“Sir?”
“I just got a call from the RCMP’s E-Division. You were asked to hand over evidence and stand down from messing in an active investigation. But you went and compromised the evidence before returning it, and you interrogated a key suspect today, an inmate who now refuses to cooperate in any capacity with the RCMP. And you did it using your MVPD badge while on disciplinary measures.”
She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, counted to three, and released air slowly from her lungs in an effort to stop herself from countering her superior. Or from trying to explain her personal situation to him. She was beyond this. She couldn’t play this game any longer.
“The RCMP will be taking its own action against you, but you leave me no choice. You were in clear breach of your probation. I expect your badge on my desk first thing Monday morning. Your position with the MVPD has been terminated.”
Her chest clamped tight. She swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Angie killed the call and swore violently, hurling her phone at the hotel bed. She then snagged her glass off the table and downed the remaining wine in one long swallow. Her eyes watered as she wiped her mouth, and she caught sight of her mirror image in the pane again. Face in the mirror . . . Face of a sinner. She swore again and grabbed her sling bag. She rummaged inside it for her makeup.
She found her lipstick and eyeliner at the bottom under her notebooks. She took the makeup into the bathroom, where she washed her face and brushed out her hair. Carefully she applied the eyeliner, good and thick and dark. She slicked on deep-red lip color. Moistening her lips together, she opened the top buttons of her shirt. What she saw in the mirror would have to do—it was the Angie she knew. The sinner. She stuffed her wallet in the rear pocket of her black jeans, pulled on her heeled boots, grabbed her leather coat, and stepped outside the hotel room door.
CHAPTER 43
Angie strode through the historic brick alleys and streets of Gastown, night lights and store windows smeared by falling rain. Vedder’s words dogged her, playing like a loop in her head.
All you had to do was report to that desk for a period of twelve months. You haven’t even lasted one day . . . I expect your badge on my desk . . . Your position with the MVPD has been terminated . . .
Sometimes I think you want to self-destruct, Detective.
Was this it? Was this the end of everything she’d worked so devilishly hard for? Had her hunt for her past blinded her this badly? Was this what she got for struggling to define a sense of herself outside of policing? She had no idea who she was anymore—hadn’t even managed to hold on to being a cop.
She walked blindly past the homeless begging on corners and crouched in doorways, hands out for a few pennies. She marched by pairs of lovers of all sexes who laughed as they gravitated toward clubs on this Saturday night in the city. She went past the hissing steam clock, past the touristy gaslight-era lanterns haloed with mist, into the edgier, decidedly untouristy part of town—Hastings Street. Downtown Eastside. The city’s oldest neighborhood, known for its open-air drug trade and riddled with sex workers, poverty, mental illness, homelessness, infectious diseases, crime. An area notorious for decades worth of missing women and for being the hunting ground of pig-farmer-serial-killer Robert Pickton.
Fog grew thicker. Litter appeared in shadowed doorways. The nightclub and restaurant clatter and bustle coming from Gastown quieted. She became conscious of her boot heels echoing on paving. Wind darted down alleys and tugged at the hem of her black coat as if trying to pull her back, warn her against going forward. And now Maddocks’s words chased her into skid row, into this seedy and lost corner of destitution and sin.
You need to stop, Angie . . . You have to trust me on this—you’re in danger . . . I’m not just talking your job. I’m talking about your life.
She strode faster. His words hounded her still deeper into Downtown Eastside.
Keep your head down, and . . . keep vigilant. Lock your doors . . . I’m telling you this because . . . Because I think I’m coming to love you . . . I care, dammit. I want you around and in my life.
Anxiety, claustrophobia tightened her chest, crowded her brain. And a mad kind of desperation rose inside her—a cry for relief. From this shit inside her head and her heart—these feelings she had for Maddocks that terrified her .
She saw it up ahead. A pink neon sign. RETRO ADULT LOUNGE CLUB. The letter L flickered. The last letter E had died. Red triple XXXs blinked wildly across the top of the club entrance. And next to the tripleX banner was a rooms-by-the-hour sign. VACANCY.
A bouncer stood, feet planted apart, at the door—bald head, black leather jacket with shearling at the collar. No lineup. Quiet street. A ripple of heat coursed through her.
Angie made for the door. The bouncer admitted her with a nod.
Inside, a small lobby was bathed in red light. A reception area was tucked into an alcove on her right. It was hot inside. Music throbbed below the linoleum-covered floor and pulsed up from a stairwell that led underground. On the reception counter a sign read, COAT CHECK. Another beside it declared, ROOMS FOR RENT. A musty smell of mold and old alcohol and stale cigarettes filled her nostrils. She noticed another set of stairs leading up behind the reception area, presumably to the rooms upstairs.
Angie hit the bell on the counter.
A woman chewing gum stepped out of a small room at the back.
“Yes, love?” the woman said in the husky and scratchy voice of a heavy smoker. Her skin was dulled and heavily lined. Half-moon bags sagged beneath her blue eyes, and aquamarine shadow plastered her lids. She wore a green sequined jumpsuit circa 1970, and her overtreated, red-dyed hair sprouted in a frizzy halo around her worn features.
Angie blinked at the woman, her world feeling suddenly tilted.
“Want a room?” the woman prompted as she scratched at the side of her arm with chipped carmine-coated nails. The bass of the music from the club reverberated below Angie’s boots, heavy with promise.
“No. Thanks. Just want to check my coat.” She shrugged out of her coat and handed it over the counter to the “concierge.” Rings glittered on the woman’s fingers as she grasped for Angie’s long leather garment. She offered Angie a numbered ticket in return. Angie pocketed the ticket, wondering if she’d ever see her coat again. She turned to go, then hesitated.
“How much are the rooms?”
The woman angled her head, assessing Angie. She grinned slowly. A gold incisor glinted under her upper lip. “For you, nineteen dollars for two hours. Want one?”