The year She Fell (59 page)
The muted music from the club suddenly grew loud and the light yellowed as the door opened. I ducked down behind the car, one hand on the damp brick of the ground, the other around the flexible plastic jimmy strip. I could smell garbage from the overflowing dumpster at the end of the alley, and that gave me an idea. When the footsteps receded and the music went soft again, I stood up and paced off the distance between the front of the Hummer and the front of the dumpster. Twenty feet. Enough to cause some damage? Probably.
I checked my watch. Haldrick supposedly had to be in makeup (yeah, real macho) at
. It was now almost twelve-thirty. I sat down on the Hummer’s broad front bumper to wait.
It didn’t take long. I heard a man’s voice, rough and low, in the front of the alley, and hunched down. When I heard a woman pleading, however, I slid to the side of the Hummer and glanced over. Two figures were silhouetted in the light from the street. They were struggling in that ambiguous way people struggle when they don’t want to make a scene—the man pulling at her arms, the woman drawing away and murmuring, “No, it’s okay, let me go.” No screams, no blows.
But then he pulled her into the alley. “Come on, come on. Let’s go.”
The woman’s voice was slurred. “I don’t feel good. I want to go home.”
“I’ll drive you home. Just come with me.”
“I don’t want—”
He slammed her against the tailgate of the truck. I felt the vibrations go through my back and as I charged, instinctively reached for my missing gun. But all I had for a weapon was my fists—and the element of surprise.
I got a hold of his leather jacket with one hand and his jaw with the other, yanking his face away from her and hurting him enough to make him let her go. I had just a glimpse of her terrified face as I pulled him away from the car—she thought I might be another attacker. “Run,” I yelled at her. But her reactions were slowed. She stumbled away from the car on her high heels, and fell to her knees before scrabbling up, holding onto the alley wall.
He was protesting, loudly and obscenely, and I considered a chokehold, just to shut him up before he got the attention of a bouncer. But I didn’t bother. He was all buffed gym-muscle, without any real strength, and his attempted blow barely rattled my arm. I jammed him up against the car door, grabbing his leather lapel and tugging it so that his face bulged red and he stopped yelling to gasp for breath. “This is for her, and the other one you raped too,” I said, staring right into his eyes.
He was trying to speak, so I eased up fractionally on the pressure at his throat.
“Which one told—”
I didn’t want to hear more. Didn’t need to hear more. I slammed my fist into his face, right where the nose met the forehead. Not hard enough to fracture the skull, but hard enough to break his nose and knock him out— and bruise my knuckles pretty good, even through my gloves. It had been a long time since I got to hit someone like that (it’s sort of discouraged by police forces these days), and it felt good to hear the crack, to feel the give. Triumph. Vengeance. My turn.
He slumped against the car, and I hauled him up, and settled him against the side of the building. I found his car keys in his jacket pocket, and leaving him there, I climbed into his idiotic Hollywood-militaristic mobile. It took me a minute to get the damned thing going, then I buckled the seatbelt—it looked like a seatbelt on the space shuttle, ready for five Gs— and shoved down the accelerator. It lumbered forward, hitting the dumpster with just enough force to buckle it slightly without initiating the airbag.
I left the car running in second gear and went back to haul him up. He muttered something, but never woke up as I put him in the driver’s seat and pressed his face against the steering wheel, leaving a nice imprint of blood and snot. Then I gently shut the door and, stripping off my gloves, left the alleyway.
The woman was sitting slumped on the curb. There was music pouring out of the club’s front door, but no one had noticed her. Or they figured she was just another drunk. I sat down beside her and said, “I got to call the police.” Best to go with the cover story. “He got in the car and tried to drive, but hit the wall. Might be hurt.”
She lifted up her head and stared at me. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. I’d seen enough drunks to know this wasn’t from alcohol.
“He drugged you. That’s why you’re feeling so weak.”
“He was going to rape me.”
“Yeah. Like I said, I got to call the police.”
I watched her eyes, and I could see it happening. She was making the same decision that Laura did, to conceal the crime. She was going to refuse to report it. She looked ashamed as she tried to explain. “He’s famous. It’ll get into the tabloids. There’ll be photos of me, and I—I just can’t. And he’ll probably get off.”
I took a deep breath and let it go. It wasn’t my decision. And I didn’t have any right to judge her. “Okay. But I’m going to get you a cab and send you to the emergency room. You might have a concussion.”
I got her into a taxi, gave the cabbie $10 and told him to take her to nearest hospital. All the while I had my hand in my pocket, fingering the pills I’d gotten from the training supply locker at the stationhouse back home. I walked back to the actor’s car and opened the driver’s side door. He was still slumped there, unconscious. He looked like just another drunk-driving accident.
But that wasn’t all he was. I withdrew the tablets and gazed at them in the dim light. Planting the goods. The first step down the slope of corruption for a cop. I’d never done it before, not in fifteen years.
But sometimes getting justice requires creativity. I used the hem of my t-shirt to wipe the tablets clean, then let them drop on the seat right between his legs. And then I crossed the street to the pay phone and dialed 911 to report a drunk driver crashing a fancy Hummer in an alley behind that trendy club Poison.
