Along Came December Read online

  Robin’s eyes flash with indignation, though they soften when Presley touches his shoulder. “Go get cleaned up. I’ll order pizza.” Presley glances at me. “Pizza?”

  “Make it Indian,” I say. “Please.”

  I flop across the couch and throw an arm over my eyes. Robin and Presley whisper for a minute, and then I hear them both move off. Something cold and alcoholic is pressed into my hand, and I down it gratefully. I feel Presley sit at the far end of the couch.

  “Was it a bad one?” he asks quietly.

  “Yep,” I reply, eyes still closed.

  He takes the glass back. “I’ll get you another.”

  This time it’s a double, burning all the way down my throat. I lean back against the cushions and Presley joins me again. He sits in casual company, waiting.

  “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo,” I say after a while.

  “Oh yeah?” He scratches absently at his shorn hair.

  “I thought maybe you’d have some advice.”

  My eyes skim over the vibrant ink on his arms. He smiles. “What would you like to know?”

  I look at the lotus that covers his right forearm, soft curves of pink and orange. It’s for his mom. She died when he was 14.

  “Do they help?” I whisper.

  Presley shifts closer and puts a hand on my knee. My fingertips trace his flower.

  “You mean the tributes?”

  I nod. He’s got a big Gothic cross on his back for her, too. He wraps his arm around my shoulder. I’m trying really hard not to cry.

  “Some days.” He smiles, sadly. “I think some people get tattoos because they’re afraid to move forward, like it’s not okay to keep going unless they remember what they lost. They think if they put something permanent on their bodies that they’ll never forget. That the constant reminder will honor the person they love.”

  I twist Max’s wedding band around my finger, distantly aware my cheeks are wet. Presley hugs me tighter.

  “The thing is, you don’t honor someone by spending a few hours and a couple hundred bucks in a tattoo parlor. You honor them by deciding every single day to be the person they inspired you to be, the one they helped you become. You can get a tattoo, Mordecai, but don’t fool yourself into thinking it’s for him. It’s for you. The way you live your life, that’s for him.”

  The doorbell rings. I wipe hastily at my eyes.

  “I’ve got it,” Presley says. “Be right back.”

  I shut my eyes so I can focus, compose myself. When I open them again Presley’s setting paper bags on the dining table. Robin is at his side, watching me uncertainly. I force a smile and duck into the kitchen for some plates. I don’t get far. Tomato sauce is splattered on the counters, scorched to the stovetop, puddled on the floor, and instead of a harmless kitchen mess I see a crime scene. The jumper splashed across the alley. My husband strewn across the bridge. My legs buckle.

  Robin rushes in behind me, nearly bowling me over.

  “I will clean up,” he promises, making a flustered grab for the paper towel. “I am sorry, I will—”

  “It’s fine,” I manage. “Just get some plates, would you?”

  I clutch at the counter, breathing deeply. Robin pulls a stack of plates down from the cupboard, cradling them with both arms. I step aside to let him pass but he hesitates, color rising in his cheeks. He ducks his head.

  “I am sorry,” he whispers. “I did not mean to make you upset.”

  I blow out another breath and find my voice. “It’s okay, Robin. I’m not upset with you.”

  “I am sorry. I will clean up.”

  “It’s okay. We can clean up after.”

  I nudge him out of the kitchen and into the dining alcove. Presley looks at me curiously but I just shake my head. Robin scurries around the table, laying plates, and then we all take our seats. Presley says, “I’ll say grace.”

  Robin bows his head and so do I, though I’m eyeing the butter chicken. Presley clears his throat.

  “Oh mighty Atlas!” he calls out in a loud voice, and my head snaps up in surprise. He’s got his eyes shut tight and his hands clasped beneath his chin. “We thank you for your efforts in holding up the world. Without you, the Earth would be rolling along into the nearest black hole, and getting takeout would be so much more difficult. You are a good man, my friend.”

  With that he begins to dole out the food.

