Mr. Kiss and Tell (17 page)

Grace Manning lived in a small apartment complex on a street lined with pawn shops, grimy convenience stores, and check-cashing operations. There was no landscaping to speak of, just cracked pavement littered with cigarette butts and broken glass. The cars in the parking lot were all at least ten years old, some on blocks. An overflowing Dumpster at one end of the property hummed with flies.

Veronica climbed the steps and knocked sharply at the door of unit 205. She stared baldly at the peephole and waited. Something moved behind the door. Then there was a silence that seemed to stretch on for minutes at a time. Finally, the door opened.

Grace Manning stood in the doorway in slouchy jeans and an
OREGON SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL
T-shirt. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna. She looked like a normal college girl.

“We need to talk,” Veronica said.

The girl’s expression was hard to read. She opened the door a little wider and gestured wordlessly for Veronica to enter.

It was like an oven in the little apartment, the air hot and motionless. The walls were paste-gray and cracked. A single north-facing window looked out on the parking lot, so dirty almost no light came through it. A twin-sized mattress lay directly on the floor. Next to that was a wooden cable spool with a laptop resting on top, Haim playing softly from the speakers. Clothes hung along a plain metal pipe on the ceiling, probably two dozen outfits total. No evening gowns, no silk, no sequins. Just the cotton and denim of an undergrad’s wardrobe. A stained mini fridge and an ancient stove stood in the kitchenette.

Grace had obviously made an effort to give the place a Bohemian, theater-dressing-room feel. A pink jacquard bedspread was draped over the mattress. Playbills, signed by fellow cast members, lined the walls:
The Cherry Orchard
,
The Birthday Party
,
Endgame
,
Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
A bouquet of dried roses sat in a wine bottle on the windowsill. But the flourishes of color were swallowed by the shadows, and the whole effect was somehow sadder than if she hadn’t tried at all.

Veronica wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this dismal efficiency didn’t look like the kind of place a high-end escort would live in. The squalor somehow made what she was about to say seem like a slap in the face.

“There’s not really anywhere to sit,” Grace said. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. We can stand.” Veronica crossed her arms over her chest. “We found a DNA match for your attacker.”

Grace’s face drained of color, her eyes wide with naked panic.

Suddenly, Veronica had a visceral, gut-deep sense of déjà vu. It was like she was there again: That night, a little over ten years ago, when she and Duncan Kane had broken into the Manning house. That moment when she opened the hidden panel in the closet and saw the scared child, huddled in the cobwebs.
I don’t wanna be tested,
she’d said.
Daddy said I’m not ready.

The look on Grace’s face now called up that little girl so vividly Veronica felt unsteady. In Neptune, the past was always grabbing at your ankles, trying to pull you back.

“Who?” The word was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

“A guy named Mitch Bellamy, from San Diego.” Veronica squared her shoulders. “But he had a really strange story, Grace.”

The girl turned away abruptly.

“He said you were a call girl. That he’d hired you. But, if that were true, that’d be a pretty significant omission from
your
story.”

Grace snapped back to face Veronica. “So because I’m a whore that means I can’t be raped?” She spat the words, her panic breaking suddenly into fury.

Veronica, startled by the suddenness of Grace’s admission, held up both her hands.

“That’s not what I’m saying. Look, let’s sit down, okay?” She knelt on the dust-colored carpet.

Grace stood still, her breath shuddering, her fingers clenched in her hair. Then, after a moment, she sank down onto the mattress, covering her face with her hands.

“I’m sure you must be shocked,” she mumbled, her voice muffled. “Everyone expected this from Lizzie. From me, not so much.”

Lizzie Manning had been two years behind Veronica in high school, peroxide blonde and notorious. Lizzie hadn’t exactly passed the Purity Test. But Veronica hadn’t known her well enough to judge.

Grace pulled her hands away from her face, staring down at her knees.

