by Dave Derin
Wow. Liz was right. Calling Dodson a character was putting it nicely.
I started my car, and the engine roared as I backed out of the parking spot and emerged from the garage. I cranked up the air conditioning and leaned forward to let the crisp blast of air dry the sweat from my face.
It really was unseasonably hot this summer, and I regretted leaving my suit coat on as I felt the sweat soak through the back of my already-disheveled shirt.
I flew down the interstate and made it home in a record twenty-five minutes, unheard of for a midday commute. I unintentionally squealed the beemer’s tires as I pulled into the garage, which caught the attention of four young women as they walked away from a bright red convertible, their arms full of couture shopping bags.
One of the ladies, the most petite of the quartet, wore a large, white floppy hat, the kind you’d see the rich mens’ arm candy wear at the Kentucky Derby. It perfectly matched her stark white sleeveless dress. Even from where I sat, I could see that the arms that held her shopping bags were muscular and toned.
I’d seen those sculpted arms before.
I parked my car and watched them in my rearview mirror as they all hugged and gave a kiss on each cheek before three of the women turned and started to walk toward their different cars.
The woman in the white floppy hat stood with her back toward me facing the elevator. Her tight, round bottom looked spectacular in that skin-tight white dress.
“Katerina,” I called as I approached the elevator behind her.
“Oh, hello,” she said with that sexy Russian accent as she turned to face me. “14B, right?”
“Well, I prefer John, but at least you know where to find me,” I teased as the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
She gave me a sideways glance before she stepped into the elevator and pressed the buttons for floors fourteen and fifteen.
“I suppose you are right about that,” she said after a moment’s pause and raised an eyebrow as she silently studied me once more. “So, is there a Mrs. 14B?”
I chuckled and glanced at my feet as the elevator started upward, then raised my left hand to show her there was no wedding ring.
“Nope. Not yet, at least,” I said and flashed her a smile.
“Oh, well don’t you worry your handsome little head about that,” Katerina said and gave me a cute half-smile. “I don’t plan on marrying some schmuck I met in the elevator with coffee stains on his shirt, anyway.”
“What about a guy who has coffee stains on his shirt but also knows how to call a dry cleaner?” I asked as I wiggled my eyebrows.
“Cute,” she chuckled, but then the elevator dinged and stopped on floor fourteen.
“Well, this is my stop,” I turned and saw her uneasily shifting her bags to her other arm.
“Here, why don’t you let me help you with those,” I offered and reached to take her bags.
“No,” she said sharply. “I’m a big girl. I can handle them myself.” She pressed the door close button after I stepped through the metal doors, then paused and softened a bit. “But... thank you anyway, 14B.”
“Any time floor number fifteen. You know where to find me,” I said with a wink. I watched a smile brighten her gorgeous brown eyes as the elevator doors slowly slid closed once more.
I sighed and leaned my head against the cool metal of the elevator door. I rubbed my temples and let my face press against the soothing smooth surface.
I was startled when the elevator dinged, and the doors started to move, my face still stuck to the left panel.
I wiped my mouth; a tiny bit of drool had puddled in the corner. How the hell did I fall asleep standing up? I really needed some caffeine. Coffee might not do it this time. This called for the big guns: an energy drink to the rescue.
I unlocked my door and threw my keys in the cobalt blue ceramic bowl that sat in the middle of the glass top entryway table my decorator had selected. I shuffled to the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed a sugar-free Red Bull, popped the cap, and chugged the entire can.
A handwritten note on my kitchen island countertop caught my eye. I crushed the can, tossed it into the recycling bin under my sink, and moved closer to investigate.
You’re fun. Call me sometime. XXOO, Crystal.
She had scrawled her phone number across the bottom of the page. I put her number in my phone under “Crystal - Tan” and slipped it back into my pocket.
I just wished I’d thought to get her last name.
