by Denise Wells
Plus, I don’t know if they ever slept together and I really don’t know how I feel about that. I’d ask David about it, but then he’ll know that I’m interested in Quinn and tell me that I can’t date her. Which will offset the power balance in our friendship. I hate when that happens and it’s not in my favor. And if I ask Quinn, she’ll know that I’m interested which would more than likely lead to us going out, in which case David would find out and get upset. Not that any of it matters if David is the guy in the sketch, because then I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. But I’m still leaning toward that not being the case, leaving Quinn off limits.
She reaches out and fingers my tie. “I like this tie. It’s a good color for you.”
My tie is beige. I doubt that beige is a good color for anyone. But I love the way her tits look when she leans over. And I like how it feels when her fingers brush across my chest as she reaches for my tie.
“We’re waiting for burgers,” I tell her boobs.
“Oh, yeah?” She leans back, and my eyes make their way back up to her face.
“Yeah, Mack’s in the restroom.”
“Mack is here,” he booms as he retakes his stool next to me, then takes over the conversation.
“Well, if it isn’t the big, bad Mack Murphy,” Quinn says, batting her eyes at him.
“If it isn’t the cute, little Quinn Foster,” Mack flirts back.
“You want a refill?” Quinn asks as Mack drains his beer.
“You read my mind, QT,” he says, passing his glass to her. Sometimes he refers to her as Q, and sometimes as cutie, which he says is QT, but that’s not her initials. They are QF, so I don’t understand the reference, but I also don’t correct him.
“Touch my tap and die,” Daria says to Quinn, appearing behind the bar.
“Aw come on. I’ve seen you do it, it’s just a lever you pull down.”
“You’re working here now, QT?” Mack asks.
“Yes, I am,” she says.
“Good for you,” he says then turns to Daria continuing, “I don’t mind a little head from QT.” Daria gives him a look that would scare the shit out of most men, myself included. But Mack just laughs. “You know, if she wants to pull my beer.”
Daria turns to Quinn and hands her the glass. “Okay, hotshot, pull the lever.”
Quinn takes the pint glass and practically skips to the tap station. “Which one?”
“The stout,” Mack and Daria both say then smile at each other.
Quinn points to each one, reading off the name, until she comes to the Russian Imperial Stout, and stops. “This one?”
Daria nods once.
Quinn sticks the glass under the spout and pulls on the tap, dancing slightly in place. Foam fills the glass. She turns to Daria. “Is this a trick?”
Daria laughs. “No. But there is an art to pulling a beer. Let me show you.” She grabs a clean glass and shows Quinn how to hold the glass to avoid the foam and pulls a perfect draft for Mack. “Now, this does not mean you can serve beer. You are still low on my totem pole. But at least now you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Quinn salutes Daria and tries to click her heels, they both laugh. Daria disappears for a moment and returns with our burgers.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I see the burger. I throw my tie over my shoulder and take a huge bite.
“Mmm,” I groan at how good it is. “You could make so much more money as a burger joint,” I say as a compliment.
“No, I couldn’t.” Daria laughs. I know she’s right; I have a feeling the bar does well, but she takes my statement for the compliment it was.
Mack finishes with his burger before I’m halfway through mine. By which time a few more customers have filtered in, some at the bar and some at tables. And a server is out on the floor.
“You good,” Daria asks him.
“I’m always good when you’re around,” he says. She throws a bar towel at him; it lands in the ketchup on his plate. She rolls her eyes and hands his plate to Quinn telling her to take it in the back.
I’d thought Quinn was kidding when she said she was working here now. So when she gets back, I ask her. “You’re really working here now?”
She smiles. “Yep.”
“How do you like it?”
“It’s still, like, my first hour here. But so far so good.”
It amazes me how happy she always is. I think that’s part of what draws me to her. Like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. Maybe David won’t mind me dating her once he’s married.
Hell, maybe he won’t mind now.
Not that it matters. I won’t ask.
Now is not the time. I need to get this case behind me before I can think about anything else, especially my personal life.
I look over at Mack and Daria talking quietly. She’s leaning on her forearms on the bar and he’s stroking her arm lightly with his pinky finger. You’d almost miss the touch if you weren’t looking for it. I always look for it. And it’s always there. I’ve asked him countless times why they aren’t together when it’s so obvious they have feelings for each other.
He always responds with some vague answer about it being hard with our jobs what they are. But I don’t buy it. Plenty of other agents marry and do fine. I know he’s not seeing anyone else, and he makes us come here for lunch at least once a week if not more. Maybe one day he’ll be honest with me about what’s going on. Until then, I’ll just keep looking for clues.
8
Mack
I’m premature in asking Daria to get information on Tremblay. But something tells me Reed will be resistant to acknowledge that Tremblay may be a valid suspect. Can’t say I blame him, the two have been friends since they were young. I’d feel the same if I were him. If Daria can come up with something solid, it will help.
