The callousness of that statement struck Kate hard as she thanked Susan Frye for her dubious assistance and hung up the phone. It made her wonder what exactly had brought Angie DiMarco into the world—chance? fate? love? the desire for a check from Aid to Families with Dependent Children? Had her life gone wrong from conception, or had the mistakes come later, like tarnish slowly growing on silver that had been minted shiny and bright?
Her gaze went to the little picture of Emily in the pocket of her overhead cupboard. A beautiful small life, luminous with the promise of the future. She wondered if Angie had ever looked that innocent, or if her eyes had always held the weary bitterness of a bleak existence.
“Poor kid would have been better off aborted in the first trimester.”
But Angie DiMarco was living out her sad life, while Emily's had been taken.
Kate bolted out of her chair and began to pace the tiny space that was her office. If she didn't lose her mind by the end of the day, it was going to be a miracle.
She had fully expected a command to Sabin's office first thing, or, at the very least, an order to Rob's office for a formal dressing-down for the things she'd said in the parking lot the previous night. No such call had come . . . yet. And so she had tried to fend off thoughts of Angie being dead by taking proactive measures to find out about the girl's life. But every time she so much as slowed down her thought process, she heard the screams from the tape.
And every time she tried to think of something else entirely, she thought of Quinn.
Not wanting Quinn in her mind, she sat down again, grabbed the telephone receiver, and dialed another number. She had other clients to think of. At least she did until Rob fired her.
She called David Willis and got a very long, overly detailed explanation of how to leave a message on his machine. She tried her rape victim at home with similar results, then tried her at work and was told by the manager of the adult bookstore that Melanie Hessler had been fired.
“As of when?” Kate demanded.
“As of today. She's had too many absences.”
“She's suffering from post-traumatic stress,” Kate pointed out. “Because of a crime committed against her on your property, I might add.”
“That wasn't our fault.”
“Post-traumatic stress has been ruled a disability by the courts, and therefore falls under the Americans with Disabilities Act.” She sank her teeth into the sense of injustice, almost glad for the chance to tear into someone. “If you discriminate against Melanie on the basis of this disability, she can sue you out of existence.”
“Listen, lady,” the manager said, “maybe you ought to talk to Melanie about this before you go around threatening people, 'cause I don't think she's all that bent out of shape about it. I haven't heard boo from her all week.”
“I thought you said you fired her.”
“I did. I left it on her machine.”
“You fired her on her answering machine? What kind of rotten coward are you?”
“The kind that's hanging up on you, bitch,” he said, slamming down the receiver.
Kate hung up absently, trying to think when she had last spoken to Melanie Hessler. A week ago at most, she thought. BC—before the Cremator case. There hadn't been time to call her since. Angie had taken up all her time. It seemed too long now that she thought of it. Melanie's calls had become more frequent as the trial drew closer and her nerves wound tighter and tighter.
“I haven't heard boo from her all week.”
Kate supposed she might have gone out of town, but Melanie would have let her know. She checked in as if Kate were her parole officer. This felt wrong. The court, in its infinite wisdom, had seen fit to release Melanie's attackers on bail, but the cops had been good about keeping tabs on them, with the detective in charge of the case staying on top of the situation.
I'm just spooked about everything because of Angie, Kate thought. There was probably no cause for alarm. Still, she followed her instincts, picked up the phone again, and dialed the detective in sex crimes.
He'd heard nothing from their victim either, but knew that one of her perps had been picked up over the weekend for assaulting a former girlfriend. Kate explained what she knew and asked him to drop by Melanie Hessler's house, just to check.
“I'll head over that way after lunch.”
“Thanks, Bernie. You're a peach. I'm probably just being paranoid, but . . .”
“Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean life's not out to get you.”
“True. And my luck isn't exactly on high tide here.”
“Hang in there, Kate. Things can always get worse.”
Cop humor. She couldn't quite appreciate it today.
She tried to turn her attention to a stack of paperwork, but turned away from it and pulled Angie's file instead, hoping she might see something in it that would prompt an idea for some kind of action. Sitting in this office, waiting, was going to make her brain explode.
The file was woefully thin. More questions than answers. Could the girl have left the Phoenix herself? If so, where had the blood come from? She flashed on the scene in the bathroom: the bloody handprint on the tile, the diluted blood trickling down the tub drain, the bloody towels in the hamper. More blood than any reasonable explanation could account for.
But if Smokey Joe had come for her, how had he found her, and how was it Rita Renner had heard nothing—no doors, no struggle, no nothing?
More questions than answers.
The phone rang, and Kate picked it up, half hoping, half dreading to hear Kovac on the other end of the line with news of the autopsy on victim number four.
“Kate Conlan.”
The polished voice of a secretary delivered unwelcome news of another variety. “Ms. Conlan? Mr. Sabin would like to see you in his office now.”
26
CHAPTER
“SO, IS THIS Sergeant Kovac coming or what?”
Liska checked her watch as she walked back into the interview room. It was almost noon and the room was uncomfortably hot. Vanlees had been waiting almost an hour, and he wasn't liking it.
“He's on his way. He should be here anytime now. I called him the minute you said you'd come talk, Gil. He really wants to get your take on things regarding Jillian. But, you know, he's over at that autopsy—the woman that got lit up last night. That's why he's running late. It won't be much longer.”
She'd given him that line at least three times, and he was clearly tired of hearing it.
“Yeah, well, you know I want to help, but I got other things to do,” he said. He sat across the table from her wearing work clothes—navy pants and shirt. Like a janitor might wear, Liska thought. Or like a cop uniform with no embellishments. “I've got to work this afternoon—”
“Oh, you're squared with that.” She waved off his concern. “I called your boss and cleared it. Didn't want you getting into trouble for being a good citizen.”
He looked as if he didn't like that idea much either. He shifted on his chair. His gaze went to the mirror on the wall behind Liska. “You know we have one of those at the Target Center, back in the offices. Anybody on the other side?”
Liska blinked innocence. “Why would there be anybody on the other side? It's not like you're under arrest. You're here to help us.”
Vanlees stared at the glass.
Liska turned and stared at it too, wondering how she must look to Quinn. Like some worn-out barfly in a smoky lounge, no doubt. If the bags under her eyes got any bigger, she was going to need a luggage cart to carry them. The middle of a serial murder investigation was not the time to want to impress anyone with her fresh good looks.