Oh, well. There’s always our next date. I started to unbutton my shirt, then decided against it and pulled the whole thing over my head and threw it straight in the washing machine. Screw it, I had to buy new shirts anyway. No sense in getting that one dry cleaned.
I headed down the hall to my bedroom as I unbuckled my belt and sat down on the bed. I kicked off my shoes and laid back on my bed. The navy blue down comforter had been put back into place even though I knew I’d left it in a mess.
She cleans, too.
I smiled and put my hands beneath my head as I reminisced about the previous night. Even though twelve or thirteen hours had passed, I detected her spicy perfume lingering on my covers.
Twelve or thirteen hours? Shit. I wrestled my phone from my pants pocket and checked the time.
3:15 p.m.
I leapt from bed, stripped off the remainder of my clothes, and started the shower. I needed to wake up. Maybe a cold shower would do it.
My towel was still damp from my early morning shower, so I retrieved a fresh one from the closet and stepped under the freezing cold water. My heart seemed to stop mid-beat as the icy water blasted my body.
Dear god. Why did I think this was a good idea?
I stood there for as long as I could bear before I turned off the shower and grabbed my clean towel. My skin prickled and formed tiny goose pimples as I rushed to dry off, but the plush softness of the cream and white cotton towel warmed me quickly. I shook the water from my hair and tousled it with my towel to get the rest of the water out before I ran a wide-toothed comb through it.
I checked out my reflection in the rectangular beveled mirror hanging above the double vanity. My five o’clock shadow had come in a bit early, so I rubbed some shaving gel over my stubble and carefully gave myself a quick shave before I slapped on some Proraso’s aftershave lotion.
The sight of that small square green bottle combined with the refreshing aroma of mentholated eucalyptus always reminded me of my father. We would often take father-son trips to his favorite barber shop down on East Laurel. The tiny brick building with peeling white trim doesn’t exist anymore, but I could never forget the invigorating smell of that Proraso’s.
I snapped back to reality as I glanced down at my phone to see it was already 3:40. I hustled to the closet, grabbed my nicest black suit and a gray button-down, and pulled out my tie caddy to examine my choices. I flipped the switch that made the frivolous device spin and selected a blood-red tie.
Power red, as my ex-girlfriend Claire always called it. I smiled to myself as I thought about my beautiful friend and sometimes lover. It had been a while since we’d talked, or had sex, and I thought about calling her tonight so that we could grab dinner.
I threw on my clothes and tucked my shirt in before I bent down and grabbed my black wingtips. I sat down on the bed, laced up my shoes, threw on my suit jacket, and marched down the hallway.
Shit, where’s my briefcase? I’d been distracted by the Russian doll and left it in my car.
I scooped my keys from the bowl and locked the door behind me as I headed to the elevator for the second time today. I pressed the button to call the elevator and peered out of the window at the end of the hall as I waited for it.
It was a gorgeous day in Dallas. The blinding golden sun sparkled off the cars that lined the street, the sidewalks full of downtown shoppers, their arms laden with their spoils.
The elevator dinged, and I turned as the doors opened to reveal an empty space. I stepped
inside, pressed the garage button, pulled my phone from my pocket, and started to check through my emails as the elevator slowly descended.
“Well, we meet again, 14B,” a familiar voice purred.
Startled, I glanced up to see the illustrious Katerina Volkov standing in the front corner wearing a floor-length black dress with a slit cut up the side nearly to her shapely hips. The halter top was cut into a low V almost to her navel that left little to the imagination, and her six-inch silver stilettos glittered as she shifted her weight and stepped toward me.
“Wow. I mean, hi. Hello. I, uh, I didn’t see you there. It’s nice to see you again, Miss Volkov,” I stuttered, stunned by her bold beauty.
Where could she be going dressed like this on a Tuesday afternoon?
“I’m headed to an art gallery opening,” she stated with a half-smile, as if she’d read my mind.
