by L. T. Ryan
I shrugged. “Schedule’s pretty flexible.”
“All right, settle in. Dealership’s on the other side of the city. Gonna take a bit to get there.”
“We gonna dumpster dive on the way there, too?”
Bridget looked over and rolled her eyes as though she were a ten-year-old suffering through my collection of top-notch dad jokes. “If we’re gonna work together on this, you need to stop trying to show me you’re funny, Mitch. You’re not. It’s really sad.”
I sat there with my mouth open, unsure of what to say next. A few seconds later, Bridget cracked and let out a snort.
“They toughened you up out here, didn’t they?”
She shrugged. “I might’ve been extra nice to you when we were working the Debbie case.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“You aren’t stuck thinking I really liked you, are you?”
“What would have given me that impression?”
She laughed again, this time the forced kind. There was plenty of reason for me to think she had enjoyed her time with me. Outside of the investigation, of course. And I enjoyed the moments we shared, too. But much like her laugh, it had felt forced, as though we were taking two puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit and forcing them together. Would an ongoing relationship between us be the worst thing in the world? Not at all. Bridget had a lot of qualities I was drawn to. However, a five hour flight just to have dinner and spend the night before jumping on another plane back home didn’t appeal to either of us.
“Well, here we are, Mitch. Together after a few months apart, after we left things unresolved.”
“Were they, though? We’re adults, Bridget. Adults who went about our lives without disrupting them any further.”
“Was it really a decision, though? Or did our priorities just happened to line up, but not in favor of each other?”
I mulled it over. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps we had thrown in the towel without really doing so.
“What if I had said I wanted to give it a shot?” she asked.
We eased to a stop at a red light. I turned to face her. She looked over at me. “You didn’t. And neither did I. I think we both agreed it couldn’t be.”
She exhaled slowly, bit her bottom lip. Her gaze shifted to the traffic light, then back to me. “I wanted to give it a shot.”
I leaned back until both shoulders were against the seat. I kept my eyes on her. “I did, too, Bridge. But…”
She shifted her focus to the road as the light turned green. With no cars in front of us, Bridget gunned the engine. “But what? What’s the reason we can’t try?”
“Can’t?” She’d jumped forward a few months. It had me scrambling. “I gotta focus on my son. He’s out here, somewhere, and I have to find him. If I don’t, dammit, I’m gonna go insane, and that’s not a good look on a guy trying to save his job and keep his daughter on the right track. I mean, I see the result of this every goddamn day in my job. You do, too. He can’t end up a statistic. Robbie can’t end up a statistic!”
“What about Marissa?” She watched me from the corner of her eye.
“Marissa? You think this is about her?” I blew out a puff of air meant to be a chuckle, but sounded like a flat tire at fifty miles per hour. “I want the woman to get help so that someday she might once again have a healthy relationship with her kids. That’s it. I won’t hurt her. I’m not here to exact revenge. I just want my son back.”
The conversation died after that. Our feelings for each other once again left to hang in the air, maybe ushered out with the wind as Bridget lowered the rear windows. A few minutes later, Bridget turned up the volume and Dave Matthews was singing about Dancing Nancies.
We pulled into the Mercedes dealership where a thirty-foot-tall glass window kept the priciest models protected from the elements. Two balding salesmen remained by the front door, arms crossed, looking at us in a way that said they knew we weren’t there to buy something.
And Bridget didn’t give them a chance to think otherwise. She stormed up the ramp to the front door and pushed through before one of the men could meet her at the threshold. She had her badge out, blew right past the men as she had her sights on the sales desk where the manager sat..
“Need to see your purchase records involving a new S500.”
The manager threw up his hands in protest and told her five reasons why she couldn’t get access to that information. Bridget laid her badge on the counter in front of him. And that’s what closed the deal.
“Fine, fine.” He stood in protest and walked over to another computer. “What’s that VIN number?”
Bridget read off the series of numbers and letters identifying the make, model, year, and the unique serial portion.
“Sold two weeks ago to one Emilia Lavelle.” He gave the Lavelle’s address and a cell phone number. He looked up at Bridget over the rim of his glasses. “Happy?”
Bridget maintained her poker face despite the gravity of what we had just learned. His wife had purchased the Mercedes two days after she had disappeared.
“Print it out.”
6
“What do you mean he won’t see me right now?” Bridget’s cheeks burned red as she stared down the poor officer behind the counter. “I just told you who I am. I have already consulted with Detective Braxton on this case. Did you even contact him?”
“Agent Dinapoli,” the man started, “you witnessed me calling him.”
I leaned in close and said, “We can reach out to him another way, Bridge. No point getting too worked up about this.”
She pulled away from me. “I have every damn reason to get worked up about this. We’ve got information to share and he wants to blow me off like this? Does he realize I can pull the whole case from him?”
The officer chimed in. “I’m gonna try him again, this time on speaker.”
He pressed the speaker button and dialed Braxton’s extension. The phone rang several times with no answer. Bridget threw her hands up. “This is what we get for doing things by the book.”
