The House of Broken Backs: A Joanna Mason Novel Read online

  "I'm fine," he says firmly, interrupting me. "Just... Let it go, okay? It's great that you're in a good mood, but some of us are trying to use coffee alone to get through the morning, so can you please just go and work on your own case? Or have you already solved it with one of your legendary moments of intuition?"

  "Not quite," I reply, "but I'm close. Why, does that bug you?"

  "The fact that you're standing here bugs me," he replies. "The fact that you're preventing me from filing this report... that bugs me. This is a work environment, Jo, not a playground. Dumb-ass banter was fine when we were partners and we had to fill up time while we were going places, but now we're just colleagues, and you're disrupting two cases instead of one. I really, really don't have time for any of this, okay?"

  "What crawled up your ass and died?" I ask.

  "It's called professionalism," he mutters, turning to face his computer again. "You should try it some time. It's what most people try to use instead of rambling on about inspiration."

  "Sounds boring," I reply. "I think I'll stick to my approach. I tend to, you know, solve more cases this way." I wait for him to reply, but it's pretty clear that Dawson is in a foul mood this morning, and to be honest, this back-and-forth isn't really much fun. "So I'm gonna go and get on with some work," I add, "and when I've solved my case, I'll swing by and solve yours too. Do we have a deal?"

  No reply.

  Leaning closer, I take a sniff. "You smell of booze and cigarettes," I say. "Are you hungover?"

  Again, no reply.

  "Seeya around, then," I continue, heading to the door just as Mezki comes through from the lab. "What's up with Dawson?" I whisper, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him out into the corridor. "He's in a bad mood. Like, a really bad mood. What gives? Did he accidentally catch sight of Elaine naked again? I imagine that could really put a man off his breakfast. Just the thought of it makes my non-cancerous parts tingle."

  "No idea," Mezki replies, keeping his voice down, "but he was already like it when he came in this morning."

  "I blame the wife," I reply. "Anyone who has to spend his free time with that bitch is probably gonna struggle to smile."

  "You don't think it's a bit deeper than a bad mood?" Mezki asks. "Like... Maybe he's actually upset about something?"

  I turn and look over at the back of Dawson's head. He's busy typing away on the computer, and if I'm honest, I'm a little worried; he's always somewhat resistant to my attempts to strike up early morning banter, but there seems to be something darker about him today.

  "Nah," I say after a moment, turning back to Mezki. "He probably just had to have sex with Elaine last night. That'd put a crimp in any man's style for a day or two. I guess he's still having to apply anti-itching cream to his dick." Without waiting for Mezki to reply, I turn and head toward the elevators, but despite my attempts to laugh the whole situation off with jokes about Elaine, I can't shake the feeling that something has fundamentally changed in my relationship with Dawson. Unfortunately, I know from bitter experience that in this kind of situation, I tend to become even more annoying than usual. If Dawson would just go back to how he used to be, I'm sure I'd be far easier to be around.

  Now that he and Elaine are having a kid, I think he might be turning to the dark side. If this carries on for much longer, I'm going to become insufferable.

  John

  "I'm off now!" Barbara calls out from downstairs. "See you later!"

  "Have fun!" I shout from the bedroom, and seconds later I hear the front door slam shut.

  Silence.

  And then the sound of a chair leg scraping across the kitchen floor.

  Claire.

  I stand completely still, listening to her moving about in the room directly beneath my feet. She doesn't have school today, and it's been so long since I was at home for a weekend, I don't have a clue what she usually does in her free time. Is she the type of teenage girl who goes out all the time with friends, or does she prefer to skulk in her room? I simply have no idea, but I'm quite certain of one thing: she's going to want to cause me problems, and she's going to -

  "Hey, Dad!" she calls out suddenly from the bottom of the stairs. "Can you drive me into town later?"

  I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. Is this some kind of trick? Is she testing me? A million possibilities race through my mind.

