Chapter Thirty-Three

Val and Gil walked back to police headquarters hand-in-hand until they reached the steps. She hugged him for what felt like mere seconds, but when their embrace ended, the sun had disappeared over the horizon.

“Sorry to make you late getting back,” she said. “That’s sure to impress your bosses on your first day.”

“You can make me late for work anytime,” he said, smiling. “And soon again, I hope.” He gave her a tender kiss goodbye, running his hands down her back to her hips.

“Careful,” she said between smooches, laughing. “Don’t let my mother see you do that.”

“Ah, yes, your mother’s back. When will I meet this mysterious woman?”

Val’s heart lurched, and she could tell from Gil’s reaction that she hadn’t hidden her reaction from him. “Let’s sleep on that.”

“I look forward to that,” he said with a sly grin. “Okay, back to work for me.”

He limped up the stairs, and Val couldn’t help feeling she was making a mistake at that moment. But she couldn’t pinpoint how. Only that she didn’t know when she’d see him next, and it bothered her.

She drove to her father’s house, and found it dark, with his SUV parked in the driveway. After changing into running shorts and a T-shirt, she tiptoed past his bedroom. The door was ajar, so she poked her head in. He’d fallen asleep with his reading light on and a Philip Margolin novel splayed open on the mattress next to him. Val turned out the light and gave silent thanks to his AA sponsors for getting him home, safe and sober, another night.

She returned to Headquarters, parked in the employee-only lot, and jogged to her favorite running path, a well-lit trail that brought her to the Waterfront pedestrian loop. The warm night and impending holiday seemed to draw people out, at least on the downtown side. Couples promenaded down the brick pathway overlooking the water, customers jammed cafés, and bicyclists weaved in and out around families strolling with children and baby carriages. Cheerful vendors busied themselves setting up temporary sidewalk shops, hawking handmade crafts, cotton candy, ribs and burgers and fries, ice cream and sodas. Already she could smell the grease and almost taste the sweet concoctions. A small crew fenced off a beer-and-wine garden. One of the men offered her a sample, which she declined with a smile.

“Rain check?” he said with a grin. She pretended not to hear him.

Crossing the pedestrian bridge, she appreciated the extra illumination provided by festive red, white, and blue string lights the city had hung for the next day’s celebrations. Garish, but safer than the usual dim yellow street lamps, many of which spent a substantial portion of their existence burnt out or broken by vandals.

Across the bridge, she rejoined the running trail along the east side of the river on the edge of the Alphabet Soup District. Not so well-lit or well-maintained, darkness prevailed in sections where overgrown shrubs leaned over chain-link fences and overhead lights flickered on and off, or simply stayed off. Small groups of twenty-somethings, mostly Black and Latino, eyed her with suspicion until she passed. No doubt the “Property of Clayton PD” T-shirt didn’t help matters.

Upriver sat the Eastside pier. Built in the 1940s to support the war effort, the pier remained active for recreational craft and small commercial ships, with impressive supporting infrastructure. An asphalt parking lot connected the running path to the pier, and a paved entrance for boat-towing vehicles fed the lot from the far end. Warehouses dotted the perimeter, some of which backed up to the river’s edge. Wooden decking extended from the paved area out over the water, supported by gigantic wooden columns, beams, and flotation supports. Gangways and ramps led to slips where a few dozen small boats could dock.

A barge was moored a hundred yards offshore, one she recognized from years past as the launching pad for the fireworks show. Something about the barge raised goosebumps on the skin of her neck, despite the slick sheen of perspiration she’d generated with her mile-plus-run.

She slowed down to examine the barge. Unlit, and with no apparent onboard activity, nothing about it justified her sense of unease. Armed private security guards strolled the pier, smoking cigarettes and gazing with mixed levels of alertness at passersby. One shooed away a loiterer, a homeless man Val often saw around town asking for money. Nothing unusual.

She ran on.

At the end of the pier, a stack of shipping crates blocked her path. She veered off into the busier streets of the Alphabet Soup District, home of tattoo parlors, liquor stores, pawn shops, and a few rough taverns she’d entered once or twice to haul away troublemakers. These streets, like downtown, seemed busier than normal, and less innocent. Men walked alone or in pairs, glaring at the world as if spoiling for a fight. Clusters of women hustled from one shop to the next, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. No families. Few couples. No mingling among the various groups in transit.

On impulse, she turned away from the river on East Fourth, heading up the progression of streets named for long-gone trees: Ash, Birch, Cedar, Dogwood. As she neared Elm, a small group of women occupied the well-lit corner, all dressed in short skirts or tight shorts, skin-tight and low-cut tops, and high-heeled shoes. Lots of makeup, some wearing cheap wigs. Unlike the others she’d seen, these women engaged with men walking by, or stopped to chat with drivers of cars that paused at the curb. Sex workers, no doubt. Out in force on the warm, busy night.

One woman looked familiar. Tall and slender, with a silver wig. Young. White. Smiles fading into exhaustion.

Destiny Mathers.

***

Val jogged straight for the group. The women scattered, one by one, until only Destiny remained, chatting with a man wearing a cowboy hat and boots, who ran away as soon as he spotted Val approaching. Only then did Destiny seem to notice Val. She made a half-hearted attempt to escape, but in her three-inch heels, she stood no chance. She gave up and leaned against the brick wall of the nearest building, lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke skyward.

“Officer,” she said in greeting when Val stopped a few feet away.

