by Leslie Wolfe
Reynolds rubbed his forehead, thinking.
“No doubt I’ve made enemies,” he eventually said. “But the people I work with sue when they’re mad. They’re not kidnappers. They’re mostly businessmen, musicians, that kind of people.”
“Has there been any contact, phone call, or letter, advising of ransom demands?”
“No. Not yet.” He paused for a while, then smiled bitterly. “I’m hoping for a ransom call, if you can believe it. Anything would be better than this.”
Tess glanced at her watch. They were almost 20 hours into her disappearance. The ransom call would have come by now, or so the bureau stats indicated. But she knew why there was no ransom call; only she couldn’t share that information with the Reynolds. She decided to lie, and give the man some hope. It was all she could do at the time.
“They will call, Mr. Reynolds. Sometimes they like to make people wait so they—”
“Pay more,” he replied coldly. “I get it, but I don’t care. Anything to get my daughter back.”
“Ain’t karma a bitch, huh?” Chloe said.
Tess turned her attention toward Chloe.
“It’s Chloe, right?”
“Yes,” she replied, offering an affected hand and swinging her narrow hips as Tess shook it. “Chloe Barr.”
“Barr?” Tess asked.
“Not Reynolds, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure you heard me the first time, it’s Barr. I’m not going to change my name every time my mother decides to fuck another loser.”
“Chloe,” Diane said, a moderate, almost timid pushback. Not in the least the response Tess would have anticipated. “Don’t embarrass me, all right?”
“I can’t embarrass you more than you embarrass yourself, Mom. This your second bottle yet? Oh, wait, it’s after lunch, so it’s your third!”
“Chloe!” Reynolds said, his anger picking up.
“You vicious little bitch!” Diane said, staring her daughter down.
A moment of silence developed, one of those uncomfortable, disturbing scenes quite common for troubled, dysfunctional families.
Tess decided to break the silence. They weren’t there for the family; they were there for Julie.
“Chloe, what’s crawling up your ass?” Tess suddenly asked.
“What?”
“Yeah, you heard me… You don’t like Julie that much, do you?”
Chloe turned to her stepdad, fuming.
“So you let them question me? A minor? What kind of lawyer are you?”
“There’s a guardian present,” he replied undisturbed, engulfed in his sorrow. “I give them permission.”
“She hates Julie, if you wanna know,” Diane said, slurring a little.
“And why is that?” Tess asked.
“Because when Mom wanted to get laid with a license, I suddenly have to share everything! And I don’t wanna share shit!”
“Huh,” Tess blurted. How classy.
“Julie wouldn’t buy her booze and smokes,” Diane added. “That’s if you want to know the real truth.”
“Ha! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chloe retorted. “If you’re a wino, doesn’t mean that I am.”
“There’s more,” the mother added. “Chloe’s old boyfriend gave Julie some appreciative looks, so Chloe dumped him. But she’s still pissed, if you asked me.”
“That’s what you think!” Chloe fought back. “I hate her ’cause she’s so damn perfect! Makes me look bad.”
Tess saw Reynolds cringe and squeeze his eyes shut when he heard Chloe’s vicious words.
“Cheap,” Diane added. “The word you’re looking for is cheap, and it’s you, not Julie, who makes you look cheap. A bitchy, venomous little slut, that’s my daughter.”
“You know what they say,” Chloe replied almost impassibly, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“All right,” Tess said, decided to interrupt the family drama and get on with their investigation. “Where were you last night after 8:00PM?”
“Here, doing house arrest.”
Tess turned her inquisitive glance toward Reynolds.
“That means she was grounded,” he replied calmly. “She was here all evening and all night, locked in her room.”
“Thank you,” Tess replied. “I think this is it for now.”
“No, that’s not it,” Reynolds said, his voice loaded with tears. “Please tell me what to do. I can go on TV and offer a reward. I can make it big, attractive enough for someone to take the risk and tell me where my baby is.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Reynolds. Give us a few more hours. We’re following some leads. We might come to that, but let’s exhaust all our other possibilities.”
