Choked Up

by Hank Edwards

  He sent Pearce a text suggesting that Calvin might be a good resource for him to get some information on the gay community there in Detroit, and he could find him in the deejay booth at the Bone Yard on Friday night. He added a heart emoji, and then an eggplant to let Pearce know he was thinking about his cock. After he'd sent the text, Mark sat holding his phone close for a moment, thinking back on the many times Pearce had been at the Bureau—working at his desk or in a meeting, or even on a stakeout once he'd been allowed back in the field—and simply sent Mark the eggplant emoji. No words or any other images, just the eggplant to let him know he was thinking of him, and apparently a specific part of his anatomy.

  Mark's stomach rumbled, and he realized he hadn't eaten since breakfast near the outlet shops. He left the couch and got busy in the kitchen, deciding to make a quick pasta dish covered with some leftover homemade marinara he had discovered in the back of the freezer. He paired his phone with a small Bluetooth speaker situated in a corner of the counter and played his favorite feel good soundtrack playlist, which consisted of songs from Footloose, Fame, Top Gun, and Beverly Hills Cop. He sang and danced as he prepared his lunch and decided to leave the music playing as he ate instead of watching television. When he had finished, he hummed and shook his butt with the music as he cleaned up the kitchen, and then sat at the dining table to go through his mail.

  The sun shining through the sliding door to the balcony, however, beckoned him outside into the crisp autumn air. He pulled on a jacket and tucked his phone in his back pocket before setting off on foot, heading to a small cluster of shops a few blocks away. He didn't want to waste this natural high if he could help it.

  People were out enjoying the autumn day, and Mark smiled and nodded to many of them. He stopped at a coffee shop and bought a dark roast with an espresso shot, then sat at an outside table and scrolled through social media posts on his phone. It had been a long time since he'd felt this good, and he was cautiously optimistic that it meant he'd come out the other side of the worst of his condition.

  He hadn't heard from Pearce about his previous text, so he sent a saucy and suggestive message, but there was still no response. He figured Pearce was too busy with the investigation—he wouldn't let himself think that Pearce was in danger or in trouble, he couldn't do that to himself—and he set his phone aside and leaned back in his chair to people-watch, the sun warming him enough that he unzipped his jacket.

  Though he was in a good mood, a cold seed of loneliness sprouted within him, sitting low in his belly. He missed Pearce and wished he wasn't so far away. But what Pearce was doing was much more important than anything Mark needed from him, and he knew that. Still, it would have been nice to be able to share with Pearce his good mood and the progress he felt he'd made that week.

  Mark caught himself scratching at the inner crook of his left elbow and forced himself to drop his hand back onto the wrought-iron table. That was one habit he was definitely going to need to willfully break himself of, and the realization of it made him frown. So much progress, yet so much further for him to go.

  13

  Pearce closed the file and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead as he yawned.

  "Keeping you awake?" Jake asked.

  "Just barely," Pearce said. "Could you try to be a little more interesting?"

  Jake closed the file he had been reading and flipped him off before looking at the information board. "This is ridiculous. We're almost 100 percent sure we know the identity of this killer, and yet, we have nothing to go on."

  "Don't forget he was an agent with the Bureau at one time," Pearce added. "He knows all our tricks and how to avoid them."

  "Mr. Optimistic," Jake grumbled.

  "Mr. Realistic," Pearce said.

  Jake stared at the board in silence a moment. "I like your idea that he's using someone else to lure them into a trap. That makes more sense."

  "But who?" Pearce asked. "And how did they meet? And why did Morgan consider this guy someone he could trust and use as a partner instead of someone who would become a victim?"

  Jake thought a moment, then swiveled his chair around to face him. "Because he already knew him?"

  Pearce raised his eyebrows. "Past acquaintance? Someone he has a history with?"

  Jake pointed at him as he got out of his seat to pace. "I like that. I really, really like that. It's not someone he's just met, but someone he already knew. Someone he trusted before he started all of this."

  "Think you can get your hands on a list of the members of the Kings of Rebellion?" Pearce asked. "Both incarcerated and wanted?"

  "Back in a flash," Jake said and hurried out of the room.

  Pearce patted his pants pocket, looking for his mobile phone. It wasn't there, and he got up to check the pockets of his suit jacket, muttering, "Shit," when he came up empty-handed. He must have left it back at the hotel, and he stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the floor as he retraced his movements in the room that morning. Jake had called early to wake him, and Pearce had rushed to get ready. He'd met Jake outside the hotel, but he couldn't recall if he'd picked his phone up off the nightstand again. He hated being without it, especially because it meant he was out of touch with Mark.

  The hotel was just far enough away that he couldn't walk there and back in a reasonable amount of time. He could ask Jake to give him a ride, but then both of them would be off task, and Pearce didn't want to spare a minute of time. He'd have to grab a cab to the hotel when they broke for dinner.

  Jake returned with a number of printouts. "Had to ask one of our data analysts to print out the spreadsheet. She made me promise to shred it when we're done."

  "Do you always keep your promises?" Pearce asked.

  Jake looked offended for a moment, then all the fight seemed to leave him, and he sat down at the small round table across from him.

