Echoes of Rain

by Ben Follows

  Echoes of Rain

  Ben Follows

  Chapter 1

  Three hours before he was set to be recognized for his contributions to the American military and world peace, General Henry Mavis hanged himself in his Manhattan hotel room.

  Two hours later, FBI agents Curtis Mackley and Frankie Lassiter stepped into the room, taking in the carnage that had taken over the penthouse apartment.

  Curtis took a deep breath. He had been awake almost all night with a six-month-old baby but had taken some caffeine pills on the way over. Even still, he kept his sunglasses on and sipped at his latte, which contained two espresso shots, as he walked over to the CSI team who were standing over the deceased.

  The rope had been severed, and his body lowered onto the floor.

  The penthouse looked like an old house that had been selectively renovated in a modern style. There were certain parts of it which seemed anachronistic, but Curtis wasn't one to criticize architecture or interior decorating.

  Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun was shining over Manhattan, and between two hotels on the adjacent street, Curtis could see Central Park.

  Frankie cleared her throat as she approached the two CSI agents who were standing over the body. Although the FBI wasn't immediately involved in military cases, the NYPD had called them in almost immediately.

  Frankie took off her sunglasses and looked down at the body, which was currently covered in a sheet. She was over six feet tall and stood with a poise and confidence that made her seem even taller.

  Curtis was shorter by a few inches. It enabled him to blend into the background of a case while Frankie took the lead, although he stepped up if they were speaking to large crowds, the one thing Frankie was incapable of.

  Curtis looked around the hotel room. Police officers and FBI agents seemed to cover every square inch of the extensive suite. Sticky notes covered the walls, and law enforcement agents dusted every surface, trying to reconstruct the details of the day which had led to Henry Mavis hanging himself.

  The crime scene investigators stood and held out their hands. They made their introductions.

  "Tell me about this," said Frankie, gesturing at the body underneath the sheet.

  The first agent nodded. "Time of death is sometime between two and two-thirty this afternoon. There are no signs of a struggle or foul play. If this were anyone else, I would say with 100% certainty that this was a run of the mill suicide."

  The other agent shook his head. "You can't say that," he said. "Nothing is 100%. And he knows that." He shot his co-worker an angry glare, as though they'd had this conversation in the past.

  "Look," said the first, "I'm just saying that there is nothing here to indicate anything other than suicide. I'm telling you my professional opinion."

  Frankie nodded. "Can we see him?"

  The second agent nodded. He leaned over pulled the sheet back, revealing Mavis's head and shoulders. There were blue markings on his neck in the pattern of a rope.

  Curtis looked down at him and was reminded of a stockier Clint Eastwood.

  "Is he smiling?" said Curtis.

  "Hard to tell," said the second agent. " I wouldn't think anything about it."

  Curtis knelt, and his suspicion was confirmed. Mavis had been smiling in his final moments.

  "He's wearing his army uniform," said Frankie.

  "Yeah," said the first agent. He pulled back the sheet a bit further, revealing the generals uniform. There was a dozen medals pinned to his chest.

  "Interesting," said Frankie.

  "He was proud of his service," said Curtis. "Why else would he wear the uniform? Was there a note?"

  "Not that we could find," said the first agent. "Generally, the note is right beside the body. Suicide victims don't want people to wonder. They want there to be some sense of closure."

  "There was a writer I heard about," said Frankie. "Apparently, he wanted to kill himself for almost thirty years, but he was never able to get the suicide note just right. He wrote over a thousand suicide notes which didn't quite capture the feeling."

  "Did he actually do it?"

  "No," said Frankie with a sad sigh. "He was hit by a car on his sixty-fifth birthday and died instantly."

  "It's possible Mavis had some undiagnosed depression," said Curtis, thinking out loud. "We should talk to his doctors."

  "And his family."

  "Yeah," said Curtis. He was looking down at the face of the man sitting in front of him. Sometimes if he looked at a victims face, he could get some sense of what they were feeling in their last moments.

  Curtis stood and wiped his forehead, where a sheen of sweat had appeared.

  He looked around at the room.

  "No cameras?" he said.

  "None," said the first agent. "This hotel takes the privacy of its guests seriously. They don't even have camera's in the hallways on the top floors. I've heard rumors that more than a few high-powered businessmen and politicians enjoy bringing escorts up here."

  Curtis nodded and looked around.

  "I'm going to walk around and talk to people," said Curtis. He didn't feel tired anymore. He was focused on the investigation.

  Curtis walked onto the patio. It was a thirtieth-floor penthouse. Not quite as high as some of the others in Manhattan, but high enough to get a good view. Curtis had been living in the outskirts of Brooklyn for a few years now. He imagined his wife, Melanie, and his daughter, Sophie, playing in the backyard on the playset that Curtis had spent a weekend building after he had gotten back from Blind River.

  He wished he could spend more time with his daughter, and he had been doing his best to get his work done early, but it always seemed like there was something else that needed his attention, someone else who needed help. He felt torn between his responsibilities as an FBI agent and as a father.

