by Dave Derin
“Okay, well what about the girl?”
“Oh, little miss Susanna?” Dodson simpered. “We did a little digging and found out she was the only staff member who was on each flight.”
Susanna? The name seemed familiar. Did I used to date a Susanna?
She leaned forward and held my gaze. “She’s a flight attendant, and during the other two explosions, she’d been at the back of the plane in the food preparation area and wasn’t harmed at all; however, during the last explosion, she was injured. Only a flesh wound, a busted leg or something, I think.”
“They’re holding her at Baylor until she’s cleared for transport, but she shouldn’t expect to see the outside of those bars for quite some time,” Dodson stated confidently and shut the case file with a snap.
“What about the other guy? Sheridan?” I leaned back into the faded marigold padding of her office chair.
“His whereabouts are currently unknown. We have a BOLO out on him, so I’m sure we’ll have him in custody soon. The streets of Dallas talk.”
“And how is Sheridan related to Susanna?”
“Apparently they used to date, even though she denies it; but the truth will come out eventually. Once she’s cleared medically, we’ll start the real interrogation.”
I sat forward in the creaky wooden chair and leaned my elbows against my knees as I examined the pictures a little closer.
Small type at the bottom of the photo read “Susanna Jenkins”. She really was stunning. A natural redhead with big, round green eyes and full lips. She looked like a large wild cat, especially with that magnificent mane of auburn curls.
I looked up to see Dodson glaring at me from across the desk.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” she asked curtly and narrowed her deep blue eyes at me.
“I suppose so, yes. What evidence do you have connecting her to the bombs?” I tried to change the subject.
She scowled at me with snake-like eyes, then stood up and slammed the case file shut.
“That’s classified, Mr. Stone,” she stated, and began to walk around her desk toward my chair. She extended an arm to the door, an obvious signal it was time for me to leave.
“Alright then, thank you for your time, Special Agent Dodson,” I rose from my chair and slipped my phone back into my pocket. Then I held out my hand to shake hers, and she gruffly grabbed it again.
“Yes. Please don’t waste it again,” she retorted, crossed her arms, and stared me down until I started to walk toward the door. I gave a little wave over my shoulder as I made my way back down the stairs to the downstairs lobby.
The friendly guard from before saw me coming and started laughing as I walked down the hallway. I smiled at him widely and shot him a wink down the hall.
“So, how did it go?” he asked through bursts of laughter. Tears started to form at the corners of his eyes when he saw the aggravated expression on my face.
“Well, it went,” I said sourly and walked around the exit side of the metal detector to join him at the reception desk. I noticed that the large guard’s name badge read “Randy”.
“How well do you know Special Agent Dodson, Randy?”
“Aw, as well as any doorman knows the big bosses. I see her come and go, that’s about it,” the barrel-chested man explained. “Always the first one in and the last to leave.”
“I should have guessed,” I replied with a grin. “Alright, well I’m outta here. You have a good one now, Randy, ya’ hear?” I nodded to him and bustled to the front door.
I felt my phone buzz as I received a new message and pulled it up on my phone. A text from Elizabeth read, URGENT - Call me before the meeting! I practically ran to my car, put the key in the ignition and immediately called Elizabeth on the car’s speaker. I glanced down at the time.
4:47 p.m. Well, at least Dodson is efficient.
I tapped my foot impatiently as the phone rang for what seemed like forever.
“Hey, boss,” Elizabeth’s small voice answered.
“Liz, what--”
“I know, I know, I know,” Elizabeth sputtered. “I’m sorry, John, we just found out, and I knew you’d probably already be in that meeting. It’s almost like she intentionally timed it that way.”
I groaned and rubbed my face with both hands. My head pounded as I leaned it back against the headrest. I really needed to get some actual sleep.
“Okay. It’s not your fault. Wait, are you back at the office? I thought I told you to go home?”
“Yeah,” she said with a sigh,” Swinger needed all hands on deck.”
“Listen, Liz, tell Swinger I’ve got to get some rest if he wants me to be worth anything tomorrow. I’m running on less than 4 hours of sleep,” I told her as I pulled out of the parking lot and hopped on the interstate to head home.
My eyes blurred as I watched the exit signs pass by me. I let my brain’s auto pilot take over as I headed toward my apartment, pulled into the garage, and parked close to the elevator. I threw open my car door and all but tumbled out of my car. I shuffled toward the elevator, pressed the call button, and sighed with relief as the doors immediately slid open.
I pressed the button for floor fourteen, leaned against the cool, reflective metal walls of the elevator, and felt it begin to creep upward. The doors once more slid open, and I numbly unlocked my front door before I kicked off my shoes. Then I stumbled down the hallway, shed the rest of my clothes down to my boxers, and threw my phone on its charging station next to my bed.
I made my way to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Yuengling from the fridge, and then slowly shuffled to the black leather couch in my vaulted living room. I flipped on the 56” flat screen television mounted on the wall and changed it to the local news channel. My body felt heavy as I sunk into the leather cushion and turned up the TV’s volume.
