The End Of Desire argi-8

by M. R. Sellars

  The officer who had brought me here referred to the building as The Bureau. I hadn’t seen much of it, but judging from what I had glimpsed, I assumed this was where the detectives were based as opposed to the uniformed officers. That wasn’t much of a surprise either. Given that I had cajoled my way into a sealed crime scene, it stood to reason that I had raised more than a few eyebrows in all the wrong places. I’m sure I had probably managed to make myself a suspect of some sort.

  My sleep-deprived brain mulled that over for a moment before forcing me to let out an involuntary harrumph. So far, Felicity had been accused of the murders, new evidence pointed to the real killer being a half-sister she never knew she had, and now I was up to my neck in the wrong side of the investigation. I suppose there was nothing quite like keeping it all in the family.

  I had just set my sights on identifying a different stain a foot or so over from the first when the relative silence of the interview room was broken by the sound of the door swinging open. I looked up in the direction of the noise and saw a disheveled looking man enter then push the door closed behind him. He appeared to be somewhere around my own age, maybe a few years older, and from the looks of him, I would have guessed he was running on nearly the same amount of sleep as me.

  He didn’t say anything initially. Instead he simply took the few steps over to the metal table that was positioned in front of me and stood there silently reading something in a manila folder. After several languid moments, he shut the folder and tossed it onto the surface of the table.

  “Get up and face the back wall,” he grunted.

  I slowly rocked forward in the chair and stood, then made the quarter turn in place, finding myself once again staring at a panorama of putrid blue-green. It was a good thing my stomach wasn’t bothering me at the moment, or I might have added another stain to the carpet.

  I heard the rattling of metal against metal and felt the pressure encircling my left wrist ease up, then the strain on my shoulders as well. After another rattle, I could feel the bracelet being removed from my right.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, not sure if I should say anything or simply remain quiet.

  He didn’t acknowledge my gratitude. Instead he simply said, “Sit down and keep your hands on the table in front of you where I can see ‘em.”

  I complied and waited.

  The detective pulled out the somewhat matching chair on the other side of the table and took a seat. He remained mute as he shuffled the file folder over in front of himself then settled in against the backrest. After a long pause he reached into his pocket, withdrew something, splayed it open and tossed it on the table in front of me. It was my wallet, complete with the toy badge pinned inside.

  “Care to explain that, Mister Gant?” he asked.

  “It’s a long story,” I offered, knowing the comment was stupid the moment it exited my mouth.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied. “Neither are you.”

  Keeping with my established pattern of inane answers, I said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he grunted. “I’ve heard it all.”

  “I doubt you’ve heard this one.”

  “Try me.”

  At this point I figured I had little to lose, so I sighed and answered with a tired drone in my voice. “I’m trying to stop a killer.”

  “Really? I thought that was a job for cops,” he harrumphed then nudged the fake badge. “But, wait, you’re a cop, right?”

  “Obviously you know I’m not,” I replied.

  “You’re not?”

  “Look, Detective…?”

  “Fairbanks.”

  “Detective Fairbanks. Do you think you can dispense with the sarcasm?”

  “Why? Does it annoy you?”

  “Honestly, yes.”

  “I guess we all have something that gets under our skin,” he offered. “Personally, sarcasm really doesn’t bother me much. What really gets to me is people who pretend to be something they’re not.”

  “Let me guess. Especially when they pretend to be a cop.”

  He leaned back in his chair, regarding me with a cold stare, then nodded and said, “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

  “In my defense,” I explained, “I never actually said I was a police officer.”

  “No, you didn’t,” he replied as he leaned forward and flipped the file folder open. Peering through the glasses resting on the end of his nose, he read aloud, “Special investigations consultant with the Saint Louis Major Case Squad is what you said.”

  He looked back up at me and waited.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Something like that.”

  “Uh-huh. See, the problem is this,” he nudged my wallet again, “You flashed a fake badge in order to gain entry to a crime scene, and that shows intent. So, no matter what you said, you were impersonating a cop. It’s kind of one of those actions speak louder than words things.”

  I knew my argument had been lame when I made it, but I was too tired to think of anything else. Besides, lying is what had landed me here in the first place, so making up a new fabrication probably wasn’t my best course of action.

  “What if there’s an element of truth to that story?” I asked.

  “What, so now you’re telling me that you actually are a cop?”

  I shook my head. “No. But I actually am an independent consultant for the Major Case Squad in Saint Louis.”

  “Really?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Define sometimes.”

  “It largely depends on the case and who happens to be running it.”

  “So, which is it right now? Sometimes yes, or sometimes no?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  Once again my mouth overrode my brain. “Look, Detective Fairbanks, you’re right. I impersonated a police officer. But it’s not like I did it to assault anyone, or to get free donuts or something.”

  “Free donuts. That’s funny.” He wasn’t laughing.

