Chapter 9
WEAK KNEES & SHAKEN TREES
Graham
Bishop had been called into the precinct for more questioning, and despite my efforts—even with a statement from the victim—Nettles was determined that he did it.
I hated that the captain didn’t believe him.
He knew him just as well as I did. And there was no way that this man—a man who spent practically every waking moment helping people—would do this.
He volunteered on his days off at foot clinics and homeless shelters for Christ’s sake.
If I ever needed medical assistance ASAP, he’d be the guy I’d go to.
“Locke, I need you to take a look at the surveillance tape before we ask him any more questions. Things are not looking good.” Nettles waved me into his office where he had the tape pulled up on his computer.
I leaned over his desk, eyes on the screen, and let out a sigh. “Alright, show me what you’ve got.”
He started the video.
It was dark. The camera faced The Cove, so you could see the house lights reflecting off the black harbor below. At the bottom of the screen, the sidewalk was in view, but the bushes blocked most of it along the right side.
At about thirty seconds in, Mia walked across—hair in a bun, just like she said, headphones on, carrying a backpack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she looked exactly like Maggie. Then she disappeared behind the bushes.
Two minutes later, Bishop followed her.
Ten minutes later, Mia came crawling into view. Hair down—disheveled, visibly shaken, trying to get away. And right behind her? Bishop.
“Aw, fuck,” I breathed.
What I saw was him trying to calm her, help her up, get her to safety… But what Nettles saw was a predator trying to calm her down and make sure she didn’t say a word—guilty.
I rubbed my eyes. “There’s gotta be a goddamn explanation. Maybe the other guy came from the other direction. Maybe he waited for her. Is there any other video?”
“No. The next camera is three blocks down, and there’s nothing the whole day. It’s a pretty dead part of town.”
“What if he sat and waited? What if he came from The Cove via boat and came up in a spot where a camera never touches?” I asked, grasping at anything to clear Bishop’s name.
“Locke.” Nettles sat on the edge of his desk and pulled the toothpick from the corner of his mouth, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. “There’s nothing. Your pal Bishop’s the guy. I want you to go in there and see if you can figure this mess out.”
We entered the interrogation room. Dark. Cold—icy even. For fuck’s sake, give the man a little heat—almost felt colder in here than it did outside.
“Hey, man. We’ve got a bit of a problem here,” I said, sitting down in front of him. “I know you didn’t do it. But this here…” I gestured to the laptop in Nettles’ hand. “Says otherwise.”
Nettles set the laptop on the desk and played the video. I watched Bishop’s expression change.
“Yeah, that looks really bad. But you know me. I wouldn’t do that.”
“I do. But I also know the goddamned judicial system. And they’re not going to give two fucks about whether I know you or not until we find a way to prove that you didn’t go behind the bushes and try to rape a girl—one that looks an awful lot like the victims in a serial killer slaughter zone—fail, then try to shut her up. ”
He placed his head in his hands. When he looked back up, his jaw was tight. “Look, I’ve got nothing. Like I told the captain earlier. I came home from work, saw her struggling with this guy, and tried to help. That’s all.”
“You saw him?” I asked.
Bishop nodded.
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know, man. It all happened so fast.” He stared at the table, searching his memory. His fingers drummed once against the surface, then stopped. “My height, I guess… maybe a little thinner… he had a hoodie under one of those double-breasted trench coats… and a mask. Yeah, a white mask.”
Same thing Mia said.
“All I know is that he heard me coming and ran.”
“Do you know which way he went?”
“Yeah… he cut across the dog park.”
Of course he did. Maybe if the asshole had been followed immediately, we’d have a chance, but it’d already been twelve hours, and with everyone walking their dog… any shred of evidence would’ve been destroyed.
It didn’t look promising.
“Well, Mr. Warren…” Nettles tossed Bishop a set of keys. “Look familiar?”
Bishop’s hands stilled the moment they closed around them. “My keys? Yeah—”
“Nifty little decoration you’ve got there, don’t you think so, Locke?”
I glanced to the keys and spotted what Nettles was getting at.
A fucking black feather.
Nettles then slid a small evidence bag across the table. Inside? One of the little black feathers found on the victims.
Shit.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—! Hold on!” Bishop pushed back from the table and dropped his keys. “You’re trying to connect me to the rape and murder of the Midwest Girls? Nah-uh! I didn’t do it. Not me.”
