by Brian Shea
“This is a great thing we’re doing. Look how happy she is,” Anaya said, looking at the screen of her cell phone.
Anaya opened the most recent chain of messages and scrolled down to the image. Nick leaned to his left, peering over her shoulder at the picture of Mouse holding a golden-brown puppy.
“Looking at her there and thinking back to what she looked like when we first found her, it’s like she’s not even the same person,” Nick said.
Anaya sat back, closed her eyes, and nestled her head on his shoulder. She sighed, rubbing her tummy. “A lot’s changed since that day.”
Nick chuckled. “A lot’s changed since this morning.”
His phone buzzed, and he shifted to retrieve it from his front pocket, making a concerted effort not to displace Anaya’s head.
“It’s Declan. Should I answer?” Nick asked.
“Absolutely. We’ve still got another forty minutes until we board. You two boys need to catch up, but remember our little secret,” Anaya said with a wink.
Nick stood and kissed Anaya on the head before walking to a less populated section of the gate area. He leaned against a cylindrical pillar and looked out at the choreographed maneuvers of the ground personal as they directed the movements of the planes arriving and departing. It was a masterful blend of training and execution.
Nick answered just before the call went to voicemail. “Hey buddy, this is a nice surprise. And to what do I owe this honor?”
Nick didn’t hear a response from his normally verbose friend. He only heard a muffled sigh.
“Declan? Are you there?”
“Um yeah, sorry. I’ve got some bad news,” Declan said softly.
Hearing Declan Enright at a loss for words had Nick worried, but he tried not to let it show. “Best to just say it, plain and straight. Not much left in this world that shocks me anymore.”
“It’s Izzy. She’s hurt real bad. ICU.”
“What? How?” Nick stammered.
“Car accident early this morning. She’s been in and out of surgery. I just got the call. Val and I are heading that way now.”
“Level with me, how bad are we talking?” Nick asked.
“Too early to tell, but from what I do know is that it’s critical. If she pulls through, it’s unlikely that she’ll walk again.”
Nick’s body went limp. The pillar now supported all of his weight as he used it as a crutch. He looked over at Anaya. She must’ve noticed the distress on his face because she mouthed “everything okay?” Nick held up one finger, gesturing for her to hold on a minute. It felt like a rude gesture, but Nick needed to gather himself.
“What did you mean by if she makes it?”
“All I have right now is that there is a fifty percent chance that she may not come out of the next surgery. She’s been unconscious since they brought her in.”
“You said car accident?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. From what I understand, an eighteen-wheeler lost control and rolled over the median into Izzy’s lane. There are already two dead, including the truck driver. Like I said, it’s bad.” Declan cleared his throat. “Once I’m at the hospital I’ll know more.”
“Keep me posted when you hear anything. I’m in the airport about to fly out to see Mouse.”
“Shit that’s right. Today is the big trip. Damn. I hate to be the bearer of bad news.” Declan paused, and his voice took on a more optimistic tone. “Izzy’s as tough as they come. I’m sure she’s going to pull through. She’ll be in the hospital for a long while. You go with Anaya, and I’ll keep you posted. Maybe you can make a trip this way when you get back?”
“I’ll figure it out. I want constant updates, and I want a call as soon as she’s out of surgery! If I’m in the air, then leave me a message.”
“Will do. Gotta go. Say hi to Mouse for me,” Declan said, and the phone call ended.
Nick pocketed the phone and slowly trudged his way back to Anaya. He avoided eye contact, fearing that it would betray his devastation. He sat without saying a word as he worked hard to process the information he’d just received.
“So are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Anaya asked.
“Izzy’s hurt bad,” Nick blurted.
Nick felt Anaya tense at the mention of her name. It was slight, and most people wouldn’t have noticed, but when it came to his ability to detect the imperceptible reactions in others, Nick was not like most people.
Anaya had confronted him, only once, about his feelings for his former partner. Nick had minimized any relationship, but he knew that Anaya saw through it. She never pressed him again on the issue, but any mention of her name brought an awkward tension between the two of them. It was usually brief but always present, and Nick felt it now.
“Job related?” Anaya asked.
Nick shook his head slowly. “Car accident.”
“How bad?”
“Declan said she may not pull through.”
“Jesus. What do you want to do?” Anaya said taking his hand.
“Not much I can do. We’re about to fly out to Michigan for a mini vacation.” Nick said in a tone more snarky than he intended and immediately regretted it.
“This trip is more than a vacation and you know that,” Anaya shot back.
“I know. That came out wrong. I’m just a bit overwhelmed.”
Nick leaned forward placing his elbows on his knees. He let his face fall into the palms of his hands. He rubbed at the lines of stress etched into his brow.
“You didn’t let me finish. Izzy’s circumstance trumps this trip without question. You need to go see your friend.”
“What are you saying?” Nick asked, peeking out at Anaya.
