Identify

by Denise Wells

  Not that I’m convinced we’ll ever get one. It’s one thing to have a crush on a girl, but it’s a whole other thing to date her. Even if I could ignore that she dated my best friend, there’s still my job. It comes first and there’s not much I can do about it. I’m just not sure that Quinn is the type to be understanding about it.

  The only women who usually get it are those in law enforcement already, like Jenny from research and records. Who I almost asked to come with me as a friend. But then I remembered the unspoken rule is you can’t ask a woman to attend something wedding related if you aren’t in a serious relationship. Why? Because then the girl will start thinking about getting married. Which is asking for trouble in the form of magnified artificial feelings that such occasions seem to procreate.

  Solo it is.

  Not that I can’t make small talk with strangers, I can. But the first question after the name exchange is always, “So, what do you do?” Once I answer, “I’m with the Bureau,” a litany of questions follows.

  “Have you caught anyone famous?”

  “Have you caught any serial killers?”

  “Should we fear another terrorist attack like September 11?”

  “Are you carrying a gun?”

  “Who is number one on the Most Wanted List?”

  While I don’t mind answering questions, it wears on me after a while. Everyone has a similar version of the same five or so questions. Making me wish I had the personality that could conjure up a profession and just tell a tall tale. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to create a different persona for each person I meet. Mack could pull that off. So could Quinn. Probably even David.

  I cannot.

  I left work early because of the party; I wanted time to pick up a gift, shower, and review my speech. All of which I’ve done with plenty of time to spare. I have an expensive bottle of rosé champagne as a congratulatory gift, I’ve memorized my speech, and pressed my tuxedo so it’s ready for wear. Because it’s that kind of party: formal, fancy, and über-fashionable. Plus, it’s Christmas Eve, which somehow makes it feel that much more lavish.

  Oddly, I’ve only met David’s fiancée, Laurel, twice. He was one of those guys who fell off the face of the earth—so to speak—after he met Laurel. She became his sole focus and everyone else was just forgotten or ignored. I’ve never fallen in love, so I don’t know if I would be the same way, so I try not to fault him. But I miss him and wish we hadn’t drifted apart.

  My guess? Laurel is the reason the party is so over the top—requiring formal attire to attend, the promise of a fireworks display, the lighting of a thirty-foot Christmas tree, and a champagne fountain. Not to mention they’ve hired security guards and are supplying valet parking. Laurel comes from a wealthy family, the kind that is written about in the society pages and featured in philanthropic magazines. Their name can always be found listed as a top donor for public radio, the local symphony, and the zoological society.

  While I appreciate and admire their benevolence, I don’t know them well enough to determine if a party of this magnitude is how they normally do things, or if it’s for show because their daughter is engaged. I know my tux is appropriate and I look the part, but I’m still nervous about how to act in such an environment regarding social decorum and propriety. I should have asked David for guidance beforehand.

  Not that I’ve spoken to him much lately, not even about the party. He included a handwritten note along with my invitation telling me I’d better not miss it since I’m his best man. Just like he would be mine were I to get married. Because that’s how our friendship has been over the years. Hopefully, we’ll have time to talk tonight and catch up.

  If nothing else, I can get a feel for what he’s been up to, so I can put my mind at ease about his involvement with this whole kidnapping/trafficking thing. Just in case.

  12

  Quinn

  I take my time dressing for the party. It’s black tie, but that’s really all I know. Daria rented me an Armani knockoff evening gown that is gorgeous. Strapless, floor-length, sheath style, in a deep emerald green, with a slit up the side. Combined with three-inch heels, I look tall and statuesque. Like how Daria always looks. It makes me want to wear this outfit all the time.

  I fashion my hair in a curly half-updo, and put on a deep red, long-last lipstick. My heels are platform, so I feel stable enough to walk fast—or even run if need be—and not that I’m about to topple over at any moment. I feel like the belle of the ball.