“Oh, nice. Which gallery?” I asked as I tried to look at anything but her nearly exposed breasts, but they were like magnets and drew my eyes to them against my will.
“A new one. It just opened up on Main,” she replied, and adjusted the small silver purse strap slung over her shoulder.
“That sounds fun. My office is actually right on Main.”
“Hm,” she made a soft pouting noise, “and what is it that you do, Mr. 14B?”
“Again, I do prefer John,” I grinned at her, “and I’m an attorney. I work for Swinger and Ames. Have you heard of them?”
“Can’t say that I have,” she said and raised an eyebrow.
I debated telling her about my recent promotion to senior associate at the firm, but it was still so fresh I decided to save it for our next chance encounter. The elevator lurched to a halt and dinged as the doors slid open.
“Well, have fun at your gallery opening. Maybe I’ll see you on the next ride up?”
“Perhaps,” she replied, her ruby lips parted into a smile. “See you around, John.”
She turned and sashayed to her convertible as I quickly made my way to my car.
3:57 p.m.
I entered the address on Dodson’s card into the BMW’s navigation system then raced down the interstate as fast as I dared. I jumped off the interstate to take a shortcut to avoid traffic and arrived at FBI headquarters at 4:22 p.m.
I hopped out, clicked my key fob to lock the BMW, and headed toward the front door of the building. The FBI headquarters in Dallas was located right off 35E at One Justice Way, a fitting address, in an unassuming five-story beige building. The sterile rectangular windows were spaced methodically and made it appear more like a prison than an office building.
I pulled the chrome handle of the enormous glass doors and paused in the entryway to let my eyes adjust to the light inside the building. The reception area was stark white. Three guards meandered around the sleek black desk in the middle of the room and turned to look at me as I entered.
“Can I help you, sir?” One of the more intimidating guards asked. His bald head was so smooth and polished it reflected the dim light coming from the small lamp on the reception desk.
“Yes, my name is John Stone.” I retrieved my ID from my wallet in my coat pocket. “I’m an attorney with Swinger and Ames and have a 4:30 meeting with Special Agent Dodson.”
I made sure to stress the special part of her title.
The big guy’s face suddenly cracked into a huge grin, and he let out a loud guffaw.
“Yeah. She’s real special, ain’t she?” he exploded, and I let a small grin escape. “She told me you was comin’, and we were all waitin’ to see who this Mr. John Stone was. Apparently, this is the Special Agent’s first solo case. Hope she ain’t too hard on ya’, man.”
“Well, I’m about to find out, I guess,” I said as I signed my name on the docket.
4:28 p.m. Whew. Cut it a little close there, Johnny Boy.
“Alright, you’re all good, Mr. Stone. Head up that stairwell to the right, and then you’ll see a big sign with her name and office number on it. Can’t miss it.” He gestured behind him through the metal detectors to a wide hallway with a stairwell at the end.
I placed my keys, phone, and belt in the faded plastic bowl beside the metal detector and stepped through it. The guard on the other side, a rotund ebony-skinned woman with wrinkles around her kind eyes, waved me through.
“You good, baby. Go on up,” she cooed with a sweet smile.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I nodded at her as I jogged straight back toward the stairs and took them two at a time. I could not be late to this meeting. The last thing I needed was Dodson being a thorn in my side, and she seemed like the kind of person that would hold tardiness against you.
I reached the top of the stairs, and sure enough there was a huge plaque staring at me with names and office numbers listed alphabetically.
I scanned the list. Dodson, M. L. - Room 217.
Perfect. She’s on this floor. I raced down the hall toward room 217 and glanced down at my phone.
4:31 p.m.
“Mr. Stone, I presume?” I looked up from my phone and saw a stately woman with short white-blonde hair cut into a spiky, pixie style. Her light bangs fringed her pale, scowling face. She wore the standard FBI-issued solid black pantsuit and white collared button-down shirt with sensible black loafers.
The she-beast glared at me from the doorway of room 217.
