by Taylor Lee
Nate choked back a growl and almost laughed when he heard the sound that roared out of Connor’s throat. He hadn’t realized his chest was as tight as it was until he tried to huff out a disparaging laugh. At the next question, a snarl replaced his incipient attempt at lightness.
“Are you saying that Detective Stryker continued to come after you even when you were married?” Laura’s response was lost in the barrage of similar questions from other reporters. “Laura, were you and the detective having affair?” “Did Mike know that Nate was still after you?” “Laura, when were you and the detective together last?” “Is that why Nate was forced off the investigation?” “Do the police think that Nate might have—”
Laura stepped back and put her hands up, as if overwhelmed by the questions.
“Please… please. I… can’t answer any of those questions. I’ve been ordered not to talk about the investigation.” She stammered, “You have to understand. We are in the middle of a … a murder investigation.” As if on cue, tears welled up in her luminous eyes. Taking care not to muss her makeup, she dabbed at the moisture threatening to spill down her cheeks. “My poor Mike, my sweet… wonderful husband… was brutally murdered….”
The reference to the murder turned the reporters’ attention away from Nate for the moment. “Laura, it is true you found the body?” “Hey, Laura, look over here. Where were you when Mike was killed?” “Laura, who do you think did it?” “Is it true that Mike’s—”
Nate clicked off the remote. For a moment the room was filled with blessed silence. Nate turned to the investigative team that had given up any pretense of working, in order to watch the real life soap opera playing out before them. Some of the men were pale, others were flushed various shades of crimson. Anger underlay every one of their expressions. Nate punched on his cell phone and brought Dan into the conversation, then turned to the group.
“Okay, men. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Nate paused briefly, and took a cleansing breath before continuing.
“Dwayne, I want a detail posted here at the cabin round the clock. Block off the driveway at the entrance to the highway. I want a thousand-foot perimeter in place. Talk with Larry Black Eagle. Tell him to put his best trackers on it and bury them deep in the woods. I don’t want any trespassers within a thousand feet of this place. They have my permission to shoot to scare. So help me God, I see one photograph of this cabin on the news and I will track down the perpetrator and personally feed his balls into a woodchipper. Given the security system I have on this place a snake couldn’t slither in, but, understand, that’s the level of most of these press guys.”
He spoke next to Dan via speaker phone.
“Dan, I’m moving Erin and me to our apartment. We’re gonna set up shop there. Get a detail over there, PDQ. The apartment is already connected to the station but let the Chief know where we’ll be. Ask him to meet me in 30 minutes. I’m gonna have Sam call a press briefing and we’re going to have it there at the entrance to the apartment building. Would be good to have the Chief’s ugly mug glaring at the cameras.”
As an afterthought he added, “Oh, and Dan. Get Doug Nunn and Ralph Weise over there now. Before the press conference. Don’t want the press to see them coming and going. Tell Eric to stand by. Once we get rid of the newswhores, I want a conference call with the three of them.”
Nate turned to Erin. “Honey, go pack a bag of anything you’ll need for the next week or so. Grab what you need for work.”
He grimaced. “Although, Connor, we may want to take her off work for at least the next couple of days.”
At Connor’s nod of agreement, Erin broke in, “IF we take her off work, we all will be involved in making that decision.”
Nate frowned then shook his head and sighed. Speaking to the group as a whole, he asked, “Do you see why I call her spitfire?”
He grinned when she punched him in the ribs and pulled her closer to him. He realized that since he’d turned on the television, she had been standing next to him, their arms wrapped tight around each other’s waists. He forced himself back to giving orders knowing that if he focused on Erin, his heart might break.
He motioned to Pete. “Get a message to Charlie. I know he’s managing that viper’s nest in front of the Peterson place. Let him know that Sam’ll be calling a press conference in about 45 minutes and to be prepared for the rats to abandon that ship and scurry to board ours. Could cause a serious traffic jam. Have Naomi draft the press announcement, but tell her to wait for my direct order before she releases it. Tell her to indicate that Detective Stryker will answer questions about his changing role in the investigation and that Commander Carter will update them on the investigation.”