“All I wanted was to earn my tuition.” Her voice was almost a whisper, directed at the carpet. “I’ve wanted to go to Hearst since I was fourteen years old. I saw their production of
Saint Joan
with my English class, and…I’d never seen anything like it before. I’d done a few children’s theater plays, but this was real. It was
art
, not just a chance for some coddled little divas to get in the spotlight and help Mommy and Daddy impress the local culturati. So when I got older and started looking around at schools, I was determined to go to Hearst. Not that it mattered which program I preferred. I couldn’t have afforded any of the ones I was looking at.”

Veronica nodded. “And I guess it’s not surprising your parents didn’t step up. Beckett probably didn’t strike them as a very effective witness for Christ.”

Grace laughed bitterly. “You saw what they were like when I was eight. After Meg died they got worse. Before that Mom had held out against some of the crazier shit Dad wanted to do. I mean, at least she wouldn’t let him withhold food or beat us bloody. But after, she was worse than Dad was in some ways. I guess she figured if they’d had more control over us she never would have lost Meg and Faith.

“I left the day I turned eighteen. I wasn’t even done with my senior year, but I moved out and slept in my best friend’s guest room for a few months. By that time I don’t think they’d have paid for college anyway. They were going on and on about how it was my duty to marry a good and godly man and start churning out a Quiverfull.”

“A Quiverfull?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a thing in ultra-Christian circles. You know:
‘Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord, and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.’
” She hugged her knees to her chest. “The point is, a woman’s job is not just to have kids but to bust ’em out like a popcorn machine. And you don’t need a degree for that.

“Anyway, I…I went ahead and applied to Hearst, even though I knew by then I couldn’t afford to go. I thought if I got in, I could figure out the money part later. Well, I got in. But I couldn’t get any financial aid, because they took one look at how much money my dad makes and determined I was ineligible. I wrote a bunch of letters trying to explain that I didn’t have a relationship with my parents anymore, but it didn’t do any good.”

“Okay,” Veronica said, her voice as neutral as she could keep it. “But, Grace. I don’t want to sound judgmental…”

“Why didn’t I take out loans, or get a job in the library?” Grace finished the obvious thought. “I want to be an actress, Veronica. A
stage
actress. A
classical
stage actress. When do you think I’ll be making enough to pay those loans back?” She shook her head. “I knew what I wanted, and I decided to do what I had to do in order to get it.”

Veronica nodded. That, at least, was something she understood.

“So, yeah. I started working. I did some research first—there are actually a ton of blogs out there written by call girls. I e-mailed a few for advice and spent the last of my money on a designer dress. I set up a website, and the responses started pouring in.” She grabbed a pillow from her mattress, fidgeting with the tassel. “It was easy as that. I earned enough for a whole semester in a month and a half. And the truth is, until that night, it wasn’t even that bad.” She shrugged lopsidedly. “Most of my clients were actually…not awful. I’m not trying to candy-coat it or anything, but it was so much better than living with my parents. It was better than marrying some Bible-pounding asshole and letting him run his hands all over me just because it was God’s will. I specialized in role-play, did a lot of ‘Girlfriend Experience.’ Which meant that a big part of my job was eating oysters and drinking wine.”

Veronica didn’t say anything. She just watched Grace, and waited.

“I’m telling you this so you’ll understand that there’s a big fucking difference between my job, and what happened to me that night.” Grace’s eyes flashed. “Because I didn’t ask for that to happen to me.”

“I never said you did,” Veronica said. “I didn’t come here to throw anything in your face. I came to get some answers. But you knew all along Miguel Ramirez didn’t rape you. So why did you accuse him?”

A pale pink flush rose across Grace’s nose. She took a deep breath.

“I was telling the truth when I told the cops I didn’t remember the attack. I didn’t. I still don’t. I remember walking into the stairwell, and then—nothing. I saw the laundry guy’s picture on the front page of that mug shot tabloid they leave at all the convenience stores. It said he’d been deported, that he’d been working at the Neptune Grand. So I thought: Well, this could be my chance to get enough money to finish school. They’re not going to send Navy SEALs into Mexico to bring him back. And once he’s been tipped off that he’s a felony suspect, he’s not coming back on his own.”