  "No, not always. Here, you take these pages, and I'll work on these."

  "How many members were in that cell?" Pearce asked as his stomach dropped. He hadn't expected so many names.

  "Quite a few, apparently," Jake replied. "And these may not all be confirmed members, either. Let me figure this out a minute." Jake was quiet as he looked over the information, then said, "Okay, see the column headed Confirmed? Under that we've got a Y or an N. If we know they were indeed an active member in the cell that would be set to Y."

  "Let's stick with the confirmed members for now," Pearce suggested. "Think she'd be willing to sort it by that column for us and leave out the unconfirmed members?"

  Jake sighed. "I'm going to owe her pretty big for this."

  Pearce handed his papers back and gave him a tight smile. "Don't forget to shred these."

  "You're a riot." Jake left the room, and Pearce picked up the office phone with the intention of calling Mark to let him know he didn't have his mobile phone on him.

  "Agent Pearce, how is the case?"

  Pearce turned with the phone receiver in his hand and his finger poised over the buttons. Special Agent Malak Bata stood in the doorway, looking at him expectantly. Pearce replaced the receiver and explained the latest angle he and Jake were working.

  "Interesting consideration," Bata said. "I like that you two are working better together."

  "Yeah, he's all right."

  Bata grinned. "From you, that is a compliment. Let me know how you do with that track."

  Jake returned and slid sideways through the doorway past Bata.

  "Special Agent Bata," Jake greeted him. "What brings you to our damp and musky room?"

  "Checking to make sure you two haven't harmed one another yet," Bata replied.

  Jake looked at Pearce with his eyebrows raised. "Did you hear that?"

  "Loud and clear," Pearce replied. "He wants me to hurt you."

  Jake frowned. "I see how you get in trouble so often back in DC."

  "You call it trouble. I call it living up to expectations." Pearce held out a hand and took one of the two sheets of pa
per, then looked over the shorter list of names. "This is more like it."

  "How many do you have?" Bata asked.

  "Twenty-five," Jake replied.

  "All incarcerated?" Bata asked.

  Pearce shook his head. "Doesn't look like it. We may be able to track some of them down, based on last known address and known associates."

  "Will you bring them in if you find them?" Bata asked.

  Pearce exchanged a look with Jake, and from that one moment, he could tell Jake felt the same way he did. If they actually found one of these members, there was a good chance that the only way they'd be able to get him to talk would be to promise not to bring him in.

  "Well…" Pearce started, but Bata interrupted him.

  "The way I see it, the best way to get any of them to give you good intel is to promise not to bring them in." He gave a firm nod. "So go out and track these people down. Make note of their locations if you find them, but leave them on the streets. We have a separate team that can follow up later and work to collect them."

  "Are you sure?" Pearce asked.

  "This case is priority. We must find Robert Morgan and bring these murders to an end. Just be sure to note any locations."

  Pearce nodded before he followed Jake out of the office and down to the parking garage to get the Bureau car. Jake got in the driver's seat and looked over at him.

  "Where to?" Jake asked.

  "My hotel first," Pearce replied. "I left my phone in the room."

  "Uh-oh, your other half isn't going to appreciate being ignored for so long," Jake said as he started the car and shifted into gear.

  "Just drive," Pearce grumbled and shook his head.

  They had very little luck with the first half of the list. The last known addresses didn't pan out as they'd hoped, and the neighbors they spoke with claimed to not have any knowledge of the man they were looking for. Pearce slumped in the passenger seat and stared out the window at the colored leaves on the trees. A number of the houses they passed were decorated for Halloween, and he glanced at the display of his phone to check the date.

  "Shit, Halloween is this Sunday," Pearce said.

  "Missing some big party back home or something?" Jake asked.

  "No, just feel like I lost most of this year," Pearce replied.

  Jake's phone buzzed with an incoming call, and he glanced at the display. "Uh-oh."

  Pearce frowned. "Uh-oh?"

  "Detective Little from the Detroit police," Jake replied, then pulled over and parked at the curb as he accepted the call. "Hello?"

  Pearce watched Jake's expression grow grimmer, and a bad feeling started churning in his gut. He had to contain his list of questions as he listened to Jake's monosyllabic side of the conversation.

  "Okay, we'll meet you there," Jake said into the phone and lifted his chin in Pearce's direction as he asked, "Can you give me those streets again? Dubois and Mack."

  Jake raised his eyebrows at Pearce who nodded that he'd gotten them as he typed the streets into the map app on his phone. A route was established from their current position. The intersection was fifteen minutes away, and Pearce's terrible feeling grew worse.

  "We'll see you soon, Detective." Jake ended the call and pulled away from the curb as he spoke to Pearce. "They've found another body. This one sounds like it belongs to us."

  "Fuck," Pearce said, and looked out his side window.

  "Body was found on the edge of the lot of an abandoned business."

  "Same MO as the others?" Pearce asked.

  Jake nodded and asked for directions. Pearce explained about the turn coming up, then asked, "Was there a note?"

  "Looks that way," Jake said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  "Goddamn it." Pearce slammed his fist against the car door and glared out his side window.