I waited down the block till the squad cars arrived, followed seconds later by a video truck from the local news. Watched as the beat cop hauled him out of the Hummer and the video cameraman zoomed in. He’d still be shooting when they found the pills.
In a few days, the police might (or might not) announce that the tablets with the rohypnol markings weren’t actually rohypnol. (After the last police chief’s activities, I thought it best to use fake drugs in training sessions.) But by that time, the word would be out. The macho
Hollywood
star wasn’t just drunk; he was in possession of date-rape drugs.
It wasn’t really planting evidence to put a couple of aspirin with false markings. Anyway, that’s what I told myself as I caught a cab back to the airport.
The next day was my court day. That is, I sat in traffic court and stood up every time my name was called and read from my notes about what I’d witnessed on my one monthly traffic shift about this speeder or that red-light-runner over there contesting his ticket. It didn’t take much effort or attention, which was good, because I’d managed only a couple hours sleep after the flight and the long drive back from the airport. I put in another couple hours on paperwork, and went home too tired to do more than kick off my shoes and flip on CNN and drop onto the couch to wait for the entertainment news.
Laura arrived just in time to watch with me. I could tell from the look on her face that this same segment had been repeating all day, and that she had some suspicion, don’t ask me how— anyway, she sat down next to me, bumping her bare ankle against my shin, and took my hand as we viewed the cop show star get hauled away by the cops.
She watched with professional interest as the publicist faced the camera and said that the actor didn’t know where those date-rape pills had come from, that he knew he’d had too much to drink as soon as he started the car, and started to get out, but must have knocked the shift into gear accidentally, and rumors that he’d left the club with an incoherent woman were just that, rumors . . .
I’d gotten away with it. It felt good. I’d reformed, sure, but there was still the felon-within that got a charge out of committing a crime and getting away with it. (The cop-within started to argue that what I did wasn’t really a crime—using force in defense of another was legal . . . but faking an accident wasn’t, for sure.) I knew they’d have no chance of tracking me down—not like anyone would guess some small-town cop would be wreaking revenge.
Laura didn’t say anything, just did that thing women do because they’re sure it’s got to turn guys on, rubbing at my knuckles with her thumb. Harder and harder rubbing. I kept my jaw clenched tight to keep from yanking my hand back.
“Gee,” she said. “Your knuckles are kind of bruised. Maybe I should massage them even more.”
I kept quiet. But then the segment ended, and she let go of my hand, and rose. And then, before I could react, she climbed into my lap, and I realized that little blue sundress must have cost so much, Laura didn’t have any money left over for underwear.
When I could breathe again, I said, “I guess this means you’ve gotten over that intimacy phobia, huh?”
Her answer was to slide her hands around my back. I pulled her close to kiss her, but felt the shoulder holster hard between us, and moved to unbuckle it. “No,” she whispered. “I want you to leave your gun on.”
From phobia to serious kink. I must be better at this sexual healing stuff than I ever realized. But fifteen years of training jammed in between me and my lust-fogged brain. “Wait,” I said, and pushed her a few inches away, damning my own responsibility. I managed to get the automatic out and removed the clip and the round in the chamber, tossing them on the coffee table. Then I replaced the gun in the holster and looked up to see her mouth droop sulkily.
“I’m sure you had the safety on.”
“Yeah, but now I won’t be distracted, worrying that something you’re doing to me is flipping it off. Think about the headlines then.”
I prevented any further protest by kissing that sulky lip of hers, and she sighed and whispered against my throat, “You forgive me?”
“You do something wrong?”
“Yeah. You’ve just forgotten.”
I did remember, but I didn’t care, not anymore. Laura had more secrets than anyone else I knew, at least on the outside of a jail cell, but I didn’t care anymore, and not just because she was undressing as much of me as she could without disturbing the shoulder holster. I didn’t care because she was so complicated that she couldn’t help but hide things, and it made her mysterious to me, and it always had.
Laura broke free of the kiss and pushed at my chest. “Jack, listen. I—I know you didn’t like my decision. You know, not to report him. And I know this—this thing you did was to fix that. And I know you must have risked a lot to do it.”
“Did it for you.” I bent to whisper this into her throat. “Because you’re mine, and no one gets to hurt you.”
And she drew in her breath, and I felt the pulse pounding in her throat, and she never told me I was wrong.
An hour or so later, she got up and disappeared into the bathroom. The quickest of showers, and then she came out and started to dress. “I have to go back to the hospital.”
I was fogged from an excess of sex on a minimum of sleep. “The hospital?”
“Oh. I guess you didn’t hear. Mother had another episode last night. A mini-stroke, they’re saying.” She sat back down on the bed and I took her in my arms. Her hair was still damp from the steam. “And it’s my fault,” she added, burrowing her head into my shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe what I said to her.”
“What?”
“That Theresa was her child. I mean, her illegitimate child that she adopted back after Daddy died.”
Okay. That was another one for the Jerry Springer show. Now I vaguely recalled Laura’s dark mutterings back when we were kids, of her mother’s strange decision to adopt a half-grown child the first year she was widowed. Even then, I guess, Laura had her suspicions.
I tried to process this, put it together with the DNA and the Internet predator investigation and—and I couldn’t. Probably Mrs. Wakefield’s irrationality was a symptom of her physical decline, some neurological misfire. Paranoia, delusions of grandeur—