Reed’s been quiet the entire drive back to headquarters. Now that we’re here, I know the director will want us to do something about the facial recognition results on the sketch. And that something he’ll want us to do will be a photo lineup. And Reed won’t want to do it.
We each have an email-memo sitting in our inbox from the director requesting exactly that. This could go two ways at this point. If Paula Nelson doesn’t ID Tremblay as the guy, we’re back to square one. But if she does, we’ll have to bring him in. If it ends up we have to bring Tremblay in, I don’t want to tell him the real reason we’re doing it. I’m not above bringing suspects in on trumped-up charges to suss them out and see what else we can get.
If Tremblay is guilty—which I think he is—all we can charge him with right now is kidnapping, and it’s flimsy. We can’t risk going ahead with an arrest until we have something more solid. Plus, I don’t want to alert the other players in the game until we get more intel on their entire operation. Regardless of what Reed wants, we’ll start with a photo lineup that includes Tremblay and go from there.
Reed makes the call to Paula Nelson to have her come in. If she picks Tremblay out of the lineup, I figure at the very least we can place a tail on him, maybe a stakeout, and definitely requisition his cell phone records. If anything incriminating pops up, we can go from there.
It’s a frustratingly slow process.
Which is exactly why the information that Daria can get is so much more beneficial. What takes us hours to requisition, if not longer, she can get in a matter of seconds. What we have access to doesn’t always include text messages, emails, voicemails; while Daria can get anything on a phone that is backed-up to the cloud. She can also get the number of devices that access his IP addresses, both at home and work. Meaning any phones in another name, laptops, tablets, virtual information assistants, gaming systems, and probably a shitload more stuff I’m not even thinking of. Virtual information assistants are relatively new to the playing field, which when hacked act as listening devices. We’re still learning about their capabilities and how to best use them to our advantage. Meanwhile, Daria’s been using them for a while.
I compile sev
eral printouts of Tremblay’s face and six other guys who look like him. They aren’t mug shots obviously, but if she positively IDs him; it gets us to the next step. It’s not uncommon for us to do a photo lineup as one of the first steps in gathering information to narrow down a suspect. Logically, it seems out of order, but until we have enough evidence to charge someone, we can’t move forward. Which makes sketch confirmed identity invaluable in situations such as this.
“Paula Nelson can’t come by until after four this afternoon, cool?” Reed is holding the phone receiver in one hand and has his finger of the other hand on the hold button.
“Yeah. Ask her about her shoes.”
“What about them?”
“They picked her up barefoot, but she didn’t go on the date that way, and it hasn’t come up in questioning. I want to know what happened to the shoes.”
“How did that not come up?”
I shrug.
He returns to his call and relays what I’ve asked.
We bring Paula into one of the smaller meeting rooms. “Would you like some water or coffee before we begin?” I ask her.
She shakes her head no, and Reed sets seven photos out in front of her, all with a corresponding number. Two is Tremblay; one, three, four, five, six, and seven are all other men who look similar.
She sets aside three and five immediately, choosing to focus on one, two, four, six, and seven. Which, to me, is good—anytime they can rule suspect photos out at once it’s a good thing. She pushes number two away, then pulls it back in without lifting her finger. As though she’s playing a card game where her turn isn’t complete unless her hand lifts from the table.
I’m hopeful she will pick the right one.
“It’s so hard, they look so much alike.”
“Take your time,” Reed tells her. “It’s more important for you to be accurate over quick.”
She nods and removes number one, leaving numbers two, four, six and seven. Reed stiffens behind her. I’m glad she can’t see him. I know he wouldn’t want to influence her choice, but his actions might do so unintentionally.
We switch roles now, Reed and I, as victims feel more comfortable with me next to them, on their side, when dealing more closely with the perpetrator. To them, the picture becomes the actual suspect. And so, while Reed stands behind her, I sit next to her at the small table. I liken it to when they hide behind me in times of danger, not that that happens often. I’m viewed as more of a shield for them, while Reed is more of a comfort. It makes us good partners.
Paula lets out a long sigh. “I want to say it’s a toss-up between these two,” she says of numbers two and six. “But I can’t be certain which one is him.” She ponders for a few added moments, picking the pictures up, then putting them down, re-arranging their placement on the table. She stills and closes her eyes for a moment. Making a choice once she opens them, after close to twenty minutes of careful considering.
“It’s number four.” She pulls four off the table and hands it to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Reed visibly sags in relief, while keeping his poker face.
“Are you certain this is the man?” I ask her.
“Yes. That is the man I went on the date with and who drugged me and took me to that house.”
I nod.
“Am I right?” she asks.
“There is no wrong or right here, Paula.” Reed steps back into her line of sight. “There is only what you saw and what you remember.”
“I get that, but am I remembering the right guy?”
“Are you certain about your choice?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then you picked the right guy.”