  "Stay with me on directions, Agent," Jake said. "I need your head in the game right now to get us there."

  They blew through stop signs and traffic lights and made it to the intersection in ten minutes. A number of Detroit Police Department cars were parked across the roads, blocking traffic. Yellow crime-scene tape had been strung around a wide perimeter. Uniformed men and women wearing white slip-on booties over their shoes walked slowly across an abandoned lot in a single file, heads down as they looked at the trash that littered the cracked and uneven concrete lot. In the center of it all stood Detective Little, her hands in fists on her hips as she watched them approach.

  "This is definitely one of yours," she said. "We haven't touched the body, left it just as it was found."

  "Who found it?" Jake asked.

  "The couple over there." Little tipped her head toward an African-American man and woman standing by a police car. "They were walking to Eastern Market to get some breakfast."

  "They see anyone around?" Pearce asked.

  "Nope," Little replied. "This area is pretty run-down and empty. They saw the shoes first, they said, then came to see if it was someone passed out. Body is this way."

  She led them to the edge of the lot where a small area had been taped off beneath a few thin hardwood trees. They grew in such a haphazard manner Pearce decided they had probably sprouted from seeds and just been left there. Life thriving in the midst of concrete and the dying dreams of a neighborhood.

  Pearce ducked under the tape and in a few steps stood looking down at the body of a young man. Dark hair, brown eyes, and a three-day scruff of beard, probably grown to make him look old enough to drink. Pearce's gut clenched, and he couldn't draw a breath.

  "Jesus, is that the kid you were talking to at the bar the other night?" Jake asked, and turned to look at him.

  Pearce couldn't speak. All he could manage was a nod. He stared at the kid's face, so pale above the bright red silk scarf knotted tight around his neck. His mouth was open, and his tongue protruded, fat and pale. The kid's name lingered at the periphery of Pearce's memory as he stared at the body, just out of reach. He thought about the life and charisma that had been coming off him in waves just a few nights before, and his stomach twisted.

  "Jesus Christ," Jake whispered. "What the fuck?"

  "I take it you know this kid?" Little asked.

  "Yeah," Jake replied. "We ran into him while we were at Danglers a few nights ago, questioning bartenders and staff about the victims."

  "Did you get a name?" Little asked.

  "I can't fucking remember it," Jake replied. "Pearce? Do you remember?"

  The direct question triggered the memory, and the kid's name came to him. "Tristan," Pearce said in a washed-up, hollowed-out voice. "I don't know his last name."

  "It's a start," Little said. "There's something in his hand, but we haven't looked at it yet."

  Pearce's voice sounded monotone inside his head as he asked, "When does the crime-scene team arrive?"

  "They're on their way," Little replied.

  Pearce moved around the safe area, looking in a daze at the scene from every angle as he waited for the crime-scene techs to arrive. When the van pulled up, all of them were asked to move back, and he and Jake stood and watched as they processed Tristan's body. It was taking so long and Pearce was so amped up about things he was about to shout for them to just fucking pull the note from his hand when one of the white-suited techs leaned down with a pair of slim tweezers and extracted the small paper from his hand. The tech dropped it into a clear plastic evidence bag and handed it off to Little who walked it over to them.

  "Here you go." Little held out the bag.

  Pearce's hand shook as he reached for it.

  "Pearce…" Jake started.

  "I need to see this," Pearce said without looking at him.

  His world spun and tilted on its axis as he looked down at his own business card. What the fuck? How had Morgan gotten hold of his business card? Then he remembered handing it off to Tristan at the bar. Ice seemed to form in his gut and his balls as he turned the bag over to read the note written on the back in black ink and all caps:

  YOU'RE GET
TING WARMER, AARON

  Pearce clenched his jaw and handed it over to Jake.

  "I take it you know this psycho?" Little asked.

  "Yeah, we know each other," Pearce replied. "A little too well."

  "He was there at the bar?" Jake asked. "Are you fucking kidding me? He was in the bar the same time we were?"

  "Him or whoever he's brought in to play his game with," Pearce said.

  He looked up and down the long, empty stretch of street and wondered just where Morgan was holed up and how they were going to smoke him out.

  14

  They spent hours at the site where Tristan had been found. Detective Little was called to another case but left several uniformed officers behind to assist. Not long after Little departed, the FBI crime-scene technicians arrived to process the body and surrounding area. By the time everything was photographed and any possible evidence bagged and tagged, it was eleven thirty at night and Pearce's vision was going a little fuzzy. The news vans were lined up along the street as they walked back to the car, and camera lights lit up as questions were shouted at them. Pearce flinched away from the lights and dropped into the passenger seat of the car as Jake slid behind the wheel.

  "I'll drop you back at your hotel," Jake said.

  They were silent during the drive. Pearce kept seeing the words from the note whenever he closed his eyes.

  YOU'RE GETTING WARMER, AARON

  When Jake pulled up in front of the hotel, he looked at Pearce with a mix of pity and concern. If he'd been more awake, Pearce might have snarled and told him to knock it off. But he was seriously close to shutting down and didn't want to waste the energy.