore a brown jacket and jeans, nothing special. Short hair, but not too short.” He pointed to his own head of hair curling around his ears and the back of his neck. “Probably about the same length as mine, longer than yours. Sorry, Officer, that’s about it.”

“If you remember anything else…”

“I know where to find you.”

She pried baby fingers off her knee and stood. James dropped to his well-padded bottom; small feet sounded on the stairs and one of the twins called, “Can I have a glass of water?”

***

Eliza broke down and started crying. Through her tears and ragged breathing and stuffed nose she told her husband what had happened the night Rudy Steiner died.

She’d left Rudy’s room in a towering rage after he showed her that dreadful picture. The very idea that he’d been carrying it around all these years made her skin crawl. She grabbed for the picture, but he whipped it out of the way, and she wasn’t going to get into a brawl. She told him what she thought of him, and left the hotel, vowing to never have anything to do with Rudy again.

Thoughts of the picture tormented her all week. It preyed on her mind, knowing it was out there. What would he do with it? Would he show it to someone? To her husband? He hadn’t shown it to anyone before, but she didn’t trust him not to, not after she’d told him he was a sick, perverted has-been.

All week, she debated calling him, asking him to see sweet reason and hand over the picture.

Monday, she finally made the call. Rudy had been happy to hear from her, said he’d been about to call her himself, but had been busy with the photo shoot and hadn’t had time. She could come around later and pick it up. How about eight-thirty? He’d be busy with his assistant until then.

Like a fool, she believed him.

At eight o’clock, it was raining heavily. She put on her brown raincoat and picked up her Burberry bag and drove into town.

It had not gone well, to say the least.

She broke down and began to cry. The tea pot was refreshed, and she clutched at the cup as if she were drowning and it were her life preserver. The conversation had been so painful, so frightening, it almost physically made her sick to think about it. She tried to tell John the essence.

***

The picture had been nowhere to be seen. Rudy suggested she take her coat off, sit for a while. She didn’t want to sit, she said. The room was a mess. Typical Rudy, he’d pulled out all the stops trying to impress her, but couldn’t make the effort to pick up his own underwear.

He started to get angry. Like the Rudy of old, he was going to have a temper tantrum if he didn’t get his way.

“This is my chance Eliza. My chance to show them, one last time, that I’m my generation’s greatest photographer of women. I need you to make this work. Any woman your age would be happy to pose for me. I put the word out what I plan to do and they’ll be begging at my door. But I can only do it with you. You, Eliza, are my inspiration. You took my gift with you when you left me.”

“I took nothing, Rudy. Please understand: this isn’t going to happen.”

“I’ve loved you all my life. I’ve photographed hundreds, thousands, of women, and not one of them could make my camera sing the way you could. I married five women, knowing everyone of them was second-rate. Christ, second rate is a long way up for the bitch I’m married to now. All I want is to be with you, Eliza, to work with you, one last time.”

“Please stop this. I do not want to pose for your book. Why can’t you understand that? If you care so much about me, make me happy and rip up that picture, and we can be friends.”

“Tell you what, Eliza. When the project’s finished, I’ll give back the picture.”

She picked up her purse. “Good bye, Rudy.”

There was a tap on the door, and he went to answer it, saying, “I ordered something to celebrate our renewed partnership.”

It was room service. Pushing a table decorated with a crisp white cloth and a single red rose in a silver vase. A bottle of Champagne nestled in ice in the matching bucket, and plates were laid out with fruit, cheese, and crackers.

“Shall I open the Champagne, sir?” said the waiter, tossing a smile toward Eliza.

“Please,” Rudy said.

Eliza turned her back.

She heard the cork pop, and Rudy say, “Thank you, I’ll pour. Here you go.” When the door shut behind the waiter she turned around. Rudy was studying the bottle. “As I remember, you’re partial to
Moet
. Take your coat off and have a seat.”

“You’re crazy.” She crossed the room.

Rudy dropped the bottle into the cooler in a rattle of ice. “Don’t think you can insult me, you stuck-up cunt.” Startled, she stopped with her hand on the doorknob. She looked back. His eyes blazed with anger.

And Eliza Winters remembered why she had not married this man. He could act charming and self-depreciating, but underneath there lay a layer of raw rage, ready to burst up like a volcano, spewing hate like hot lava into the air.

His eyes were small and mean, red pricks burned beneath the black surface. “You want the picture, do you? Well there’s a price. I remember what you were like. Not too proud to fuck for what you wanted when you belonged to me, were you? Once a whore always a whore. I don’t even want to fuck you. If you want the picture, you’re going to work with me, and do what I tell you, and then you can have it. Shut up and take off your coat and sit down. Two hundred bucks for this Champagne, you’re going to drink it.”

She opened the door. “Keep your damn picture, Rudy.”

And she left.

Eliza felt John’s hand on her arm as he half-lifted her to her feet. “You need to lie down.”

***

John Winters shut the bedroom door carefully. He’d insisted on putting Eliza to bed. He’d closed the drapes and fluffed her pillows while she used the bathroom. He wrapped the duvet around her thin frame and touched her face. She smiled, and rolled over with a deep sigh.

He went downstairs. He hadn’t told anyone at the station where he was; he didn’t think they particularly cared what he did. These days he was just an embarrassment. Everyone either slid past, avoiding his eyes or, like Barb, tried so hard to be friendly they made him feel like a charity case.

It was close to ten, Eliza would probably sleep the night though. She needed it. So did he, but right now he didn’t want to be trapped in his own head, thinking about what she’d told him.

He grabbed his keys and headed out.

The rain was coming down in sheets, cutting visibility to a few yards in front of his car. A truck passed, a big one, kicking up so much spray, Winters was momentarily blinded. The windshield wipers worked hard to clear the window. He concentrated on his driving.

As she told the story, Eliza had been crying steadily, gulping her words like foul tasting medicine, her face a mess of tears and mucus and pain. At times he couldn’t make out what she’d been trying to say, but didn’t want to interrupt the narrative to ask her to repeat herself.

Did he believe her?

Totally. Absolutely. Everything she’d said had been exactly as he’d expect Eliza to act. She had no more shot Steiner in the back of the head than the man had done it himself and walked downstairs to toss the gun into the dumpster before conveniently returning to the bathroom to die.

But what about the rest of it?

Did he even hear correctly?

Once a whore, always a whore.
What the hell did that mean?

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

Molly Smith finished processing a drunk who’d made himself a bed on the steps of city hall and disagreed with the suggestion to move along. She glanced at her watch. Three
AM
.

She closed out her shift, said goodnight to the dispatcher and the shift supervisor, and headed for home. It had stopped raining and the night air held a touch of warmth, the slightest of hints that summer might be on its way.

The streets were quiet, not a soul to be seen. The moon was a round white ball over the black bulk of Koola Glacier. She walked down Monroe Street, the bright outdoor lights of the police station fading behind her. No cars were coming and she took her time crossing the street. A scrap of paper blew past. She turned into the alley. It smelled of garbage left outside for pickup and the lingering odors from the restaurant. High concrete walls and locked back doors lined the narrow passage, utility poles and cables forming an urban forest overhead.