  "Dad?"

  "Sure!" I shout. "In about half an hour. Is that okay?"

  "Perfect! Thanks!"

  She heads back into the kitchen, and I'm left standing in the middle of the bedroom, almost shaking with fear. That brief little conversation seemed so natural and so unforced, it's tempting to think that maybe I'm imagining the threat in my head. Those things she said to me at my birthday party might just have been some kind of joke, designed to put me off my guard. After all, I don't have a clue what teenagers are like these days; maybe it's some kind of rite of passage for them to threaten their parents during a family occasion, in which case it's just bad luck that she happened to pick a very bad moment.

  Or maybe she really knows something.

  Figuring that I'll never solve the mystery by standing here like this, I finish getting dressed before making my way downstairs. I can still hear Claire preparing breakfast in the kitchen, and so far the whole situation seems so normal and everyday... Still, I can't afford to let my guard down, not even for a second. I love Claire, but if she threatens to bring my business crashing down, I'll have absolutely no choice but to -

  "You want coffee?" she asks brightly.

  "Since when do you make coffee?" I ask as I reach the kitchen door.

  "Since I started drinking it," she replies, pouring herself a cup. "Surprised?"

  "A little," I reply, and it's true: every time I go away for an extended period of time, I come home to find that Claire has grown up some more. This time, she seems to be on the cusp of becoming a woman, and as she adds some kind of powder to her coffee, I can't help but feel that the maelstrom of puberty might almost have finished tearing through her body. In other words, she's growing up fast, and she might well be becoming more devious at the same time. It's clear that I can't trust her, not even for a second.

  "It helps with weight loss," she says after a moment.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Cinnamon," she replies with a faint, knowing smile. "It's healthier than sugar." She takes her cup over to the table and places it next to her bowl of cereal. "There's plenty of coffee in the pot if you want some, and you should totally try the cinnamon instead of sugar. I swear, your life will be transformed."

  I pause, momentarily gripped by indecision. Is all this talk of coffee part of some ploy to get me to relax? Or is the cinnamon perhaps tainted by something? Claire's a smart girl, and I wouldn't put it past her to have bought some sodium pentothal online and slipped it into the things she expects me to eat and drink. Damn it, this whole house could be laced with the stuff, and she's probably just waiting for me to make a mistake so that she can sit me down and get me to tell her everything about my other lives. The idea is clearly absurd, but then again, I can imagine that Claire might take some delight in the prospect of tricking me with such a simple plan.

  Then again, I need to be careful and make sure I don't start over-thinking things.

  "Dad?" she says after a moment. "What's wrong? You've gone, like, totally white."

  "I'm fine," I reply, realizing that I need to pull myself together. "I think I might get some coffee in town, though. Just to be on the safe side."

  "The safe side?"

  "You know what I mean."

  She stares at me.

  "What is this, anyway?" I reply. "Some kind of interrogation?" As soon as the words have left my mouth, I know I've made a mistake; I should never have used that word; even if she wasn't already planning something, I probably gave her an idea. For a genius, I sure as hell make some dumb mistakes from time to time.

  "You want a cracker?" she asks, holding a small box out to me.
>
  "No," I reply.

  "Go on," she continues. "You'll love them. Just try one, I swear you'll be hooked."

  I shake my head.

  "For me? Please? I got them from this health-food store at the mall. They're, like, the best thing I've ever eaten. They've got fig jam in them, so they're really good for your stomach." She smiles. "Come on, don't be a spoilsport. Just try one. What's the worst that could happen?"

  "You could have filled them with a truth serum," I almost say, before deciding to hold my counsel for now.

  "Suit yourself," she mutters, putting the box on the table. It's clear that she's a little annoyed, which further piques my curiosity.

  "You know me," I reply. "I take a while to get used to new things."

  Shrugging, she starts eating her cereal, before glancing over at me again. "So... Are you just gonna stand there watching me eat?"

