Savage Disclosure Read online

  And came the pity. It was patronizing and becoming tiresome.

  Hurst changed his register of speech at the flip of a coin. She'd seen it before. He seemed to move into street mode when he was deep enough into a case that he didn't pay attention to impressing anyone with impeccable words. Nickie could relate since she did the same. "I could use your help." She knew she was pushing her luck, but it sort of just came out.

  He lifted his brows like he read her expression and agreed with the absurdity of asking after what he'd just done for her.

  "There's a mole in the station."

  His look turned instantly into stereotypical special agent face. It was disconcerting to see him sit up ramrod straight in his civvies.

  "What kind of mole?"

  Either he had an excellent poker face or he honestly didn't know about the mole. She wished she wasn't so suspicious, but life experiences had taken their toll.

  "The kind that is watching me and reporting my actions to someone else. We—I found an email." No sense bringing in the fact that it was Duncan who found the email. Less was more.

  His shoulders dropped into a slouch as his chin moved from side to side. "This shit ain't right. One adult abducts you as a child. Another kidnaps you from foster care."

  She didn't think it was worth it to mention Jun Zheng was the man who did both. No need to muddy the waters with conflict of interest.

  "The assistant to the governor of New York secretly transfers you here so the crooked police chief can keep tabs on you. Now this? It ain't right," he repeated. "You sure?"

  She couldn't tell him how she knew. Her husband hacked into the NPD system and found the emails? And has hacked into the FBI database? Hurst's files even? Instead, she nodded.

  "You had friggin' FBI special agents stab you in the back. How do you keep the faith, Nick? I know I'm losing mine. As far as the mole, I'll get somebody on—" His face turned pained. It was only for a second, but she saw it. "I'll get on this myself. Soon as I get to Langley." His eyes turned to hers. They were deep in... something. She wasn't exactly sure what. He hadn't even noticed his flippant use of her station nickname. He seemed like he was thinking of what to say. She was, too. Awkward. Instead, he shook his head and lifted from his chair.

  He held out his hand, and she placed hers in it. He hung on. "This visit isn't a secret or anything, but you probably don't need to advertise it. Ya know what I'm getting at? Here." In his other hand, he held a business card with the back facing her. On it was a phone number written in pencil. "This is my personal cell. Use it if you need to."

  She returned the eye contact and nodded once more. He left without another word. Her backside fell into her chair. Which one of her academy classes explained all the secrets/crooked cops/bullshit part of this job? Oh right, she thought sarcastically. None of them.

  He was right. She'd been betrayed. Her parents turned away from her when she needed them the most. Her former captain and the fire chief. The frigging assistant to the governor of New York. The two FBI special agents assigned to work with her before Hurst and Goodrich.

  The biggest question at this moment was if Hurst was friend or foe.

  She looked down at her hands. They were clenched into fists so hard her knuckles were white. The sticky note. Oh shit. Bolting from her chair, she grabbed her keys on her way out.

  Chapter 2

  Her unmarked glided to a complete stop along the curb next to the Stoner home. Nickie decided against lights, and neither the college girl nor the screaming woman, who was apparently Mrs. Stoner, took notice. She took the incognito moment to assess.

  The Stoner home was nestled between two Victorians in the most prestigious area of Northridge. It was a brightly painted white thing with columns and a long drive that wound to the sidewalk. Mrs. Stoner must have worked up a petite sweat walking all the way down here. Glancing out the passenger window, Nickie noticed the missus wore four-inch raspberry pumps. She corrected her assessment to include that the poor, poor woman must be sweaty and with sore ankles.

  The girl craned her head away from Mrs. Stoner as she walked along the sidewalk. She wasn't marching necessarily. More like pacing. After about twenty-five feet, she rotated a hundred-eighty degrees, then turned her head away from Mrs. Stoner once more. The picket sign was big. It read 'NO CONSENT' on one side and 'NO MEANS NO' on the other. The girl was visibly shaken, but seemed determined to continue her march regardless of what Mrs. Stoner spewed at her.