  “Oh mighty Atlas?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  Presley’s grin is easy. “He’s underappreciated these days, if you ask me.” He takes Robin’s plate and loads it up. “Did you know the whole world is really just one man’s backpack?”

  Robin frowns.

  “It’s a myth,” I tell him. “A story.”

  “It’s the truth,” Presley says as he takes my plate. “You think Atlas would carry a purse?”

  I laugh, and he scoops me more rice.

  The Indian food is from a little mom-and-pop place a couple streets down, and it’s good enough that no one talks until the plates are thoroughly cleaned. Robin sighs contentedly.

  “I have never had this before,” he says to Presley. He adds coyly, “It was much more delicious than bowloneese.”

  Presley smiles at Robin’s mispronunciation. “More delicious than your bolognese maybe, but it’s pretty hard to get the sauce right when you can’t even open a can of tomatoes.”

  He gets up to clear the table and Robin joins him, pouting. “For that I will not leave you mints on your pillow.”

  Presley leans into him, one arm snaking around his waist. “That’s okay,” he murmurs. “There’s something else I’d rather find on my pillow.”

  Robin blushes and tries to squirm away, but Presley pulls him in for a kiss. I avert my eyes later than is decent. I’m pretending to ignore the vice around my heart when my cell phone rings, making me jump. I excavate it dutifully from the pocket of my coat.

  “Mordecai.”

  I glance back and note the boys have respectfully given me some privacy, or maybe their departure was for their own benefit. Either way the cathedral suddenly feels cavernous, and I feel a little like Atlas with the weight of the world on my shoulders when Paddy’s voice comes through the line.

  “You better get down here. We got a problem.”

  2

  TO THE untrained eye, Lieutenant Dixon looks nonplussed as ever. Faded plaid shirt tucked into his slacks, Doc Martins polished to a spit shine, glasses balanced perfectly on the bridge of his nose. But there’s a subtle tightness to his mouth that tells me we’ve got more than a problem. We’ve got a press problem.

  I join Dixon and Paddy at the front of the office. “Shoulda run him over when we had the chance,” Paddy says. “Take a look.”

  He puts a Twitter feed up on the big screen, and I swear for the second time today at the sight of Benny Afternoon’s face. The profile photo is one of those moody selfies that all the hipsters take, but there’s no mistaking it’s him. I look closer.

  “His Twitter handle is GoodAfternoon? Jesus.”

  I read the newsfeed:

  @GoodAfternoon: Library death a jumper? Maybe not! Sources say it’s a homicide.

  #BriarRosebodies #insidescoop

  @GoodAfternoon: Talk about caught with your pants down. Sources say he worked at a local strip club and gave himself an employee discount.

  #deadmentellnotales

  The most recent post has a photo. I do my best to ignore it.

  @GoodAfternoon: Sex doesn’t sell enough to make this worthwhile. Should have taken his sciences.

  #stayinschoolkids #badlifechoices

  I close the browser and blink the image away. “Who the hell let him get close enough to take a picture of the body?”

  “The angle suggests he was on a roof,” says Dixon. “The library roof was contained but the flour mill wasn’t. He may have been able to slip in and out without notice.”

  “He didn’t have a camera when he came after us,” Paddy says. “He
’d have to be pretty resourceful to get past all the cops at the scene unnoticed.”

  “I can attest to his resourcefulness,” I say bitterly. “And his persistence. If he wants something he’ll find a way.”

  Dixon lifts an eyebrow. “You know him?”

  Paddy answers before I can. “He’s been harassing her,” he says, in a voice that dares me to interrupt. “Trying to get a scoop on the trial.”

  The silence is heavy. I want to hit Paddy, or walk out, or maybe pull a blanket over my head and cry. Instead I just stand there. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. No one else seems to know what to do with me either.

  “You should have told me,” says Dixon, soft.

  “You should’ve told me,” says Paddy dangerously. “Little shit’s got no respect, coming after you like that. Next time I see him—”

  “I’m handling it,” I snap. “He’s just some dumb kid. If he bothers me again I’ll kick his ass myself.”

