by Ben Follows
Curtis looked down at the marble counter, clean enough that he could see his own reflection in it. The only parts of the counter which weren't entirely clean were the parts where Curtis's first attempt at making an espresso had sprayed.
"I've got to figure out how to heat the milk," said Curtis, walking over to the fridge. "I think I'm going to make a latte. I've always wanted to get one of these machines so I would be able to make lattes and cappuccinos for guests. Maybe I could actually learn how to make latte art."
"Curtis."
"I'm fine," he said, stopping as he opened the fridge and grabbed a carton of milk. "I just need to keep moving forward. Blind River is in the past. I'm not going back there again. I told Johnson as much. It doesn't matter what he offers me or what the case is. He promised me that he would find someone else if anything else happens."
Frankie looked at him. "What about Amber?"
Curtis turned back to the machine and tried to figure out how to froth the milk for the latte. He thought about Amber, the woman who had tricked him into raising a child that wasn't his for a month before he had learned the truth. He had left that night and enrolled in the FBI. He had sent her money on a monthly basis, out of some sort of misplaced guilt at abandoning them. He hadn't kept tabs on her, so he had no idea whether she had moved or if she was getting the money, but recently he had started wondering what had become of Amber and her son. On his way back from Blind River he had asked Frankie to find where she was living and how to contact her. Frankie had gotten him that information, but he hadn't done anything with it yet. He had taken out his phone and punched in the number so many times, but he hadn't had the guts to call.
"Curtis."
"Frankie, it's going fine," he said without looking back. "I want my work and private life to be separate. I know you just want to be a good friend, but please stop trying. Just for now, okay? Right now, I just need you to be my partner. Our relationship is about work. If you want to talk about the case, then be my guest, but I really want to keep a mental division between my work and my personal life right now, okay?"
Frankie recoiled as though she had been physically hit, but after a moment, she smiled and nodded. "If that's what you need right now, I can do that."
"Thank you," said Curtis.
He took the frothed milk and poured it over the latte. It disappeared into the coffee, as though it had just been regular milk. He tried to make latte art, but it just turned into a brown mixture. He looked at the milk and frowned.
"I think I'm supposed to use cream for this." He sipped at the coffee. "Not a bad coffee though. I have to figure out where this hotel gets their coffee grounds. Want one?"
"I'm good," said Frankie. "So, let me tell you what I'm thinking about the case."
"Go for it," said Curtis with a smile. It was a relief to just focus on the case and forget about everything else.
"My best guess is that it was a suicide," said Frankie. "However, I don't believe he made the decision by himself. I think he was either being blackmailed, threatened or perhaps he knew that someone was coming to kill him. I don't know if anyone else was in the room when he killed himself, but someone is happy that he's gone."
"I don't know about that," said Curtis. "I think there might have been someone else in the room. It's also possible he was unconscious when he was hanged from the rafter. Maybe he was drugged, and then someone else came in and did the deed. We know that there are no obvious signs of a struggle, but we don't know whether he was conscious or not until the autopsy is complete."
"Why do you think that?" said Frankie.
"He had no shortage of enemies. He might have done any number of things throughout his career that pissed people off."
"Agreed," said Frankie. "Some people might have been resentful that he was getting recognized. Not to mention that a large amount of his military file is redacted. We might have to dig into some classified files if we want to figure out who did this."
"Great," said Curtis. "Digging into classified files is the worst. No one ever wants to talk about anything."
"Amazing how that happens," said Frankie sarcastically.
At that moment, Mason walked into the kitchen. He looked like he had bad news and wasn't looking forward to telling it.
"What is it?" said Frankie.
"We have a problem," said Mason.
"What is it?" said Frankie.
"We can't find Lauren Mavis."
"Okay," said Frankie. "That's not uncommon. She's just off the grid for a bit. We can't make any assumptions just yet."
"There's more than that," said Mason. He swallowed. "We sent some officers to her workplace. Her co-workers said that the moment that she saw the news she cursed and ran out to her car. Since then, none of them have any idea where she went. Her phone is off, and her car's GPS seems to have been manually disabled."
"What?" said Curtis.
Frankie turned back to Curtis. "I'm starting to think there might be something more going on here."
"Just now?" said Curtis with a grin. "We need to find Lauren Mavis. Mason, put as many agents on finding her as Johnson will let you. If she's running from something, we need to know what it is."
"You got it," said Mason. He turned and left the kitchen.
Frankie turned back to Curtis. "That enough of a distraction from your personal life?"
Curtis shook his head incredulously. "It was until you said that."
Chapter 5
Natasha Nolowinski laid back and let out a deep sigh of relief. She was sitting in a spa with her head back as small fish ate away the dead skin on the bottom of her feet. She had just finished a massage and a facial and was feeling more relaxed than she had in a long time.
