Promise You Won't Tell? (13 page)

“I’ll take my chances. And by the way, we’re in Tennessee, not Minnesota or California.”

“I only know the statutes from places I’ve been arrested. But I’m confident with the possible exception of Texas, it’s illegal to use your employees for target practice.”

“Like I say, I’m willing to take my chances.”

“Why, because I’ve got a blue tongue?”

“No, of
course
not! It’s because—Wait. You’ve got a blue tongue?”

She sticks it out.

“Oh,
Jesus
!” I shout, covering my eyes. It’s not only bright blue, but forked. I gag, and throw up in my mouth.

“You okay, Sugar?”

“You had your
tongue
split?
Completely
? On
purpose
?”

“Cleaved, Sugar. We call it cleaved.”

I briefly wonder who she means by “we,” but remember Donovan Creed, once said, “Don’t ask questions unless you’re prepared to hear the answer.”

I’m not prepared for Fanny’s answer. I don’t want to know who
else
has their tongues cleaved all the way to their throats. But I’m curious why
she
does.

“Why would you
do
that, Fanny?”

She winks. “Ask my boyfriends.”

“That will never happen.”

“You know who else has a blue tongue?”

“No, and please don’t tell me. I truly don’t—”

“Bears.”

“Excuse me?”

“My spiritual advisor says I’m directly descended from the union of a bear and a human.”

The more she speaks the crazier she seems. I just want her out of here.

Still, I have to ask, “Which gender was the human?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really, I suppose. Since the whole notion’s preposterous.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw how much body hair I remove each week with my weed whacker.”

I say, “Fanny, I’m sure you’re a nice person and all, but you simply can’t work here anymore. Surely you understand my position. You’ve forged legal documents, stolen money, and committed insurance fraud.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing! Look, if something happened to poor Dillon, how would he be able to pay his medical bills? Surely you intended to provide him with hospitalization at some point.”

“Well, of course. At some point.”

“And you’d extend that coverage to your other employees, such as your devoted receptionist, right? I mean, you have to cover
all
your employees in order to qualify for group health insurance.”

“Well…”

“You know what I think? I think you intended to provide coverage for Dillon, but never got around to it.”

“Yes, but—”

“I just did what you intended to do. And now we’ve all got coverage.”

“I can appreciate what you tried to do. It’s not just the insurance, or the checks. It’s
you
, Fanny.”

“What about me?”

“I need a nice, quiet, prim and proper receptionist, who shows up every day and does only what I ask her to do. Someone who looks and dresses normally, who takes calls, schedules appointments, and—”

“Stop! You’re making my ears scream! What you need is someone who looks at things differently. Someone who sees things others don’t. Ask Dillon what he thinks of me.”

“Dillon’s eighteen. He hired you because of your boobs.”

She smiles “You like them?”

“I don’t know anything about them.”

“Would you like to?”

“No. I’m just saying, he’s an eighteen-year-old boy. He has no idea what criteria to look for in an ideal receptionist.”

“Of course he does! He found
me
, didn’t he? And anyway, he’s here.”

I turn around. “Where?”

“He’s pulling into the parking lot right now.”

“You can’t possibly hear anything that far away.”

“Shh!” she says. “Listen for the sound of the car door slamming shut.”

“This is ridiculous.”

She says, “There! Surely you heard
that
!”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re telling me you can’t hear him humming?”

This time she’s gone too far. “Oh really? What tune?”

“Ravel’s Bolero.”

“Gotcha!”

“What’s that mean?”

“Dillon’s idea of classical music is Guns N’ Roses.”

“You got a problem with Guns N’ Roses?”

“No, it’s just—”

Dillon opens the door to the office, enters, walks through the reception area, down the hall toward us, humming Ravel’s Bolero.

“Where did you hear that tune you’re humming?” I demand.

“Fanny sent me a mix.”

Fanny says, “The title hooked him.”

“What, Bolero?”

“No,” Fanny says, “The mix title. My song list. I call it—”

“—Stop! I don’t want to know. You’re trying to suck me into your vortex again.”

Dillon says, “You look great, Fanny! How are you feeling?”

She smiles. “I’ve seen better days. And worse ones, too.”

“Dani’s having a bad day, too,” he says. “We stole some cell phones hoping to find naked pictures of a girl, but they didn’t have any.”

“I know some great porn sites.”

“Me, too. But this was a client. Something happened to her, but we can’t prove it.”

“Story of my life,” she says. “By the way, Dani just fired me.”

“Don’t worry. She fires me all the time. You probably just got off on the wrong foot. Like I said, she’s had a bad day. Still, I’m sorry she made you come to work like this.”

“That’s okay. I’ve been meaning to meet her for a long time.”

