“Hello?”
Must. Not. Sneeze. I hold my breath and press my finger against the trigeminal nerve under my nose, grinding my upper lip against my teeth until the skin splits. The taste of blood is on my tongue. My vision pixilates.
And just like that, I’m back in the Baxter Building. Only now I’m crouched in the dark under a reeking pile of bedding, on top of a mattress crawling with microbes, trying not to sneeze as shots echo against the battered concrete walls. People are screaming, running away, fighting each other with fists and knives.
There’s a dead person on the bed beside me. I can’t remember who it is or how they got there. I’m too busy trying to hide. From down the corridor I here harsh voices.
“Police! Drop your weapons! Get on your knees! On your knees! Now!”
Gunshots. A thin voice calling, half whispering, half crying. “Zoe, where are you?”
Running footsteps, disappearing in the distance.
The fly buzzes against Victoria’s window pane. A horn blasts faintly down on the street. I’m still on the floor behind the bed. Sunlight streams through the window, and I blink the world back into focus. The boots have gone away and the bedroom door is wide open. How much time has passed? I’m shivering, terrified. The memory completely overwhelmed my senses — now I don’t know if I’m alone, if the maintenance man has seen me, if the police are on their way.
I am Audrey Lake. I am a police detective. I am in control.
I touch my gun for reassurance.
What the hell just happened to me? It felt like the hallucination on the beach, in all the immersive detail, as though I had been transported somewhere else. But unlike the beach experience, I know without doubt that the incident at the Baxter Building really occurred. Much of my experience during that last undercover assignment is hazy. I flinch away from that experience, more than happy to let it sink into oblivion.
I force myself to my feet. My knees tremble, and I lean on the bed for support. The bedspread puckers under my hand and I have to smooth it away. Must get out. Leave no trace. Peek around the jamb and listen before moving into the hallway. Pause to listen again, make sure I’m alone. The only sound is the roar of blood in my ears.
Inside the purse on the dining table, the green leather wallet is gaping open. The long compartment that should hold cash is empty. The maintenance man has robbed Victoria.
A flood of anger leaves me breathless, undermined by a sneaking surge of shame. If I hadn’t left the purse unzipped, with the wallet clearly visible, would he have dared?
And now, a conundrum. Do I return the purse back to its original condition, wallet closed and compartment zipped? Or do I leave it where it is? After an agony of indecision, I leave it as it is. At the end of the day I’m still a cop. I’m unable to erase the evidence of a crime.
Skip the moralizing, Lake. You don’t have a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Again, I freeze. The voice, the flashback. The tone and character are the same. It’s Zoe, from the Baxter Building, back from the dead. I have well and truly lost it.
Chill. Finish your biz and get out.
I start moving, if only to get away from the insistent voice. The laptop in the office beckons, but I resist taking it. I also want to go through all the papers, but my nerve has departed with the maintenance man. I really just want to get out, get away from the poisonous memories and crawling fear. At least Victoria’s not here, waiting for someone to help her. I leave the apartment and lock the door, shutting it hard behind me.
CHAPTER NINE
AFTER MY LITTLE bout of breaking and entering, it’s a relief to get back to the comfort of my empty house. A quick perimeter walk to make sure all the doors and windows are still locked helps settle my nerves, and I relax into the camp chair to check my email. Daniel has provided contact information for Victoria’s mother, whose name is Elizabeth Harkness. She apparently likes being a queen, and named her daughter to follow in her footsteps.
Since Victoria isn’t in her apartment, her car, or her place of work, the last arrow in my quiver is her mother. If the pastor isn’t with her family, I’ll have to think of a different tack.
I’m still jittery, so before the call I prepare my pistol cleaning apparatus, laying out the rod, brush, patches, and solvent. It’s a Zen-like activity that always calms me. I open the window to provide some ventilation before turning on the speakerphone and tapping in the number from Daniel’s email. The phone rings three times before a woman answers in a cultured voice.
“This is Ms. Elizabeth Harkness. To whom am I speaking?”
“Hello, my name is Audrey Lake. May I speak with Victoria?” I remove the magazine from my gun and place it on the table, then open the chamber and peer down the barrel to make sure the Glock is empty.
“What’s that noise?”
Oops. “Nothing. Is Victoria there, Ms. Harkness? Can I speak with her, please?” I begin to strip the gun, breaking it down to its component parts.
“Who did you say you were?” A small dog yaps in the background.
“Audrey Lake.”
“Your name means nothing to me.”
Big surprise. “Can I please speak with your daughter?” I begin pushing a solvent-soaked patch through the barrel with the rod. It emerges almost as clean as when it went in. I haven’t been firing my weapon lately, something I’ll have to rectify soon with some target practice. I’ve probably already lost my edge.
“She isn’t here. Why do you think she might be?” Ms. Harkness’s voice is brittle and clipped.
Her tone