  He had heard people speak about being torn in such a way before, but it was different now that he was actually feeling it. He had always assumed he would be fine, that everyone else was just lousy at time management. But now he knew he had vastly overestimated his own abilities.

  He walked to the edge of the porch and looked over the city. Curtis leaned back from the balcony edge and looked up at the sky.

  This was going to be a long day.

  Chapter 2

  About an hour later, one of the young agents walked up to Curtis with a concerned look on his face.

  Mason Franklin had joined the FBI less than a month prior after completing his Ph.D. in Criminology at Princeton. Mason had managed to get a brief interview with Frankie while he was writing his thesis and had used that connection to get a job at the FBI.

  He had done well thus far, but he was still a young agent who was dealing with the reality of the job being different than he had expected. There were more than a few times where Curtis had caught him looking bored when he had to fill out excessive paperwork or deal with the inevitable bureaucracy of a government agency.

  "Turn on CNN," he said, walking up to Frankie and Curtis.

  After a brief moment of trying to find the remote for the hotel room television, they discovered that the tv was operated via the iPad on the coffee table in front of them. They flipped to CNN and Curtis immediately saw what the problem was.

  "Shit," said Curtis. "They shouldn't know yet."

  The news anchor was speaking under a picture of General Mavis.

  "We have just received a report that General Henry Mavis," the Anchor was saying, "who was supposed to receive commendations for his military exploits this afternoon, has been found dead in his hotel. The FBI is currently on the scene and has declined to comment."

  "Shit," said Frankie.

  She turned to Curtis, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing.
Not only was this going to complicate the case, especially once the cause of death was discovered, but they were going to be under a fine-tooth comb from Director Johnson and the FBI.

  On a more personal note, there was the danger that at some point it was going to leak that Curtis and Frankie had been assigned to the case. Once that happened, it was only a matter of time until Natasha Nolowinski injected herself into this story to promote her book and her version of what had transpired in Blind River.

  "What do we do?" said Mason.

  "Nothing," said Curtis. "Focus on finishing the case. If we can get this finished within 24 hours, we can avoid any major backlash. Has anyone spoke to General Mavis's family yet?"

  "He didn't really have one," said Mason. "As far as we can tell, the only people he associated with were other members of the military. He was married to his job."

  "Are we sure? Siblings? Friends?"

  "He has a half-sister who's about twenty years younger," said Mason, checking his notes. "Seems like his mother remarried and had another kid, although that marriage appears to have ended as well. Her name is Lauren, and she is currently working at a startup company that makes mobile games."

  "Has anyone told her or is she going to find out from CNN?"

  Mason shrugged. "I'll find out."

  "Good," said Curtis. "If no one is there yet, have someone sent out to find her."

  Mason nodded and walked away.

  Frankie turned to Curtis, glancing around to make sure no one else was within earshot.

  "What are you thinking?" she said.

  "I think he killed himself," said Curtis. "There's no sign of a struggle and nothing to indicate anything else. For now, I'm thinking suicide."

  Frankie nodded. "I agree. I think we need to be looking into whether he was on any anti-depressants or was taking any therapy sessions. We also can't ignore the murder angle, however. There's too much possibility that someone has an incentive. He was a top army general for almost twenty years. I have to imagine he made some enemies along the way."

  "Agreed," said Curtis.

  "You check the suicide angle. I'll follow the murder angle. Regroup in an hour."

  Curtis nodded, and they split and went in opposite directions.

  Chapter 3

  Lauren Mavis didn't know about her brother's death. She was sitting at her computer and wearing noise-canceling headphones. Her fingers whipped across the keyboard as she programmed a new update to the app her company was developing. The app would allow people to match dogs at adoption centers with potential foster homes.

  She had been coding for almost sixteen hours straight. Three empty cans of Monster Energy Drinks and an empty pizza box indicated everything she had consumed over the last day. She was focused entirely on the task and knew she was going to finish well in advance of the due date.

  She wanted to get a job programming for NASA and help get a human-crewed mission to Mars, but in the meantime, this stupid app company was all that she could manage to get.

  Someone tapped on her shoulder and made her jump. She leaped back, sending her chair spinning into her desk and knocking over an autographed picture of Robert Downey Jr. she had placed on her desk.

  She pulled off her headphones and turned back to see who had tapped her on the shoulder while she had been focused on her work.

  Her co-worker, Brent, was standing a few feet back, with that stupid smile she hated so much.

  "What the hell, man?" said Lauren. "What the hell do you think that you're doing tapping me on the shoulder like that? I'm in the middle of something."

  "Sorry," said Brent. "There was just something on the news that I thought maybe--well, maybe it's just a coincidence. You know what, it's probably just a coincidence. I'll leave you to your work."

  She turned toward him. "Brent. Fucking Christ. Just tell me what you wanted to tell me. You've already broken my rhythm, and I won't be able to get back into it for a bit anyway."

  "Okay," said Brent, turning back to her. "Does the name Henry Mavis mean anything to you? I know it's the same last name, and it might just be a coincidence, but I was wondering if there was any relation."

