by Hank Edwards
"Get some sleep," Jake said. "The autopsy won't happen until tomorrow afternoon. I'll call you in the morning, and we can decide about next steps."
Pearce nodded. He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Without a wave or backward glance, he stomped into the hotel and headed for the elevator. He was numb and felt as if he were moving underwater. The elevator seemed to take years to arrive. When the doors finally parted three twenty-something women were revealed. They wore sweatpants, T-shirts, and house shoes, and when they saw him, all three burst into laughter. He stepped aside to allow them to exit, avoiding any eye contact. All he wanted was to be back in his room.
As the elevator carried him to his floor, tears burned in Pearce's eyes. He slid between the doors as they were still parting and hurried down the hall, his key card already in hand. The minute he was inside, a sob tore out of his throat. He put his back to the wall of the short entryway and slid down to sit on the floor. With a hand over his face, everything he'd been holding in came gushing out of him: Mark's slow recovery, his own frustration at not being able to do more for Mark, the men who had to die just to get his attention, and now Tristan, murdered simply because he'd stopped to talk to him.
After a time, his sobs tapered off, and he gulped in air. Guilt and exhaustion buzzed in his head like faulty neon. The sight of Tristan stretched out on the broken concrete amid the litter and dirt haunted him. He was afraid that when he finally closed his eyes to sleep, all he'd see would be the scarf knotted tight around Tristan's neck and his tongue sticking out like a fat, pale worm. It was Pearce's fault, all of this was his fault, and he had no idea how to stop it.
The worst of it ebbed, and he dragged his hands over his face before getting to his feet. He peeled off his suit, shirt, underwear, and socks and stuffed it all into the plastic laundry bag he'd started the day he'd arrived, thankful the Bureau reimbursed for laundry expenses.
A hot shower helped to ease some of the tension from his shoulders and neck, and he felt the buzz inside his skull recede a bit. After he'd dried off, he got in bed and held onto his phone as he stared at the ceiling. It was after midnight, too late to call Mark. Even as he thought about it, Pearce wondered what he'd even say. How could he explain what had happened, what he had caused? The minute he heard Mark's voice, he'd probably lose all control and start sobbing again. Some hard-ass FBI agent he was turning out to be.
His voice sounded as defeated as he felt when he said, "Fuck it."
He set the alarm on his phone for nine in the morning, plugged it in to charge, and rolled onto his side. Worries that he wouldn't be able to sleep proved groundless since he was out in seconds. Vague images of red scarves and faceless prone bodies filled his dreams, and he felt like he hadn’t even slept when the alarm brought him up from sleep the next morning.
Text messages from Mark and Jake waited for him, and Pearce answered both, keeping his responses short and pleasant. A quick shower helped him wake up, and he dressed quickly, left his bag of dirty clothes in the middle of the bed with a note requesting they be cleaned along with a twenty-dollar bill for a tip. He bought two large carryout coffees from the hotel coffee shop and stepped outside just as Jake pulled up to the curb.
"Coffee for me?" Jake asked with a smile when Pearce handed him a cup. "You shouldn't have."
"Yeah, well, it's no bouquet of roses, but I figured you'd like this better."
Jake laughed, then took a moment to look at him.
Pearce scowled. "What?"
"You okay?"
The sincerity of Jake's question softened Pearce's defenses, and he nodded as he looked down at his own cup of coffee.
"I am," Pearce said, and forced himself to look over at Jake. He could feel the anger and determination simmering in his own gaze as he said, "We're going to catch this motherfucker and make him pay."
Jake grinned. "Now there's the Pearce who first showed up here in Detroit. All right. Let's get to it." He rubbed his hands together. "Still up for tracking down previous Kings of Rebellion members?"
"Good a place as any to start," Pearce replied. "Do you have the list?"
"In the folder in the backseat."
Pearce reached over the seat to grab the folder.
"Where's our first stop?"
Pearce read off the address as he tapped it into the maps app on his phone. "We need to get on the M-10 highway."
