For Keeps Read online

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Clean-up efforts were interrupted by the committee chair. “Let’s get this show on the road, people,” he announced with one rap of his gavel. “We’ll begin with introductions, starting on my immediate left.”

  As each member identified him or herself for name, rank and department, Kee surveyed the group. Victory’s mayor, Grace Ellmore and Easton County Manager, Clayton Fisk, attended the monthly CSC meetings and never failed to turn into what the uniformed members termed pig roasts. Amazing Grace and Sir Clayton delighted in replaying the dying moments of the martyred Saint Lawrence when it came to interrogating the rank and file in attendance for what the two perceived as failure to control crime in their designated turfs.

  Today’s roast was no different from the usual Q and A. Because of the headache and queasy gut, Kee was glad his turn wouldn’t come until after, hopefully, the three aspirins, second gallon of coffee, and two antacids had kicked in.

  “May I ask a question?”

  Attention zoomed in on the mystery guest who, as it turned out, had a voice to match her legs—long, smooth and endlessly sexy.

  The chair cleared his throat. “My apologies for failing to introduce our guest. Gentlemen, Meghan Muldoon, the new Director of Crime Victim Services out of The Peoples’ Coalition.”

  Once more in the space of an hour, Keenan about dropped his teeth. Victim advocate was the last thing he’d have guessed when it came to this girl—woman as his sisters constantly reminded him. What happened to drab, shapeless dresses and Birkenstocks? The flowers in her hair, guitar and ten verses of Kumbaya? Not that he minded the snug-fitting red jacket and slim black skirt with a slit that ended just south of the pearly gates. Damn, but she had great legs.

  Though she’d kept quiet till now, her body language and demeanor advertised close attention for each officer’s responses to Fisk’s interrogation. “We’ve seen a rise in sexual assaults in recent weeks,” she said, slipping a manila file from her leather briefcase. “Same signature.”

  Aw geez, here we go. With the onset of wildly popular TV police procedurals along the lines of Hill Street Blues and Miami Vice cops and prosecutors everywhere suffered from civilians who felt honor bound to sprinkle their conversations with what they considered insider’s lingo.

  Signature? No matter how well she filled out a pair of pumps, this one probably wouldn’t know a signature if it came up and bit her in the ass. And if the responding groans, some barely audible, others a tad louder, were anything to go by, the rest of the badges in the room agreed.

  The committee chair took the lead. “When you say signature, what do you mean?”

  She opened the folder. “Over the past four months, twenty reports have come in from women, age twenty-nine to thirty-five, single parents living with young children in apartment complexes in towns on the outskirts of Victory. Entry and exit is gained through a first floor window, between the hours of midnight and six a.m. The assailant threatens to harm the children sleeping in another room if the woman doesn’t cooperate. We speculate he either spends time inside the apartments prior to the actual assaults or he’s stalking the women to learn their habits and lifestyles. No noted accents or speech impediments; physical descriptions are vague because he uses a pillowcase from the bed to cover the victims’ faces. That leaves nothing of value in terms of identifying marks, scars, or tattoos. In each case, however, the survivors have remarked that the assailant smells clean.”

  “What’s that mean, smells clean?” one of the uniforms sneered. “If their faces are covered, how could they know if he stinks or not? Maybe they outta get their stories straight before they start bawling rape.”

  Muldoon spared the man one cool, assessing glance. “In every report which has come to our service, once the actual assault is completed, the rapist removes the pillow case, then kisses her on the cheek and asks if he did okay, was she satisfied.”

  The rep made no effort to hide his disdain. “Exactly how many gals have you and your posse of flag-waving feminists coached to come up with this load of crap?”

  Kee didn’t recognize this guy, and he sat too far away to clearly see the department patch on his uniform sleeve. Christ knew he wasn’t from the sheriff’s office; with that attitude his ass would have been grass a long time ago. While Mayor Ellmore and Manager Fisk stirred visibly at the man’s tone and inference, Muldoon closed the folder, folded her hands over it, then drilled the man with cool-eyed precision.