  I’ve properly coiffed, tweezed, moisturized, and accentuated everything that should be. I only cut my legs once while shaving and have yet to chip a nail. It’s as good as its going to get.

  Daria gave me a dossier which I found out is just a fancy word for file, with step-by-step instructions on everything I’m to do. I kind of can’t believe that two short days ago she barely employed me as a barback, and now I’m one of her hired assassins.

  I mean, technically, I’m not an assassin yet, but that is my job tonight. I’m taking down a bad guy. Ridding the earth of his scum. Some guy who’s been kidnapping women and then delivering them to human traffickers who either keep them as forced sex slaves or sell them off on the black market.

  This guy deserves to die.

  Daria spent the last two days showing me how to shoot a gun and giving me tips on how to blend in a crowd. That’s the only part I have down pat, it’s the rest (read: shooting a gun) I’m still unsure about. Mostly because I’ve never shot a person before. If I’m honest, I’ve barely even fired the gun. When I did, I rarely hit the target. But Daria says I’ll be at a close enough range it won’t matter. I’ll just trust that she’s right.

  I keep waiting for it to bother me I’m about to shoot someone, but so far it really doesn’t. We shouldn’t let certain people coexist with the living. And if even half of what Daria has told me about this guy is true, he’s one of them.

  Daria told me she’ll have someone around in case I need help, and I just need to send her a quick message on my cell phone to let her know. But it didn’t occur to me until right now why that person couldn’t be the one to carry out the job. I’m not complaining, doing this for Daria makes me feel important, and who doesn’t love feeling important? Right?

  I make sure everything I need is in my clutch, then head outside to wait for my ride. Daria is sending a car for me, which sounds fancier than it is, I think it’s just a Lyft or some kind of pay-per-ride deal. She hasn’t told me whose party it is or who my target is. All I know is he’ll be the first speaker in the rounds of toasts and that if I follow my instructions everything will go just fine.

  I tried to get her to tell me who it was, but she said it’s better if I don’t know. So I won’t have time to personify the guy. That even if he is a scumbag, he’s still a person, and the more you know about someone, the more real they become. The less you want to kill them. It makes sense, human nature and all that.

  Regardless, I’m beyond excited to be doing this. I know killing someone shouldn’t be appealing, but I’ve been in awe of Daria for a long time, even though she’s my best friend. And when I found out she was doing this whole vigilante thing, I was jealous that she had something with other girls that she didn’t have with me. I also know, it’s petty and ridiculous, but it’s how I felt. The idea of getting to join that club, and no longer feel left out, is both thrilling and gratifying.

  A car pulls up in front of my building. It’s sleek and black, like a town car. I like it. The driver gets out to open my door for me. I’m a sucker for chivalry. I smile and thank him. He doesn’t smile back.

  Note to self, ignore rude driver.

  I settle into the backseat of the car and pull my instruction cheat sheet from my clutch one last time to review.

  Step One - Dress the part . . .

  13

  Mack

  I’ll be honest, I’m not one hundred percent sure about this plan I’ve cooked up. There are so many holes in it. So many opportunities
for things to go sideways. As far as I know, Reed believes Tremblay is innocent, and I’ve not told him otherwise. Instead, I’ve worked with Daria to put this flimsy plan together, one that will not only trap Tremblay, but ultimately prove to Reed he’s guilty, all while keeping Quinn and Daria out of trouble. It’s not my best laid plan. Or even a good plan. But it’s the one I’m going with.

  I got myself on the security team that’s covering the event. Even though I’m working security, I still need to dress in a tuxedo so I can blend better with the guests. I’ll be working inside the party, just to make sure nothing untoward happens. Like the exact thing that I’m planning. I’m not sure why these people are so paranoid about their safety, since I’m one of ten guys who will roam the grounds and the party. But tonight, that paranoia will work to my advantage. That said, I have no idea who will be at this party. For all I know the head of the trafficking ring could be there.