  “Now, Shirley,” says someone behind me. “There are other, more enjoyable ways to work out your grievances. Or don’t you do that anymore?”

  The voice grates down my spine like nails on a chalkboard. I turn to the doorway just as Scarlett comes in, strutting like he owns the place. He’s preening, the goddamn bastard, and sending me a look that’s going to get him kicked in the jewels.

  I take a step toward him, but Paddy puts himself in front of me and gets right up in Scarlett’s face. “That’s Detective Mordecai to you, asshole. You watch your step, or I’ll remind you how I like to work out my grievances.”

  Paddy steps off and Scarlett visibly relaxes, though his ears go crimson. He flashes Dixon a smile that’s seen more bleach than his hair.

  “Detective Sean Scarlett, sir, reporting for duty.”

  “Junior detective,” says Dixon flatly. “You’re early.”

  Scarlett’s smile wavers. “I heard you had a new case and I thought—”

  “Thought you’d kiss ass. Don’t think I don’t know everything about you. And I do mean everything.”

  Scarlett’s smile disappears altogether and something slimy twists in my gut. Dixon drops his voice so low it’s almost inaudible. “Let me make this clear for you. I am not impressed. Your place in this unit may be over my head, but if you don’t get your ass in line you’ll be rethinking your career choice. You understand?”

  Scarlett swallows and nods.

  “Good. Now you get yourself down to the motor pool and make sure every one of those fine automobiles is in tip-top condition.”

  “But sir—!”

  “That wasn’t a request, son. And that Impala had better shine like she’s on parade.”

  Scarlett sighs. “Right away, sir.”

  He slinks out of the room in defeat, all of us watching him go. It’s a minute before I say, “The motor pool doesn’t have an Impala.”

  Dixon pats my shoulder. “No it doesn’t.

  I gesture at the computer screen and Benny’s saucy pout, bringing us back to the matter at hand. “You want us to run him in? Find out how he got that photo?”

  “The photo isn’t my concern,” Dixon says. “What I’d like to know is where he’s getting his information.”

  He strikes a few keys and the Twitter feed is replaced by a mug shot.

  “Prints came back half an hour ago to Sonny Carpenter, 33. Sonny’s had a few run-ins with the law, including sexual assault, drug use, and possession with intent. And like the reporter said, he worked at a strip club.”

  “You’re thinking Benny’s got a source in the precinct?” I ask. “Someone who fed him the ID and rap sheet, and then he connected the dots?”

  “Not unless his source is psychic.” Dixon puts Benny’s Twitter feed up again. “Like I said, the prints and ID came back half an hour ago. These were posted ninety minutes ago. Either Benny’s one hell of an investigator, or he knows someone close to Sonny’s death. My money’s on the second.”

  “As long as we’re taking the kid’s tweets as gospel, does that mean we’re treating this as a murder?” Paddy asks. He looks irate, and I suspect it’s because we’re about to be on stakeout duty instead of scaring Benny into talking.

  “Stay open to the possibility of foul play,” Dixon says. “Bank records show he’s been taking pay from the Speakeasy, and my guess is his large cash deposits came from there, too. Josie and Whale are already following the reporter.” Dixon looks at me. “I thought you might have an in at the club.”

  I nod. Presley works there these days. I don’t talk about him much, but you don’t invite an ex-prostitute to live in your church without your detective boss finding out.

  I say, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  LOCATED DEEP in the bowels of the red light district, the Speakeasy is famous for its long and sordid history of police payoffs and backdoor business. On paper it’s a legitimate business, offering entertainment ranging from men and women taking their clothes off to slam poetry and acoustic covers of current chart hits. Off the record we know they deal in prostitution, often of minors, and not always the local kind either.

  Paddy doesn’t argue when I direct him to the club without calling Presley. I can’t say how much his employer knows about his personal life, but escorting a couple cops through the door won’t earn him any brownie points. I go with my gut and leave him out of it. A safe bet, considering his boss.

