The Accidental Audience

by Faith Wood

  Not nearly enough.

  The blustery weather lasted throughout the day, developing into a full-fledged early spring snow storm by midafternoon. Colbie figured it was more important to tail Remington at the end of the day when she would be more likely to meet friends for happy hour—but, the weather may cause her to change plans. Remington’s appointment to meet someone on Friday she knew about—with whom she didn’t have a clue. Or, what time. Staking out the parking lot from two o’clock on seemed a wise approach, and a crapshoot at best. Since she still didn’t know where Remington worked, arriving in the afternoon allowed time to wander through the building to see if she could locate her mark—which office, Remington’s employer, and any other tidbit of information she could gather.

  By the time she pulled out of the driveway, the storm was in full swing, snow swirling in all directions as she navigated through snarled traffic. The office building was only five or six miles from her place, but it would take at least forty-five minutes to get there—if she were lucky. A few cars in front of her fishtailed as they hit the binders, unaware of black ice underneath the thin layer of snow. Conditions couldn’t be worse.

  The parking lot was emptier than usual, perhaps due to the weather, but the green Outback was parked in the same spot. Why does she drive the Subaru to work, and the BMW for play? Just because the car was there, however, didn’t mean Remington was anywhere in the vicinity—she could have left it there, or abandoned it. One thing was certain—it was time for answers.

  It was also time for a little acting.

  As Colbie ascended the outside steps, an unmistakable tremor coursed through her as a warning something wasn’t right. She paused, allowing her vision to take shape—Remington and a man who seemed familiar to Colbie. His features were undefined, but she had a distinct feeling there was a connection to a foreign country. Italy? Not sure.

  She sat on a park bench outside the front door next to a cylindrical ashtray, its white sand stuffed with lipstick-stained cigarettes. Relaxing her body and mind, Colbie encouraged her abilities and, for a brief few seconds, it were as if she were watching a movie in her mind. Yet the images remained opaque and vague. Remington. The house. Brian. This time, he was staring straight forward as if concentrating on something directly in front of him. He appeared stronger, and not so resolute to his fate. His color was better, and it was clear someone was feeding him as well as taking care of his basic needs. Why? Why is someone putting him through this? What could Brian possibly have done to warrant this type of torture?

  Then it was gone. Colbie opened her eyes, taking a few seconds to focus on the present—the bench, the ashtray, the massive steel-framed entrance doors. She sat, gathering herself, for the first time fully aware Remington was at the heart of Brian’s disappearance. Her initial assessment was correct—Remington was in it up to her eyeballs.

  Armed with new resolve, she pulled open the giant doors.

  “May I help you?” The receptionist had a pleasing voice, slightly nasally with a timbre of youth.

  “Well, maybe—I’m thinking of leasing office space in this area, so I’m doing comparisons. Although, I probably didn’t pick the right day for it!” Colbie laughed as she glanced outside. She learned a long time ago receptionists know everything going on in their buildings or individual offices. A good receptionist is privy to variegated gossip, and the position is fraught with providing advice to those who seek her wisdom. On the surface, receptionists appear non-threatening—the truth is they perform their duties with an undercurrent of inexplicable power.

  “I know! I’m not looking forward to my drive home!” The receptionist flashed a toothy smile, engaging with Colbie as if she were an old friend.

  “So, do you like working here?” Interrogation started.

  “It’s okay—I mean, it’s like most receptionist jobs. The building staff is great, though, and they take pride in keeping it clean. The last place I worked, I’d be lucky if my trash were emptied every day!”

  “You’re right about that—it looks great! What kind of businesses are here?

  “There are several, but the biggest one is the real estate company on the third floor. There are also a few doctors, a chiropractor, and several consulting firms. Business professionals mostly . . .”

  “It sounds as if I’ll fit right in—I’m a psychologist.”

  “Really? Cool—you will fit in!” Another broad smile.

  “And, real estate? That’s interesting—I’ve been thinking about making a move to this side of town, and I’ll have to find a good realtor.” Colbie grinned at the receptionist. “Ugh—moving! I don’t even want to think about it!”

  “Well, if you do decide to move, I know one of the agents upstairs is supposed to be pretty good—Nicole Remington.”

  “Remington? Never heard of her—why do you think she’s a good realtor?”

  “Oh, I hear things—not too long ago, she received some kind of top producers’ award, so I guess she must know what she’s doing.”

  “You’d think . . . well, I don’t want to keep you from your work. Thanks for being such a good ambassador for leasing space in this building!” Colbie turned as the front door opened, sweeping in snow and a blast of frigid air as automatic hydraulics slowly closed the door behind a timid-looking delivery man clutching a bouquet of spring flowers. He hesitated as he checked the name of the recipient.

  “Flowers for Nicole Remington. Should I leave them with you?” Colbie waited as the receptionist accepted them, then placed a quick call to the third floor.