  "No!" I blurt out. "I'll go and get the car running. You know, to warm it up."

  "It's almost, like, eighty or something out there," she replies. "Isn't that warm enough for you?"

  "Come out and let me know when you're ready to go into town," I tell her, before turning and heading back to the bottom of the stairs. I keep reminding myself to stay calm and not act as if I'm stressed, but something about this whole situation is driving me crazy. It's clear that Claire has got me in her sights, and she's undoubtedly enjoying watching me squirm; with that tracking device on my car, she probably thinks she can just sit back and wait for me to make a fatal mistake, and her little outburst at the party was most likely an attempt to make me panic so that I'll slip up. I feel as if I've managed to sleepwalk into a trap. I don't have long to work out what to do, but one thing's certain: I can't let Claire control me like this.

  A genius should never be pushed around by a dumb teenage girl.

  Heading out to the car, I double-check that no-one's watching before getting down on my hands and knees and taking another look at the tracking device. It's still blinking away on the car's underside, no doubt collecting data and silently beaming it back to Claire's laptop so that she can track my every movement. She thinks she's so goddamn smart, and it's just a matter of dumb luck that I happened to become aware of this thing. Still, I have a small advantage over her because, for now at least, she has no idea that I've discovered her little trap. All I need to do is stay calm, act cool, and work out what to do.

  "Dad?" she calls out suddenly.

  I stand up quickly and see her coming out the front door.

  "What are you doing down there?" she asks, putting her jacket on as she comes over to the car.

  "Just... looking for my keys," I reply. "I dropped them and they kind of slid under the side."

  "Huh," she says, opening the passenger-side door and getting inside. "Can you take me to the mall? I need to pick up some stuff."

  I take a deep breath. This situation is becoming intolerable, and I can't afford to be weak. I've worked too hard, for too long, to let a suspicious teenage girl bring my empire crumbling down, and even though Claire's my daughter and I'm fond of her, I'm certain that the best course of action is to kill her. I'll drop her off at the mall and then start making plans so that I can resolve this whole messy situation within twenty-four hours. And then, I think I should start the process of cashing out on the whole operation. I can't live like this anymore. With two families dead, I'll only have one left, and I think that might just be enough for me. It's time to settle down.

  "Dad?" Claire calls out from inside the car. "Are you getting in? I don't have all day!"

  After pausing for a moment, I take another deep breath, plaster a fake smile across my face, and open the door. Fortunately, I'm very good at pretending to be calm. Hell, I've had a lifetime to practice faking my emotions. I'm a natural these days, and I fit in anywhere.

  Joanna Mason

  "He was weird," says Priscilla, standing in her doorway. "Real weird. Like, always kinda sweaty and beady-eyed, like he expected that someone was gonna ask him a difficult question or..." She pauses for a moment. "Well, I'm just saying, I never liked John Benson. The guy had bad vibes."

  "The world is full of weird people," I reply, feeling a little defensive as I jot down a few comments in my notebook. "Not all of them turn out to be murderers."

  "You can tell the weird ones," she continues, as if she didn't hear what I said. "I've always had a special ability that way, you know. I can spot freaks a mile off, and I can tell you what kind of freak they are too. Whether they're into doing bad stuff with kids, or they're killing people, or they're into kinky stuff in the bedroom... I can sniff 'em out from a hundred paces. Everyone around here knows that about me. Whenever someone new moves into the street, people come knocking on my door after a few days, asking me what I make of 'em. I'm always right, too. Always. I'm quite famous in this neighborhood."

  "That's a hell of an achievement," I reply, realizing that this woman probably isn't going to be very useful. So far, she seems to be completely deluded. Handing her a card, I decide to make my excuses and get moving. "Thanks for your cooperation," I continue. "If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call me."

  "It's intuition," she replies.

  I pause for a moment.

  "That's what I've got," she continues. "Magical intuition."