Scrubbing at his chin thoughtfully, he turned to see Sam standing to the side with a quizzical expression.
Nate tossed him a cocky grin. “Anything I missed, Commander?”
Sam shrugged. “I think you got it about right, Nate.”
Nate nodded then winked. “You’re a good sport, Sam. For a wannbe police detective, you’re all right. If it’s any consolation, this is how the Chief taught me. Bullied me into every decision. Made them for me—usually publicly—until I fought back. It’s how I became the badass I am. Fighting for my space in the Sun. No reason you can’t do the same, hotshot.”
Sam replied, his voice heavy with irony, “Thanks for the encouragement, Nate. Good to know what I can be when I grow up. I appreciate your confidence. But, yes, in answer to your question, you’ve covered everything.”
He added, his tone as serious as his expression, “I’m speaking on behalf of the men and myself. We have your back, Nate. We’re not going to let you down.”
Nate sighed in mock despair. “I dunno, Sam. I’m afraid I’m wrong about you. No way even under my tutelage you’re going to become a badass. I don’t think even I can corrupt you. You’re too classy a guy.”
Chapter 23
Nate peered through his Oakley’s at the crowd outside his apartment. Damn, with the camera people, the technicians, and the reporters, there had to be easily a couple hundred news people cramming the street in front of his building. Trucks and cars made the street look like a parking lot. Every major television and print outlet in the country was represented. He grimaced, thinking about the last murder they had in Chicadia Falls. The killing obviously hadn’t been as vicious and, yeah, the guy was an old drunk, taken down by a buddy who swore Barney Madler stole his hooch. But Barney’s death barely made it to the obituary pages, much less breaking news on CNN. Nate sighed. No, if you were gonna get yourself killed in Chicadia Falls—or anywhere else in the country—best you be a wealthy son of a bitch, and intimately associated with a lingerie model with a penchant for notoriety.
He stepped up to the microphone and grinned at the crowd. “Welcome. For those of you not from around here, I’m Detective Nate Stryker, and as quiet and unassuming a cop as you’re likely to meet.”
At the roar of laughter from the crowd, Nate’s grin broadened. As the cameras clicked, voices shouted “Look over here, Nate!” “At the camera, Detective!”
The palpable excitement from the crowd confirmed he’d been right, insisting that Erin not be present. She was angry at first, but he was adamant.
“Uh uh, darlin.’ I’m not putting you on display for those vultures to chomp on. Absolutely not. We’ll stick the Chief and Sam beside me. If the Chief’s ugly mug doesn’t freak them out, nothing will. You’re eye candy, baby. Your beautiful face would be juxtaposed with Laura’s leading every newscast in the country. Not gonna happen.”
Dressed in his ubiquitous black t-shirt and blue jeans with his badge on his belt, Nate scanned the crowd. In addition to the newspeople he didn’t know, all of the local reporter s were present, plus a heavy representation of reporters from around the state. He’d spent time with many of them at the pub on Friday nights. Some of them were his best street sources. He was also known in the industry as good copy. He remembered that as he took a
deep breath and set the tone for the interview.
“Here’s the drill, folks. I’m here to answer questions regarding my role. My colleague, Commander Carter, will answer questions concerning the ongoing investigation. I have one request. Please remember that a man was brutally murdered. This is not a circus or a bad movie. His family and this town deserve your respect.”
Nate ignored the chorus of shouted questions and pointed to Quinton Sparks, editor of the Chicadia Falls Gazette.
“Have at it, Quint.”
The quiet man who often joined Nate and the Chief on background over a bottle of Maker’s Mark, nodded in appreciation, but his question went to the heart of the issue.
“Whose decision was it to remove you from the investigation, Nate?”