  “When it comes to making statements, sir, the clients of the Crime Victims Service are not coached in any manner. We are committed to empowering women, not speaking for them. I asked to come before this committee with the intent of sharing information so that the law enforcement agencies throughout the county would be alerted a serial rapist is operating in the area. Our fear is that, though he’s displayed little to no violence beyond the actual rapes, he could escalate and cause serious injury to the next woman he attacks. If the committee is not interested in this information, I’m sure another agency will be.”

  The non-verbal threat couldn’t have been louder: The state attorney general’s office will be glad to take on Easton County law enforcement in a civil rights action.

  The guy just wouldn’t let it go. “How is it you know all the buzz words, Miz Muldoon, all the snappy phrases? Spend your nights watching reruns of Cagney and Lacey?”

  She seemed to consider her response for a moment. “No, but perhaps ten years with the Office of Special Investigations counts for something.”

  Kee whistled silently. Whoa boy, this was no badge bunny. That amount of time with the Air Force’s equivalent to any of the alphabet agencies dotting the federal law enforcement system was no easy road for anyone, particularly a girl. Woman.

  “While with the military,” she offered, “I specialized in crimes against women and children. Upon separation from the service, I felt my time would be better served advocating for victims of violence in the civilian arena.” She took a quick glance around the table, spending fractions of seconds on each face. “Is there anything else you need to know about my experience conducting interviews, gentlemen?”

  Keenan Rossi sat back in his chair and considered Meghan Muldoon.

  This was the woman his mama always warned him about.

  ****

  In the early hours of the first day of summer, Keenan Rossi met his partner, the lone female on the Major Crimes Unit outside the Emergency Room doors of Mary Immaculata Hospital. “What do you have, O’Toole?”

  “After last week’s crime stats meeting, you told me to be on the watch for any midnight to six break-ins at apartment complexes. Since I live to serve, I figured I’d better call you.”

  As his head felt like a slowly expanding basketball he grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, enough with the sucking up. What’s the deal?”

  Sunny flipped open her pocket-size notebook. “Single female, first floor apartment, Tall Oaks complex on the outskirts of Cranston, woke up to find a guy on top of her, about to wrap a pillow case around her head. She kneed him good; he booked; she phoned 9-1-1. EMT’s insisted she be seen and treated.”

  The thrumming beat in Kee’s head ramped up a couple notches as the vision of Meghan Muldoon danced through his brain. “Was the rape completed?”

  “She says not and insists when her knee connected she felt a distinct shape and requisite hardness, so he was ready to rock. I requested the crime lab guys to go to the scene, pull the bed linens, and check point of entry for prints.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.” Partner in tow, Kee sauntered down the hall of Mary Mac’s Emergency Department, cruised past the triage desk, and flashed his badge for any interested parties.

  Sunny had to run to keep up. “You should know CVS is already present in the room.”

  “We’ll thank them for their time and effort and get rid of them real fast.”

  “I dunno, Rossi. Cranston PD decided it wasn’t a real rape and threatened the vic with arrest for f
iling a false report. She ended up calling CVS who encouraged her to contact us.” Sunny lowered her voice to a whisper. “This one isn’t breathing without the advocate’s okay.”

  Aw shit. Kee took a left turn down the hallway that led to the exam room where nurses always stashed victims claiming rape. The little brouhaha from the Crime Stats meeting nagged at him. Just where he didn’t want to be at three in the morning: smack dab in the middle of a pissing contest between Cranston PD, known for its thuggish attitude toward women, and some bleeding heart liberal who’d defend Lizzie Borden herself is she sang a sad enough tune. No sir, he did not need this crap on two measly hours of sleep.

  The door to the exam room opened at his rap; he pulled his creds again—just to make it official. Always important to let folks know who’s boss in the barn yard.