The officer ended the call and stepped out from behind the desk. “Why don’t you two have a seat and I’ll go find Detective Braxton and let him know this is serious. Which case is this regarding?”
“Lavelle,” Bridget said, noting the officer’s reaction. After he was out of earshot, she turned to me. “You catch that?”
I shook my head. “No, but I saw you did. What was it?”
“I’m not sure. The look on his face, I can’t say with certainty, but it looked like he knew something we don’t.”
“They’d have to just have figured it out. You know any updates get fed up the chain pretty quickly.”
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her text messages, not stopping to open any new ones. She followed this up with a visit to her inbox, but again, nothing stood out.
“Basic bullshit,” she said, shoving her phone back in her pocket.
I found an empty bank of seats and sat at one end. A police precinct was always an interesting place to people watch. From hurried patrol officers and overworked detectives to a variety of witnesses, criminals, and concerned citizens who paraded through the doors day after day. Every day was the same, yet so incredibly different from any day before or after it.
Bridget joined me a few seconds later, sitting shoulder to shoulder. I felt her every inhale and exhale. My breathing went into sync with hers. Our clothed arms and legs were mashed together. It had been quite a while since we were this close for more than a few seconds. And it felt… natural. Perhaps too much so.
The officer appeared, coughed to get our attention, and gestured for us to follow him. Since Bridget was already familiar with Braxton, she led the way. It would reduce the amount of suspicion he felt upon seeing me. Probably not by much, but every bit would help us stay on track and reduce wasted time questioning me and my intentions.
“Special Agent Dinapoli.” Braxton stood behind his desk, a smile across his face, one h
and outstretched, gesturing to an empty seat. His gaze jumped from Bridget to me. His smile didn’t fade, but his head tilted and his eyes narrowed. “And you must be Detective Tanner? Or is it Sam Foster?”
“Tanner,” I said, extending my hand toward him.
“You’ve done your homework on me,” Bridget said.
Braxton shrugged as his hands fell to his side and his jovial look faded into something more serious. “Few around here have had much work experience with you, so I dug around a bit. It’s nothing personal, Special—“
“Just call me Dinapoli.”
"Right, Dinapoli." He lowered into his seat and started tapping on his keyboard. “Great work on that Debbie Fischer case. That could've gone terribly wrong.”
“You’re telling me.” I stole a few glances around the detective’s workspace, looking for clues into his life. A picture of him on a boat with two young boys who were each holding decent size walleyes. Braxton and a young girl, dressed up, in a heart frame. A family man. But no pictures of his wife.
“Detective,” he said, “let me ask you. How was working with Dinapoli?”
I shuttered the thoughts of me and Bridget outside of investigative hours and recalled how well we worked together on that case. “Never a problem. She didn’t pull any territorial crap with me—“
“That’s only because you were welcoming to me and my team,” she said. “That meant a lot.”
I smiled. “What she considers welcoming was me being an asshole, but she dealt with it effortlessly. And it was the same from the moment we started working together. I mean, I felt highly enough about her I gave her a recommendation for this position.”
Bridget leaned away from me while twisting at the waist and angling her torso in my direction. “I didn’t know that.”
I shrugged and tried to play it off as no big deal. But it was. She could argue that I helped to send her two thousand miles away from me.
“Obviously you two had a good working relationship,” Braxton said. “I mean, you came out here to assist her with this.”
I held up a hand. “That’s not exactly true. I’ve got some time off and came upon a lead on a cold case that led me here. Seeing Dinapoli is an added bonus.”
Braxton nodded as he fidgeted with a pencil. “Your recommendation means a lot, Tanner. You know, detective to detective, I’ll take your word as your bond.”
“Glad to hear it still means something to someone.”
He got a laugh out of that. “Hey, if you aren’t pissing people off, you aren’t doing your job. Right?”
“You know it, man. You know it.”
“But here’s my problem.” He leaned back in his chair, let his hands drop to his lap, and sighed. “I can work with Dinapoli on this. Got no issues there. But you, Tanner, well…”
“I’m a private citizen out here.”
A pained grimace crossed his face. “That’s not how I see you, but, when it comes time to go to trial, any decent lawyer is going to tear us a new one when they see a private citizen was involved in the investigation.”
“Then I’ll keep him on as my consultant,” Bridget said. “Braxton, you and I will confer on evidence we find and follow up on. And if I have specific questions that I know Tanner can help with, I’ll pull him in on my side.”
“We’ll have to see how things go,” he said.
“Why don’t we get to the point of coming here today,” I said.
“Right.” Bridget unzipped her bag and pulled out the dealership’s paperwork on the sale of the Mercedes. She set them on the desk, turned toward Braxton.
“What’s this?” He leaned in and examined the bill of sale.
“You aware that Emilia Lavelle purchased a new Mercedes S500?” I asked. “And that David Lavelle is driving that vehicle?”
Braxton shook his head, his gazed fixed on the purchase date.
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?” I said. “I mean, sure, she could buy a vehicle a day or two after she disappeared.” I paused and watched the reality set in on Braxton’s face. “But why the hell would her husband be driving it? We need their security footage.”
