What You Don't Know(90)
He flips on his blinker, turns out onto the street. He’s gripping the wheel, his nails are cutting into the leather. Trixie’s car is just ahead.
*
Trixie lives in the kind of apartment building that would be called a tenement in a big city, but here, in the middle of Denver, USA, with a view of the mountains and a shitty park nearby, it’s called an urban up-and-comer, like people expect it to suddenly get better any day now. It rises six stories up, and the only way into the apartments is through the long hallways that snake through the building, hallways that always smell like feet and urine and curry. He watches as Trixie gets out of her car and goes inside, and he’s right behind her, close but not too close, because if he loses sight of her in this endless maze of doors, he’ll never find her. But it’s easy, she’s on the first floor, he sees her open a door—15A—and slip in, and she doesn’t lock it, there’s no telling snick of a deadbolt being pulled. Something tells him to wait, not to burst right in, so he walks farther down the hall, his hands in his pockets, strolling, like he belongs there. He sees a few people, but no one gives him a funny look, or asks any questions—that’s one of the good things about a place like this, maybe the only good thing.
After fifteen minutes he goes back to Trixie’s door, twists the knob in his hand. It opens easily, and he goes inside. He is only in the apartment for a few minutes, and there’s mostly silence, except one scream, a woman’s scream, and then Hoskins leaves, closes the door gently behind him. There is blood on his hands—not a lot, but enough—and the blood isn’t his.
SAMMIE
Two hours into her shift at work and if somebody handed her a knife she’d probably stab someone. Or herself. She can remember a time when she thought shopping the weeks before Christmas was fun, as if being sardined into a mall and hunting for elusive gifts was a game, but now she’s on the other side of it. The seedy, ugly underbelly of the retail world. She’d write about that if people were interested, but all anyone wants is blood and gore and death. Jacky Seever, and the Secondhand Killer. And she’s stuck. She’d spent an hour with Seever, asking him every question she could think of, but it’s not what Corbin wants. And Weber’s out there now, sniffing around at crime scenes and putting together something good, and she’s stuck here, waiting for a call from the guy at the gallery that she’ll probably never get, and she can’t think of what else she could possibly do, who she should speak to.
“There’s a guy here to see you,” one of the girls says, and she weaves through the crowds of shoppers, trying not to make eye contact so she won’t get stopped with a question. She gets to the front of the store and looks around, thinking that it’ll be Loren waiting for her, Loren-as-Seever, and she looks right past Hoskins at first, it’s like he isn’t even there, staring a hole through her, and then her gaze snaps back, she really sees him.
“What’re you doing here?” she asks. “What happened to your face?”
There’s a bruise rising on his cheek, his eyelids look swollen and red, as if he’s been crying, although she can’t imagine that. He reaches for her, slowly, like he’s moving through water, and she grabs his arm. The sleeve of his coat is cold, covered in half-melted snowflakes.
“Is he here?” Hoskins asks, and she has to duck close to hear the words. He’s looking around, his eyes darting from one corner to another, searching.
“Who?” she asks, worried, because Hoskins looks like he’s hiding, like someone’s following him and he’s on the run, scared.
“Seever,” Hoskins whispers. “You said he’s been following you. Is he here?”
“Have you been drinking? You should eat something. I think we’ve got cookies in the back—” She tries to turn around, but Hoskins grabs her elbow hard enough that she gasps in surprise.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you about the new victim,” he says, his voice shaking. “I should’ve called you. I love you, I should’ve called.”
“It’s fine,” she says, trying to back up, but there are so many people around that there’s nowhere to go, not unless she turns tail and runs.
“All I ever wanted to do was help,” he says. He grabs her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh, needy, trying to pull her closer, it reminds her of the way he used to touch her when they were in bed together, and she feels the palms of her hands go hot and damp. “That’s all I ever try to do.”
He’s not drunk. He’s exhausted, reeling on his feet.
“Help with what?” she says, trying to untangle herself from his arms. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Yeah,” he says. He’s still reaching for her, trying to touch her face, but she shies away. His knuckles are shredded, bleeding.
“Oh my God. What the hell did you do to yourself?”
“Come here.” Hoskins spreads his arms, and without thinking she steps into them, is enfolded in the familiar smell of him. She’s short enough that she can press her forehead into his breastbone, feel the rumble of his heart. “Let me hold you.”
“Hoskins?” a man says, and she turns. It’s a uniformed cop, his hat still on his head, and another one a few steps behind. They’re both young, hardly old enough to shave, Sammie thinks, but everyone looks young to her these days. They’re both embarrassed. “Detective Hoskins?”