by Dan O'Brien
“Two of me?”
“Uh, there’s already an Agent Westlake here.” Pointing into the alleyway, he continued. “Got here right as we were setting up. Said he was sent by the field office to investigate because of some federal case.”
Lauren lifted the yellow tape and marched past the officer, ignoring his protests. As she headed in the direction he indicated, she marched past several plainclothes officers in addition to some beat cops who were talking to lingering bystanders. After turning into the alley, she saw a figure standing alone.
“Agent Westlake,” called Lauren.
The figure turned, revealing short sandy blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. His angular features and strong facial muscles contorted into a boyish grin. He was wide in the shoulders, but not more so than Detective Lawrence.
“Lo?” he asked, the smile on his face growing wider.
Lauren closed the distance and looked at the man. He was dressed in a similar dark black coat with a white shirt and loose tie. Instead of dress shoes, he wore dark polished combat boots. “Billy, what in the hell are you doing here?”
It did not seem like his smile could grow wider, but it did. He scratched his head self-consciously, revealing a holster along his side.
“Well, big sis, I’m investigating a murder…”
“As Agent Westlake?” she interrupted.
He laughed now, looking up the alley at the approaching figure of Detective Lawrence. “Can we do this later, Lo? Seems like your entourage has arrived.”
Lawrence stopped at Lauren’s side and sized-up Billy. “Another federal agent in our midst. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Without missing a beat, Billy extended his hand.
“Agent William Westlake from the Sacramento office.”
“Westlake? Any relation?”
Lauren remained quiet. The truth of the matter was that William Westlake––Billy as Lauren had called her little brother for most of his life––was not an FBI agent from the Sacramento office, nor was he an agent from any federal office.
Holding her breath, she opened her mouth to speak, but Billy beat her to the draw. “No relation, Detective….”
“Lawrence.”
Billy continued. “I’ve crossed paths with the other Agent Westlake on a previous occasion. Cheyenne, wasn’t it?”
Lauren held her breath and nodded, feeling equal parts irritation and fear toward her brother.
Lawrence ignored the comment, either unconcerned about the coincidence or storing the information until it was useful. “Why send someone from the Sacramento office? We generally liaise with Agent Phillips from the field office here in the city.”
Unperturbed, Billy continued to shovel his mountain of bullshit. “Phillips doesn’t work the weird ones like us Westlakes.” He flashed another smile.
Lawrence smirked and gestured to the scene. “So, what do you say about our little slice of weird?”
Happy to have moved on from the increasingly stressful situation, Lauren moved past her brother to examine the heap of flesh and bones propped up against a sliding hill of refuse. She turned to Lawrence and spoke in an even voice. “Not your garden variety of weird, I’ll say that much. What has CSU recovered at the scene? Do you have an ID?”
Billy smiled again, ever the showman. “Appears our unfortunate friend here was named Ken Marlowe, an investment executive for NeuroTech.”
As Lauren crouched closer to get a better look at the late Ken Marlowe, she scrunched her nose in revulsion. “What’s wrong with his skin? It seems like all the elasticity is gone.”
Lawrence strolled away from the Westlakes toward a cluster of men with CSU branded on their coats. Billy took the moment to sidle up to Lauren.
“What are you doing here, Lo?”
“I asked you first. You answer my question first.” Three minutes with her brother and she was already arguing with him like they were little kids again. “Do you realize the position you have put me in?”
Billy smirked and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you were going to pop in, Lo. What’s the likelihood of you showing up in San Francisco? I figured your name would open most doors. And if anyone went snooping, you are a federal agent after all.”
Lauren stood up and jabbed a finger in his chest. “But you aren’t, Billy. Impersonating a federal officer is a felony. If any of these city cops suspect that you are conning them, then you are in trouble, brother o’ mine.”
His smirk diminished and he gave her his best puppy-dog eyes. “You won’t let them take me away, will you?” He waved his hand and stepped onto the trash heap, inspecting something that was on the wall. “Nothing’s going to happen, Lo.”
“Famous last words, Billy.” Lauren watched as her brother took out his pocket knife and held up a Ziploc bag as he scraped something from the wall, depositing little flakes into the container. “What could you possibly need that for?”
“There are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your books….” His muttering trailed off as he jumped down and placed the bag in one of the long folds of his coat. “How did you catch this case?”
Lauren rolled her eyes. She felt overwhelmed; she already had so many questions about the case and Billy’s presence at her crime scene only multiplied their number. Civil, if innocuous, conversation would be the order of the day until she could corner him away from prying eyes.
Lawrence returned as Lauren was about to speak.
He looked at the siblings and narrowed his eyes. “Finding anything, Agent Westlake?”
Billy turned. “Nothing of consequence yet. I heard that SFPD pulled a similar body on the other side of town.”
The detective looked at Lauren and grimaced.
“It seems word travels fast in the Golden State.”
“Has the M.E. been over the other body?” asked Lauren.
Lawrence nodded. “He has. What about the late Mr. Marlowe?”