“Why? Why won’t you let me try?”
“Julie is safer if whoever took her doesn’t see us coming. Typically, if no ransom has been made, and no one has actually seen Julie get taken, these cases are classified as missing persons, and dealt with… differently.”
“You mean, not really investigated, right?”
“Right. You see my point.”
“Yeah. Then let me ask you, how come you’re investigating it?”
“Because of Drew and Tiffany, of how diligent and organized they were, how quick to react, we were able to classify this case as an abduction, not a missing person.” Tess was getting more and more comfortable at lying. She didn’t want Reynolds to fall apart.
But then there was Chloe.
“No, that’s not it. It’s because of Dawn Girl. Julie looks just like her, or haven’t you noticed, Daddy?”
“No!” Doug Reynolds collapsed on the floor, hugging his knees and sobbing hard. Tess touched his shoulder, trying to comfort him, while she shot Chloe a fierce look.
“You’ll make a fine criminal one day,” she told Chloe, “unless you change your ways. I don’t think you’d last long in jail. Maybe a couple of days, maybe a week. The teeth go first, you know.”
Then Tess looked at Diane. Impassible, the woman was refilling her wine glass.
A few minutes later, Tess let out a long, tense breath, as she started the engine and restored the flow of air conditioning in her overheated Suburban.
“You can say that again,” Michowsky said.
“What?”
“You sighed.”
“Yeah. I need a shower after visiting with these people,” Tess chuckled. “I’d expected more familial bliss out of the best divorce lawyer in town.”
“You married, Winnett?”
“Nah… it’s not for me.”
A silent beat, while Tess noticed Michowsky didn’t volunteer any personal information. She didn’t press. That kind of silence normally meant there were issues in his relationship. He wore a wedding band though, a simple, narrow gold band. What was it that Cat said? Each wearing their own brand of misery?
“I’ve seen enough viciousness in that kid tonight to classify her as a viable lead,” Michowsky said. “Even if she was home, she has access to money. These people get their stuff done for them.”
“What, you think Chloe hired a contract killer?” Tess scoffed. “I don’t see that. The parents have the kind of money it takes to get this kind of work done, not her. I don’t see her doing it. She’s all mouth, no brains.”
“The mother is pickled half the time. Do you think she locks her credit cards?”
“All right, I’ll give you that. I’ll give you one more. Narcissistic teenagers like this one do something else. They sic others onto the target of their hate. Call it contract work for free, but that’s what teenagers like Chloe do.”
“How the hell do they do that?”
“There are ways,” Tess replied. “For example, she could hang out with the wrong crowd of gangbangers, and tell them her sister is this really hot chick who loves gang action, and she’s going to be on so and so date, at the club. She even shows them a picture. The idiots then do her dirty work, without even realizing they’ve been had.”
Michowsky whis
tled.
“Yep, seen it done. Kids today aren’t what they used to be.”
“So you agree Chloe is a lead in this case?”
“Nope, I don’t. I still think the serial killer is our strongest lead.”
“He never struck twice in the same spot,” Michowsky said, raising the pitch of his voice a little, to match his frustration.
“That you know of,” Tess replied. “This conversation is like a bad case of déjà vu. Didn’t we talk about this? You don’t start your career as a serial killer with this level of skill, knowledge, and boldness. He has killed before, and we don’t know about those victims yet.”
“Winnett, if you focus on your serial and you’re wrong, you’re ignoring a lead that could save this girl’s life.”
32
A Couple of Calls
Tess drove silently for a while, mulling over Michowsky’s words. He’d said exactly what had been on her mind, but hearing the words spoken out loud made a difference. Was she wrong in pursuing Sonya’s killer to save Julie? Was that wishful thinking, knowing she’d kill two birds with one stone?
Catch, not kill. She still found herself thinking what would happen the day she’d finally track down the unsub. How she hoped he’d resist arrest, or, even better, draw a weapon on her. Suicide by cop would be a nice way to go for such scum, although more deserving would be to rot in jail, countless years, learning what it means to be at someone’s mercy, bound and raped. Day after day, with no hope of ever getting out. Yeah, that’s what he deserved. Catch, not kill.