  Lauren shrugged. "He's my brother. Are they broadcasting his ceremony on live television or something? He was pretty excited about that."

  "Oh," said Brent. He looked down at the ground. "Fuck. I didn't think--Shit."

  Lauren felt a chill go down her spine. "What's wrong? What the fuck happened?"

  "It's on--" Brent swallowed and pointed to the lounge.

  "Brent. Look at me and tell me what happened."

  Brent shook his head and pointed to the television again.

  Lauren slowly stood, feeling a strange sense of foreboding. She took a moment to find her balance. Her legs had fallen asleep while she had been working and she hadn't realized it.

  She took a few moments for her legs to regain their sense of feeling, then she turned and walked to the lounge. There were already a few of her co-workers gathered there, and they cleared a path for her to see the screen as she walked in, glancing at her as though they were waiting for her reaction.

  It took her a few moments to process what she saw on the screen.

  The picture in the top right of the screen was undoubtedly her brother. It was his official army portrait, and he looked as proud and severe as he always did. He had never understood her desire to work with computers, but had always supported it, and she had always appreciated how he had tried his best to help her in any way that he could.

  The headline, however, took her more than a few moments to process.

  "He's dead?" she finally managed to say.

  The co-workers looked up at her. Brent had walked into the lounge while she was processing the information, and he was standing in the doorway, avoiding eye contact with her.

  "Did you know him?" said one of her co-workers.

  "He's her brother," said Brent in the doorway, almost a whisper, but it seemed like everyone heard him.

  "I'm sorry," said the co-worker. "Is there anything we--?"

  "I need to leave," said Lauren. "I need to go."

  She turned on her heel and speed-walked to her desk. She gathered up her laptop, a few hard drives, and all her cords, shoving them into her backpack. She hesitated for a moment, then opened the bottom drawer of her desk. There was lockbox sitting in the drawer. Inside this box was a gun, which her brother had insisted she take. She had always been against guns, but Henry had insisted that she at least have it with her, even if it just stayed locked in a drawer. She had, and the gun had remained in the drawer ever since.

  Now, she might have a need for it. She put the lockbox into her bag along with the rest of her materials.

  She slung the bag over one shoulder, then took off at a slow jog toward the door, feeling her entire body jiggle while she did so and wishing she had taken her brothers advice about staying in better shape.

  All her co-workers watched as she jogged to the exit, moving faster than they had ever seen her move. Brent tried to step in her way.

  "Hey," he said. "Are you okay? Is there something--?"

  "No," she said, shoving past him. "No, I just need to leave."

  She barged out the door. It wasn't until she was inside her car, the doors closed and the air conditioning blasting onto her face that she finally took a moment for herself.

  They had found out. Lauren didn't know how, but they knew. What she, Henry and the others had done. They knew.

  And she had no doubt that she was one of their next targets.

  She gunned the gas and drove out of the parking lot as fast as her car could go.

  Chapter 4

  When Curtis and Frankie regrouped an hour later neither had gathered much new information. They had been unable to find any sign of forced entry, or any indication that any of the other hotel guests had seen anything suspicious. However, they had also been unable to find anything else that supported the suicide hypothesis. No evidence of General Mavis having lef
t a note, gone to a therapist or being on any depression medication. Perhaps it had been undiagnosed, but that didn't help.

  They stood in the kitchen of the large hotel room. It was nicer than Curtis's house, and he wouldn't have minded staying a bit longer and taking a chance to watch television and just relax if not for the investigation taking place.

  Curtis poured some coffee grounds from the cupboard into the espresso machine and tried to figure out how the complex machine worked while Frankie poured herself a glass of water and took a seat at the countertop. She sipped at the glass of water and looked across the counter at Curtis.

  "What are you thinking?" she said.

  Curtis glanced back at her. She was tall enough that even when she was sitting on a stool, she looked like she was standing.

  "Why do you always ask that?" said Curtis, looking back at the machine.

  "What do you mean?" said Frankie.

  Curtis finally figured out how the machine worked, and it began spurting espresso. He panicked to grab a cup before the espresso went onto the counter and just barely managed to catch the last few drips before it stopped.

  "Damn it," he muttered. He restarted the process of grinding the coffee grounds and combining it with the hot water at the right temperature. "Ever since we got back from Blind River, you've always started conversations by asking me what I'm thinking. You never used to do that. It used to be the other way around. You would just launch into an explanation of what you were thinking, and I would interrupt when I saw something you might have overlooked or that you might need to investigate further. Recently it's become the opposite. Why?"

  Curtis looked back at Frankie as the espresso poured out of the machine and into the white porcelain cup.

  Frankie shrugged. "I want to keep a gauge on what your mental state is. I know how hard everything that happened in Blind River was for you. You had to go back to a town you thought that you had put in your rearview mirror, work with a sister you still don't exactly have the best relationship with, confront a demon from your past, and that's not even mentioning that your dad died in the middle of all that. I know that you were cleared by the FBI psychologist for work in the field, but are you really doing okay?"