Then Eric startled me. “I’m glad it was Boz,” he said in a soft but firm voice.
“What!” I responded, stunned.
“I’m glad it was Boz.”
I was floored. “What the hell is the matter with you? Why would you say something like that? He was a cop, for Christ’s sake and you’re glad he’s dead?”
Eric slammed on the brakes so hard I’m sure I would’ve gone through the windshield had I not been wearing my seatbelt. He put the car into park and turned in his seat, looking at me like he was ready to explode.
“You’re not listening to me! Listen to me, for once! Yes! I’m glad it was Boz that was killed. Not glad because he was murdered, but glad because it wasn’t you! I know you don’t think I think about things like that, but I do! Ever since this happened, all I can think about is what-if. What if that was you? What if those little girls lost their mother? What if I lost my wife? The entire time at the church, as I stood there, watching Boz’s parents cry, and looking at the casket, I thought, that could’ve been me standing in front, looking at your casket! And I didn’t like that feeling. Not one goddamn bit! As terrible as it sounds, and as guilty as I feel about it, yes, I’m glad it was Boz, not you! Call me selfish, but that’s the way I feel!” Tears were welling up in his eyes.
He put the car back into drive and headed home. I sat there not knowing what to say, but understanding how he felt. I’d had no idea it had bothered him that much. I felt guilty for not paying attention and noticing it before this. We spent the rest of the ride in silence, Eric immediately going to bed when we got home.
It was late, after Eric had already left for work, when my dad called.
“CeeCee, it’s Dad,” he announced into my ear.
“Hey pop, what’s up?”
“Somebody called here for you. I don’t know who it was, though. It was kind of weird.”
“What did they say?”
“He asked for you. I told him you didn’t live here, and he asked if this was the Gallagher’s’ house. I didn’t say yes or no; I just asked who was calling and he asked for your home phone number, which of course I wouldn’t give him. I just told him if he gave me his name and number, I would see that you got it. He didn’t say anything, so I’m like, ‘hello?’, and he hung up.”
“Sound like anyone you know?”
“Nope. I wouldn’t worry about it, though; just some hick playing games, I’m sure.”
“Why did you say hick?” I was rapidly becoming considerably more concerned.
“I don’t know,” he said. “He just sounded like a hick, like he was from Kentucky or something.”
I immediately got the chills. I’ve had people call my dad’s house looking for me before. His number is published, under Gallagher of course, because of my stepmother’s business. Usually it’s someone I went to school with or old friends who call, and normally even this call wouldn’t have shaken me up, but this whole case had rattled me.
My thoughts went to the car I’d heard the night before, and then this. Someone is trying to screw with me, I thought. I also thought that whoever called my dad’s house knew I didn’t live there, and knew that my dad would tell me about the call.
I told my dad he was right, it was probably just a crank, and hung up. I was worried about my family, so I decided that I would swallow my pride in the morning and call the FBI. I knew Kincaid would clear it because of Boz. If you factor everything else in, they should’ve been called in a long time ago. It was clear that I was dealing with a multi-state drug operation with kidnappings and multiple homicides: total FBI jurisdiction. They would probably be half pissed off that I hadn’t called them sooner.
Like nearly all cops, I didn’t care to have the FBI involved in my choice of breakfast cereal in the morning, let alone a criminal case I was investigating, but I had no other choice. I already knew I would have to make a trip to West Virginia, even though I had no jurisdiction there. I would have to have an FBI agent go with me. If I could’ve counted on the local law enforcement in West Virginia to assist me, I wouldn’t have needed the FBI, but since the local law enforcement there, I didn’t even know which one, was involved, I couldn’t count on getting much help from them.