“I’m right here in the room,” I say.

“You should be in bed, Fanny,” Dillon says.

“If I had a bedroom like the one on her computer, I’d never go outside.”

I say, “What are you talking about?”

“The photos on your computer. Who’s bedroom is that?”

“What the hell were you doing looking at my computer? You’re out of line! That’s completely unacceptable!”

Dillon says, “It’s Kelli Underhill’s bedroom.”

“The girl who had the slumber party?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, whoever put the surveillance equipment in there did a helluva good job.”

She turns to leave.

Dillon and I look at each other.

Surveillance equipment?

“Wait!” I say.

Riley was right about the first four photos Dillon took of Kelli’s bedroom using the camera’s built-in flash.

“The flash makes ’em pop out like cold air on a warm nipple,” Fanny says.

“Makes
what
pop out?” I ask.

She points to an area on the right side of the photo. “Right here. See that tiny light burst?”

“Yes.”

“That’s light, reflecting off a miniature camera lens. And see this one up here?”

“Yes?”

“That’s another one.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course. I used to install surveillance equipment for the CIA.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“You can call and ask them. Central Insurance Agency. Two-forty Eddington Street, Montpelier, Vermont.”

“Oh.”

“Want their number?”

“No. But if you’re right about the cameras—”

“Yes?”

“You can keep your job.”

“Oh, goody.”

“For now.”

“How about a raise?”

“Don’t press your luck.”

“What if I tell you something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like—what’s your client’s name?”

“Riley Freeman.”

“What if I told you these cameras have nothing to do with Riley?”

“What do you mean? They have
everything
to do with her.”

“You’re focusing on your case.”

“That’s my job.”

“I agree. Which is why you need me.”

“I’m waiting,” I say.

“You’re not seeing the bigger picture. There’s more going on here.”

“Tell me.”

“This isn’t the work of teenagers.” Fanny says.

“No?”

“This is a professional installation. It took time. My guess, these cameras have been in place for a long time.”

“What, exactly are you saying?”

“Someone’s been spying on Kelli. And probably for a long time. You might find a video of Riley Freeman being assaulted, but Kelli’s a victim, too.”

I point at one of the photos. “This camera’s directly above Kelli’s bed?”

“Sure is.”

“And this one covers her dressing area.”

“Yup.”

Dillon and I look at each other.

He shrugs.

I say, “How big a raise were you looking for?”

At ten this morning, Riley shocked me with a question. At four-fifteen she makes a comment that knocks me for a loop.

“What do you
mean
you want to drop the case?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Ripper. I’ll find a way to pay you for your time. It’s just that I can’t do this.”

“You owe me nothing, Riley. I haven’t been charging you. But we have to see it through.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Kelli’s my friend. If you tell the police about those videos, it could ruin her life.”

“Riley, after all we’ve been through, surely you want to know what happened.”

“Yes, of course.”

“If there’s a video, and it shows something happened to you, we have a responsibility to talk to the police.”

“But what if there are videos of Kelli?”

“The police should know about that, too.”

She goes quiet a minute.

I say, “You think she already knows?”

“What? No, of course not!”

“Any idea why she hates her stepfather?”

Riley stares straight ahead. “Please don’t do this.”

I say, “He keeps his bedroom door locked at all times, won’t let anyone inside.”

Riley says nothing.

“Look,” I say. “It’s just me and you. Please, honey. Tell me what you know.”

She continues staring straight ahead a long time. Then says, “Promise you won’t tell?”

“I promise.”

“He raped her.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last summer.”

“Kelli’s stepfather raped her?”

“Yes.”

“Who knows about this?”

“Me, Kelli, Mitch…I don’t know if Kelli told anyone else. But Parker knows.”

“Parker Page? Your best friend?”

Riley nods. “I told Parker about it a few months ago. She and Kelli were having a feud, and Parker kept treating her like shit.”

“Does Lydia know?”

“Absolutely not.”

“How can Kelli keep such a huge secret from her mother?”

“He threw himself on his knees and begged her forgiveness. Said he was drunk, under a lot of pressure in his job. He sobbed. Begged her not to tell her mom or anyone else. Kelli keeps thinking she must have done something wrong. That it’s her fault, somehow.”

“Except that he’s spying on her.”

“
If
he is.”

“Has he touched her since?”

“No.”

I think a minute. Then say, “You’re positive she doesn’t know about the cameras?”

Riley’s eyes flash with sudden anger. “What are you saying? That my friend is
performing
for that psychopath?”

“No, of course not! You just made it sound like she’s forgiven him to some extent. And has accepted part of the blame, which, by the way, is exactly how victims typically respond to this type of situation. But the bottom line is, she’s keeping his secret.”

“So?”