  “Hey, Jasmine—will you please tell Nicole she has flowers waiting for her at the front desk?

  Thanks . . .” She hung up, turning her attention to Colbie.

  “You can speak with her now if you want—Jasmine said Nicole will be down in a few minutes.”

  “I appreciate your effort, but I think I need to make it home before the roads get too crummy. Thank you, though!” Colbie had no intention of letting Nicole Remington so much as get a glimpse of her. As long as she remained anonymous, she could continue her surveillance—as soon as Remington noticed her, all bets were off.

  The elevator dinged as Colbie pushed on the heavy front door—she dared not look back. Her back to the receptionist, as she adjusted her gloves she noticed the cigarettes in the outdoor ashtray. Without thinking, she snatched one and headed for her car she purposefully parked out of the line of sight of anyone at the front of the building—the more unnoticed she remained, the better.

  Snow and ice froze on her windshield making scraping necessary—I really needed to get the defroster fixed, she thought as she chipped at the stubborn ice, unaware of eyes watching her every move.

  Nicole Remington made a mental note—according to the receptionist, the woman scraping her car may be a new client.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m just not comfortable with this—I don’t care what you say, this is going south and you’re not taking me down with you!”

  “Who said it’s going south? Everything is going as planned. C’mon Baby . . .”

  “Come on, my ass! I have a lot at stake, and I have a hell of lot more to lose! How long has it been since you’ve been out there, huh? I’ll tell you—days. Nearly a week!” Remington seethed as she took to task the voice on the other end.

  “How do you know it’s her?”

  “Believe me, I just know—same car, same slight build, same auburn hair. You don’t have to be a genius to figure it out!”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, nothing! End it. End it now!”

  Chapter 8

  Alvin closed the door quietly behind him. “Hey, Sarge—do you have sec? I know you’re busy, but I was wondering if there’s any progress on Brian’s case. I haven’t heard much going around the p
recinct . . .”

  “It’s not a good time, MacGregor—I have a press conference in fifteen minutes.” Sarge hated press conferences, always regarding them as a necessary evil. More often than not, they interfered with his investigations and he’d much rather keep progress on his cases close to the vest.

  “I’ll be quick. Since you put the guys on new detail, is there anything I can do to help?”

  “That sounds a bit odd, don’t you think? Coming from you? It’s not a little-known fact you hate Colbie’s guts.”

  “I don’t hate her . . . it’s weird, though—since I don’t have to work with her every day, she doesn’t piss me off nearly as much.”

  Sarge tipped his chair onto its back legs, loosening his tie. He didn’t believe in looking like a stiff in a suit for the press and, besides, a loose tie made him look as if he’d been working countless hours—which he had. Murder is never a pleasant thing, and he had every available officer on the case. Alvin was right—Brian’s case was at the end of his priority list no matter how much he didn’t like it.

  “Nothing new.”

  “Leads?”

  “Not that I know of—Colbie hasn’t been in touch for days, although I know she’s working on it on her own. I suspect I’ll hear from her soon.”

  “Well, when you do, let me know if I can help. I’m a good cop and, as a good cop, I have to put my personal feelings aside. If you need me to work on Brian’s case, let me know.” Alvin stood, keeping his promise to respect Sarge’s time.

  “Maybe. Now, get out.”

  Colbie and Ryan wrapped their hands around mugs of hot chocolate as Colbie related her experience at the office building.

  “I was stunned when I heard she was in real estate, let alone a top producer! But, when I think about it . . .” Colbie’s voice trailed as she envisioned the possibilities. “I mean, how else would anyone know about a home that’s off grid? Well, not really off grid—but you know what I mean.”

  “I admit, it makes sense. What I can’t understand is why she’s involved in the first place. What does she have to gain?”

  “I don’t know—I considered that. As soon as I got home, I researched her real estate career—she’s a big deal, and her success explains the expensive car and snappy clothes.”

  “Why didn’t you find her on the Internet before now? I don’t know you well, but I can’t imagine you wouldn’t have Googled it the second you learned about her.”

  “I did—a Nicole Remington showed up, but she looked completely different. The Nicole Remington, real estate broker, had dark hair and weighed about fifty pounds heavier. There wasn’t any resemblance, at all. I figured it was a coincidence . . .”

  “Now that you know where she works, do you think she’s the same woman?”

  “I don’t know—I’m just not sure. See? What do you think?” Colbie fired up her laptop, and brought up her search for Nicole Remington. “See what I mean? Does she look like this woman?” She slid her phone across the table, a picture of Remington walking up the brownstone steps cued on the screen.

  He studied both carefully. “No, not really. I can see why you didn’t put it together—neither would I. Maybe she’s not the same woman . . .”

  “Maybe. But, think about it—two women, same name, same career, within fifty miles of each other? It’s one hell of a coincidence if you ask me.”