Most FBI agents, at least in Ohio, don’t deal much in violent crimes. Their investigations primarily stay in the white-collar area, such as Medicaid frauds, insurance frauds, embezzlements, and federal thefts, to name a few. Rare is the agent who has an extensive homicide investigation background. I didn’t expect to have an investigating genius helping me, but I did need an agent, for jurisdictional purposes only, and I would make that clear. I didn’t know yet that any homicide had been committed outside of my jurisdiction, so for the time being the agent could just stand by and look important.
I knew the agent assigned to this case wouldn’t be local. I know the only two agents in town, and both are up to their ears in white-collar cases. I assumed they would send one from the Cleveland office.
I was in Kincaid’s office first thing in the morning making my request. As usual, she was a complete pain in the ass about it.
“I’m surprised,” she sort of sneered. “I never thought you, of all people, were capable of asking for help this early in an investigation.”
“It’s hardly early in the investigation. It’s been several months since Lizzie Johnston disappeared. You know I’m going to have to go to West Virginia, which I can’t do because of jurisdictional reasons without an FBI agent,” I said, maintaining my composure because I didn’t want an episode like the one we’d had before.
“All right. I want to be updated weekly, of course. Call the FBI office in Cleveland, and also put your request in writing.”
I thought it was ridiculous that I had to make a written request, and as I sat at my computer, I began seriously to type the letter in a highly sarcastic manner: In the infinite wisdom of my brainless Captain, blah-blah-blah ..., but deleted it all and re-typed the letter like the professional that I am. To my surprise, Kincaid called the FBI for me after I gave her my request. She said an agent would be in my office sometime before noon the next day.
When I’d given Kincaid my explanation for calling the FBI, I failed to mention the car I’d heard or the phone call my dad had received. I didn’t think she needed to know those things just then, and, being the bitch she is, she probably would’ve called me paranoid, which would have ultimately set me off again. As I was leaving Kincaid’s office, she stopped me.
“Wait, CeeCee, I forgot to tell you, the agent that will be here in the morning is Marlon Hagerman.”
“Marlin? As in fish? What kind of a name is Marlin?” I was clearly in a mood to be grumpy.
“Marlon; as in Brando! What difference does it make?” she snapped.
“He just sounds like a real winner, that’s all,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out of the office.
I spent the rest of the day playing catch-up. Everything I did, everyone I talked to, had to be typed up and placed in the case file. This included my interview with Lily, the statement that she gave into a tape recorder for Sinclair, who had gone over to get it for me, the lab report from Lizzie’s car (they found the secret compartment, but no traces of chemicals or anything else significant), Coop and I looking at the videotapes, and all the phone calls. It seemed to take forever.
Once I got home and ate dinner, Eric and I took Selina and Isabelle for a walk at the state park. We walked to an old covered bridge that ran over the river. While the girls went down to the river to throw rocks and look for water creatures, Eric and I stayed on the bridge. We rarely had moments like this and we wanted to enjoy it.
“This is nice,” I almost purred as Eric put his arms around me. “I don’t ever want to work again, or think about cases, or deal with Kincaid. I want to win the lottery, buy our beach house in North Carolina, and spend the rest of our lives in pure happiness.”
“I know, baby, I think about that every day.”
Every summer, Eric and
I took the girls to the Cape Fear Coast in North Carolina. My Uncle Matt owns a condominium there that we all get to use. We’d adopted the area as our second home, and eventually wanted to retire there. Retirement seemed entirely too far away just then, though. The lottery was our only hope, and a dismal one at that.
“We’re cops,” Eric said. “Unfortunately, cops don’t own beach houses.”
“As long as I have you and the girls, I don’t need anything else,” I said, and meant it.
Our time together, as usual, was cut short because Eric had to get home to get ready for work. I went to bed early. I had to prepare for my day with dear Marlon.
I got to the office around seven the next morning. First, I checked to see if any agencies had responded to our pictures from the gas station. No such luck. I had called Matt Hensley the day before and told him to meet me at the bureau in the morning to look at the pictures, hoping he could shed some light on their identities. While I waited for him to get there, I added Andrea Dean’s report to the file, since it was obviously connected.