"The Lodge, got it."
"The Lodge?" Pearce asked.
"That's the name of the M-10."
"Like hunting lodge?"
"No, as in one of mayors of Detroit from the late twenties."
Pearce nodded. "Good to know."
They talked about the case, avoiding any mention of Tristan, for which Pearce was grateful. The grief and despair over Tristan's death had softened, leaving some room for anger and determination to take root. But it was still too soon for Pearce to rationally discuss any details about Tristan's case. They would await the autopsy results and processing of scene evidence. For now, Pearce had to be able to focus on the task at hand.
"Where am I going again?" Jake asked after driving north on the Lodge a few miles.
"Exit coming up in about two miles," Pearce replied.
The neighborhood they exited into was made up of large homes with well-maintained yards.
"Kind of a nice neighborhood," Jake said.
"Terrorists want safe streets and good schools for their kids, too," Pearce said, and they both chuckled. "Make a right about three blocks up. Princeton Street."
"So any big Halloween plans waiting back home?" Jake asked.
"No, just hoped we'd have this figured out," Pearce replied. "But guess I was too optimistic. We didn't have any plans anyway. Mark probably wouldn't have wanted to make any."
"Oh? Is he not a fan of the season?"
Pearce regretted having said anything but had to admit it felt good to let out a hint of his feelings over Mark's condition. Other than short conversations with Izzie, he really didn't have anyone he could talk to about his relationship with Mark. He watched the blue dot that indicated their current position move along the street on the map app.
"Not when he's still trying to get over being abducted and nearly sold as a sex slave on Barbados," Pearce heard himself say and then immediately wished he could take it all back.
"What the fuck?" Jake pulled the car up to the curb and put it in park before looking at Pearce with wide eyes. "You fucking with me?"
Pearce glanced at him and shook his head. "Not even a little bit."
"When did that happen?"
"Back in May."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"How's he doing?"
"About how you'd expect," Pearce replied, fidgeting as the temperature in the car seemed to go up a handful of degrees every minute.
"Jesus," Jake said, his voice close to a whisper. "You two have nearly cornered the market on tragedy, haven't you?"
"One way to put it," Pearce grumbled. "Anyway, let's go check this guy out. What's his name again?" He looked down at the list. "Moonif Ali Kassab. We're just a few blocks away, come on."
Jake shook his head as he put the car into gear. A short time later, he parked at the curb, and they got out of the car to approach a ranch house with the shades drawn and overgrown evergreen bushes flanking a crumbling porch. Jake fell into step beside Pearce.
"I'm really sorry to hear about what happened to Mark," he said.
"Forget it," Pearce grumbled. "I shouldn't have said anything. Just put it out of your mind, okay?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," Jake replied and waved his hands. "It's gone. Like it never happened."
Pearce knocked on the door of the house and gave him a dirty look. "Liar."
"Who, me?"
Before Pearce could reply, Jake held up a finger and leaned in closer to the door, turning his head to the side as he strained to listen. Someone was moving very quietly away from the door, and Pearce stepped aside as he pulled his gun from i
ts holster.
Jake moved to the other side of the door and drew his weapon as well.
Pearce knocked a second time, a little harder, and called out, "Moonif Ali Kassab, we're with the FBI. We don't want to arrest you, we just want to talk."
A sound from around the corner of the house got them moving. Jake led the way down the porch steps and across the lawn to the driveway. A small engine roared to life, and Jake jumped aside just in time to avoid being run down by a small motorcycle. The rider wore a helmet that prevented a good look at his face, but Pearce noted the bright red color and a Ferrari decal centered on the back. The bike skidded out into the road and took off down the street, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust and the echoes of its motor.
"Well, that wasn't suspicious at all," Jake said as he holstered his weapon.
Pearce stared after the motorcycle as he put his own gun away. "Let's put out an APB on the bike and keep going down the list." He stomped back to the car and slammed the door behind him.
"You don't want to talk to the neighbors?" Jake asked as he got in the car.