“Yes, ma’am, and you must be Special Agent Dodson. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I offered her my right hand and flashed my best attempt at an award-winning smile.
She took my hand roughly and squeezed it a bit too firmly, then turned and strode toward her well-worn desk. I deftly slipped my phone into my coat pocket before she could accuse me of poor manners.
The desk looked like a relic from the 1950s. The olive green metal had started to rust along the bottom edges, and the middle seemed to sag under the weight of the case files and binders stacked haphazardly on it. The fake-wood laminate was peeling from all sides. I was surprised this thing was still around, but it was manufactured during an era where they expected an a-bomb to drop from the sky at any moment, so they were built to last.
I guess the FBI’s almost nine-billion-dollar annual budget didn’t cover new office furniture.
Two rectangular windows behind her desk looked out on the parking lot that was nearly empty this late in the afternoon. Her sparse office was lined with old silver metal file cabinets, most of which had boxes of case files and folders stacked precariously on top of them. A collapsible treadmill was folded in the corner, but I could see the indention in the thin carpet where it usually sat. She must be in pretty good shape for a woman of her experience.
The acidic smell of stale cheap coffee clung to the room, and I noticed a large empty styrofoam cup on the corner of her desk.
She sunk into her brown leather office chair, the chair’s arms and headrest worn smooth until they were nearly threadbare. She placed her elbows on the desk, leaned forward, and placed her chin on her folded hands.
“So--” she started, then paused.
I waited for her to finish her sentence, but she just looked down at the file in front of her.
“Yes?” I questioned, uncertain as to what was going through the agent’s mind.
“To be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Stone,” she said after another quiet moment, “I’m not exactly sure why you’re here. We’ve cleared Central US Air of any suspicion of involvement and have already started the process of filing charges against two individuals involved with the R.o.D. The information went public ten minutes ago. You must not be too plugged in.”
I felt my heart beat faster in my chest as my face flushed. I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat to reach my phone. I glanced down at the screen-- no missed calls, no texts, and no emails.
Thanks for the heads up, Swinger.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I was not made aware of that fact. But as long as the information is public, I’m the attorney of record for a major player in the investigation
and I’d like to know what the FBI knows at this point.” My face fell to a stern frown as I gauged her reaction.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window behind Dodson’s desk and would have sworn it was my father’s eyes looking back at me. Everyone used to say we could have been twins, and the older I get, the more I agreed with the sentiment.
She held my gaze for an uncomfortably long time before she flopped open the manila case file in front of her and spun it to face me. Two pictures were paperclipped to the top; one of a stunning redhead, and the other of a greasy-looking punk.
“Who are they, and what is-- what did you call it? Rod?”
“R.o.D. It stands for Reign of Dissent,” she raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips together tightly.
“I’ve never heard of them,” I shook my head.
“Neither had we until about a year ago. They claim to be some sort of anarchist, anti-American government organization, but all we’ve really seen them succeed in doing so far is to generate some truly awful, hate-filled music.” She made little air quotes around the word ‘music.’
“So, I take it you don’t care for punk music? What would you consider more your style, Special Agent Dodson? Maybe some smooth jazz melodies by Kenny G. or a little Ace of Base, perhaps?” I grinned as I poked fun at the stoic agent.
“Well, I-I, uh,” Dodson faltered.
“Oh, I know. You’re more of a Broadway show tunes type of person, aren’t you?” I continued to jest. “Or maybe that new trap music is more your flavor?”
“Mr. Stone, let’s get back to the task at hand,” the agent said sternly and raised one eyebrow before she let a half-smile escape her frowning lips.
“Got it,” I nodded. “Trap music it is.”
Dodson groaned loudly. “Anyway,” she continued, and pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the picture of the greaseball, “recently our undercover agent came across some new information that indicated Cooper Sheridan and a few other members of R.o.D were involved. I can’t release any more at this point, but the evidence points strongly in Cooper’s direction.”