“I’m saying get your ass up out of that seat, go to the ticket counter, and book a damn flight to Connecticut!” Anaya said, sounding like a drill sergeant motivating a fresh recruit.
“But this trip is something we’ve been planning for months. I know how important it is—for us and Mouse.”
“I’ll go to Mouse. You go to Izzy.”
Nick noticed Anaya purse her lips at the mention of her name. He knew that her decision, although it came quickly, was not an easy one.
“What did I do to deserve you?” Nick asked.
“Just make sure you come back to me.” Anaya paused, placing her hand across her belly. “To us.”
Nick smiled weakly, leaned down, and kissed her. He glided his hand over hers. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have a plan. Give Mouse a big hug for me.”
“Nick, I really do hope that Izzy’s all right.”
Nick nodded. He gave Anaya one last kiss atop her head, breathing in deeply the subtle scent of lilacs, before he grabbed his backpack and headed off in the direction of the ticket counters. He looked back only once before disappearing in the disjointed flow of wayward travelers.
5
Kemper Jones sat in his cubicle staring at the case files spread unevenly across his desk. He’d unbuttoned his pants in an effort to relieve the pressure. His khakis were now secured only by the worn leather of his belt with the buckle gripping desperately at the last notch, like a free climber holding on for dear life to the edge of a cliff.
His stomach rumbled loudly, and he looked at the clock. The diet he’d started was killing him. He was supposed to remain in a fasting state until noon. He eyed the wall clock that seemed to mock him with each jittery tick of its hand. Jones still had a few hours until he planned to take his lunch, but his hunger was definitely speeding up that timeline. He could always just start over tomorrow.
The heavyset detective from Austin Police Department’s sex crimes unit drummed the beat of Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing into the closed manila folder in front of him, preparing to open it as his phone rang.
“Detective Jones,” he said into the receiver, happy for the distraction from his pangs of hunger.
“Hey Kemper, it’s Pete Cavanaugh. I got something I need your eyes on.”
“Shit.�
�� Jones knew that it was never good when Homicide called. “How old is she?”
“Not a kid. Not even a girl,” Cavanaugh said.
“Now I’m intrigued. What’ya got?” Jones asked with a thick drawl.
“It’s best you come here.”
Jones didn’t respond. He felt the rumblings of a big case that was only rivaled by the rumbling in his empty stomach. His desire for burnt ends this early in the day had him concerned. I’m an addict. Hi, my name is Kemper and I love barbeque. Jones laughed to himself at the thought and envisioned himself speaking at a BBQ Anonymous meeting.
Jones redirected his attention to the man on the other end of the phone. He tapped the speaker function and set the phone on the disorganized pile that was his desktop. Jones removed his duty weapon from the top drawer of his file cabinet. He forced the pancake holster into place on his hip. The weight of the gun added to the precarious rigging of his pants and tested the tensile strength of his belt.
Cavanaugh was not a man to play games. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about the scene was an indicator of bad things to come.
“Address?” Jones asked with an exasperated sigh, part exertion and part due to the foreboding of the unknown.
“The Stagecoach Inn.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” Jones asked.
“Your big case,” Cavanaugh said.
“Shit. Yup, you’re right,” Jones said kicking himself for not recalling it immediately. “You know how it goes, close the file and tuck it deep.”
“Well you might want to open that file again,” Cavanaugh said in a deep voice that conveyed the underlying seriousness of his statement.
Jones rubbed his temples with his thick, meaty fingers and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Room?”
“204.”
“Double shit. I’m on the way.”
Jones pulled up to the yellow police tape draped between two cruisers and a staircase railing, the hallmark of any bad scene. Guests and passerby foot traffic stopped in interest. The peering eyes of civilian onlookers always annoyed him. Would knowing what lay inside the police boundary provide meaning to their lives? If they knew, they’d never look. Maybe his anger stemmed from jealousy. He wished he could unsee many a scene. Man’s ability to find new ways to inflict harm never ceased to amaze the seasoned detective.
Crowds sometimes gave an advantage to an investigator. In the sea of people, a potential doer occasionally returned to watch the madness of their crimes unfold. It was hard for them to let go of the perverse bond with the victim. Some had a deranged fascination with police investigations.
The heavyset detective scanned the crowd, looking for that set of eyes that was out of place. He searched the faces for a person who was absorbing the actions of the police.
Jones stretched as he exited the car. He pretended not to look at the group of people as he ducked under the tape. His incognito assessment of the crowd didn’t trip any of his investigative alerts. Besides he knew one of the officers or crime scene techs would be tasked with photographing the group of onlookers for reference later.
It was cold by Austin standards but Jones’s midriff bulk made the coat uncomfortably tight. He unzipped it and left it open, allowing for the icy wind to pass through. The effect was immediate and caused him to shiver slightly as he approached one of the patrol officers holding position on the perimeter.
“Cavanaugh?” Jones asked.
The young officer shrugged his shoulders and then pointed up to the second floor of the motel. “I’m guessing he’d be up there.”