  She was a small thing and wore gray fleece sweatpants—the kind with elastic at the ankles—and the ugliest pair of Velcro shoes Nickie had ever seen. Sweatshirt with no hood. Low ponytail collecting dozens of braided extensions that seemed like they needed to be redone. No makeup from what Nickie could see. Bad signs. All very bad signs.

  "Huh," Nickie said as she exited her unmarked. The girl had been raped and was picketing her rapist's home? She had to give her credit.

  "...fucking arrested when—" Mrs. Stoner zipped her lips when her eyes met Nickie. Gun holsters had that effect. "Oh, Officer. Thank you for coming."

  What? No ass-chewing? No f-bomb? And Nickie was so looking forward to it.

  "This woman has been—"

  "I'll take it from here, ma'am."

  "My husband is at the police station filing an order of protection as we speak. This... this girl—"

  "Can she do that?" Ah. The girl had a voice. "This is freedom of speech."

  "Let's you and I talk about that." Nickie took her elbow and led her toward her police issued as Mrs. Stoner strutted on her pink spikes back up the drive.

  "Are you arresting me?"

  "Of course not. We're going to talk."

  "At the police station?"

  "How about coffee?"

  * * *

  The girl rode in Nickie's passenger seat without saying a word. She stared out the side window as Nickie turned into the parking lot of the Northridge downtown bakery. A nice, quiet booth should help. If the girl truly was a rape victim, she would want to avoid notice, wouldn't like talking about what happened and most definitely wouldn't picket the home of her attacker. This girl didn't fit all the stereotypes but enough of them that Nickie felt at least part of her story was founded.

  Pulling into a far parking spot, she turned off the engine.

  "Are you hungry?" Nickie asked.

  The girl shook her head.

  "Coffee, then?"

  "I don't drink coffee."

  "Me either. Soda it is. How about you tell me your name."

  For the first time, the girl looked Nickie in the eye. "You don't know who I am?"

  It wasn't one of those I'm-so-important-you-should-know-who-I-am statements. It bothered Nickie. She decided on honesty. "No. Why do you think I should know who you are?"

  "I just thought..." The girl shook her head and opened her door. "Never mind," she said as she got out. "My name is Nevaeh Thornton. I'm in my first year at Heritage Junior College."

  Nevaeh. Nuh-vae-uh Nickie said in her head again and again. Nickie placed her hand on the girl's arm. Dark brown eyes nearly the color of Hurst's looked at her. The whites around the thick color had turned pink and glossy. "I'm Detective Nickie Savage, and I'm going to help you."

  The girl stared at her for a moment, then nodded like she might believe her.

  Silent mode kicked in as they walked through the door and Nickie chose a booth. It was mid-morning and the place was nearly empty. Good. The sweet smell of donuts, cinnamon rolls and caramel coffee filled the air. Even better.

  "Diet or regular?" Nickie hoped they served soda here.

  "Diet. Thank you."

  "My kinda girl. Two diets on the way." Nickie ordered the sodas and two yeast donuts. She couldn't remember the last time she ate a donut, and she thought about the extra miles in the pool she would need that night because of it. As she handed the money to the barista, she glanced over her shoulder. Other than chewing her nails, Nevaeh sat completely still.

  Sliding into the boot
h, Nickie placed each donut on a napkin and pushed one toward the girl. She didn't dare pull out her recorder, no matter how much she wanted to. But she did take out the mini-notepad she kept tucked in her holster.

  It was almost like Nevaeh went into autopilot. She started before Nickie had a chance to click open her pen.

  "I was at a party. A drama club party. I remember drinking but not that much. I was making out with Eric Stoner. He... grabbed my... you know. Hard."

  "It's better if you tell me, Nevaeh. I've heard it all. And I've been through it myself."

  That seemed to take her by surprise. She took a bite of her donut, then sipped on her Diet Coke. Nickie did the same.

  "He grabbed my boobs. Hard. Right in front of everyone. He was laughing. I don't remember much of the rest of the night. Nothing actually. I woke up in Eric's apartment. My underwear was missing and I was bruised... down there." She clamped her eyes closed. "Both places. Some cuts, too."