"No," Pearce said. "Most of them probably aren't even home anyway."
Jake checked the list. "Moonif Ali Kassab is twenty-eight years old. We found his name in a few of the papers seized after the Kings of Rebellion bust."
"All right, let's keep moving," Pearce said and stared out the side window as Jake called in the APB. He wasn't sure about Moonif. He could have just been spooked by two FBI agents at his door, but running from them certainly wasn't a good way to prove his innocence. "I do want to do a drive-by later tonight, though."
"Sounds romantic," Jake said. "Where to next, navigator?"
They found a few of the other men they were looking for, but each of them had alibis for at least one of the murders. Neither Pearce or Jake got a vibe off any of them either, and over the years, Pearce had learned to trust his gut. These men appeared to be trying to put any involvement they might have had with the Kings of Rebellion behind them, and they were not happy to be reminded of their past.
Tristan's autopsy had been bumped due to a drive-by shooting that had left two children and their father dead, and Pearce had had to restrain himself from punching the dashboard when Jake had relayed the news. He had no idea how the medical examiners slept and managed to have any semblance of a normal life outside of their tile walls.
Once they had finished speaking with the last man on the list, they returned to the car and sat in silence a moment. It was already dark, and they were no closer to a lead than they'd been before. Unless they counted Moonif Ali Kassab.
"Let's drive by Kassab's house again," Pearce suggested. "Just take a look."
"If you're not careful, Moonif's going to think you like him," Jake said as he pulled away from the curb.
Pearce shot him a dirty look.
A single light was on in the house as Jake cruised slowly past, but there was no sign of movement or a motorcycle.
"Light on a timer maybe?" Pearce suggested.
"Even possible terrorists want to prevent burglary," Jake said.
"No sign of the bike either."
"Could be in back or in the garage."
"One way to find out."
Jake parked, and they moved quickly and quietly up the driveway. A light over the side door clicked on at their approach, startling Pearce and making his heart pound.
"Motion sensor," Jake whispered.
"Yeah, I see it," Pearce whispered back.
"Rookie mistake," Jake added as he slipped past Pearce and checked the backyard. Pearce moved outside the circle of light and watched him approach the garage and peer in the window. He returned, shaking his head. "Nothing."
"Let's go." Pearce headed back to the car.
"Okay, today was pretty much a bust," Jake said as he started the car. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking I'm hungry and on edge," Pearce replied.
Jake checked an imaginary watch. "Yep, right on schedule. How about we call it a night? You could use some alone time, and I need to do about four weeks worth of laundry."
"Yeah, we're getting nowhere right now," Pearce said. "Let's go."
Jake dropped him off in front of his hotel and called out before he drove off, "Get some sleep. You look like shit!"
"Asshole," Pearce grumbled, looking after the car until Jake turned the corner and left his sight.
He stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the cloudy sky. The sound of cars and the rattle of the People Mover—Detroit's elevated train system that made a circuit of the downtown area—blended with the gentle whoosh of a bus as it passed and the high-pitched laughter of a woman down the block. He really didn't want to go up to his hotel room and sit there all alone until he fell asleep. Not tonight. He needed to be out of the hotel and see people talking, laughing, and living their lives. He needed to remind himself that life was still flowing along these city streets, stronger and more prevalent than the death that prowled the shadows.
Pearce turned away from the hotel doors and walked to the corner. He didn't have a destination in mind, but he was hungry and thought he'd seen a few restaurants down this way. The breeze coming off the Detroit River a few blocks away was chilly, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders as he walked. There were a surprising number of people on the sidewalk, and he angled his way past a variety of small groups as well as many couples. The sight of couples holding hands or walking close together made him think of Mark, and he promised himself to call once he reached a destination.
Crossing a street, he came upon four brightly lit restaurants lining the street. He dismissed two as being way too overpriced for his per diem just from the exteriors. He lingered outside the other two as he reviewed the menus on display. The tavern offering a variety of burgers won out, and he stepped inside.