“Susanna Jenkins, one of the main suspects in this week’s Central United States Airline bomb plot, has officially been charged with conspiracy, carrying a weapon or explosive on an aircraft, and disregard for human life. She faces a maximum prison sentence of thirty years if served consecutively,” a somber gray-haired man read from the teleprompter.
I shot up from the couch and moved to stand in front of the TV so I could get a better view. A picture that must have been provided by the airline appeared on the screen. A smiling Susanna dressed in her deep blue flight attendant uniform had pinned her unruly, curly hair into a low bun and wore minimal makeup. She didn’t need any makeup, really. Her porcelain skin was flawless, and her hourglass figure was exaggerated by the outfit’s cinched waist. Her long, toned legs were posed perfectly and she wore matching navy blue pumps. She was simply stunning.
“Jenkins is currently being treated for injuries at Baylor Medical Center in Dallas, and will be transferred to a detention center once she is cleared for medical release,” the newscaster continued as I stared at Susanna’s beautiful image on the screen.
It was difficult for me to believe that someone who appeared so innocent and pure could be capable of such horrors. I knew there must be more to this story and vowed to discover why this mysterious redhead’s heart-shaped face haunted my thoughts.
Chapter 3
The persistent screech of a bird outside my bedroom window woke me. I covered my ears, opened my eyes cautiously, and was nearly blinded by the sunlight that streamed violently through the open window curtains. I shielded my eyes with my left hand and turned over to check my phone.
6:55 a.m.
Damn. I’d slept for a solid twelve hours.
I sat up in bed, twisted to each side to crack my back, threw off the covers, turned again to face the window, and gingerly placed my feet on the gray distressed bamboo floor. The coolness felt refreshing on my toasty feet, and I let out a sigh of pleasure as I wiggled my toes.
I picked up my phone from the bedside table and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I walked toward the kitchen. I opened the red oak cabinet above my Keurig, grabbed a glass, and filled it with crystal clear
filtered water from the fridge. When it was full, I chugged the whole glass.
I gasped for breath as the icy liquid pierced my stomach. I was super dehydrated, so I filled the glass again half way, strode toward the den, and flipped the TV on to the news.
“Three recent airline explos--” I changed it to the next news channel.
“We learned today a young woman named Susanna Jenkins was arrested for--” I turned the TV off.
I sighed deeply, slouched down on the couch, set my phone on the coffee table, and took a sip of my water. I sat straight up and almost choked on my water when I recalled where I recognized the name Susanna.
Roland Dodge. That was the name of the flight attendant Roland had been hitting on.
I grabbed my phone off the glass coffee table and dialed “The Ro-Man”.
“Yo, yo, yo, talk to me Big Guy,” Roland answered with his heavy Brooklyn accent.
“Hey Ro, so listen, what did you say the name of that redhead on the flight was?
“Ah, it was Susanna, pretty sure. I remember because I kept singing that old Oh Susanna song to her,” the oblivious blonde man chuckled. “Why? You sure didn’t want to hear about her the other day.”
“I know, sorry dude, but I just met with that FBI investigator, and I need to speak with you pronto. In person would be best. You wanna grab lunch at Chef Wang’s around 12:30?”
“You got it, man. I’m about to head to the office, but I’ll see you for lunch,” the New York native replied.
“Great, see you then,” I confirmed and hung up the phone.
Chef Wang’s was my favorite little Chinese joint down on Main Street in downtown Dallas. The glass windows that lined the storefront boasted three neon red signs: Mandarin, Szechuan, Hunan. The inside of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant was painted solid white with minimalist paintings that splashed some color on the otherwise pure white walls. My mouth watered as I thought about their Mongolian beef, but I pushed my hunger pangs aside and focused on the task at hand.
I stood up and dialed Elizabeth on speaker as I paced around my spacious den. Estelle, my interior decorator, was an artistic genius. She’d met with me only once for maybe ten minutes, and in that short time she was accurately able to gauge my design likes, dislikes, and interests outside of the legal field.
She’d selected rich blues, black, chrome, and pale gray to incorporate in the design of the living room. A six-foot-long abstract painting with smears of red, blue, and gray was mounted above the gas log fireplace that I rarely used. It was there just for looks.
Who used a fireplace in Texas, anyway?
Estelle had a mantle installed above the fireplace, elegant Blue Violet black marble with dramatic streaks of silver, custom ordered from Tino’s, to finish the modern design. For her final touch, she lined the mantel with French vanilla scented decorative candles.
How did Estelle know I loved the scent of vanilla? Claire always wore an amber and vanilla fragrance that drove me crazy.
I paced over to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony and listened to the phone ring as I gazed out into the lush green forest that expanded behind my apartment complex. The dense collection of Texas ash, wide-canopied sycamore, white oak, and a few flowering redbud trees created a dazzling myriad of greens, browns, yellows, and pinks.
My back balcony also overlooked a trickling creek scattered with moss-covered stones and delicate ferns that weaved its way through the wooded acres. Estelle had selected an exquisite mother-of-pearl inlaid patio set with chrome finishings that fit perfectly on the modest porch. The two short-backed chairs had weatherproof cushions with black and silver stripes that flawlessly matched the table and chairs.