Braxton’s gaze flitted between me and Bridget as he performed the mental gymnastics required to work the situation out until he reached the fork in the road where all possible avenues were laid out.
“So, was it her?” I asked. “And if so, why?”
“Why, indeed.” He turned the sales order to face him and read through the document, his finger tracing each line as he read. When he reached the bottom, he grabbed his bag and pulled out a folder. Inside were some pictures, several pieces of paper, including scans and handwritten notes.
“What are you thinking?” Bridget asked.
Braxton held up a finger as he shuffled through the papers. “Here it is.” He showed us a photocopy of a signed check.
“Her signature.” I glanced between the two examples of Emilia Lavelle’s handwriting, specifically the way she signed her name.
Bridget leaned in close as Braxton placed the two examples side-by-side.
“I’m no expert,” she said, “but those look pretty damn close.” She glanced up at the detective. “Make me a copy so I can get a handwriting expert to look?”
Braxton placed his hand on the copy of the check. “We got a guy, and if you don’t mind, I’d like him to take a look first.”
“What the hell, Braxton?” Bridget jerked back from the table and stood. “We brought you the sales order. What if I take that back?”
He brought his hand up from the table and snapped a picture with his phone.
“That won’t be good enough.” She fumbled for her phone, but once Braxton spotted what she was doing, he turned the paper over.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I can go down to the dealership and get a copy of my own.”
“Look, Bridget,” I said. “Let him handle this part. I’m no expert, either, but from what I see here, we got a damn good match. So we know she was alive after her disappearance…” And that’s when I had a thought. “Was it her husband who reported her missing?”
7
He locked the door to the wooden shed and took a few steps back to inspect for any new markings on or near the door frame. The weathered siding wasn’t much to look at. It kept the elements out. That was most important. To anyone passing by, they’d figure the structure had been abandoned long ago. And if they broke the lock and stepped foot inside, they’d find a couple of rakes, an old-fashioned human-propelled lawn mower, and an axe.
What they wouldn’t find is the trapdoor in the floor that led to the tunnel running one hundred feet to the north, where the hidden bunker was located. The trap door that was so seamless, even he had trouble locating it one night, he wandered out here after three too many glasses of bourbon.
And if someone found the trapdoor and make their way into the tunnel, they’d have no way of entering the bunker. The twenty-four digit passcode was impossible to guess, though they’d be allowed to get that far just so he knew with absolute certainty that the code hadn’t been breached. And then the following was guaranteed to happen. First, he’d receive an alert that the trapdoor had been breached. The door would lock, sealing the intruder or intruders inside the tunnel while methoxyflurane gas, rendering them unconscious. He’d then don protective gear, make his way to the structure, unseal the trapdoor, and then inject the intruder or intruders with a mix of pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride to induce paralysis, respiratory arrest, and stop the heart. They’d die within two minutes.
How did he know? It had happened a few times before, both with strangers and people he knew. He did not discriminate. They all paid for trespassing.
The occasional gust of wind disturbed the forest floor, whipping debris into the air. Dead leaves crunched underfoot. This time of year, there was no way of disguising the approach. Fortunately, no one spent time out here. They weren’t all that far from the city, yet he might as well have built the compound in the Peaks. Th
e amount of land and the fact that three sides bordered national forest made it feel secluded. And seclusion was all that mattered.
There were a few nosy “neighbors” who also had a lot of acreage, but after he persuaded them to back off, they seemed to accept that whatever was happening on the property wasn’t their business after all.
Though there were a few locals he had eyes on, it wasn’t good for business for him to indoctrinate people who lived too close. In fact, it would eventually land him in jail. Once the cops got involved, they’d separate his best people from him, and the whole thing would go to shit. He’d seen it happen before over the years, even to the best of them. That’s why he kept his business to himself and watched over those he trusted with an unblinking eye.
Drifters, transients, lost souls: the commodities he preferred to trade in, because few people, if any, would miss them. They came to him broken and defeated and seeking something beyond themselves. He put them to the test. Some broke worse, found themselves more defeated. They were recycled, usually, and left elsewhere to fend for themselves. But those who could survive the purge found that something beyond themselves. They found purpose in serving him, advancing his goals and agenda, even if they weren’t quite clear on what that was.
He continued through the woods, following the trail he’d blazed that consisted of tree markings only he recognized that led back to the path. The breadcrumbs weren’t necessary, but why take chances? Get lost out here, and he might wind up on someone’s property. That would invite a new level of scrutiny he didn’t want to face. Not now. Not ever. He’d learned that lesson early on, when he was in Arkansas. All it took was one person fleeing. That led to five years in a cell.
He tried to track that person down after being released from prison, but they must’ve gone into witness protection because he could not locate them. Eventually, the hate over his imprisonment waned, and he put his creative energy to better use, figuring out how to rebuild his creation and make it something so much better.
A flash of white caught his attention where the woods opened up. The deer stopped and looked back before bounding out of sight along the narrow path through the tall, dead grasses leading to his house in the compound. The furthest structure from the road. The easiest to escape from. Not only could he escape from all sides of the house, there were three tunnels leading away too, all with different access points. One could even be entered from the upstairs master closet.