The Dirty Secrets Club (33 page)

"It's out of control, isn't it?" she said.

He no longer looked harmless. He looked cornered. "Let's call it a victim of its own success."

She felt a knot of anger rise in her throat. The club wasn't a victim. Members were victims. Their families and lovers were victims.

She thought about how undercover operations worked. "Did the police hold off arresting members so they could net as many confessions as possible?"

He didn't exactly nod, but his gaze skipped in her direction.

"But they waited too long, didn't they?" she said. "You don't know who's in the club anymore, or what they're doing, do you?"

"I thought Callie had it under control."

Buck passer, she thought.

"Unfortunately, it's like a mutating virus," he said.

"I know how it works. Whoever tells the dirtiest secret gets to set the dare for the other players. The winner sends them out to commit acts that will become new dirty secrets." She felt queasy. "The club has become a chain reaction. A generator instead of a trap."

"It's the age. An age of unremitting public exposure of the self, the body, the mind, everybody's entrails, virtually."

"Spare me the sociology op-ed. These people are thrill seekers. And nothing fuels thrill seekers like competition, except for danger. It encourages them to take increasing risks."

"That worked naturally to our advantage. These are big egos, and that blinded them. They failed to realize that eventually somebody was bound to talk, or sell them out."

She put a hand on her forehead to keep her skull from exploding. "Yeah, but word didn't just get back to the U.S. Attorney's Office. It got back to the criminals they injured. Callie lit a fire that got out of control."

He raised a hand. "I know. I know."

She glanced at the courthouse building, and took out her phone. "Amy Tang needs to know this."

He grabbed her arm. "No."

Peripherally, she saw Gabe straighten and begin walking in their direction. She removed Fonsecca's hand from her wrist.

"I don't care about how much extra dirt you can scoop on these people. You're going to keep risking the lives of the public so you can get bulletproof, slam-dunk evidence for your showcase prosecutions? Forget it."

"We need to wind it down in an orderly fashion. A big investigation is close to fruition."

She took the anonymous note out of her satchel and handed it to him. "Orderly is impossible. This thing is exploding, and somebody's decided to turn the tables on those of us who are looking into it."

Fonsecca stared gravely at the note. "I don't understand."

Snap,
it came to her. Callie Harding didn't have a dirty secret. The sting was her secret. So why did she have the word
Dirty
written on her leg in lipstick?

Fonsecca didn't know about the writing. Jo dialed Amy Tang's cell. "There's something you need to know about Callie's body. Let me clear it."

She was getting a new picture in the back of her mind. It was shadowy, still fractured, but beginning to come into focus in a new way. Everything she'd assumed about the crash needed to be turned inside out.

Gabe had drawn close enough to project a physical presence. Jo beckoned to him.

Amy picked up. "Tang."

"I'm with Leo Fonsecca. You two need to swap information."

"Wait—first, the good news. The witnesses to the Marriott fire-bombing, that older couple, did an Identi-Kit drawing of the man who threw the Molotov cocktail."

"And?"

"And I searched databases for criminals and associates with the nickname or aka 'Skunk.' Guess what?"

"You found him?"

"Don't get excited yet. We've got an ID. An ex-con, name of Levon Skutlek. Two-time loser, a petty fraudster with a last-known address in the Avenues. We've issued a BOLO."

"But you don't have him."

"No. But DMV records say he drives a white 1959 Cadillac Eldorado."

"Scott Southern's suicide note mentioned a Cadillac."

"You keep your eyes open for that whale. See it, call 911."

"Before I can whistle." Almost reflexively, she looked around the plaza, at the busy avenues that ringed the Civic Center area, looking for the car. "I'm putting Fonsecca on the phone. Tell him the details of Callie's death. He's going to tell you about the Dirty Secrets Club."

"Fine, but you need to come down to St. Francis Hospital."

Acid burned in her stomach. "Geli Meyer?"

Hearing the intern's name, Fonsecca turned his head, alarmed.

"Bad news?" Jo said.

"She's conscious."

Jo drove toward St. Francis, snarled in thought. She pried apart her previous theories about what had happened in Callie's BMW in the last five minutes of her life, and tried to layer the facts together again in a new way. But it still felt as if she was seeing it underwater, a strange view through slanting light and shifting shadows.

Why did Callie have a word written on her leg in messy red lipstick?

Dirty.
It wasn't an accusation written by a tormentor. It wasn't a confession, or a declaration of self-loathing. It was a signal. It was a message she wanted to send, because—

The light turned red. She braked and downshifted sharply. "Sorry."

Gabe didn't react. She glanced at him. "You're awfully quiet."

"Remind me never to cross you," he said.

"Say what?"

"You just ran one of the state's biggest prosecutors through a wringer and left him dripping on the pavement. It was startling."

She stared at him, taken aback. His face was unreadable. "Usually I put them through the CIA psy ops interrogation regimen. I thought today I'd mix it up."

He put up his hands. "I didn't mean—"

"Maybe tomorrow I'll give him a multiple-choice quiz. 'Where did you get this information? A—Yellow Pages. B—Billboard. C—The voices inside your head.'"

"I wasn't complaining about your methods."

"You thought I should go easy on him?"

"I thought you were spectacular."

Her face heated. The light turned green.

Gabe smiled. "Jo Beckett, Samurai Shrink."

She revved the truck across the intersection, feeling touched and somehow embarrassed. "Fonsecca was nothing. You should see what I can do to a four-pound monkey."

Gabe watched the street rumble by. Outside a Mediterranean trattoria, a man in rags sat against the wall, holding a cardboard sign.
Will take verbal abuse for small change.