  I shook my head again. “Sorry. I haven’t had much sleep in the past few days.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  “Okay, so, other than annoying you, what kind of mess have I managed to get myself into?”

  “That would be up to the judge,” he told me. “Impersonating a law enforcement officer and violating a sealed homicide crime scene could get you five. Maybe a little more if we throw the donut comment in on top of it.”

  I let my head hang for a moment as I felt my shoulders fall. “I suppose I should call my attorney then.”

  “That would probably be a good idea, unless you can give me a damn good reason why you shouldn’t be charged.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was just stringing me along, or what. However, I looked upon his comment as an invitation to get myself out of this debacle. Not having a reasonable explanation that didn’t sound utterly insane, however, I took the only course of action I could think of and played a card I wasn’t even sure I was truly holding.

  “Any chance you could call Detective Benjamin Storm in Saint Louis?” I appealed. “I’m sure he could clear some of this up for you.”

  “Storm,” he muttered as he leafed through the papers in the file folder then stopped at a handwritten page of notes. “Would that by any chance be the same Detective Benjamin Storm who said, and I quote, ‘Jeezus H Christ. Fuck me. Just throw the book at his sorry ass’?”

  Obviously, I wasn’t holding the cards I thought I was. I nodded and said in a flat tone, “Yeah. That would be him.”

  “Yeah. We found his card in your personal effects.”

  “Maybe if you called…”

  He cut me off, “Special Agent Constance Mandalay with the FBI Saint Louis field office? Storm said you’d probably toss her name out there too.”

  “Sounds as if you two had a pretty in-depth conversation.”

  “Yeah, we did. A couple of them, in fact. Nice guy.”

&nbs
p; “At the moment I guess that assessment depends on which side of the table you happen to be sitting.”

  “I guess I can understand why you’d think that, but actually, Mister Gant, you owe him big.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Easy. Besides warning me that you’d probably make a nuisance of yourself-which was dead on the money, obviously-your friend filled me in on everything that’s happened to you and your wife in the past few weeks.”

  “Everything?”

  “Of relevance,” he replied with a nod.

  “Then you should know that I’m doing all this to help her.”

  “That’s what Storm says. And, fortunately for you, according to him there really is an underlying truth to your story, just like you said. He did, however, stress to me in no uncertain terms that you are not here in an official capacity with the Major Case Squad…or any other branch of law enforcement for that matter. The way he explained it, you’re here of your own volition, and you’re supposed to be on a quick fact finding trip, nothing more.”

  “That was the original plan,” I agreed.

  “Of course, it would appear that you got a bit overzealous in your search and deviated just a bit.”

  “Maybe so, but if you…”

  He interrupted me again, “Gant, just agree with me and call it good, okay?”

  I paused as what he said filtered through to my temporarily dense grey matter, and then I nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “So, after his understandable initial reaction to my more recent call, he calmed down and had a change of heart about havin’ me throw the book at you. Actually, he even asked if I could do him a favor and cut you some slack.”

  “And you said?”

  “I told him I’d think about it, but I wanted to have a one-on-one with you first.”

  “Which, I take it, we’ve pretty much just had.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How did I do?”

  He shrugged. “You proved to me you’re a bit of an asshole, but under the circumstances I think I’m willing to understand why that might be the case.”

  “Reach any other conclusions?”

  “Yeah, actually I have.”

  We sat staring silently at one another for several heartbeats. Finally, I cleared my throat and asked, “Do you plan to share?”

  He flipped the folder shut then scooped up my wallet and sat back in the chair. While he fiddled with the clasp on the toy badge, he said, “Storm said you told him you have a return flight to Saint Louis Saturday afternoon.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’d suggest that you exchange your ticket for a flight leaving today. The earlier, the better.”

  “So, you’re telling me to get out of town?”

  “Pretty much,” he said with a nod as he stood up and tossed the empty wallet in front of me. “You can pick up the rest of your personal effects at the desk.”

  “At the risk of getting myself in deeper,” I said. “What about the fact that I violated a crime scene?”

  “You’re a lucky man, Mister Gant. To be perfectly honest, you didn’t violate much. The scene was officially cleared yesterday. The motel staff just hadn’t made it around to cleaning up yet.”

  “I see, so no harm done.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he returned. “You managed to waste my time, and that’s another one of those things that tends to bother me.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  A quick impression from the motel settled into my gut as I stood from my chair. However, instead of being the horror that had gone on behind the door of room 7, it was the sick fear I had felt for the woman at the office when she had been so willing to open the door.

  “Detective Fairbanks, is there any chance you could do me a favor?”

  “I’m fairly certain I just did. Storm didn’t tell me you were greedy too.”

  “I’m not. It’s not really for me,” I pressed. “It’s for the lady who runs the motel. Is there any chance you could go have a talk with her?”

  “I did.” He tapped the folder. “Or did that slip past you?”