When Robert Randall had died in Blind River, she had thought her life was over, but it had been just the beginning. Her story had sparked a bidding war among the major publishers, with the rights to her story, provided she named everyone involved with their real names, going for six-figures. She had been able to live comfortably off the advance while she had finished writing the book and had even gotten a small place in Manhattan. The moment that her book hit the shelves, she had no doubt that it would be a bestseller. Once that happened, she wouldn't be able to stop the onslaught of calls from newspapers begging her to come and work for them.
She grinned at the thought.
A lot of the things that she wrote about in her book were blatant fabrications, but she was smart enough to get away with it. She had kept close enough to the truth that there was no situation where she could be accused of lying, libel, or slander. The most she might be accused of would be an exaggeration or an incorrect fact which she would correct.
She had completely changed her own involvement in the story and had intentionally left out her relationship with Robert. She had changed it to make herself seem like an innocent bystander who had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, imprisoned by power-hungry FBI agents named Curtis Mackley and Frankie Lassiter. According to the book, it had been a complete coincidence that she was in the Blind River jail while murders had taken place outside her cell.
"That's a crying shame."
Natasha groaned. The woman sitting beside her hadn't shut up once since the start of their spa retreat. Natasha hadn't engaged with her at all, and eventually, the woman had gotten the message to shut up and let Natasha enjoy the spa in peace.
Now, apparently, she had forgotten that lesson. Natasha opened her left eye and turned her head to look at the woman. She was an elderly woman who seemed like the most significant hardship she had ever faced was her hair not quite curling the way she wanted it to.
The woman turned toward Natasha.
"Did you see this?" said the woman. "What a shame. I've heard such good things about General Mavis. He was a family man and loved his country. I suppose he must have had some demons, don't you think?"
Natasha let out a deep sigh that she hoped that the woman would hear, but she did open her eyes all the way. W
hatever the woman was talking about had piqued her interest. She looked up at the television that was set up in the upper right corner of the room, on mute.
It was on CNN, and it was reporting that General Henry Mavis was dead.
Natasha frowned. Someone was going to get the scoop on that story, but it wasn't going to be her. She didn't really see the point in paying much attention to a story like that unless she was going to benefit from it somehow.
She started to close her eyes, but just as her eyelids were about to press together, her subconscious saw something that made her bolt upright.
The images had moved on from what her subconscious mind had noticed, and she frowned. There was something, but she wasn't quite sure what it was.
"What's the matter?" said the woman. "Did you know General Mavis? He seems like such a sweet fellow."
"Shut your fucking mouth," said Natasha. "I don't want to hear another peep out of you."
The woman jumped back and made a face like she had just smelled something particularly foul.
Natasha stood and stepped out of the small pool. She walked across the floor in her bare feet and shouted at the spa workers.
"Hey, you!" she shouted. "You got a remote for this television?"
"Yeah," said a young spa worker. He reached under the desk and handed it to her. "We really aren't supposed to change--"
Natasha snatched it out of his hand as he trailed off.
She looked up at the television and cranked the volume. The sound of the news report filled the spa.
"--Crime scene investigations crews have been going in and out all day," the reporter was saying, "but there has been no word on what exactly is happening inside."
"Idiot," muttered Natasha. She flipped the channel to MSNBC, then to Fox News, then to NBC, and finally back to CNN. As she flipped back, she finally saw what she was looking for. A small clip of two people in FBI windbreakers walking in the front door of the hotel.
She immediately recognized them. She would always recognize the broad shoulders of Curtis Mackley and the lanky form of Frankie Lassiter.
She grinned. Now, she was interested.
Chapter 6
Curtis and Frankie were standing in the Medical Examiners office of the nearest police station. The General's body was on the other side of the glass, and the M.E. was trying to find anything suspicious.
They still hadn't found Lauren Mavis, and it was beginning to worry Curtis.
While they were waiting, Frankie had fallen asleep in a chair. It was a small chair, but her legs were at a ninety-degree angle. The only indication she had fallen asleep was her head lolling forward onto her chest and a low snore every few minutes.
Curtis looked between Frankie and the coroner and decided that now was as good a time as any to get something out of the way.
He took his phone out of his pocket and dialed Melanie.
"Hey," answered Melanie on the second ring. "How's it going?"
"It's going," he said. "You saw the news?"
"Yeah," she said. She sounded tired, but that had become normal since Sophie had been born. "I just got the baby down for her nap. She still isn't sleeping long enough and has a weird temperature. What's going on?"
"I don't know," said Curtis. "We're at the medical examiner's office waiting to see if it actually was a suicide."
"What if that's all it is?"
"What do you mean?" said Curtis.
"What if that's all it is? What if it's nothing more than a simple suicide?"
Curtis thought for a moment, then said, "then I guess I should be home for dinner tonight."
Melanie laughed. "I've heard that one before."
"I know," said Curtis, feeling the weight of his wedding ring. "I know."
The Medical Examiner pulled off his gloves and gestured through the window for them to come into the room.
"I have to go," he said hurriedly. "Tell Sophie that I love her."
