Oliver Stark - 88 Killer

Erin Nash nodded and walked away. Harper watched her go. For a second, he wanted to reach out and shake her. Then his head started to pound again and he reached in his pocket for his painkillers, threw two pills down his throat and headed for his car.

Harper called Dr Pense from the car as the rain started to pound down again. ‘Hey, it’s Detective Harper. How’s it going with my corpse?’

‘Hell, Harper,’ Dr Pense said. ‘Well, it’s not nice, but I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.’

‘Anything I should know?’

‘I’ll tell you in thirty minutes.’

Harper looked at his watch. He needed a shower, a change of clothes and some more painkillers, and since he had a few more minutes before heading to the morgue, he pulled out and headed for home.

Harper climbed up the stairs and entered his two-room apartment. He never used heating, and as a result the apartment was constantly damp. He took a quick shower, saw the extent of his bruises for the first time and was shocked at how he’d let himself get beaten up. He dressed and found more painkillers. Well past their sell-by date, but he figured they’d work as good as any. He went to the window, took a quick look across the street. The hookers were huddled out of the rain, trying to peer into cars from a distance. It wasn’t working for them or the curb crawlers.

As quiet as Harper was, he found it hard to attain silence. His mind rarely stopped working. When he was on a case, that driven, tireless mind found a home and, for a time, his trait had a worthwhile outlet. As he was staring out into the rain, several thoughts passed through his mind. Each case was a puzzle that kept returning, and he knew that his mind was going back every few minutes to try to solve it afresh.

The shrill ring of the buzzer broke into his thoughts. He pushed open the window, took in the fumes of gasoline and rain and looked down to the ground floor — but whoever was there was taking cover from the cold sheets of rain. The ringing continued.

He walked to his buzzer. ‘Hello.’

‘Tom.’

Harper paused. ‘Denise?’ He felt his pulse rising with unexpected excitement.

‘Yes, Tom, it’s me.’

A line of heat ran along the underside of each of Harper’s eyes. He pressed his head to the cold gloss of the door. ‘Denise.’

‘It’s raining, Tom.’ There was a silence. ‘Tom, I’m getting soaked down here.’

‘Denise,’ he said again. He felt like a man encountering a ghost. It had been a long three months and she’d been in his thoughts every day. ‘I just don’t believe I’m hearing you. I called you — I left messages. You’ve never replied. I didn’t expect to hear from you.’

‘I got all your messages, Tom. Please believe it, and open the door. I’m freezing.’

Tom was on the stairs, heading down as fast as he could. He reached the front door and stared out. She was framed by the red wrought-iron bars that crossed the glass panel in the door. Her blond hair was shorter and plastered to her head, her face was charged with something he didn’t yet understand, she had lost some weight, but it was Denise. He watched her a moment and opened the door.

‘I can’t believe I’m actually looking at you.’

‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

‘For what?’

‘For being so… out of touch. I couldn’t cope with you.’ Denise’s eyes fell to the ground. ‘Sorry.’

‘Forget it,’ he said. He suddenly felt like the pieces of a puzzle he’d been struggling with for months had fallen into place. He was wide open. More open than he’d felt in months. Here she was. Denise Levene. He smiled.

‘I’ve hated you, you know,’ she said. ‘I want you to know that’s what’s been going through my sick head.’

‘You were always too honest. You could’ve kept that one to yourself for a while, at least.’ Harper looked at her. ‘Hell, maybe I’ve deserved it.’

‘I don’t think you have. I’ve been in a bad place. No idea how to get out.’ The tone of her voice dropped a note and with it the volume. ‘I went to see Mac.’

‘I’m surprised, I thought that wasn’t your thing.’

‘Been to see every other specialist there is. Thought I’d give your recommendation a try.’

‘What did you think?’

‘Brutal, but it works.’

‘That’s good to hear. Come on, let’s sort you out.’

Harper led her in silence up the stairs and walked into the apartment. She looked around in obvious dismay.

‘Wow, you’ve decorated,’ she said.

‘It really makes a difference, doesn’t it?’ They looked at the one wall that had been half-coated in white paint. Harper went to a closet, pulled out a large clean towel and passed it to her. Denise ruffled her hair and pulled the towel around her. She sat down. She was shivering but still smiling. He went through to his bedroom and brought out a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a hooded top.

‘You should get into these, before you—’ He stopped himself.

‘Catch my death?’ she offered.

He twisted his mouth. ‘Okay, I’ll cut out the fussing.’

Denise took the clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

Harper stood at the door. ‘So, what you working on?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Denise.

‘I can read you, Denise. You didn’t come here just because of my problems.’

Denise called through the door, ‘You’re still good on observations. What gave it away?’

‘You’ve got a newspaper on you. You never liked newspapers. I figure you’re looking for news, which means you’re up to something. And, the big giveaway is you came here.’

Denise opened the bathroom door and stood there. ‘I came to ask for help.’

‘What is it?’

‘An old colleague and a missing child. His daughter ran away or something worse. He doesn’t understand. I went by to see him. He’s a mess. He thinks something or someone happened.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I agree with him.’

‘What does he want you to do?’

‘Prove that she didn’t run away. Missing Persons are shelving the case. I’m all he’s got.’

‘You get anywhere?’

‘I’m not a detective. But you are.’

Harper looked up. ‘On a good day.’ Then: ‘Can I offer you something? A word of advice?’

‘You can try.’

‘Don’t try to solve other people’s problems because you can’t solve your own.’

She looked up, hurt. ‘That’s unfair, Tom. I’m trying to get back to work.’

‘You could have come to see me any time.’

‘No, Tom, I had to know this was about me, about whether I could face this alone.’

‘Come on, you’re a helper, Denise — all your life, you’ve been saving someone, helping someone. That’s who you are. You helped me. You brought yourself up. You saved your old man from losing hope when he was inside.’

‘No, I didn’t. I left him. I visited every week. That was all I could do.’

‘Sure you did, Denise. He told you that you always had to have faith. The same faith you used to get you through. What did he call it? That thing in the dark that he said he always held every night and that kept him from being afraid.’

‘His fantastic sparkler,’ she said.

‘That was you, Denise. That was you he was holding in the dark all those years in prison. His fantastic sparkler.’

Denise broke into silent sobs. Harper didn’t comfort her. It wasn’t pain that she was suffering. It was relief.

‘What the hell do you want, you bastard? Making me cry and look weak and foolish. This is why I hate you!’

‘I want to help you.’

‘It’s not that kind of help I want, Tom. I’m involved in this case because I think I can do some good. I went to see the case-files; I started a profile. Victimology.’