  I have to laugh at Quinn’s naïveté in believing she’s going into this as a hired assassin. It’s cute, really. People train for years to succeed in wet work, and Quinn thinks we’ve set her up for it in two days’ time, even knowing how often Daria and her girls train and practice. It boggles my mind that Quinn doesn’t put it together.

  Daria didn’t think she would, and she knows Quinn better than I do. Daria said the romanticized idea of what we’ve asked Quinn to do would preoccupy her too much to look at the reality of it closely. At first I didn’t understand how that could be the case, but I was wrong.

  That said, I’m not taking any chances with handing over a piece to someone as inexperienced as Quinn. Especially when she is walking into a crowded room. The gun I gave her is loaded with blanks, this way if she does accidentally fire it, no one gets hurt. In the same vein, I also need to make sure no one shoots her.

  Seeing Quinn brandishing a firearm should be enough to cause general chaos amongst the party guests, causing them to scatter, and I can always yell gun if no one else does. The security guards will scramble to secure the family members, as directed, giving me the opportunity to grab Tremblay and escort him to “safety.” It’s possible we don’t even need Quinn. But for some fucked up reason, she is beyond excited about doing this for Daria.

  But, shit, like all hastily thrown together plans, too much hinges upon random people reacting the way we want them to. And I’ve not factored Reed into the equation at all. I know he’ll be there, but he doesn’t know about me or Quinn and I can’t have him involved in any of this evening’s activities.

  Two things must happen to ensure Reed’s not caught up in my plan: one, we extract Quinn before he has time to talk to her. Two, I’m able to grab Tremblay without Reed seeing me. After which I should have enough evidence, via a confession, to prove to Reed that Tremblay is guilty. Which will absolve Quinn’s involvement in the evening, so Reed doesn’t feel compelled to bring her in.

  I like my partner, and we work well together, but Reed is the very definition of a rule follower. He takes “by the book” to an entirely new level of adherence. Not only will Reed not understand my plan, but he won’t agree with it either.

  Even though I want to prove Tremblay is guilty, I want a fucking confession from him more. Then I’ll either let Daria and her girls handle the rest or I’ll make sure the guys in gen pop at the jail or prison know he’s a lady seller. They tend not to like his kind in prison, second only to child molesters. I want him to suffer, not only for what he’s done, but for what he wanted to do to Quinn.

  I’ve got a line to Daria in one ear, she’s waiting just down the street in case I need backup or extraction. And I’ll have a line to the rest of the security team in my other ear. It wasn’t hard to infiltrate security, which is what Laurel and her family should worry about: how easy it was. I’ve got a buddy who heads the company they hire, so maybe it was only that easy for me.

  Despite the ease of that one action item, I’ve still got a slew of others to get through unscathed. I can only hope tonight goes smoothly: Quinn doesn’t freak out, Reed doesn’t interfere, I get Tremblay alone, and we all make it out alive.

  I double check that I’ve loaded the pieces in both my shoulder harness and ankle strap. The likelihood of me needing to shoot someone is slim, but since I’ve not worked out the kinks in this plan to my satisfaction, I’m leaving nothing to chance.

  Not that it really matters since there’s no turning back now.

  14

  Reed

  “This house is incredible, man,” I tell David. We’re standing in the middle of the party and have spent the last few minutes drinking bourbon and catching up.

  “Laurel’s family; it’s all them. Do you know that they dress for dinner?”

  “Like, for at home?”

  “Yes! There are cocktails for exactly half an hour before they serve dinner, then we have wine with dinner, every night, and brandy or cognac after. I’ve never drank so much in my life. I’m worrying I’ll develop a problem.” He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

  “Is that something I should worry about?”

  “Nah.” He waves his hand dismissively and shakes his head. “I’m kidding.”

  So, I let it go.