“It was a joint decision. Chief Roberts is my boss and as such has the final say. But as a group we agreed that given the circumstances, it was a better fit to have me on the sidelines.”
Quinton’s follow up question cut through. “Because of your relationship with Laura Peterson?”
“I don’t have a relationship with Mrs. Peterson. We were married for a couple of years and have been divorced for over three years.”
Quinton persisted. “So why did they pull you off now?”
“First, as I indicated, Quint, it was a joint decision. And quite honestly, people like you and your colleagues had a lot to do with our decision. The press interest in this case has been extraordinary. My past relationship with the victim’s wife was beginning to interfere with our running the case. We have a department that works by the books. We have the #1 Police Chief in the country, and I have a few records of my own. We’ve cultivated a reputation of integrity and in our view, it seemed better to have me out of the limelight as much as possible. We also happen to have a visiting homicide detective, Commander Samuel Carter, whom you’ll meet in few minutes. Sam was here working with us on other issues. His experience in the LAPD made him a great fit to head up the investigation.”
A voice from the back of the crowd yelled, “Is it true that you and Laura have been carrying on for the last three years and that Mike found out about it?”
Nate shook his head blandly. “No. That certainly is not true. I have not had a conversation with Mrs. Peterson since I returned from Afghanistan over three years ago.”
He pointed to Christie Smythe, a local reporter and friend of Naomi’s.
“Do you have a follow up question, Christie?”
“Thanks, Nate. I understand that the police have over a hundred voicemail messages from Laura to you. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, it is. We were amazed when we got them. One hundred messages from one person is something of a record, even for me.”
“You mean you get other messages like these, Detective?”
Nate raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yeah, never ceases to amaze me the stuff we cops get. Granted, the sheer number from Mrs. Peterson is a record as far as I know, but she isn’t the only one who does that sort of thing.”
“What do you mean, Nate? You get messages like that from other people?”
“Absolutely, Christie. It’s something we cops run into all the time. People—especially women—can get obsessed. We tend to pick up admirers—or, in a lot of cases, detractors. I dunno, can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the uniform, who knows?” He grinned, “But as you can see, my uniform is about as nondescript as you can get.”
An unidentified voice yelled out from the back, “Do all cops get them, or just the ones that look like you, Nate?”
Nate joined in the laughter. “I dunno. That’s a good question. I’ll have to check with some of my buddies and see if they’ve had the same experience. For sure, I’m not the only cop who receives nuisance messages. For that reason, along with some of the other guys, I have a function on my phone that allows me to automatically delete these kinds of messages.”
“Are saying you never responded to Laura?”
Nate eyed the questioner, and spoke slowly. This was one of the critical points he needed to make.
“That’s exactly what I am saying. I didn’t respond to these messages or any of the other multiple messages I get from people, begging me to ‘make their day.’”
“Are you saying Laura is lying?”
Giving the reporter a puzzled shrug, Nate replied. “We don’t know what Mrs. Peterson’s motivation is, or was. Either in sending the messages or saving them and turning them over to the police.”
He hesitated and then went in for the kill.
“Look, it’s a fact. We cops, even ones who look like me and never put on a uniform, tend to collect groupies.”
A dozen voices shouted out variations of the same question.
“Are you saying Laura Peterson is a groupie?”
Nate raised his hands, pretending to be surprised at their assumption. “Hey, you guys are the ones who have a way with words. You get to decide how you label Mrs. Peterson’s actions. “
He shrugged. “I dunno. I’m just sayin’, in my view, saving 103 messages that you sent someone seems a little obsessive to me.”
“Nate, do you have names of the other ‘groupies’”?
Nate managed to hide his smile when he replied to the earnest young man in the front of the group. Apparently, the label he pretended not to be ascribing to Laura had stuck, just as he’d intended.
“Sean, we do. But there’s no reason for us to release their names. If they want to come forward, fine. That is, if any of them obsessively saved their messages the way Mrs. Peterson did, and has reason to want them made public. That is their choice. But for the moment, Mrs. Peterson seems to be the only person who’s made that choice.”