Grace, suddenly looking disconsolate, gestured around her barren little room. “God, you must think I’m total scum. But look, what you see here is all I’ve got left. I can’t work anymore. I mean, I can’t even go on a real date without having a panic attack. I sold my dresses, all the designer crap, all the jewelry. It’s mostly gone to medical bills. And tuition is due in three weeks.”

“So you accused an innocent man of rape?” Veronica tried to keep the edge out of her tone, but it was difficult.

“Like I said, he was already in Mexico. But if they did somehow manage to track him down for a swab he’d be exonerated by the DNA evidence. I could just say I’d been wrong, that I was confused.” Her voice had a pleading note to it. “All I wanted was the money. I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble.”

Veronica felt her temper rising again. She bit it back, fighting for control. “You obstructed the investigation. You sent the cops—and me—off on a wild-goose chase.”

A tear dropped loose from Grace’s eye, but she smeared it away, almost angrily. “So my attacker would be in jail now if I’d just told the truth? Yeah, right. You know what the cops do if you report a rape when you’ve been working? They lock you up for solicitation. They have a big laugh about it. Then they fine you and they send you home. I know other girls who’ve been through it, Veronica, and not a single one of them has gotten a conviction. There’s even an online forum where girls post about bad johns, to warn each other. Because they all know the cops won’t protect them.” She gave Veronica a hard look. “Tell me the truth: Did the cops seem ready to charge the guy you found with rape?”

Veronica didn’t answer right away. She thought about what Leo had told her—that the district attorney wouldn’t touch it, that his captain would rein him in. All because the victim was a prostitute. Would it have been different if Grace had told the truth from the start? Instinct—and the memory of Don Lamb laughing Veronica out of his office twelve years earlier—told her no.

“I don’t blame you for not trusting the cops. Especially not in Neptune. And I know you don’t exactly have good reason to trust me. But I
really
want to get this guy,” Veronica said. “And to do that, I need your help. I need to know details about your work, and what you remember from that night. But more than anything else, I need to know that what you’re telling me is true.”

Grace finally looked up. Her lip trembled, but when she spoke her voice was steady.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll help.”

Grace went into the bathroom to wash her face. Then she poured two glasses of water from a Brita—Veronica noted that it was the only thing in the fridge besides three single-serve tubs of yogurt. She handed a glass to Veronica and sat back down on the edge of the mattress.

“I don’t remember what time I got the call. It was kind of last-minute, I know that—sometime early Thursday night. We talked for about twenty minutes. He said his name was Dan.”

Veronica nodded. That matched Bellamy’s story. “What’d you talk about?”

“My rates, his preferences.”

“Preferences?”

“I did a lot of role-play,” Grace explained. “Sometimes it was just sort of banal. Naughty nurse, naughty schoolteacher, naughty maid. But some guys are really specific. You know, like, he’s the president and I’m a Russian spy trying to get the nuclear codes out of him. Or I’ve got hypothermia in the mountains of Nepal and he’s the strapping mountain guide who’ll do whatever it takes to warm me up and save me. I had a Princess Leia wig I used for two different clients. One wanted to be Han Solo. The other wanted to be Jabba the Hutt.”

Veronica closed her eyes for a moment. “Well, that’s an image I’ll never be free of.”

Grace shrugged. “You wanted details. Anyway, I always did a pre-appointment screening on the phone so I knew explicitly what the client was asking for beforehand. That way I could turn down anyone asking for something I didn’t do, without making it awkward for them or scary for me. This guy, Dan—or Mitch, I guess—he didn’t want anything that crazy. He just wanted me to be submissive. Didn’t want me to meet his eyes or talk above a whisper. But I’ve had a few guys ask for that, and none of them gave me any problems, so it didn’t set off an alarm bell.”

“Was rough sex ever part of the package?” Veronica asked.

Grace shook her head. “I had one regular customer who I let spank me. We had enough of a relationship that I knew I could trust him. But that was it. I didn’t do any BDSM stuff. If that’s what they asked for I’d refer them to a specialist.”

“So Bellamy didn’t ask for anything violent? No hitting, slapping, anything like that?”

“Not on the phone. He said he just wanted me to play meek and mild.”