"Hi there. Welcome to Charleston's Pub," the hostess at a small podium said. "Just you tonight?"
"Just me," Pearce replied, feeling the familiar wash of sadness. Eating alone, again. He'd really gotten used to Mark's company at meals. Hell, he'd gotten used to Mark's cooking. He'd known he would miss Mark during this trip, but he hadn't been prepared for just how much. Though it wasn't clear if he missed him or felt responsible for him and was concerned how Mark was doing. And he wasn't certain if that was the same basic idea or not. Either way, with all that had happened, he found himself aching to have Mark there with him, to take comfort from him while at the same time he was glad Mark was far away from Detroit and all that was going on.
Before the waitress could show him to a table, Pearce noticed three men of Middle Eastern descent sitting at a table in the back near a long hallway that led to the restrooms and a rear exit. The three men gave him a long once-over before putting their heads together and resuming their conversation. Pearce wouldn't have thought twice about it, except for the bright red motorcycle helmet resting on a chair beside the man with his back to the bar.
"Oh, hey, can I get a table near the back?" he asked.
"Sure," the hostess said as she grabbed a menu. "I like to sit away from the door, too. Keeps me from getting a chill whenever anyone comes inside."
Pearce grunted noncommittally as he followed her around the bar to the back of the tavern. He sat with his back to the wall, facing the bar and able to see the men a couple of tables to his left in the mirror as well as from his peripheral vision.
"Will you be having a drink?" the hostess asked.
He had wanted one before seeing the motorcycle helmet, but now he changed his mind. "Just an iced tea."
"You got it."
She walked off, and Pearce looked at the menu without really seeing it. He was trying to hear what the men to his left were saying, but the fucking sound system was just loud enough to drown them out. A waitress approached with his iced tea, and he ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Once she took the menu, he needed something to do so he got his phone out and sent Jake a text.
Want a burger and pop?
Jake wrote back: Didn't I just drop you off? What kind of passive-aggressive bullshit is this, asking me to drive back down there?
Pearce smirked and typed: I didn't know I'd miss you this much.
Cute.
Actually, might have found our biker escapee from earlier.
You're joking.
You know better than that.
Good point. Where are you?
Pearce cursed and looked around. He had no idea what fucking place he was in, so he waved down his waitress and asked for the name of the place.
"Charleston's Pub," she replied.
"Thanks. What street are we on?" When she gave him a funny look, he said, "I got here on foot. Just started walking."
She nodded. "Washington."
He thanked her and texted the information to Jake.
Jake replied: I know the place. Be there in 20 minutes. Don't start anything without me.
Pearce wrote back: Who? Me?
Dick.
With Jake on the way, Pearce relaxed a bit. He snuck glances over at the table of men. Morgan wasn't one of the men because all three were Middle Eastern. And that would have been way too convenient, even more so than coming across the man they wanted to question just blocks from his hotel. Trouble was, he hadn't seen a picture of Moonif, so wasn't sure which, if any, of the men he was, but his guess would have to be the man sitting beside the helmet. His food arrived before Jake did, and Pearce took big bites of his burger, relishing the taste. It had been hours since he'd eaten a full meal, and he mentally scolded himself. He needed to force himself to eat to keep up his energy.
Feeling a bit better, he considered getting in touch with Mark but decided against a call because he wanted to stay focused on Moonif.
When he had finished half of his burger, he paused and sent Mark a quick text.
Surveying potential informant. Can't talk or text much. Thinking of you. Will call later.
A few minutes later, Mark texted back: Miss you. Be careful. Check my earlier text.
Earlier text? Pearce scrolled through the entire dialogue and noticed that Mark had sent him a text much earlier, probably when his phone had been sitting in his hotel room. He'd grabbed the phone off his nightstand, seen the notification, and promptly forgotten to read it. Great Boyfriend of the Year award definitely withheld from Aaron Pearce. He glanced over at the men again, then read Mark's text suggesting he get in touch with Calvin along with the heart and eggplant emoji.