Matt Hensley arrived and looked at the pictures. He insisted that he didn’t recognize either one of the men, but the look he had on his face when he first saw the pictures told me he was probably lying. I pushed and prodded, but Matt wouldn’t break. Maybe he was telling the truth, if this E guy was as important as Matt said he was, I doubted if he would drive here and murder Boz himself; he likely had someone do it for him.
After Matt left, I tried waiting patiently for Agent Marlon Hagerman to arrive, but found myself getting antsy. I sat at my desk, took all the paperwork out of the file, and began to organize it, knocking a plant onto the floor in the process. I was on my hands and knees on my office floor cleaning the plant up when I heard a knock at my door.
“Detective Gallagher?” a man said.
“That’d be me,” I said, gathering a pile of dirt into my hands, and then finally looking up.
Standing at my door was one of the most gorgeous men I had ever laid eyes on. Appearing to be in his late thirties or early forties, he was tall, built like a guy who obviously put in serious hours at the gym on a regular basis, and had dark brown hair, green eyes, and a wonderful tan. I could only imagine what he looked like wearing a bathing suit.
“Detective, I’m Agent Hagerman with the FBI,” the gorgeous being said.
I was still on the floor, frozen on all fours, staring at him. I probably looked like a thirsty, rabid, dog. I actually wondered if I had drool hanging out of my mouth. I knew I needed to tell him to come in and have a seat, but I was having a hard time breathing, let alone speaking. I was getting embarrassed, so I finally forced myself to talk.
“You don’t look like a Marlon,” I almost stuttered, not believing those actual words just escaped my lips. I could’ve crawled under my desk and died of humiliation.
Agent Marlon tilted his head back and began laughing. What beautiful, perfect white teeth he has, I thought, as I felt my face begin to turn a thousand shades of red—a physical trait of mine that I absolutely loathe.
“I get that a lot,” he said when he was done laughing. “I actually go by Michael, my middle name. Marlon is my grandfather’s name. I’m the third.”
“Okay, Michael,” I said, referring to my suddenly favorite name. “Please, come in and have a seat. Don’t mind the mess; I’ll have it cleaned up in no time.”
Michael gave me a look when he came in, “You don’t think I look like a Marlon, but I have to tell you, you certainly aren’t what I expected, either. You don’t fit the female police officer stereotype, that’s for sure.”
I just smiled. I have heard that comment plenty of times over my career. People expect a female police officer to look as masculine as her co-workers.
“Now that we have our introductions out of the way, would you like a cup of coffee or something to eat?” I tried to sound as hospitable as I could.
“Not right now, maybe later. I would like to get down to business and see what you have, though. I was told a little about the case, but not much. It interests me.”
I gathered up all of the papers for the file and spread them out in front of him. I started from the day I was given the Lizzie Johnston case to the present, omitting the car that went by my house and the phone call to my father. He looked at everything: each page, each photo, and every interview and lab report.
“You are clearly headed in the right direction, detective,” he said thoughtfully as he put the last page down.
Gorgeous or not, that was an irritating thing to say and I became slightly agitated. “Thank you very much for your approval, Agent.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, putting his hands up and looking surprised. “I’m not being condescending. If anything, I am very impressed by what you have uncovered so far.”
“Agent, if you don’t mind me asking, how many homicides have you investigated?” I expected ‘zero’ to be the answer.
He smiled. “More than I ever cared to. Before I transferred to Cleveland, I spent ten years in the Behavioral Unit. I left that because I’d had enough. I was elected to help you because no one else in the Cleveland office had any real experience with homicide investigations.”
I was pleasantly surprised. “I’ll be honest with you. I expected someone who couldn’t find their way out of a one-room school house as far as homicide investigations go.”
“Trust me, I understand. There are a lot of agents that don’t deal in homicides, and most cops don’t exactly welcome us with open arms.” He smiled.