“Okay, but is that the guy you thought it would be?”
“We don’t come into this with any preconceived notions,” Reed says. “We just follow where the evidence takes us.”
“So, what will happen to that guy?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Reed says. “But we will call you with questions.”
“What do I do now?”
“Go home, get some rest, beware of getting into cars with strangers.” I smile as I say it but receive a dirty look from her anyway.
Problem is number four’s a computer-generated image and not an identifiable person. Reed doesn’t know that yet. All he knows is that wasn’t David’s photo.
I thank Paula for her time and let Reed walk her to the front of the building. She turns back to me before she’s all the way out the door. “Oh, about my shoes?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what happened to them. But I do have a picture of them I can text to you.”
“You have a picture of your shoes?” I ask.
“Yeah. They were brand new, first time I’d worn them. I take pictures of all my shoes and purses once I get them home, just in case something ever happens and I need to put a claim in to insurance or something. I have a lot of both.” She smiles.
I take her phone and send the picture to myself. “Thank you.” I hand it back to her when I’m through. I don’t know what will come of the missing shoes, but it helps to know exactly what we’re looking for if we stumble across a random pair in this case.
On a whim, I pull out the burner phone and send off a quick text to Daria to ask her about the shoes, if she’s heard of them.
D: Why? Are you planning to buy women’s shoes?
M: No. It’s for a case.
D: I have some shoes by that maker, but not that pair.
M: They popular?
D: Everyone loves them, but not everyone can afford them.
M: How much?
D: $300 and up
M: For some straps and a heel?
D: The cost of beauty.
M: Thx.
D: No prob.
Unfortunately, much of our communication consists of a couple questions followed by a few answers, usually instigated by me, because I miss her.
Reed flops down in his chair. “You think she picked the wrong one, don’t you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think they all looked way too much like him for it not to be him. But I’m also afraid I’m just being influenced by you now.” He looks at me, his eyes searching, as though he thinks I’ll set him straight somehow or give him a definite answer.
So, I tell him what I know he doesn’t want to hear. “She picked the CGI.”
“Fuck.” He runs both hands over his face and scrubs at it.
“You wanna recuse yourself?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“Okay, then let’s figure out how we’re gonna catch this guy.”
9
Quinn
I’m still amped from seeing Reed, especially since he talked to me. We practically flirted, and I totally caught him checking out my boobs. If I were just a bit creepier, I think I could legit become his stalker. But I have a modicum of self-respect left. Once that bit goes though, all bets are off. If Daria really trains me in some badassery. I’m betting I’d be a good stalker. But not if I have to train for three hours a day.
I finish wiping down all the tables from after the lunch crowd and head to the back, where I find Daria in a corner texting on a phone I don’t think is hers.
“Did you get a new phone?”
“No, this is one of my burners,” she answers.
“Oh, are you sending out a kill order?” I rush to peek over her shoulder.
“Keep your voice down, and no. I’m just telling Mack about these shoes.” She holds the phone out so I can see the photo he sent.
“Oh, those are so cute. God, I can’t wait to have money again so I can buy some shoes.”
“You can’t wear shoes like that here.”
“I know, but I can wear them on my date with Reed.”
“Ohmigod, did he ask you out? Did I miss it?”
“No. But I’m certain he will soon. He looked at my boobs today. And I’m fairly sure we flirted.”
“Oh, that’s gre
at, honey. Real progress.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I pull her by the arm into her office and close the door. Then I push her back into her chair, and stand straighter, crossing my arms over my chest, doing my best to look authoritative. “Speak,” I command.
“It’s just the same old shit, Q. I tire of it sometimes.”
“Assassin shit or Mack shit?”
“Mack shit.” She sighs.
I lean over and give her a hug. “Why don’t you just get back together but be careful or something?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“Well, it can’t be that this is the answer, Dar. I mean, Mack is your one. And when you find the one, that’s it, you get the happy ever after, the end, close the book.”
“Apparently not.” She sulks. She’s always like this after Mack leaves. Or after she talks to him. Or thinks about him. In fact, she’s like this a lot.
“Daria, this is no way to live your life. You can’t just be perpetually unhappy.”
“I also can’t put Mack or his career in danger.”
“Shouldn’t he be the one to decide that?”
“You sound like him.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“Pretty sure he’s thinking with his dick.”
“He doesn’t just want you for sex. He loves you. You’re his one. The great sex is just a perk,” I argue.
She sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. In fact, you can leave if you want to. There won’t be much more for you to do today, anyway.”
“Want to go do something?”
“No, I’ve got to head upstairs. Alyssa will be here soon; we’ve got to pull some info on D—”
I look at her, waiting for her to finish her sentence. “On? Dead guys? Dangerous dudes? Damsels in distress?” I throw a couple of suggestions out, knowing that none of them are right, it’s more to make her laugh than anything else.