by Vivian Barz
Jake was simply too good for the world he lived in.
Still, he couldn’t help worrying. His friend’s display of solidness, for want of a better term, had been fading during the past few months. Between his grief over the loss of his friends, his teacher’s assistant duties, and his dropping grades (this, Jake had inadvertently let slip one day in idle conversation), he seemed to have enough on his plate. Going off on some half-cocked investigative mission was probably the last thing he needed. No, not even probably; he didn’t need any potential negativity, and that seemed to be what any association with DOTE would bring.
“I wonder how word got out about him being accused of the attempted rape?” Jake asked. “Everyone knew about the murder, but I thought only the police knew about the other part.”
“Like you said, word travels. I’m sure the police told the roommate to stay quiet about what they suspected just as I’m equally sure the roommate then told his closest friend just to get it off his chest, and then that one friend told someone else, and on and on. Gossip is, after all, the currency of academics.”
By the time Eric headed out to his car, the campus was void of students, with all classes being canceled for the rest of the day. He’d opted to stay in his office and catch up on some papers that had needed grading while he waited for the parking garage to be opened back up. He’d been working at a rapid pace until the ape-grinning Alan Williams decided to make an appearance in his doorway to the tune of, Well, I guess we can consider the case of Samantha’s death good and closed! Leaving was the only thing he could do to stop himself from punching the dean’s lights out.
Eric had parked on the third floor up, which was a far enough climb to rationalize taking the elevator, yet still close enough that he felt guilty for not taking the stairs. “To hell with it,” he muttered, and then he pushed the button to call the elevator. It had been a rough day, to say the least, so he figured he could allow himself a small luxury.
He crinkled his nose when he entered the elevator; someone had been smoking clove cigarettes, a scent so distinct that it was hard to confuse with anything else. He’d always found the smell nauseating, so he was grateful when the doors to his floor opened and let in a gust of fresh air. He’d only made it a few steps outside the elevator when he knew something wasn’t right.
He was being followed, as if someone had been lying in wait for him.
Turning in a full circle so that it was obvious he was aware he was being tailed, he scanned the parking lot. From what he could see, he was the only person on the floor, although there were still plenty of vehicles—perhaps a few other professors had gotten the same idea as him to catch up on work. “Hello?”
In the distance, behind a tall black truck, came a series of snickers. Given that he was on a university campus, this wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest on a normal day. But tonight, the hairs on his arms were rising and his flesh was sprouting goose bumps. He cleared his bone-dry throat. “Is somebody there?”
A car alarm bleeped to life in the same row as the truck. He opened his mouth to shout at the pranksters that any practical joke was in poor taste given recent events, but then something at the back of his mind told him that to do so would not be a wise idea—that the smart thing to do instead would be to run, run!
So he did.
He jammed his hand in his pocket and frantically fished for his keys as he navigated the U-shaped lot, nearly tripping over his own feet as he rounded the corner. His neck popped as he snapped his head around and peered behind him. He could hear the pounding of footsteps on pavement—multiple individuals, it sounded like—yet there was nobody there.
Still, he kept running.
He let out a breath of relief when he spotted his Jeep. He was in such a frenzy that he hit the panic alarm on his key fob instead of the unlock button. Finally, finally he made the doors unlock. Yet, as his hand closed over the door handle, a cloth was forced over his head, and his view went dark.
CHAPTER 9
Susan had gotten the background checks on Dov Amsel and Chung Nguygen back from IT that morning. Sipping her third cup of coffee of the day, she’d flipped through them to see if there was any additional information she could use to her advantage during her questioning of Anne, Dov’s wife. The gossips at the dam had given her a great understanding of their characters and work ethic, and now she was going to get down to the nitty-gritty.
Nguygen’s file had been quick and easy to navigate, since he was near squeaky clean. Given what she’d learned at the dam, this wasn’t surprising. Barring a couple parking tickets he’d gotten down in the city, which was hardly a federal crime and actually normal for the area (if anything, it was more remarkable that he had so few), his record was devoid of any infractions. He also had an excellent credit score and had paid his taxes early every year from the time he’d had a job. He must have lived the life of a saint, she’d mused going through the file, lamenting that it made his death all the more tragic. The world could use more people like him.
The one blip, if it could be called that, she found on Nguygen’s file was in regard to his bank account. Just like with his taxes, Nguygen had been well organized with his money. Every time he’d gotten a paycheck, he’d immediately paid all his bills. He’d then placed 30 percent of the remainder into savings, another 10 percent into an emergency fund, and dedicated another 10 percent to investments. He left the rest in checking. Since he was such an orderly man with a high level of formal education, Susan was surprised he didn’t also have college funds designated for his children, but then she saw in the file that he didn’t have any offspring.
Nguygen’s bank account reflected the organized pattern for as far back as his records went, like clockwork, his paycheck always coming from Gruben Dam. It was unusual, then, that he’d received a onetime check from a company called Zelman Industries a little over a week prior. She made a note to herself to check on it later.