Lauren leaned over the body. Rigor mortis normally rendered the body tougher and harder, but Ken’s muscle tissue was pocked and seemed to sag, as if under some great weight. His face was hollowed and sallow and there were dark circles around his eyes. The heavy bruising around his throat and neck made it appear as though he had been strangled.
“It’s like he has been sucked dry,” mumbled Lauren.
“I imagine it was his intention, though with a decidedly different outcome,” commented Billy, which earned him a glare from his sister. Looking to Lawrence, the big detective did not seem amused.
Lauren stood up and walked past the two men. Looking out of the alleyway and into the street, she surveyed the surrounding neighborhood.
“Someone saw something,” she spoke contemplatively.
Lawrence moved with grace despite his size. “Witnesses say they saw him stagger from the alley over there.” He pointed across the way, where another section of an alley was taped off. “He crossed the street, bumped into some cars, and then disappeared into this alley.”
As Lauren crossed the street, she held up a hand to a car trying to maneuver though the two police barriers. Ducking underneath the yellow tape, she moved into the alley, which was identical in its urine-scented aroma and collection of overturned garbage barrels.
The detective and her brother trailed behind her.
She examined the scene with Locke on her mind. When she had first looked at the facts of the serial murders in northern Minnesota, her mind did not immediately drift to a supernatural explanation. As she looked at the walls of the alleyway, she noticed something at about eye level––something that the victim might have seen.
Billy was at her side before she could react––his knife in his hand and another plastic bag in his free hand. He scraped globs of what looked like mucus off the wall and into the baggie.
“Looks like we have a spitter,” Billy commented absently.
“Spitter?” queried Lawrence, his hands thrust into his pockets.
Looking over his should
er, Billy motioned to the remnant of the stain on the wall. “Looks like someone spit on the wall.”
Lawrence nodded, unconvinced. “What now, agents?”
Lauren chanced a look at her brother and could not help but smile at the mischievous look he managed despite being a grown man. “I believe we need to learn a bit more about Ken Marlowe.”
NEUROTECH WAS NEITHER as large nor as pristine as Lauren had anticipated. Stuffed in between other monoliths of reflective windows, the company hid in plain sight. Inside its double doors the welcoming area of NeuroTech was populated by a young woman behind a large round desk and two unfriendly looking security guards.
As Lauren, Billy, and Lawrence entered, she noted the high-wattage bulbs that bathed the two wide-shouldered guards flanking the double doors in a healthy dose of white light.
The woman behind the desk had a genuine smile and bright amber-colored eyes that seemed to sparkle underneath the artificial light. “How may I help you?” she chirped.
Lauren looked past the reception area and into a narrow hallway. Again, it was brightly lit––not a shadow to be seen. She removed her badge as she spoke. “Agent Westlake. FBI. We need to talk to Ken Marlowe’s supervisor.”
The woman glanced down at her computer screen, her fingers scurrying over the keyboard. Her voice was downright bubbly. “You can find his supervisor on the 4th floor.”
“Thank you,” responded Lauren.
The receptionist touched the Bluetooth on her ear and began to chatter away, ignoring the trio. Billy flashed the young woman a sly smile. She batted her eyes and blushed ever so slightly, then pointed down the hallway.
Lawrence looked at Billy with a neutral expression
“You don’t seem like law enforcement.”
Lauren tried not to react.
Billy, ever the conman, was unfettered by the question.
“We can’t all be serious like you, Draper.”
Lauren smiled and Lawrence puffed out air, and then followed the siblings toward the two elevators at the end of the hall. She depressed the ovular button and watched the illuminated numbers tick down.
The elevator opened and the three of them stepped into its silent interior.
As the doors opened to the 4th floor, the sound level skyrocketed. A cacophony of voices intermingled to form a kind of white noise punctuated by bits of phonemes crashing together. Lauren exited first and looked around at a long corridor divided by rows of gray and white cubicles. Emerging from an office at the end of the corridor, a man marched toward them. As he approached the trio, Lawrence noted the Westlake siblings’ reaction: a subtle shifting of the hips and crossing their arms across their chests.
There was something boxy about the man who approached the trio that made the tight suit he wore seem like an encumbrance. He extended his hand with a fake smile. “Carl Whittington at your service.”
Lauren shook his hand, noticing that the man had a light grip.
“What’s your position here at NeuroTech, Mr. Whittington?”
He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. His forehead sweated profusely as he reached into his pocket for a brown handkerchief, then dabbed his face with it. “I’m the Department Supervisor for Investor Relations. It’s a fancy way of saying I manage investor schedules and the executives who work on this floor.”
“That’s a sharp suit, Mr. Darcy,” said Billy with a grin.
“Whittington, sir.”
The younger Westlake shook his head and touched the department supervisor on the shoulder. “Did you manage any clients for Ken Marlowe?”
Whittington looked at Billy’s hand and swallowed heavily.
“Has something happened to Mr. Marlowe?”
Lauren looked around the office as she spoke, noticing some vacant stares directed her way from employees hiding behind their gray walls. “Mr. Marlowe was found dead this morning. We can’t talk about the details. On-going investigation, you understand.”
The man looked startled. “Mr. Marlowe is dead?”