Jones nodded and walked toward the rust coated stairs of the rundown motel. The stairwell was outside and divided the complex down the middle.
He took each step deliberately, pacing his ascent. Jones didn’t want to hit the second floor out of breath. He advanced toward a young female officer who stood frozen, staring wide-eyed into the motel room. Jones saw the lines of curiosity spiral across her supple skin. He guessed that this was probably one of the first big scenes she’d worked.
“Can you let Cavanaugh know that Jones is here?”
The young officer jumped at the sound of his voice. She flushed and tried to recover, looking down at the logbook tightly gripped in her cold hands.
She peeked her head into room 204. “Detective Cavanaugh, Detective Jones is here to see you.”
“Well put him in the book and tell him to come in and join the party,” Cavanaugh boomed from inside.
Jones initialed next to his entry time on the log and entered the all-too-familiar room. Cavanaugh was squatting awkwardly as he looked at the floor space between the two beds. His massive frame teetered like a boulder on a pebble.
The homicide detective stood as Jones entered. Cavanaugh’s frame seemed even larger in the confined space of the cheap motel room. A former second round draft pick for the Dallas Cowboys, Cavanaugh had maintained his linebacker physique even though it’d been several years since he had stepped onto the gridiron.
“Been a while my friend,” Cavanaugh said.
“That’s because when our two worlds collide, it usually turns into a shitshow.”
The large hand of Cavanaugh swallowed Jones’s when he shook it.
“Let’s get to it then.”
Jones liked the point of fact method of communication from Cavanaugh. Cutting right to the chase was a good way to do business.
“A little ripe in here. Ever hear of fabreeze?” Jones asked, laughing at his own joke.
Cavanaugh chuckled.
“The call came in this morning. The room was paid in full for two nights. The maid came by after checkout to clean and that’s when she noticed sleeping beauty over here.”
Jones cracked a smile at the macabre reference. The sanity achieved through the dark humor of death investigators was often misunderstood.
“So why am I here? Seems like this case is outside of my wheelhouse. What am I missing?” Jones asked.
“Recognize the guy on the bed?”
“Not particularly.” Jones looked at the body bound spread eagle on the bed. “If I met him before I don’t recognize him. But then again I’m sure he didn’t have hole in his head before either.”
Cavanaugh laughed. “Richard Pentlow.”
“Son of a bitch. I thought he was locked up awaiting trial on the rape of that eleven-year-old?” Jones asked, squinting his eyes at the dead man trying hard to remember what he looked like before the gunshot lobotomy.
“Nope. Released on bail three days ago.”
“Looks like karma’s a real bitch.” Jones looked around the room, morbidly reminiscing about his last time in it. “This is the same room he abused that little girl in. Looks like someone didn’t like it very much. In my humble opinion the world’s a better place without him among the living.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“I hope you don’t break your back trying to find the killer. I would rather shake the guy’s hand than slap the cuffs on him.” Jones laid a thick west Texas drawl in this statement.
“That’s the thing. Maybe you already have.”
“Huh?” Jones asked, cocking a weary eyebrow.
Cavanaugh thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. The same bathroom where they’d rescued the group of young girls almost a year ago.
“Look at the mirror.”
“Where the system fails I prevail.” Jones read the big sloppy writing on the mirror hung between the bathroom and the open closet. Then along the bottom edge of the mirror Jones read silently, Nick, what stands up tall but reaches low?
“What kind of mumbo jumbo is that?” Jones asked.
“I thought maybe you could shed some light. Does the Nick reference mean anything to you?”
“It’s gotta be Nick Lawrence. He and I partnered up on the case. Bureau guy.”
“It’s obvious the guy who did this knew about Pentlow’s arrest, but more importantly knew about him being released on bail. The mes
sage at the bottom is also very concerning.”
“That’s a pretty big net you’re casting. Maybe his wife? Or maybe the traffickers tying up loose ends?” Jones questioned.
“Yeah, could be.”
“Seems like you don’t much like my thoughts on the matter. Care to enlighten me?”
“It feels more like vigilante justice than an angry wife or organized crime hit.” Cavanaugh said.
Cavanaugh was standing next to Jones. Through the smudged reflection of the mirror, the broad shoulders and slim waistline of the homicide detective made Jones feel even more portly than usual. As if on cue, his stomach made an audible rumble. His internal lunch whistle was blowing hard.
“Blood?” Jones asked, pointing at the writing on the mirror.
“Yup. It looks like he used Pentlow’s to pen his poetry. We won’t be certain until we hear back from the lab, but it’s a good guess.”
“So who’s our vigilante?”
“That’s the reason I wanted you to come down here. Maybe you could shed some light on this.”
“Me? Why?” Jones asked.
“Well you worked the case. Maybe you got a feel for someone that took the investigation a little too personally.”
Jones leaned in. His voice was intense but he kept his volume low so that the other investigator and crime scene techs didn’t hear. “Hold up, you’re asking me if I think a cop did this?”