  "Down there?"

  She shut her eyes. "Between my legs. My privates."

  "Did you go to a hospital or the health center?"

  Nevaeh shook her head. "I went to a counselor."

  "One at the college?" Nickie scribbled feverously. So far, her story said she was given some kind of roofie, but the perp could be anyone.

  Nevaeh nodded her head this time.

  Nickie took another bite, another sip, giving Nevaeh time to regain her composure. The girl chewed on her nails between bites of the donut.

  "Do you remember the counselor's name?"

  "Janet Gillion. She took notes as I spoke. I found out later she left out some things I'd told her. She used the words 'insufficient evidence' and told me it was impossible to address the matter. That's how she said it. So, I'm picketing. Maybe the publicity will save a girl. A friend."

  Nickie closed her eyes and took a breath. There weren't any news venues that were there to report the picket. No friends of hers would know.

  "I'm not the only girl."

  Nickie's eyes opened. Nevaeh looked as guilty as if she'd just betrayed a best friend's secret. She probably did. And if there were other victims, Stoner had earned himself a spot as top suspect.

  "There are two that I know of. They're acting like nothing happened. Won't even go talk to a counselor, which I guess is a waste of time anyway. One of them still goes to the parties. Why would she do that?"

  "If you think about it, Nevaeh, I suspect they aren't acting like nothing happened. Are they wearing less makeup? More conservative clothes?"

  "Detective Savage?"

  "Do you notice their eyes tracing the edge of the concrete as they walk to class? Do they hold their arms closer to their bodies? Hug their books as they amble along?"

  A hand touched Nickie's forearm. "Detective Savage?"

  Like a camera changing from a distant shot to close up, the hand on Nickie's arm sharpened into focus. Nickie glanced up. She'd been in a flashback. How long had she been like that? Nevaeh seemed to be deciding whether Nickie was competent.

  Get in the game, Nick. Leaning away, she slipped her arm from the girl and slung a boot over her knee. "The girl who is going to the parties wants her life back. Wants to move on. She doesn't understand it's not going to happen until she deals with the now."

  "I did research. In 2012, the laws were changed to say consent rather than only forced. How can I give consent if I don't remember?"

  The girl was much like Nickie at that age. Not typical. Here she was fighting, even when she'd bared her story to an adult only to be turned away. Sometimes Nickie thought that kind of attitude was a good thing. Sometimes not so much.

  "Is Mrs. Stoner really going to get an order of protection against me?"

  Oh, jeez. She really thought that. "Did you do any physical harm or threaten her?"

  The girl shook her head.

  "Have you been picketing their house often?"

  "Just the once."

  "Then, she can file all she wants. It won't go through."

  Nevaeh's lungs expanded and released. Nickie reached over and squeezed her dark fingers. "Is there someone you can talk to?"

  The girl pulled her hand away. "No. I told you. I found other girls. Two of them. They won't even look at me now that they know I know."

  "Just to tell you, that is the statistically typical response. Yours is not. Give me the names of the girls. You lie low for a while. Let me see what I can do."

  "They won't talk to you. You're a cop."

  "I'm a detective and I'm a woman. A woman who's been through what you've been through. Give me a chance."

  Nevaeh seemed to consider before she answered. "They're in drama club, too."

  "When is this drama club?"

  "Monday afternoons at three."

  Nevaeh's trust seemed sketchy. Who could blame her? "Do you have someone you can talk to?" she repeated. "It's important that you reach out."

  No nod or shake this time. The expression on Nevaeh's face told Nickie the girl might have just realized she had no one. Nice job, Nick. "I'm going to talk to a trusted friend who might have a resource for you. Look at me, Nevaeh." She did, with reluctance. Nickie took both of her hands this time. They were ice cubes. "I'm not going to let you down."

  * * *

  Nickie parked in no parking at the front of the main offices at Heritage College. Nevaeh was safe and sound at her apartment building across the street. Or maybe on her way to class by that time. Nickie would work a few angles before trying to find the other two girls.