Ignoring the throng of shouted questions, Nate attempted to move on. “Anything else I can help you folks with?”
A local reporter asked, “Are you and Erin still together?”
Erin had been a favorite with the press during the ugliness following her husband’s murder. Just hearing her name eased Nate’s tension.
“Ah, yes. May I say how great it is to be in love with a good woman who happens to be the most beautiful creature who ever walked the planet?”
A Minneapolis Star reporter followed up. “How does Erin feel about this, Nate? Does she know Laura? Is she worried you might be having an affair with her?”
Master of deflection that he was, Nate responded to the first part of the question.
“We are all upset and distressed. Erin is new to the town so she didn’t know Mike personally. As for me, I also didn’t know Mike well. He was fifteen years older than me. Mike didn’t play high school or college ball. And he didn’t spend time in the active or reserve military, so our paths didn’t cross. And of course, Mike was a business leader. I’m a cop.”
Nate saw Sam’s lip quirk. He gave him an imperceptible nod, glad that Sam picked up on the way he’d laid out his hero creds. There were good reasons he had a rep in this community. If ever there was a time to remind folks of who he was and is, it was now.
Nate purposefully changed his tone and stepped closer to Sam.
“Mike Peterson was brutally murdered. We intend to find his killer and give Mike the justice he deserves.” He nodded to Sam. “Commander Carter is available to update you on the investigation. I wanted to answer your questions as to why I chose to step down from the investigation.”
An officious-looking guy next to a television camera labeled with a Fox News insignia broke in. “Detective, may we cut through the obfuscation? Are you a suspect in the murder of Mike Peterson?”
As a murmur of interest spread through the crowd, Nate tugged at his chin and shoved his Oakley’s up on the top of his head. Pinning the guy in the $3,000 suit with a stare, he quirked a discerning brow. “Are you are asking me to—as I would say—cut through the crap?” He grinned at the flush on the man’s face. “That’s a question for Commander Carter. Remember, I’m on the sidelines.”
As he walked away from the mic and Sam stepped forwar
d, a man from the other side of the crowd yelled, “We hear you are a master with a whip, Detective. Is that true? And if so, does it have a bearing on the case?”
Nate pretended to give the question serious consideration then shrugged.
“I’m a master at a lot of things. Including being an expert in MMA. Given my job, I’m glad to say that my training allows me to handle any threat I may face.”
He gave a slight finger salute and stepped to the side. “That’s it for now. Thank you. Sam, are you ready to take on these nosy folks?”
Sam stepped up to the mic with a smile. His manner was as easy as Nate’s, but more formal.
“Thanks, Nate. A quick follow up on that last question to Detective Stryker. Like the detective, I also served in the Special Forces. I don’t have to tell those of you who know him how many medals Detective Stryker has that he chooses not to pin on his chest. I’m also a mixed martial artist. We deal with perpetrators every day. As for our specific skills, we rarely discuss them. We don’t want to telegraph to the individuals who want to do us harm, how many tools we have in our tool kit.
“As to whether Detective Stryker is a suspect in this case, the answer is a firm ‘no.’ As the detective noted, given the barrage of attention the case is receiving and the latest information Mrs. Peterson turned over to the police, as a team, we determined Detective Stryker could play a more constructive role if he was out of the spotlight.”
Sam smiled and gestured to all of the lights and news equipment.
“Although you all have made it difficult for any of us to stay out of the spotlight.”
Quinton Sparks stepped forward. “To recap, Commander. Laura saved a bunch of messages that she sent to Detective Stryker and then turned those messages over to the police, is that correct? But Detective Stryker was unaware of them?”
“As the detective indicated, he has a function on his phone that deletes repeat messages. Detective Stryker was unaware of the content of the calls because he never listened to them. For reasons known only to Mrs. Peterson, she wanted us to know that she had sent these messages.”