  “I agree—it is possible.” Ryan wasn’t sure what to think—he knew Colbie’s reputation as a good cop, and he knew now to trust her instincts. “What’s next? What are you going to do?”

  “Well, the first thing is to fill Sarge in on my progress. After that, I think I’m going to need your help—I can show you the location of the country house on the map. Since someone might—although doubtful since it’s in the middle of nowhere—recognize my car, I need you to do some poking around. See if you can engage neighbors in conversation, if there are any—and try to find out who lives there now. I couldn’t find a record of a recent sale, so it may be empty.”

  “I can do that—tomorrow? I’ll clear my calendar at work, and take a sick day.”

  “Good. I really appreciate your help—from here on out, we have to work as a team. My gut tells me it’s the same woman, but why would someone go to such lengths to change appearance? Running from something, perhaps?”

  Convinced of Remington’s involvement, within the hour she laid out her plan to Ryan. Her best friend offered her car earlier that week in case Colbie needed a vehicle no one would recognize—it was time to take her up on it.

  Before Ryan left, they made plans to meet the following evening. Each had marching orders, and it was critical they touch base at the end of each day.

  Now there were two on the case.

  Precisely at seven-fifteen the following morning, Colbie opened the door of the precinct. Shift change was over, and chances were good she could catch Sarge before he started a day of press conferences and directing the murder investigation. The last thing she wanted to do was run into Alvin for she knew he would try to get his two cents in about Brian’s disappearance.

  No such luck. He stood at the water cooler on the way to Sarge’s office, and there was no avoiding him. Colbie steeled herself against the impending verbal assault.

  “Madison! You look tired.” The snotty look was the same, and Colbie cringed at his calling her by her last name.

  “Alvin. I am tired—thanks for noticing.”

  “No offense. Any word on Brian? I guess not, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “It’s nice you know exactly what I’m thinking.” Colbie refused to let him bait her. “I’m working on a few leads, but nothing concrete yet.” It galled her to explain, but at this point, she could use all the help she could get—even his.

  “I know we haven’t been close—in fact, we despise each other. But, when it comes down to it, you’re a cop, and you’ll always be a cop. It’s my duty to help a fellow officer—so, what do you know?”

  Colbie’s first instinct was to blurt out her findings about Remington, but she wisely reconsidered. Yes, it would be nice to have help, but Alvin was never sincere before, and it was unlike him to be sincere now. No—best to wait until she was sure she could trust him.

  “I’ll let you know—thanks.”

  “Fine. I’m available if you need me.”

  They parted on somewhat amiable terms, Colbie still trying to figure out what he had up his sleeve, if anything. Maybe it were possible for Alvin to help her—in many ways, he was a good cop, and there was an off chance he could be an asset to the investigation. But, she’d have to think about it. There was the adage about keeping your friends close, and your enemies closer to consider—she had to admit such pearls of wisdom had merit.

  Nearly a half hour later, Rifkin emerged from his office, motioning her in, same as always.

  “What’s up? It’s been a while—what’s the news on Brian?” Rifkin looked as if he took a couple of turns in the wringer—gaunt, exhausted, and out of ideas. She knew the drill—he was on twenty-four hour duty, and it showed.

  “Get a load of this . . .” Ten minutes later, Colbie took a breath. “Can you believe it? I’m heading to the realty office after leaving here—not the one where she works now—the one she left before coming here. I think I’ll get more information there, and I want to find out why the hell she underwent such drastic facial surgery. I mean, you should see her—she literally looks like a different person!”

  “Keep on it—if I can let any of my guys go, I’ll have your back.”

  “I appreciate it—remember when I always told you, I can feel it?’ Well, same thing here—I feel it.”

  “I know . . .”

  Colbie and Ryan met at Draco’s, a quiet tap on the east side. Stress etched both of their faces, but neither exhibited the tells of
throwing in the towel.

  “Sarge told me if he can let loose of any of his guys, he’ll put a couple on our investigation. With the murder and everything, I’m surprised he’s willing to make such a commitment.”

  “Does he buy into the theory that Remington might not be the person everyone thinks she is?

  “He didn’t say one way or the other—but, if he’s willing to throw some officers our way . . .” Colbie paused, considering the possibilities. “So, what happened on your end? You didn’t happen to see Remington, did you?”

  “No. But, I did have a chance to talk to one of the neighbors—a neighbor who lives little more than a quarter of a mile from the location of the house in question.”

  “Does she know Remington?”

  “Kind of—she knows of her.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, she was a bit on the weird side—the shotgun at her side was my first clue. As soon as I pulled in the driveway she was out the door, standing in front of the car with a don’t come any further look on her face.”

  “Holy crap!”

  “That’s not all—when I started to get out of the car, her dog appeared. Not just any dog—a mammoth German Shepherd with an obvious distaste for trespassers.”