“Are you staying in a hotel here?” I asked, again not believing those words just came out of my mouth, my face getting red again.
He appeared not to notice. “No, I’m driving every day. It’s not that far. I live on the west side so it only takes me about an hour, if that.”
“My mother lives on the west side, in Lakewood,” I told him, just to keep the conversation going.
We talked about Cleveland for a while (I also found out he was thirty-eight years-old), then Michael looked at his watch and saw it was getting late. He said he was going to take the file, make a copy for himself, and review it tonight before coming back in the morning. He planned to be here every day until the case was solved, if it was ever solved, or until it was completely dead.
After he left, I stared at the doorway. Michael Hagerman, FBI Agent. There was an air of mystery about Michael, which I couldn’t put my finger on. He seemed personable enough, but I was always an excellent judge of character. He was obviously quite intelligent, no surprise there, he had entered the behavioral unit in his twenties, and a little intimidating—something I’m not used to. Every time he looked at me, I felt his stare go right through me, as if he was analyzing everything from my personality to my DNA. Sizing me up, I’m sure, but that wasn’t all of it. I watched him closely as he read the file and noticed he seemed to drink it all in, stopping sometimes and looking at nothing, his wheels spinning the whole time. He had an aura of confidence that filled the room, but it wasn’t arrogance. One thing I was sure of, Michael and I had an immediate, mutual, attraction the minute we met. I wasn’t blind. He reacted to me just as I to him, but that was acceptable—as long as it didn’t go any farther. All that aside, I surmised it would get quite interesting working with Michael Hagerman.
He was married; the ring on his finger told me that. Maybe he was friendly to everyone and I’d just misread him, I thought. I convinced myself of that, gathered up my paperwork, and went home.
Eric was in the kitchen when I walked in. “How did it go with the FBI?” he asked cheerfully, but his question made me cringe.
“Fine.” I put my briefcase and purse down.
Eric stood there looking at me, and then blurted out, “You thought he was hot, didn’t you?”
I immediately started laughing. No one could read me like Eric, and even though it bothered me, it actually felt good to laugh and be open with him about it.
“Now what would make
you think that?” I giggled.
“Because, for you to walk in and say, ‘fine’ blew your cover; any other time you would start saying the guy was a goober, a dork, or a pansy. Nice try, but I know you too well.” He chuckled and gave me a big, squeeze.
I laughed again. “Okay, you got me. He was put together and packaged right, I’ll give you that.”
“And what was Mr. Put-Together-and-Packaged-Right’s name?”
“Marlon Hagerman.”
“Marlon? His name is Marlon?” He started laughing.
“He goes by Michael. Marlon is ...”
“Oooh! Michael is it!”
“Stop it!” I half-whined, playfully punching his arm. “You get your entire little cop groupies and badge bunnies chasing after you guys, throwing their shit around in your faces, and I never say a word, so don’t give me any grief over a good-looking FBI agent.”
Eric kissed me on the cheek and went upstairs to get ready to leave for work. He was going in early to work out. As I undressed in my closet, I started scanning my wardrobe, looking for the perfect outfit to wear the next day. Stop this!, I said to myself. I felt like a thirteen-year-old with her first crush, and I found myself giggling about it.
I wondered if Eric had ever felt like this after seeing someone. I thought about that and wished I hadn’t. If I knew Eric had felt like I did just then, it would upset me. I knew he’d had contact with numerous attractive females on duty, some of whom would lie on their backs for him in a heartbeat, but as far as I knew, he had always been faithful, at least physically. I have always been a firm believer that we are all human, and to see another attractive human being is like admiring a great piece of art, you can look, but don’t touch. Why am I even thinking about this?, I thought. I needed to try my best and focus only on the case, nothing else.
Easier said than done.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, I was already awake and getting ready when Eric got home from work.
“Why are you up so early?” he asked casually after walking into our bathroom and sitting on the side of the bathtub.
Murder Mountain Page 11