Page 94 of Beware of Dog

Raven nodded. “Good. First the terror, then the reasoning.”

~*~

The Simpson family lived in a small but tidy brick two-story on a street of dozens more just like it, narrow, with shared driveways, and canvas awnings over the front windows. Mr. Simpson’s tile van was in the driveway when they arrived just before nine, the man himself holding onto the door handle and goggling at the Rover and the bikes as they pulled up.

Raven alighted from the back seat with a cool smile, pulling off one of her leather gloves and offering it forward. “Mr. Simpson? My name’s Raven Blake. I was hoping I might be able to speak with you and your wife this morning.”

Melissa and Rob arrived in their unmarked cruiser, and it was with Melissa and Raven that Cass now sat stiffly on a dining room chair with Jamie and her parents while the guys, plus Rob, searched the street.

The dining room seemed frozen in time circa 1990, from the bright brass chandelier, to the pink carpet, to the dark wood table, chairs, and matching china cabinet along the far wall. Everything was spotless and dust-free. The air smelled strongly of lemon Pledge.

Jamie, her mother, and her father sat in a row, wearing identical gobsmacked looks. Mrs. Simpson had recognized Raven straight off. She’d been drying a plate when she came to the threshold between kitchen and living room, asking her husband what all the fuss was about. She’d seen Raven, dropped the plate, which shattered, and exclaimed, “Oh my fucking God, you’re Raven Blake!”

Raven had said her celebrity would stand them in good stead here, but Cass had no idea if that was true, so wide and blank were the Simpsons’ stares.

“I know,” Raven said, in her softest, smoothest, most conciliatory voice, the one she used on spooked and traumatized models, “that this has been a very difficult and frightening time for your family. Someone like Sigmund Blackmon is used to getting his way, and his parents have the money and the lax scruples to launch an intimidation campaign for him. I understand he’s hired people to watch and threaten you all.”

Cass tried to catch Jamie’s eye, but she stared down at the table, where her hands were tugged deep into the sleeves of her hoodie.

Mrs. Simpson lifted her chin and took a deep breath. “No, nothing like that. Jamie’s got a big imagination, it’s why she’s at art school. She let it get the best of her and she made a mistake.”

“Jamie,” Cass said, leaning forward. “Come on.”

“Respectfully, Mrs. Simpson,” Melissa said. “We both know that isn’t true.” When Mrs. Simpson drew herself up tall, cheeks puffed with outrage, Melissa said, “I took Jamie to the hospital myself, and the SANE confirmed that she had tearing and bruising consistent with sexual assault.”

Mrs. Simpson’s mouth worked soundlessly a moment.

Her husband laid a hand on her shoulder and said, wearily, “That won’t matter. That boy’ll say she wanted it rough.”

“Mark!”

“It’s true,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s how it goes with boys like this. They have money, they have power. He’s probably got the cops on the take.” He shot a distrustful glance at Melissa, who pressed her lips to a flat, uncompromising line.

“I’mnot on the take, and neither is my partner. All we care about is getting justice for your daughter.”

“And keeping her, and all of you, safe,” Raven put in. “That’s why we’re here: we don’t want fear to be the thing that keeps Jamie from exacting her pound of flex from Sig Blackmon.”

The Simpson’s shared a glance.

“Police protection?” the husband asked.

Raven smiled. “Not exactly.”

~*~

“You clock that van when we first pulled up?” Topino asked.

“Yeah.” Shep folded his arms and leaned against the back window of the Rover, surveying the street through his Ray-Bans. “Guy behind the wheel was flashing a lot of ink.”

“I got the license.” Topino tapped his phone where it rested in an interior cut pocket. “Prince’s tech guy’s gonna run it.”

“Probably stolen.”

“Yeah, but at least we’ll know where to start kicking rocks.”

It was a quiet street. Modest family homes where multiple generations coexisted, more cars than driveways, with lots parked on the street. Shep counted plenty of construction, roofing, painting, and AC vans, some pickup trucks, and sedans. Some lawns and some house facades were in better shape than others, but it was by and large a neat neighborhood: no trash, no graffiti, no sketchy-looking guys loitering on street corners. It meant the Dogs stuck out as an anomaly. Shep had already seen more than one curtain twitch. When he turned his head, a set of blinds snapped together and rattled where someone had hastily backed away from a window.

“Video doorbells on that house, and that house, and that one,” Topino remarked.

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