His smile faded. "That remark you overheard at HQ after the air-ambulance crash. You have it all wrong."

"Gabe, I know what I heard." Clear as glass, never gonna fade.

She pulled up in front of St. Francis. She turned off the engine and handed Gabe the keys.

"Take the truck. I'll be here awhile. You go teach your class."

She climbed out. He caught her heading toward the hospital's automatic doors.

"Wait." He put a hand on her arm. He seemed off-kilter, his face strained.

"Don't try to sugarcoat things," she said quietly. "What happened to Daniel happened. I have to carry it."

"No."

"You saying I heard the guy wrong?"

"You heard him right."

A dark blade of pain cut through her. She looked away from his eyes, focused instead on his chest.

His hand went to her shoulder. "The guy's an asshole. Just to begin with."

"Gabe—"

"Listen to me. Maybe even a paramedic would have caught the cardiac tamponade. But, Jo." His hand tightened on her shoulder. "You weren't even a paramedic."

The blade seemed to cut back again, bright this time. She looked up.

"Paramedics are trained to handle trauma life support in the field. They arrive with a full complement of drugs and equipment, and radio communications with base. Their job is emergency care on the scene." He held on to her shoulder. "You were a forensic psych resident moonlighting on an angel flight."

He lowered his voice. "You were Daniel's wife. You'd just survived a near-crash yourself. You weren't a paramedic."

Light seemed to cascade over her, a jolt like being caught in an electric current. Tears spun up behind her eyes. She put a hand against his heart.

His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. His brown eyes were unfathomably full of pain.

"I was the paramedic," he said.

She seemed to see the invisible blade swing around one hundred eighty degrees and ring out a blow. Oh, God.

"Gabe, no, don't even start to think that you're responsible—"

"Please don't." He put his fingers to her lips. "Not now." He put the keys back in her hand. "I'll make my own way home."

P
erry shrugged into the jacket of the suit, straightened his collar, and neatened the knot in his tie. The tie was blue, cheap polyester, but it covered the gnarled scar tissue that ringed his neck. He brushed lint from his shoulder and checked himself in the mirror. His haircut looked cheap. He seemed a little down on his luck. He looked inoffensive, well-meaning, a hopeful citizen. With the garroting scar hidden beneath his collar, he didn't look like a man who had survived a lynching. He looked normal.

With a knock, the door opened. "Five minutes."

He put the voice synthesizer to his throat. "Almost ready."

The man nodded and smiled. That saccharine
Look at me. I'm pretending you're not a freak. Ain't I wonderful?
smile. Then he shut the door.

Pray stared at it. The condescending bastard wasn't afraid of him. With the suit on, he didn't look scary. Appearing normal neutralized a powerful weapon in his emotional armory. For a moment he felt castrated, and the anger gyrated through him, rising red. Then he stopped himself.

He looked at himself again in the mirror, finger-combed his hair and worked his face into an approximation of an earnest country bumpkin. He looked innocuous. He sounded injured. That would lull people into a false sense of pity.

Mental disarmament—it might be an even more powerful weapon today.

He went to the door, pressed his ear to the wood, heard nothing. In the pocket of the suit jacket he found the cell phone. He had taken it from one of the lawyers who would shortly be joining him in court. He removed the cover of his voice synthesizer and slid out the SIM card. He stuck the SIM in the phone and waited for it to power up.

He was dealing with the law. That meant nothing was out of bounds. He would lie, he would bribe, he would cheat, he would bolt if he had to. He would do anything except pray.

He sent a text.
Where r u? Do we need to get Meyer? Call.

It was almost time.

Jo slipped her hospital ID over her head and jogged up the stairs to the St. Francis ICU. Her footsteps echoed on the concrete. The stairway seemed to be crooked, a strange corkscrew. Her heart felt the same way.

For the first time in two years, she seemed to taste pure oxygen on her tongue, to breathe without constraint. A weight was easing from her back, and she felt like she was breaking to the surface after an age in the deep. But only because somebody else was taking the weight.

A deep stream of melancholy flowed through her. But for once she didn't see Daniel, his brilliant smile, the fading light in his eyes as he reached for her in the air ambulance.

She saw Gabriel Quintana.

Fierce, proud, watchful, and self-assured, trained to kill an enemy before he'd let a patient die. That laid-back smile, which hid the edge. The soldier studying with priests, searching for God.

Why had she never considered how deeply the men of the 129th cared about each rescue—how much they pinned on bringing people out alive?

"Shit, Beckett. And you call yourself a shrink?"

She reached the landing, shoved on the fire door, and headed into

ICU. With effort she shut the lid on her own mental turmoil and walked to the nurses' station. The motherly nurse in pink scrubs was on duty.

"Angelika Meyer. May I see her chart?"

The nurse found it for her. "A policewoman's in there. I told her she had five minutes. Chase the gal out, would you?"

Jo found Amy Tang at Meyer's bedside. Meyer looked small and pale in the bed, a collection of elbows and knees under the blankets. Her blond hair was browned and mussy. She had black circles beneath her eyes. But they were bright blue and alert. They immediately focused on Jo. Her mouth opened, maybe in surprise.

Jo smiled. "Hi. I'll be with you in a second."

She signaled Tang, and they stepped into the corridor.

"She doesn't remember much," Tang said.

"Could be short-term memory loss. Typical of trauma with a head injury."

"Says she worked late at the office, helping Harding organize trial exhibits for a case. That jibes with the Chinese takeout receipt."