  Who should open the door but Legs herself, Meghan Muldoon. This time she wore baggy sweats instead of a snazzy suit; her gleaming copper hair was pulled back into some half-assed pony tail at the top of her head and not a speck of makeup. Her legs, just as long as last week, looked like they would wrap a man’s waist and—

  Aw geez. On top of her face, he didn’t need mental pictures of her naked legs interfering with his concentration. “Detective Sergeant Keenan Rossi, ma’am, ECSD.”

  She looked first at his badge, then into his eyes, and gave him and Sunny a nod. Blocking their vision of the room, she made a half turn. “The sheriff’s investigators are here, Alice. Is it all right if I let them in?”

  A snort that sounded very much like disgust echoed from behind the privacy curtain. “Give them a chance, Alice. Help them catch this man before he hurts a woman more seriously than what he’s done to you.”

  A second grunt came. Muldoon opened the door and motioned for him and O’Toole to enter.

  Kee took one look at the woman laying on the exam table and closed his aching eyes for a brief second.

  Cranston PD decided no assault occurred? If that was so, how in hell did this victim sustain vivid purple marks around her throat? And who the fuck turned her left eye into something the color and size of a ripe eggplant?

  Aw shit.

  ****

  Three days later, after another rape with the same signature came across his desk, Kee decided to make use of Meg Muldoon’s skills and took a drive over to The Peoples’ Coalition with the intent of running a few things by her. All in the name of enhancing police-public relations. While waiting for the herd of placard bearing protestors to make a hole so he could pull the black and white into the parking lot, he mentally listed ways to approach the formidable Ms. Muldoon.

  Known by the locals as TPC, the agency regularly suffered demonstrations by ultra right conservatives because of the medical services they offered low income women and teenagers. More than once Easton County deputies had been summoned for back up services while Easton PD dealt with protestors who regularly chained themselves to car bumpers or entry doors or formed human barricades at the entrance to the parking lot.

  It didn’t matter to the speed bumps for choice that TPC provided free medical care to the poor and under-served citizens of Easton County. Mention the right to choose and the nuts regularly fell from the trees, though Kee personally found it odd that most of the nuts usually were middle-aged men. He kept on doing his job: maintaining the peace and upholding the laws which guaranteed a woman’s right to adequate health care regardless of her ability to pay.

  As he approached the entry door, ignoring a protestor who shoved a pamphlet in his face that extolled the evils of supplying teenagers with contraceptive devices without parental consent, Kee spied a television mounted on the upper corner—and knew exactly how he’d broach the topic of conducting simultaneous interviews of victims with Meg Muldoon.

  ****

  “Sorry for showing up without calling first,” Kee said, noting some pallor around her eyes and a few new lines across her forehead.

  She reached out to touch his arm, a move that both surprised and pleased him. “What brings you to us today, Sergeant?”

  “Something’s come up I need to talk over with you. Do you have a couple minutes?”

  With a nod, she asked, “Have you visited TPC before?”

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “Then follow me. I'll give you the dollar tour.”

  At an intersection of corridors, someone had erected a hand-made road sign much like the one on the M*A*S*H* TV show which showed the miles and direction for Tokyo or Portland, Maine. This one held arrows directing the way toward the Community Food Pantry; another pointed toward the Clothes Closet. Meg turned in the direction of the third sign which proclaimed ECAMP and CVS.

  He pointed at the sign. “ECAMP stands for?”

  “Easton County Adolescent Maternity Program. They help pregnant teens obtain medical care, offer support as long as they stay in school and coordinate home services for two years after the babies are born.”

  Kee nodded. “Sounds good to me, but why would folks protest something which helps girls keep their babies instead of…the alternative?”

  She looked at him with understanding in her glorious eyes while handing out a dose of reality. “The teen clients, as with all TPC clients, are given options for themselves and their babies. Some people believe females should not be allowed that amount of power over their bodies.”

  “But—”

  “With these people there are no buts, Sergeant. It’s their way or the highway.”