Lawrence had wandered off from the siblings. He stood in front of a bulletin board tacked with notices at proper angles, in order. In fact, there was nothing about the department that appeared disorganized in any way.
“I take it you didn’t manage him,” spoke Billy.
The supervisor nodded. “Of course not, Mr. Marlowe was a senior investment executive. He had an office on this floor, but he rarely used it.”
“Can we see his office?”
“Certainly,” stammered Whittington, extending his arm and gesturing for the Westlake siblings to lead. “It’s just at the end.”
Lauren watched the faces of the other employees as she passed. Most wore headsets, or a Bluetooth, and were busy talking to nothing––their voices carrying on what sounded like a one-sided conversation.
“What does this department do exactly?” she queried.
“We serve as customer representatives to the companies and private parties that NeuroTech has contracts with. Many of them are overseas, so we have employees from all walks of life. Being multilingual is a very valuable skill around here.”
As he sauntered along, Billy winked at a receptionist, who smiled and looked away. “What kind of contracts are we talking about? Are you exporting something? Importing? Trading secrets in dark rooms?”
Whittington stopped and looked around nervously.
“Was Mr. Marlowe killed because of government secrets?”
“I don’t know, was he?” returned Billy.
The robust supervisor did not seem to process the question. “I don’t think so.” He pointed at a closed, see-through, glass door with the late executive’s name stenciled in black blocky letters. “Here’s his office.”
Billy pushed on the door and motioned for Lauren to enter first. Part of her thought he might be playing a trick. When they were kids, he would often hold the door open and then quickly duck inside, knocking her off balance.
As they waited, Lawrence ambled past. “Thank you, Agent Westlake,” he said as he entered the room. Billy shook his head and walked in, followed by the sweaty supervisor, making Lauren the last one to enter.
The room was what one expected of an executive who rarely used it: tidy. A long desk whose top was made of a single heavy sheet of glass overlooked a nice view of San Francisco amidst all its cloudy glory. A comfortable chair was pushed underneath the desk and a bookcase, several shelves high, showcased awards and pristine-looking books––the kind that spoke of power and influence, but were never opened.
“What can you tell us about the victim?” asked Lawrence, pressing his hands onto his sides and pushing back his coat.
Whittington seemed uncomfortable with the entire situation. It was not a killer’s remorse kind of nervousness, but instead a general anxiety that seemed to buzz about him like a hornet’s nest. “As I said before, he wasn’t in the office very often. What would you like to know?”
“Did he have any enemies?” asked Lawrence as Lauren inspected the books more closely. “Had there been any threats? A bad break-up recently?”
Whittington shook his head. “Not that I know of. He hung out with one of our more promising engineers, Davis Coolidge. I believe it was his birthday last night.”
“Last night?” asked Lauren as she touched the spine of The Art of War. “Do you know if they did anything for his birthday?”
The supervisor nodded again. “There was a party on the third floor for Davis. I think he and some of the other techies went out for drinks after work.”
FIVE MINUTES AND ONE floor later, Lauren sat across from a haggard-looking Davis Coolidge. Needless to say, he was not taking the news well.
“Ken is dead?”
The four of them were stuffed into a cramped room. A single desk stood in the center surrounded by blank walls and a slightly opaque window that separated the room from the rest of the office.
“I’m afraid Mr. Marlowe was found in an alley in the Tenderloin. Do you know why h
e was in that area last night?”
Davis nodded––great bulbous tears welled in his eyes. “He took me down there for my birthday. We hit the Theater and then some of the trendy dive bars.”
“The Theater?” parroted Billy.
Lawrence cleared his throat. “It’s what locals call the strip club at the edge of the Tenderloin. Gets a lot of traffic.”
“Might have to drop by,” began Billy with a smile, “for some routine questioning.”
The detective ignored his comment.
Lauren leaned forward sympathetically. “Did you see anything last night? Do you remember someone following you around?”
Davis shook his head. “I was pretty drunk. The last thing I remember was talking to a homeless guy and Ken going to get some pizza.” He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I woke up the next morning in a motel and then grabbed a cab back to my apartment.”
“What about Mr. Marlowe?” pressed Lauren.
“He wasn’t in the room when I left, but I didn’t think anything of it. Executives don’t have to punch a clock.” Davis paused and wiped his face awkwardly, pushing away tears. “I’ve known him since college. He was my friend….”
Lauren suddenly felt claustrophobic. She touched her coat pocket and felt reassured that the book was still tucked away. Why did she care so much about those bundled pages? There had not been time yet to thoroughly investigate, but part of her knew that Billy was involved somehow and that this murder was a piece of a much larger puzzle.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” offered Billy, his characteristic smile wiped from his face. He placed a card on the table and pushed it in front of Davis. “If you can remember anything else, please give us a call.”
Lauren looked at her brother as she stood. Who had he become? Almost ten years had passed since she had seen him at their parents’ funeral. He was still a grifter and a conman, but something else seemed present: conviction, a sense of purpose.
Lawrence opened the door as Davis exited.
“You said something about another case?” Lauren asked.