  It was warm for late April, so she rolled down the windows, pushed her seat back as far as it would go and propped her boots on the dash. She hoped they were muddy. Damned police-issued car. She pulled out her phone and dialed Dave's personal line. Nickie had the resources to hook Nevaeh up with nurses, shelters and protection. But the girl hadn't been rescued from a kidnapping or trafficking abduction. She needed rape counseling. The captain's wife ran a handful of homeless shelters. Maybe she could throw her a few names of counselors with a rape background.

  She dialed his number.

  "Hey, Nick. How'd it go?"

  "Mrs. Stoner stopped her tirade of expletives as soon as she spotted me. Says her husband is filing a bat-shit-crazy-lady request for an order of protection. The girl appears legit. I'm at the college now. Gonna talk to the dean."

  "You know he can't tell you anything."

  "I'm persuasive."

  "Be careful."

  "Do you know who you're talking to?"

  "Point taken."

  "So, I get the impression this kid doesn't have anyone to... ya know... talk to. I was thinking maybe your wife could hook me up with a name or two."

  "I'll text you her cell."

  "I thought maybe you could—"

  "Man up and get over your aversion to relationships with females."

  "I do not have an aversion to relationships with females." Lie.

  "Then, there's no problem. This is high profile, Nick. I want the report on Stoner by the end of the day."

  Heat gathered on her shirt where her holster lay. She got out of her car and welcomed the sun and the sound of her boots as they echoed off the sidewalk instead of sloshing through puddles of slush. Life was good. Zheng was in custody. She was married to the best thing that had ever been given to her, and she had a new case. The fact that she wasn't so bad with the Rottweiler puppy Duncan had brought home for her was icing on her cake. Oh crap. The puppy. It was her turn to let Xena out over lunch.

  She checked the time on her phone as she opened the paneled wooden door to the administration building. Her boots brushed across the plush carpet to reception. Pulling out her badge, she leaned over the counter. "I'm here to see the dean."

  The gal lifted her chin and looked down her nose. "Do you have an appointment?"

  "No, I have a badge. I know where his office is." Nickie walked around the desk and figured the woman would tell her if he was gone or with someone. Instead, she sat with her pink painted lips hang
ing in an O.

  Nickie knocked as she walked in. Manners. He lifted his gaze and sighed. Good. He recognized her.

  "Good morning, Detective. What can I do for you?"

  "Yeah, good morning." Oh, how she did not want to meet with this guy. She handed him a page from her mini-notebook. "I need the class schedules and addresses of these two girls."

  He sighed, but the names of the two girls must not have rung any bells for him. She rocked on the balls of her feet as he began pecking at the keys on his keyboard. She looked around and felt like maybe she should have wiped her boots before entering. It wasn't her first time in his office, but she'd forgotten how plush it was. Plush carpet, linen blinds, dark polished desk with a matching wall of cabinets. Blah, blah, blah. She preferred her tiny office and splintered wooden desk.

  "Anything else?" he asked as the printer on his desk woke.

  "Nevaeh Thornton." She noted the recognition on his face this time.

  "I can tell you her registration status and give you her class schedule."

  "You know what I want."

  "You know I cannot speak of it."

  "I understand." Honestly, she did. "But you won't be breaking any confidentiality laws by listening."

  The muscles in his jaw flexed, but he leaned forward and clasped his fingers, apparently ready to hear what she had to say.

  "She shows all the signs. I met with her—"

  "You met with her?"

  "Yes, I met with her. See, that's what I can't stand about college rape. Girls all across the country get raped—not that I'm saying Nevaeh did. They go out on a limb to a college counselor, who turns around and makes the call as to whether the case has sufficient evidence. Who gives a college counselor the right to advise upon and decide whether there are grounds for an investigation? Then, we—the real police officers—don't hear about or know when a crime has been allegedly committed, because it isn't properly reported. So, yes. I met with her, and I—a Northridge Police Department detective—say there is sufficient evidence to proceed with an investigation."