“Mind explaining this then?” Nettles picked up the keys and jangled them in his face—prick.
“My niece went to a RenFest and got me a souvenir… two years ago.”
“Any way you can prove that, Mr. Warren?”
“Other than you giving my sister a call? No.”
“Bishop, you’ve gotta give us something.” I practically begged. “I can’t help if I don’t have anything to go off of. Why were you walking that block? You live on the other side of town, and the hospital was ten blocks in the wrong direction.”
“I’m seeing someone. I was going to surprise them after work.”
“Okay. We’re going to need their name, address, and number to verify.”
“Fine, but they didn’t know I was coming.”
“That’s alright. If you’re innocent—which you are.” I shot a look to the captain. “It will all work out.”
“That may be. He’s not going anywhere until his story clears.” Nettles clamped his jaw tight, so tight I could see the muscles work, signaling that he’d made up his mind, and unless we could produce some solid evidence against his theory, Bishop was going down for another man’s crimes.
Maggie
The click of the shutter closing inside Padme’s camera was the only thing keeping me present.
Otherwise I would’ve faded off dreaming of someplace in the sun to curl up with Graham.
No sex. Just snuggles. Just us. Just drinking in one another—okay yeah, maybe Chester would be in Graham’s other arm, basking in the warmth of the sun and bulging biceps larger than my head, but it would be beautiful… comfortable… home.
Besides, I didn’t feel sexy enough right now to even enjoy taking these slutty pictures Hunter demanded.
The hair and makeup didn’t help. Neither did the expensive lingerie Hunter bought for me.
It looked like linguine noodles doused in glitter and hopeful expectations, covered up by a pink sheer babydoll nighty with a fuzzy trim.
I felt like a Playboy bunny—which wasn’t far from the truth.
Only I was a ViceGirl—a Pretty Thing. Stupid condescending nickname.
The ones that had aged out of the limelight and now were only riding on the fact that the boss still liked fucking them.
I straddled myself over the arm of the couch in the Great Room, coyly looking over my shoulder and biting my finger, the way Hunter liked, the way I hated.
At least when I’d make my own videos, when Hunter’d leave me to my own devices—literally—I was free.
No direction, no hair and makeup, no putting on a big show for the people…
just me, my toys, and the fantasy that the one man I wanted actually wanted me back.
“Look this way, Maggie,” Padme said from between the big studio lights either side of her. “Chin down… to the left.”
Those goddamn lights were blinding. I could barely keep my eyes open, and a migraine was already brewing behind my temples—the kind that only resolved itself with copious amounts of alcohol and a warm bath away from everyone.
“Just a few more, Miss Maxwell, and we’ll get out of your gorgeous hair,” Padme’s flamboyant assistant, Ernesto, chimed. “Mr. Devereaux would like you to spread them for the centerfold.” He pointed to my thighs. “Maybe part your lips a little. You know… give the readers a good tease.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think so. They want my pussy, they can visit the site.”
“But Miss Maxwell, Mr. Devereaux strictly said—”
“I will not be opening my legs today for free, Ernesto.” I rose from the couch, my annoyance blatantly clear in my voice.
“I need to get a fucking tree, start planning the menu, and I still haven’t finished decorating for this goddamn Yule party I never really wanted to have in the first place.
” My chest rose and fell with force as my frustrations build inside.
“My parents will be here in forty-eight hours, and I don’t have time to flash my pussy for a spread that isn’t paying me nearly a quarter as much as my videos do.
So I highly suggest you get out of my way.
” I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and stormed out.
“I’m done,” I said over my shoulder. “Pack up and get out.”
I headed up the stairs and dialed Katie.
She answered before the first ring even finished. “Change your mind?” she asked.
“Ugh, yes!” I threw my head back in exasperation. “Be here in ten minutes. We’re getting a tree.”
“Girl, I’m already at your door.”
“Seriously?” I bounded back down the steps and looked out the window in the foyer.
And just like she said, there she was, dressed in a gothic yuletide ensemble.
A pink leopard-print jacket with black fur cuffs and collar, over her usual chaos of black leather, lace, and chains.
In what could only be considered normal for Katie at Yule, she had a Krampus-shaped backpack and little earrings shaped like zombie gingerbread men with bites taken out and leg bones sticking out where cookie should be.
Seeing her gave me warm tinglies all over. Lately, Katie and Derek were the only ones to bring me back from my pit of self-hatred that I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of.