Her knuckles hurt, forcing her to relax the grip on the steering wheel. Tense and immersed in thought, she’d white-knuckled the damn thing since they’d left the Reynolds. One hand at a time, she wiped the sweat off her palms against her slacks, discreetly, glad that Michowsky watched the familiar landscape so deeply absorbed in his own thoughts.
Her phone quacked loudly, amplified by the car’s audio system. SAC Pearson’s name was displayed in large font on the LCD, but she decided to take the call on her handheld, for privacy.
“Hello,” she eventually replied, after fumbling with the settings.
“So it’s confirmed, you’ve got a serial killer at large, huh, Winnett?” Pearson went right into the topic, no chitchat.
“It’s my strong belief, sir, and I think SSA McKenzie can confirm.”
“He just did, in light of Julie Reynolds’s kidnapping. He’ll wrap up the full profile and send it to you later today.”
“Good to know, sir. I appreciate the help.”
“Do you now? I want to send you a team.”
Her knuckles turned white again, gripping the phone with one hand and the wheel with the other.
“I already have a team, sir. I’m working with Palm Beach.”
Michowsky scoffed quietly and tried to hide a sarcastic grin.
“Why was I even thinking you’d suddenly turned into a rational, compliant agent who takes direction well?” SAC Pearson said.
“Sir…” she didn’t even know how to respond to his rant, but ventured a reply anyway. “We’re handling this case just fine.”
“You’re in over your head, Winnett. You need help. If you fuck this up, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
She bit her lip, refraining from yelling at him. That never helped.
“Give me 24 hours,” she said quietly, almost subdued. “If I don’t have my unsub zeroed in by then, send anyone you want. For now, they’d hinder more than help.”
“Give your fellow agents some credit,” he said, sounding insulted.
“I will, as of tomorrow evening. Please.”
He hung up on her, without a word. She disconnected the call, then mumbled some cuss words.
Gary chuckled lightly.
“Oh, shut it, Michowsky.”
“Who was that?”
“SAC Pearson, my boss. He’s not my biggest fan lately.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” he quipped.
She shot him a homicidal glance, quickly interrupted by another call coming in. She didn’t recognize the number, but Gary did.
“That’s the squad room,” he said, and accepted the call via the car’s system. “Go for Michowsky and Winnett.”
“I got the creep’s ID, and it’s bad news, guys.” Fradella sounded worried, tense.
“How can it be bad?” Tess asked.
“He’s as loaded as they can get. His family is very well connected. The governor attends their family events. We can’t touch this guy.”
“Huh, we’ll see about that. What’s his name?”
“It’s Matthew Feldman Dahler, 33. His record is clean as a whistle.”
“The Feldman Dahlers?” Michowsky asked. “Oh, shit.”
“Hey, why are we freaking out? We’re the good guys, for Chrissake,” Tess said.
“You can’t go near these people, Winnett, trust me. They have lawyers who can eat you alive for breakfast without pickles and without breaking a sweat. You can’t touch them.”
“Sure, I can. Just watch me.”
“We got nothing. No evidence, no motive, no criminal history,” Michowsky said.
“We got guts and brains,” she said, implacable.
They heard Fradella chuckle over the phone.
“I like your style, Winnett,” Fradella said. “Maybe you don’t know who these people are.”
“I vaguely remember hearing the name.”
“John Dahler, Matthew’s father, is a real estate developer, third generation. You know the five-stars hotels in Miami Beach, right off Ocean Drive? Yeah, the ones that sell suites at $250 a night and above, and they’re still booked solid? He owns the entire area. The resort, several condo high rises, a few restaurants. His family bought that stretch of land when it was dirt cheap, right after the big Depression in 1930.”
“We were expecting that. It’s in the profile. Our unsub is wealthy, with a flexible work schedule, socially adept.”