  “You excited, man?” I backhand him lightly in the stomach, trying to get some camaraderie back from years past. I’ve realized as we’ve been standing here talking that even though I still consider him to be my best friend, we’ve lost touch, lost our connection, that brotherly bond that we shared for so long. It’s something I thought would bounce right back once I saw him, but it hasn’t.

  “I don’t know how I got so lucky.” He turns, I’m assuming to find Laurel in the crowd, then raises his glass toward her once they meet each other’s gaze. “She’s amazing.”

  “The money doesn’t hurt, either, huh?” I don’t know why I just said that. It isn’t even something I would ordinarily say, it’s not in my personality to be so crass.

  David raises an eyebrow and looks at me quizzically.

  “Sorry, man.” I tell him, closing my eyes for just a moment. “I don’t know where that came from or even why I said it.”

  “No problem.” He pats me on the outside of my upper arm, just below my shoulder, what should be a light and reassuring tap is more of a shove, so I’ve touched a nerve.

  “What else have you been up to?” I ask. “I never see you anymore. You’re always so busy.”

  “Well, I’ve been working a lot, gotta make the money to keep my girl in the life she’s grown accustomed to, you know?” He chuckles, but it’s flat. “I do a lot of networking at mixers and happy hours, stuff like that.”

  “How’s that working out for you? Is it helpful?”

  “I’ve made some good money with the people I’ve met, for sure,” he says glancing around the room again. This time I don’t get the impression he’s looking for Laurel. Just that he’s looking around. Making me wonder if any of those people are here.

  “Like, as in new clients?”

  “Yeah, mostly.”

  I can’t tell if he’s being purposefully evasive or not. Which makes me wonder—again—if Mack is right and David is guilty. There’s no denying the CGI that Paula Nelson picked out of the lineup looked a lot like David. It would have been easy for anyone to confuse the two. Hell, I almost couldn’t tell them apart. I need to remind myself that while choosing someone from a line of photos doesn’t automatically make them guilty, in the same vein that not choosing them makes them innocent.

  Since I only want a verdict of innocent for my friend, I’m turning a blind eye to other possibilities, and acknowledging it doesn’t stop me from doing it. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that David might be guilty, it’s just not in the realm of possibility for me.

  “So, hey, you never told me when this got serious between you and Laurel. I feel like I barely even know her.” I tap David on the biceps as I say this. Not even sure what I’m looking for in an answer from him. It’s not like he will say, “Oh, yeah, well I s
tayed on dating apps, for purely nefarious reasons, until about a week ago when I decided it was time to settle down and commit to Laurel alone.”

  “Did you meet her on one of those apps you were using?” I continue.

  “Huh?” He turns to look at me, eyebrows raised. “What apps?”

  “Oh, I thought you were using an app for dating. Like back when you met Quinn?”

  “Oh, that.” He waves a hand dismissively in the air. “I stopped all that long ago. In fact, I think Quinn was the last girl I even met from one of those. Laurel and I met through mutual friends.”

  He changes the subject to something almost irrelevant. My eyes wander and I see someone who looks remarkably like Quinn, except I know she isn’t on the guest list, so it can’t be.

  David and I exchange small talk, and he tells me more about the wedding plans. Still, my eyes continue to return to the Quinn lookalike as she makes her way around the perimeter of the room, her hands held in an awkward position over her midriff, as though she’s hiding something. I subtly shift David to the side so I can see her better.

  He looks at his watch. “Hey, you know what, bro? I need to make an announcement here in just a sec,” he says. “Just to thank everyone for coming, that sort of thing. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course. I’m just going to get another glass of champagne.” I raise my empty glass at him to punctuate the point and make my way toward the woman I saw earlier, depositing my champagne flute on a small table as I go.

  I hear David speaking in the background, but I’m focused on finding the woman. She’s easy to find in her deep green dress amidst the sea of black and red that adorn the remaining partygoers. She pushes her way from the wall through a small group of people, as if to see who’s speaking.