Val took a moment to catch her breath and rein in her surprise. Destiny’s heavy makeup almost hid the bruises on her face and arms, and her rheumy eyes betrayed her poor health.

“I’m surprised to see you out here, working already,” Val said. “A few hours ago, you were hooked up to an IV drip.”

“I got better.” Destiny sneered at her. “But you look like hell.”

Val glanced over her own body, sweaty in all the expected places, and figured the minimal amount of makeup she’d applied that morning had run or smeared in unattractive ways. “I thought you’d be at Mercy for at least a few more days,” she said.

“You guessed wrong,” Destiny said. “Anyway, I don’t have time to chat, so unless you got some business to conduct…” She coughed into her fist, then again, harder.

“You sure you’re okay?” Val edged closer and reached out.

Destiny batted her hand away and strutted in the other direction, taking another drag on her cigarette before stomping it out on the sidewalk. “It’s these damned cancer sticks,” she said. “I really gotta quit.”

Val followed her, noticing a serious limp in the woman’s stride. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been wondering if you’d changed your mind about naming the guy who—”

“Chrissakes, beyotch!” Destiny whirled around to face her. “You think I want to tell you his name? Would I be out here tonight, if I ratted out the dude who done this to me? Who do you think pulled me out the hospital and set me on this damned corner? Santa Claus? Now get the hell away from me ’fore he spots us and gives me another damned beating!”

Val stopped in her tracks, stunned, and chided herself for pressing too hard once again. “Listen. As a cop, I could bust you right now, and we both know where that would lead. Nowhere, right?”

Destiny cocked her head, crossed her arms, said nothing.

“But you’ve been through enough, and I’ve never been on board with the whole crackdown-on-sex-workers thing while we let the johns walk. What I’m trying to say is, I appreciate the situation you’re in. Really, I do.”

“Great. Thanks for the pep talk. Good night.” Destiny turned to leave.

“Look,” Val said, “I need your help. You know things, and I bet some of those things relate to the violent crap going down tomorrow. So if arresting you is the only way to get you to talk…well, why would you force me into making that choice?”

Destiny glared at her for several seconds, uncrossed her arms. “You can’t bust me. You ain’t seen me do nothing.”

Val scoffed and she channeled her inner Bobby Grimes. “Come on. If I dragged your ass downtown right now, which member of Clayton PD would take your word over mine? Huh?”

Destiny heaved an angry breath and stared off into space. “Fine. What you wanna know?”

Val stepped closer and lowered her voice. “A name. A place. Any detail at all that can help me keep people safe tomorrow.” A beat passed. “Anything at all.”

Destiny bit her lip, watching Val with intense eyes. “No names, okay?”

Val nodded.

“This dude, he comes by the hospital to spring me, says I gotta work tonight over here, and tomorrow night over at the Waterfront. Everybody’s got to. Even me, all beaten up. A show of force, he says. Whatever that means.”

“A show of force.” Val mulled over the words. “Of sex workers? Why?”

Destiny shrugged. “They got themselves some other shit going down and maybe they didn’t want ya’ll focused on any of that.”

“Why would we focus on you gals when we—wait a minute. The Waterfront?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Where the big outdoor concert and fireworks show is going on.”

“I don’t know. That ain’t my scene.”

Val thought a moment. “With families, kids, all that. Not over here, where we’d ignore you.”

“I guess.”

Val rubbed her chin. “Any idea of what they’re planning? What the event entails? A riot, or an attack? Guns, explosives, anything?”

Destiny shook her head. “They don’t share the details with the peons.”

“What time?”

Destiny glanced around, as if fearing someone might overhear them. “They said to start work by sunset or earlier. And not to be shy about it, if you catch my drift. Now, I gotta go, okay?”

Without waiting for a response, she limped into a nearby doorway to a darkened nightclub. When Val approached, a scary-looking bouncer with muscled, tattooed arms, a buzz cut, and an angry face blocked her progress.

“Sorry, we’re full,” he said in a gravelly voice.

Val considered playing the Cop card, but she had no ID on her, no badge, and no backup. Besides, Destiny had given her what she would, and could, share. No point in creating trouble for her.

She jogged back to the running path, resuming her lap around the developed area and onto the north-end bridge. She picked up the pace until she reached sprinting speed, as if finishing the last lap in the long-distance relay at a track meet. Excitement built within her. Destiny’s intel confirmed her intuition that the fireworks show would play a big part in the attack the next day. But was it the main event, or just another distraction? She needed to find out more.

***

Val barged into the WAVE Squad office minutes later, sweating from every pore. Sergeant Petroni, standing at the whiteboard by the large conference table with marker in hand, gazed at her in surprise. “What are you doing back? You’re not due in for another two hours.”

“I got a tip,” Val said, breathing hard, as much from her sprint up the stairs as her three-mile run. “It’s the Waterfront. At least, I think so. I need to verify.”

Petroni glanced at the whiteboard, which contained squad assignments for various locations around town. “How solid is this info?”

Val sprawled out in her chair, wiping perspiration from her forehead. “She has no reason to lie to me.”

Petroni picked up an eraser and wiped several names off under the “Armory” heading. “Verify away,” she said. “And keep me posted.”

Val fired up her secure browser and, with much trial and error, navigated to the Parler social app. There she discovered her account had been activated. She clicked around, joined some chat groups, and found, to her chagrin, that those, too, required further admin approval before she could read the ongoing discussions. Same for Gab and the other apps she’d signed up for.

More mysteries, more walls. Where were the doors, and the keys to unlock them?