  “I mean about something else.”

  “What?”

  “Safety, I guess. She was just too trusting. I mean, she just opened the door to the office and didn’t even ask to see my credentials up close. What if my aim had actually been to assault her?”

  “Then you’d be at the morgue right now sporting a toe tag instead of here talking to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “Mister Gant, while your concern is commendable, the woman you are so worried about is a retired cop from Tennessee. She had you pegged as an imposter from the word go, and she was packing a Glock in her housecoat. The only reason she didn’t just shoot you before calling us is that she knew we’d probably want to talk to you first.”

  CHAPTER 8:

  My rental car had yet to be impounded according to Detective Fairbanks, so it was supposed to still be sitting on the parking lot of the Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge where I had left it. I had been allowed to use a phone to call a cab while I was waiting for my personal effects, and since it took several minutes to get me officially signed out, by the time I was at the curb, my wait was relatively short.

  I set about the task of getting my credit cards and other odd items situated back into my wallet after I had told the driver where I was going and then settled back in the seat. I quickly checked my cell phone and noticed it was off, so I thumbed it on and laid it in my lap as I continued to arrange my life in the worn fold of leather. The phone started vibrating and warbling the instant it latched on to a signal.

  I knew the familiar tone was alerting me to voicemail, but that could wait. When it finally stopped, it was only briefly before starting into the upwardly stair-stepped trill of an incoming call. I shoved my still disorganized wallet into my pocket then picked up the chirping device and glanced at the screen. The display showed that the caller was Ben. Apparently, Detective Fairbanks hadn’t wasted any time letting him know I’d been released.

  My thumb hovered over the talk button as I debated whether or not I really wanted to listen to my friend read me the riot act at this particular moment in time. According to the digital clock in the corner of the LCD, it was already pushing 10 A.M. I knew I would have to deal with him eventually, but right now I wasn’t sure I was in the right frame of mind to take the flak. Fortunately, the internal deliberation was rendered moot by my hesitation, and the call defaulted to voicemail.

  I let out a sigh and then proceeded to punch a speed dial number before tucking the device up to my ear. The phone at the other end rang twice then was picked up by a hospital operator.

  “Doctor Helen Storm, please,” I asked.

  “Whom should I say is calling?”

  “Rowan Gant.”

  “Hold please.”

  The strains of some unidentifiable instrumental piece flowed into my ear for the better part of three minutes before the line clicked and a fresh voice came on.

  “Good morning, Rowan,” Helen said. “I was expecting you to call much earlier.”

  Ben’s sister was sometimes harder to talk to than he was. Not because she would become as undone as he, but rather the opposite. Being a psychiatrist, she had far more effective ways to let you know you had screwed up. However, I assumed she wouldn’t have any reason to do so in this case. On top of that, I wasn’t calling her about me; I was calling about my wife. Felicity was currently under her care, for several reasons; not the least of which was that she was the only one I trusted where that was concerned.

  “I was unforeseeably detained,” I replied.

  “I know. Benjamin called me earlier.”

  “Lovely,” I mumbled. Obviously my assumption had been wrong. “So, I guess he’s ready to kill me by now.”

  “He certainly is not happy. However, for the most part he is understandably concerned about you
and what you are getting yourself involved in,” she continued. “As am I.”

  “What’s new about that, Helen? You’ve been concerned about me since the day we met. I doubt that’s going to change anytime soon.”

  “I suppose you are correct about that, Rowan,” she replied. “However, there are those times when I am even more concerned than usual. Such as now, for instance.”

  “I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”

  “I sincerely doubt that you are.”

  “Is that my friend or my analyst saying that?”

  “Both.”

  “Yeah. I’m not surprised.”

  “Have you been getting any sleep?”

  “Sure. Plenty.”

  “You are lying, Rowan. I can hear in your voice that you are exhausted.”

  “Listen, Helen,” I said. “I didn’t call to talk about me. How’s Felicity doing?”

  “She is holding her own at the moment,” she replied. “She has good moments and bad. Right now she is in a mild depressive state, but that is to be expected under the circumstances.”

  “Has she had any more of the episodes?”

  Episode was the only generic term I could muster for what I meant. Helen had actually witnessed Felicity under the control of Miranda before I left for New Orleans, so she knew exactly what I was talking about.

  “Fortunately, no.”

  “Good.”

  “Is there a reason she might have?”

  “I’m not sure…” I allowed my voice to trail off for a moment. “All I can say is that I think I might have riled up the Lwa just a bit.”

  “How so?”

  “I can’t really get into any details at the moment. Let’s just say Miranda and I had an encounter.”

  “You found her?”

  “Not physically, no, but…” I left the alternative unspoken.

  Helen sighed and a fresh measure of concern threaded into her voice, “Rowan, you do realize that you are making my case for me. You are not going to do Felicity any good if you manage to lose touch with yourself in the process.”