In contrast to Chung Nguygen, Dov Amsel was quite the disaster. Again, not too surprising. Throughout his adult life, he’d had multiple run-ins with the law, mostly over drugs: cocaine possession in 2009, 2010, and 2015, with a couple charges of heroin possession thrown in for variety in 2013. He’d also gotten a DUI in 2010. In 2014, he was busted for writing bad checks. His credit score was a shocking 352; she didn’t know it was possible it could be that low. How had someone with a background like Dov Amsel’s been able to land a job at a high-security dam—and not just any old job, but one where he’d carry a gun?
With the arsenal of information from the background check, Susan went to the Amsel household to speak with his wife, Anne, with the intent of turning the screws on her. If anyone ever knew anything about where a fugitive might be hiding out, it was typically the significant other. But, not surprisingly, it was often the same person who knew the most that was willing to offer up the least, since helping law enforcement would hurt their lover. Human nature stuff, really.
Susan had been expecting to be greeted with hostility at the Amsel house, but what she hadn’t expected was to be met at the door by a very pregnant Anne, who looked like she could give birth any day. Susan liked to think she was impartial to witness appearances, yet even she understood that she was not going to relish having to badger a woman who was with child. As she stepped over the threshold of the modest one-story home, she quickly decided to change her approach to one that better suited the witness.
Anne reluctantly offered Susan a seat on a well-worn beige sofa that was of the popular plump-cushioned style of the 1980s. She wore sweatpants that were baggy in the seat, a faded sweatshirt that fit her like a parachute, and thick wooly socks that scrunched around her ankles like two flat tires. She looked on the verge of drowning with all that fabric she was swimming in. She was clearly not happy to have an FBI agent in her home, yet she still maintained her manners. “Can I offer you something to drink? I was just making myself some chamomile tea. It’s supposed to be good for nerves.”
Ordina
rily, Susan would have countered with, “Do you have something to be nervous about, Anne?” However, she decided to approach this particular situation with a little more finesse. She smiled pleasantly. “That would be wonderful, thank you. It’s a chilly one outside today, so my bones could use some warming.”
Anne went into the kitchen without another word. She looked dog tired, Susan noted, as if she hadn’t slept a wink since Dov’s disappearance. Though she appeared uncomfortable—and who wouldn’t be with an FBI agent sitting in their living room, waiting to question them about a potentially murderous husband—she didn’t seem as squirrelly as one would if they were hiding a fugitive in their home. Perhaps Dov’s whereabouts were as big a mystery to Anne as they were to everyone else. Perhaps.
Still, Susan kept her hand close to her gun.
As Anne puttered around the kitchen, Susan extracted herself from the squishy sofa cushions that had enveloped her like rising dough and had a look out the large square window that faced the front yard. Like Anne, the yard looked tired and as if it had seen better days. It seemed the Amsels were not fans of mowing and had thus opted for the easy route, which was to pave over everything in sight with either concrete or large mismatched rocks that looked as if they’d been pilfered from a local creek. There wasn’t a hint of living nature to be seen, unless a birdhouse counted, though she could see no birds near it. It was a pretty little thing, though, done up in a midcentury modern style, with a bright orange-red pop of color peeping out from the underside of the roof. Susan frowned at its peculiar placement, which was at a height more suitable for a mailbox. Weren’t birdhouses supposed to be high up? Maybe they’d kept it low because it was the only attractive feature of the yard.
She turned back to the living room. While the surroundings were shabby and uninspired in here as well, the household showed pride of ownership: surfaces dusted, wood polished, floors vacuumed. Artwork, while generic, had been hung. Bookcases held mystery novels, homemade scrapbooks, and how-to guides that focused on woodworking and home repairs. Framed photos were scattered along shelves: Dov and Anne dressed as a pirate and wench for Halloween; Anne laughing on the back of a horse; Dov waving at the camera from behind the hood of a vintage car he was tinkering on.
Dov looked as if he’d lived a hard life. His weathered complexion made his age appear closer to forty-five than thirty-one, though his bald head might have also had something to do with it. Still, had she not seen Dov’s file, she never would have believed that he’d had a history of drug-related legal offenses. Despite his battered appearance, there was something within his features that hinted at a boyish outlook on the world. Perhaps it was immaturity that had gotten him into trouble.
“How far along are you?” Susan asked as Anne returned to the living room. She accepted the tea graciously and then placed it atop a beaded coaster on the coffee table. After learning of a bad experience Eric had had with his drink being drugged in a killer’s home, she made it a rule to never consume anything offered to her during a formal house call.
Anne placed her own mug down, eased back into a recliner, and cupped her belly. The burden she carried was physical as well as mental, and Susan felt a twinge of pity for the woman, who looked like she was barely out of diapers herself. What an absolutely awful time to have your husband take off on you, she thought.
Anne surprised her by saying, “He didn’t do it, you know. Kill Chung. That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? You don’t care that I’m just a few weeks away from giving birth, or that with Dov being gone I have no idea what I’m going to do for money, or that nobody is willing to help me now that everyone thinks I’m married to a killer—you just want to know where my husband is so you can arrest him.” She put her face into her hands and started to sob.