  I take a deep breath, bristling at the idea.

  "What's wrong with you?" she asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "I'm fine," I reply. "Just... get in touch if you think of anything, okay?"

  "Huh," she mutters, staring at the card as if it's the most disgusting thing she's ever seen. "Whatever. It's too late to save that poor woman and her cute little kids, though. She was lovely. I never got any bad vibes off her. Only him. And now it's too late to do anything to help them." Sniffing back tears, she seems genuinely upset. "If only people had listened to me sooner, those two little angels might still be alive."

  "Aren't angels dead by definition?" I ask.

  She stares at me.

  "That was a joke," I add.

  "I don't think it was funny," she replies with a frown. "You shouldn't joke about stuff like that."

  "Well, maybe -"

  "I'm done talking to you," she says firmly.

  "Sure, but -"

  "Done!" she shouts.

  As she closes the door, I turn and make my way back to the sidewalk. I hate talking to members of the public and I hate pretending to be interested in what they have to say; the only reason I bother to plaster a fake smile on my face is the knowledge that for some unknown reason, people tend to respond better to that kind of bullshit. When I was working with Dawson, I used to let him handle this kind of door-to-door crap, but with Jordan Carver on my back, I figure I need to show a little initiative. I'm definitely not a people person.

  "Anything?" Carver asks as he comes over to meet me.

  "Apparently Benson was weird," I reply, slipping my notebook into my pocket. "Other adjectives I heard included 'odd', 'creepy' and 'funny'. He wasn't a popular guy, and of course everyone now claims that they were onto him from the start, and that his wife was a saint. It's amazing how hindsight works, huh?"

  "It was the same down the other end of the street," he replies. "It seems most people around here were vaguely aware of him, but no-one really talked to him very much. The guy was generally seen as being pretty standoffish, although I heard lots of good things about his wife and children. She was popular in the local community, got involved with events and fund-raising programs, and no-one seems to have ever heard her arguing with her husband, although a lot of people I spoke to seemed to have a hard time understanding what she was doing with him."

  "Money?" I reply. "From what I heard, Benson was always on the road. He sold insurance or something like that. I didn't think people even did that door-to-door crap anymore. I mean, what's next? Vacuum salesmen? Elmer Gantry knocking on the door and trying to sell people a Bible?"

  "Something about this guy doesn't add up," Carver
replies, turning to look over at the ruined shell of the burned-out house. "I've run some preliminary inquiries, and I can't find anyone named John Benson who was involved in the insurance business, not in the whole goddamn country. He had no professional accreditation, no license to practice, no office, no coverage, no commercials... Whatever he was doing when he was on the road, I don't think he was selling insurance. Most likely, that was just a cover story that he used to keep his wife in the dark."

  "Then it's definite," I reply. "This case is linked to ours. John Benson is almost certainly the guy who was holding those women -"

  "Hold on," he says, interrupting me. "It's still only a possibility."

  "I'm telling you," I reply firmly. "I know they're linked."

  "Part of your instinct, huh?"

  "I'm always right about things like this."

  "Always?"

  "Always."

  He sighs. "We don't really have much else to go on right now, so I'm gonna let you run with this, but don't think for a moment that I'm buying into your bullshit."

  "But my bullshit often works remarkably well," I point out. "Haven't you heard the rumors? Most times, the whole department is singing the praises of my bullshit. Seriously, as bullshit goes, my bullshit is better than anyone else's bullshit by a factor of -"

  "You're trying to be funny," he replies dourly.

  "And you're a tough crowd," I mutter.

  "We've wasted enough time here," he continues. "The John Benson case is for Mike Dawson to investigate, and I'm sure he can keep up to date with any new developments just fine without our help. In the meantime, I think we need to check in with the forensics team that's been working out at the main site. If we're going to get to the bottom of what was happening to those girls, we're going to need hard facts, not gut feelings and instincts. It's time for some good old-fashioned legwork."