“Wait, I’m not done. Matthew’s mother, Edwina Feldman Dahler, is the CEO and founder of Global Risk Ventures, a multinational insurance conglomerate. She made the top 100 richest people’s list before her husband did. She doesn’t waste any opportunity to tell people she owned a private jet before she met John. Rumor has it she’s a vicious bitch, and that the John Dahler is under her thumb a lot. That’s social media gossip, nothing more, but I’ve seen one of those short movies online, with Dahler cringing while his wife told people just how powerful she was compared to him. Apparently, she doesn’t pull her punches with hubby. Or with anyone, I would say.”
“Okay, so?” Tess asked, a little irritated with Fradella’s rant. She hated cops who cowered in the presence of affluent suspects, afraid for their jobs. Just because the parents were loaded, didn’t mean the son couldn’t be a sadistic psychopath. These guys needed to grow some balls.
“So they’ll hide behind a barrier of overpriced lawyers, that’s what they’ll do. We’ll spend more time dodging lawsuits and complaints than working the case.”
Complaints… how wonderful. SAC Pearson was going to be thrilled if she added a few more of those. Yet her gut told her she was on the right track.
“Let’s dig up everything we can about this guy. Facebook accounts, scandals, gossip, yearbooks, the works. Remember the analyst my boss assigned to our case? I gave you his number. Call him and ask him to get it done like it’s burning.”
“Got it,” Fradella said.
Without warning, she flipped a U-turn, in a concert of honks and curses.
“What the hell?” Michowsky asked, frowning and holding on to the door armrest.
“Detective Fradella, get a few printouts of this guy’s face and meet us at the club, pronto. Let’s do some real police work.”
“Got it,” he repeated, then hung up.
“Wait a second,” Michowsky protested, “you can’t go into that club and show his picture to people, like he’s a common criminal. He’ll hear about it, and it will be a disaster.”
&nbs
p; “We can’t afford not to, Gary. We just can’t.”
33
The Glades
Most people wouldn’t be caught dead in the heart of the Florida Everglades at dusk. A treacherous land of myriad insects and predators, it kept visitors away effectively. Blood-seeking insects don’t even matter for the accidental visitor, more concerned with the few but deadly poisonous snake species, the huge pythons, and the 10-foot alligators. Here, in the Glades, only the skilled and the irresponsible venture, and the latter don’t usually make it out.
Matthew knew his way around the Glades really well. He liked the environment, one of the very few things in life that still challenged him and kept him on his toes. The tropical, hardwood hammock brimmed with life, chirping, hissing, and chittering through the wetlands, slithering in the ferns, or stalking him with narrow, vertical pupils from the surface of the stagnant water. He loved the thrill of the Glades, where one second of carelessness could cost him his life. Like every time he hunted, he needed to be careful, and that was a trained skill more than a native talent.
He hunted for black bear that evening, moving slowly and silently through the thick, hardwood forest, ready to pounce. Black bear hunting season had been suspended, but Matthew didn’t care about the regulations. He was a hunter, a true hunter in the way his ancestors were, thousands of years before him. When he wanted fresh blood, he left his cave and went out there, armed with only a bow with arrows and a tactical knife. No firearms. Not ever. They took away the pleasure of the kill. Firearms were noisy and lacked elegance. Any idiot with a gun could pull the trigger and kill a bear. He was different. He wanted to come near the agonizing animal, downed by his arrow, and watch it as it drew its last breath, then snatch the bloody arrow out of its chest.
The forest was losing light as the sun was getting ready to set, and the myriad insects and small critters in the hammock gained enthusiasm, raising their voices in heated dialogues of countless sounds. He walked slowly, breathing shallow in the humid, tropical air, and paying attention to every twig snap, every leaf moving, every jungle scream.
He could feel the bear nearing, although not a single sound stood out from the general racket. Slowly, without making a sound, he grabbed his bow and nocked an arrow, getting ready to extend the string and release. He could feel the animal approaching, unsuspecting, trusting of his environment, just like Matthew had once been.