  If it was the presence of a cop, he didn’t know, but all of a sudden an awful lot of staff needed Miz Muldoon’s undivided attention. The females offered him smiles, some with non-verbal invitations, others had mundane questions, none of which interested him.

  It was the lone man who, after demanding a moment of Meg’s time, seemed bent on consuming her full attention, listing a long line of requests and reminders. She addressed him as Greg, treated him with professional patience, and after dealing with what sounded to Kee like a list of crap duties, assured the guy she would review something called an RFP by the end of the day.

  Kee found it kind of strange that this Greg person didn’t demand to be introduced, never asked Kee’s name or ID. Which was odd for an agency that regularly suffered the presence of protestors whose capacity for violence was an unknown quantity. Eventually, Meg’s boss went away, though clearly unhappy. Kee pegged him as a spoiled brat who expected his demands to be met instantly.

  Offering him a sideways glance, she blushed. “Sorry about that. As director of The Coalition, he expects staff to—”

  “Drop everything to kiss his ass on a regular basis?”

  A bark of laughter escaped her chest. It had to have been a rare occurrence because as soon as it was squelched, Meg quickly checked all perimeters for hidden observers. “Sorry about that. My laugh comes out when I least expect it.”

  He cupped the fingers of one hand around her elbow. “Don’t apologize. I liked it.”

  She offered him a look of surprise, then lowered her eyes. “Thanks.”

  He liked many things about Meg Muldoon. Unfortunately it took almost a year to convince her of that—then another six months before she consented to date him.

  ****

  After checking the pile of messages and separating those which deserved immediate attention from those that could wait, Meg flipped the page on her desk calendar to today’s date. February 14th stared her in the face.

  Wonderful.

  No day was easy at any victim serving agency. Valentine’s Day put a double whammy on the conflicting emotions brought on by violation of one’s personal space. Shame. Fear. Anxiety. Emotional paralysis.

  ****

  Four out of five buttons at the base of the phone were lighted up like a Broadway theater marquee. When the fifth started to blink furiously, she resigned herself to an afternoon filled with despair, helplessness, and pain. “Crime Victim Services. How may I help you?”

  The caller’s voice was low, husky, and exquisitel
y male. “Do you know the difference between and barracuda and a victim advocate?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Lip gloss.”

  “Well, damn,” Kee muttered. “You heard it.”

  “An oldie but a goodie, pal.”

  “Aren’t we all. How you doing on this gorgeous February day, gorgeous?”

  Bringing his handsome face to mind took little effort. They had worked together for more years than either cared to count. When the relationship progressed beyond professional, Meg felt they should keep things under the radar. At first Keenan agreed, claiming he wasn’t in the mood for any crap from his peers about exploring his feminine side. But after a while he began to push for something more permanent. And she wasn’t so sure she was ready for that, especially marriage. She liked being able to come and go as she pleased, responsible only to herself and for herself.

  Even though she could hear the tease in his voice now, she was still smarting from last night’s spat. “I’m not doing too bad. How about you?”

  “Lemme tell you, cara. If I was any better, I’d scare myself.”

  Early on, she’d learned Rossi was the man to go to when she needed a laugh. This one came all the way from her toes. “Does your captain know you suffer from delusions of grandeur?”

  “Right now, darlin’, I’m more desperate than delusional.” His tone changed abruptly. “How’d you like to make me a happy man?”

  “Now there’s a challenge no woman should refuse. Might this entail blindfolds and handcuffs? Maybe a cavity search or two?”

  “You have a twisted mind, Muldoon.”

  “Comes with the territory, Rossi. What’s up?”

  Background noises associated with an over-worked and under-staffed Major Crimes Unit intruded. Meg pictured him hunched over the phone, trying to muffle his voice so others wouldn’t catch on to what he was doing.

  “Something’s come up, Meggie. I have to send my partner to the Crime Stats Meeting in my place and didn’t want you to worry.”