Susan waited patiently while Anne cried herself out, discreetly passing her the box of tissues from a side table next to the sofa. She didn’t bother denying that there was a possibility that she’d arrest Dov—or, at a minimum, bring him in for questioning. She also didn’t lie and tell her that everything was going to be okay. It wasn’t okay and probably never would be for Anne ever again. The man Dov had left for lunch with had turned up dead, which meant that he’d probably done it. And, if not, there was a good possibility that he might also be dead himself.
To give herself something to do, Susan went into the kitchen and fetched Anne a glass of water, though she already had a warm mug of tea. When she returned from the kitchen, she said to Anne, “Why don’t you just tell me what you know, okay?”
Anne honked her nose into a tissue. She seemed to be getting herself under control. “Well, I know Dov didn’t kill Chung.”
“Okay, how do you know?”
“Because, he wouldn’t do something like that!” she screeched. And then, a little quieter, “I know him.”
Susan felt it would be pedantic to point out that people rarely knew their spouse was capable of murder until they committed it. “Word at the dam was that your husband and Chung Nguygen despised each other.”
Anne nodded. “That’s true; they did.”
“Yet they went to lunch together? Help me understand this, Anne,” Susan said, leaning forward.
Anne let out a long sigh, a little hiccup escaping her at the end. “It was childish, really—I actually feel a little embarrassed talking about it, since it involves the man I’m married to.”
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Anne. Trust me when I tell you that I’ve heard it all.” Susan smiled reassuringly.
“It all started when Chung’s lunch was stolen from the break room. There had been an ongoing problem with food theft, and people were pretty riled up about it. You wouldn’t believe how territorial some of these guys down at the dam are about their lunches.”
This is good; she’s relaxing, Susan thought. Keep her talking. She peered at Anne warmly. “Oh, I can believe it. Someone pinched my coworker’s blackberry yogurt from the break-room fridge and he acted like someone had killed his dog.”
Anne laughed softly. “Sounds a lot like what’s going on at the dam. Anyway, Chung was convinced that Dov had taken his lunch. It was some kind of special rice dish that his wife had made, and Chung said Dov had a piece of the same rice stuck to his scarf, which was hanging on a shared employee coatrack. Chung had actually gone from department to department throughout the building, searching for remnants of his lunch. Dov said he even sifted through a couple garbage cans.”
“He really went full Columbo, didn’t he?”
“What’s Columbo?”
“Never mind,” Susan said. “Please, continue.”
“Chung brought the scarf to Dov as proof, and then Dov called him crazy. He essentially laughed in his face, which wasn’t very nice. So, the next day, Dov goes in to work and finds that Chung had stolen his parking space. They don’t actually have assigned spots, but it’s the kind of deal where everyone always parks in the same space and everyone knows each other’s cars. So, to retaliate, Dov put a dead mouse in Chung’s locker. Then, Chung broke Dov’s coffee mug in the break room . . . it really does sound so juvenile, like little petty children fighting in the schoolyard,” Anne said, shaking her head.
“Boys will be boys,” Susan said with a roll of the eyes, further establishing rapport. Anne chuckled softly, though to Susan’s ears it was the sound of glass breaking. Here was a woman who hadn’t had a genuine laugh in some time.
“It went back and forth like that for a while, until one day Dov finally decided to come clean.”
“You mean he actually stole the lunch?”
“He did,” Anne said, taking a sip of tea. “Why, I don’t even think he knows. Guess he didn’t like what I’d packed for his lunch that day.”
Susan asked, “Why do you think he finally admitted what he’d done?”
Anne hesitated, twisting a tissue in her hands. “It was a step in his program. Making amends.”
“Narcotics Anonymous?”
“That’s right. He
’s been clean and sober now for about a year and a half. I’m so proud of him. He quit drugs for good because we’d been trying to get pregnant, and he’s done right by his word.”
Not according to what everyone at the dam seems to think, Susan thought, though she said nothing on the topic. It was never wise to play all her cards at once. It was interesting, though, the two conflicting stories. Could Anne be that much in denial, or were the gossips at the dam just that conniving? Perhaps Anne had been preoccupied with other matters, being pregnant. She asked, “How did Chung take it when Dov came to him about the stolen lunch?”
“Dov said he was surprisingly gracious about it. He thanked him for admitting his mistake and even promised to keep Dov’s NA activity quiet without Dov even asking him to.”
Could Dov have been going to NA while taking drugs, living a double life? It wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine other addicts had done something similar. But how could people who hardly knew Dov at the dam be aware of his drug use yet his own wife be oblivious? Perhaps Anne was suffering an old-fashioned bout of selective blindness. Susan asked, “And so then what happened?”
Anne shrugged. “That’s pretty much it. Dov offered to take Chung to lunch to make up for the one he stole. He said he’d take him anywhere he wanted. Chung told him that he didn’t have to do that, but Dov insisted. And, when Dov left for work the morning he disappeared, he was excited. He said making things right with Chung put him one step closer to being a better man.”