"Always."
The line went dead. Curtis looked at his phone for a long moment, then sighed and slipped it into his pocket.
He didn't know how much tighter the bonds between his family and his job could be pulled before they snapped.
He walked over to Frankie and shook her awake. She looked up and nodded, as though she hadn't been asleep at all. She rubbed her eyes with her sleeve and stood, ready to go and somehow without having messed up any of her clothing or hair. She always looked professional no matter the circumstances. Melanie had mentioned more than once that she was jealous of Frankie's seemingly effortless professionalism.
They walked into the medical examiner's office. He nodded to them. He introduced himself as Dr. Stevens.
"What's the damage?" said Curtis.
"There are a few things which we need to get out of the way first," said Dr. Stevens. "The first is that the suicide was not a set-up. The cause of death is the snapping of his neck from the noose around it, and he was definitely still alive and breathing when the noose snapped tight."
"Okay," said Frankie, taking out her notepad and scribbling some notes. "So we can rule out a staged suicide?"
"Yes," said Stevens. "However, there are other things worth talking about. The first is that there is a lot of alcohol in his system. I would guess he was almost blackout drunk by the time he actually did the deed."
Curtis nodded. "That's not uncommon. It's very common for people to get themselves drunk to get up the courage. However, now that I think about it, I don't remember there being much liquor or beer bottles in the hotel room. That might be something worth looking into."
"Agreed," said Frankie. "Anything else?"
"There are some small indicators that there may have been a fight, but I can't be sure," said the M.E. "He has a few bruises on his chest and side, and one of his ribs is fractured, but it seems like it happened about a week ago, not recently. It's probably nothing, but that might be worth looking into it."
Curtis nodded. "We haven't heard anything about him getting into a fight in the last week. We'll investigate it. Anything else?"
"He wasn't in the best health, but he wasn't going to die anytime soon. He had put on a few pounds, and he could absolutely do with a bit more exercise, but there's nothing here to indicate there was anything that might have killed him. There was no note?"
"Nothing," said Frankie.
The M.E. nodded. "I've heard he didn't have many friends outside of the military. People like that sometimes feel like no one will miss them, so they don't bother writing a note. I think that must be one of the greatest tragedies I've ever heard of. Feeling as though no one will even care enough to explain your actions."
"But he was a hero," said Frankie. "He was going to get recognized--" She checked her watch. "--right now, as a matter of fact. He was a hero. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of people who owe their lives to him. How can someone like that think they won't make enough of an impact to leave a note and explain themselves?"
"Sometimes it's hard," said Curtis. "There's a difference between being famous to a bunch of people you've never met, and actually feeling like you have true friends. It's easy to fall into a position where everyone loves you, but no one likes you."
"I suppose so," said Frankie. "I just don't understand it."
"Maybe once we find his sister we'll be able to understand it better."
"Maybe," said Frankie. "Anything else?"
The M.E. shrugged. "Nothing I can find. He's covered in scars from years of being in the military, but it seems like most of them are old. He's been stabbed, shot, burned, cut, and beaten, but he managed to get through all of that. Then it turns out that his biggest enemy may have been himself."
"Allegedly," said Frankie.
"Yeah," said Curtis.
Curtis looked down at the body of the four-star general who had been a war hero. He had caught terrorists and led military offensives for almost twenty years. And now he was lying on the table in front of him, looking like every other dead body Curtis had ev
er seen.
It was in moments like this that he had the most difficulty in discrediting the existence of the soul. He usually didn't believe in things like that, but the emptiness of a dead body got to him. There must be something more than just synapses and neurons that made a dead body into someone that could love and hate, who had passions and fears, who felt self-conscious and vulnerable.
There must be something else.
Chapter 7
Lauren Mavis pulled up to the large iron gates and took a deep breath. She hadn't wanted to come back to this house, but here she was. The moment she had heard her brother was dead, she knew there was one person she needed to talk to.
He was the only person who might be able to figure out what was going on.
She also knew that the man who lived in this house might have also been responsible for her brother's death. It didn't matter, though. She needed to know.
She needed answers, and he was her only connection to the world her brother had let himself be sucked into.
"Hi," she said into the intercom just outside the gate. "This is Lauren Mavis. I'm here to see Ralph Lawton."
There was no response, but a moment later the gate opened from the middle out, allowing her onto the grounds of the enormous mansion.
Lauren took a deep breath and drove the car she had rented a few towns back onto the grounds of the mansion. She had used a fake ID and a fake insurance account which she had made a few years back in preparation for something like this. She had been panicking as she had used it at the rental car agency, but they had given her the car without a second glance at her information. She had thrown her bag containing everything she had taken from her office, including her laptop and the gun her brother had given her, into the trunk.
She drove down the long driveway up to the mansion. A voice in the back of her head was begging her to put the car into reverse and get the hell away. She could move to Argentina and live out the rest of her life pretending the rest of the world didn't exist.