  In Briar Rose PD circles, James Gimondi is the stuff of legend. I’ve never had the pleasure, but from what I’ve heard he’s nothing short of a blue-blooded bastard. The man’s got money and power and knows how to wield both, taking great pleasure in toying with the little people. He has a particular fondness for making cops look like assholes. That, or putting them in his pocket.

  We flash our badges at the door to bypass the line, and immediately the bouncer is muttering into his collar. We head into the club without waiting for any kind of instruction. Out of the corner of my eye I’m looking for Presley and hoping not to see him. So far so good.

  The Speakeasy is laid out in such a way that the center stage holds the night’s musical or poetry feature, and the dancers move in a semi-circle around the perimeter of the room. I’m not surprised that the crowd’s attention is on the dancers and not on the man playing a bluesy cello mostly to himself. Male and female dancers co-mingle, occasionally collaborating before gravitating to the nearest pole or the fattest wallet. They move to their own beat. The only music in the room is the cello, and it doesn’t lend itself well to dance. No one seems to mind. The customers follow their favorite dancers around the room, leaning on the stage and sipping drinks, occasionally beckoning a dancer down. Bouncers are stationed visibly throughout the room, though the atmosphere is remarkably mellow, no doubt in part to the sobriety of the customers. Prohibition is alive and well in Washington strip clubs, which hasn’t seemed to hurt the Speakeasy any. The place is packed.

  Paddy elbows me and I turn to see the man himself approaching. Tall, lean, and in a luxury suit, he cuts an impressive figure. His tie is the same blue as the mood lighting along the stage, and it sets off his dusky complexion and coal-black eyes. He moves gracefully, like he hears the same secret music the dancers do.

  “Detectives,” he greets us, smiling pleasantly. I don’t miss the sleek predatory edge in his eyes, and when his gaze lands on me I feel my skin crawl. He extends his hand. “My name is James, and this is my club. Detective Mordecai, isn’t it? I’m so very sorry about the loss of your husband. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for you to be working at a time like this.”

  I offer a terse smile in return, ignoring the proffered handshake. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m just here to do my job. This is my partner, Detective O’Reilly.”

  The handshake turns toward Paddy, who folds his arms brusquely. James smiles and clasps his hands behind his back. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Actually, we’re here to help you.” I unfold the photos in my pocket. The first is Sonny�
�s mug shot, the second the tweeted crime scene photo of his mangled corpse. “Consider us messengers. Looks like your boy’s tendered his resignation.”

  James takes the photos, frowning delicately. “This is Sonny? When did this happen?”

  “This afternoon,” Paddy says. “You know anything about this?”

  James shakes his head. “I must admit I was concerned when he missed the start of his shift, but I just thought he was running late.”

  “That happen often?” I ask. “Sonny running late?”

  “No more so than any of my other employees. Some of them are better about calling in than others, and Sonny’s never been much of a forward-thinker.”

  He smiles, and I don’t like the way his gaze lingers on me. Vice has been trying to shut this place down for more than 20 years, and I’m feeling like we’re out of our depth here. James studies the crime scene photo, expression neutral, as if dead employees come with the territory. The thought has me scanning the room again for Presley.

  “How did he die?” James asks.

  I tell him, “Fell off the roof of the downtown library.”

  “How terrible.”

  “Was Sonny having difficulties at work? Did he have any reason to be depressed?” I cut to the chase. “Do you know of any reason why he may have killed himself?”

  James hands me the photos. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. His job is—was—not a difficult one, and I never saw anything that may have given him reason to kill himself while working in my establishment. As for his personal life, he certainly wouldn’t have come to me with any concerns.”

  “Is there someone else we could talk to?” Paddy asks. “Someone who may have known him better?”

  James smiles, looking at me like I’m something to eat. “Yes, there is. But I believe you’ve already met.”

  He indicates the stage entrance, where a spotlight awaits the next performer. I know what’s about to happen and feel sick.