I turned to face the fireplace and continued to listen to the phone ring.
Where is she?
“Hello?” A voice croaked on the other end of the line.
“Liz? You sound awful. Are you sick?”
“I don’t know boss,” she squeaked out before she erupted into a fit of coughs. “I’ve got some kind of crud, that’s for sure. I was actually ab--” she started to hack again so loudly I held the phone away from my ear.
“Elizabeth, stay home. I mean it. I swear if I see you at the office today, you’re fired,” I jokingly chided her. “But seriously, Liz, please stay home and rest. It’ll be a struggle without you at the office, but we can’t have everyone catching whatever it is you have.”
“I really appreciate it, boss. I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise,” Elizabeth replied as she sniffled and blew her nose raucously.
“Just call me in the morning and let me know how you’re feeling first, okay? Make sure those germs are completely out of your system before you come and infect the entire office,” I cajoled.
She laughed and broke out into another coughing spell.
“Okay, okay, you get back in bed immediately, you hear me young lady?”
“You got it, boss,” she wheezed and hung up the phone.
Great. Liz was always such a generous assistant and deserved as much time as she needed to rest; but I was not looking forward to facing Swinger without her by my side today.
I almost thought that he may have wanted our client CUSA to be involved, just so he could pad his pockets a little thicker.
I checked my phone: 7:16 a.m.
I lumbered back to the kitchen, set my phone on the sleek gray counter, and made a strong cup of coffee. I reached for the seven-grain bread in a wooden bowl on top of my fridge, grabbed two slices, and popped them in the toaster. I relished the warm vapor rising from my mug and took a small sip of the steaming Colombian coffee.
I stood quietly and stared at the rising cloud of steam, dazed for a moment, and jumped when the toaster launched my browned bread from its top.
I grabbed a paper plate from a lower cabinet, took some ghee from the fridge, and spread it generously on each slice. I don’t care what anyone says. Local ghee tastes like the best butter you’ve ever had, on steroids.
I savored the last few bites of my thickly sliced toast and finished my coffee before I padded down the hallway to the master bathroom. I started the shower to let it heat up as I felt the towel hanging on the rack.
Eh, dry enough.
I slipped off my boxers, thankful again for the heated floors, and stepped into the misty rainforest shower. I squirted some peppermint and tea tree three-in-one wash on my pouf and started to scrub my chest.
Yes. I use a pouf.
Once, when we were more on than off, Claire insisted that washcloths were disgusting, grime-filled stink sacks, threw all of mine away, and gave me one of those sponge things to use instead.
I didn’t hate it.
I finished up, stepped out of the shower and leaned over the sink to check out my stubble. I was cursed with very thick, dark hair and had to shave twice per day just to look fresh.
I gave myself a quick shave, splashed on my Proraso’s, and breathed the familiar aroma in deeply. I made my way back to the bedroom, grabbed some socks and boxers from my oak chest of drawers, and slipped them on.
I sat on my bed and ran my fingers along the silky edge of the navy blue down comforter.
Now that CUSA was in the clear, I could focus on familiarizing myself with Ames’ caseload. That was actually a pretty exciting thought.
I mentally flipped through my closet as I laid back on the bed. I shut my eyes and imagined how Claire would look sprawled next to me, her long golden blonde hair draped across her pale, round breasts, her ruby red lips spread into a smile.
I opened my eyes and sat straight up on the edge of the bed. My damp hair had left a dark stain on the comforter. I retrieved the outfit I’d mentally selected from my closet: a light gray suit, white collared shirt, and silver pinstripe tie. I speedily threw it on and laced up my black Oxfords.
I walked back through the kitchen, grabbed a travel mug, and started another Keurig pod. I’d need a little more caffeine to get me through this morning.
The machine hiss
ed and sputtered as it finished brewing. I screwed the lid on the cup, grabbed my keys, and headed toward the front door.
Maybe I’ll see the mysterious Katerina again.
I pressed the elevator call button and took a sip from my chrome travel mug. The scalding liquid burned my bottom lip, and I let out a small gasp as the pain struck me.
The elevator opened to reveal a tiny Asian woman in a white and yellow tennis outfit holding a racket and gym bag. A small boy, obviously her son, stood at her feet and held tightly to his mother’s leg.
“Going down?” I asked as I nursed my bottom lip.
“Sure am. Hop on in,” the mother replied cheerfully.
We rode the elevator down in silence as I avoided taking another sip of my tempting, but too hot, coffee. The young child, who was impeccably dressed in green plaid shorts, a matching green polo shirt, and a white visor, glanced up at me every few seconds.
I made a goofy face and crossed my eyes at him, and he giggled loudly. His mother turned to me and smiled. “He rarely interacts with strangers. I think he likes you.”
We reached the garage level, and the mother and son headed left toward a silver Land Rover. The small boy turned and waved at me as they were leaving, and I gave a silly Forest Gump-style wave back. He squealed with delight and released a boisterous laugh.
I grinned to myself as I turned right and clicked the key fob to unlock my door. I slid into the driver’s seat, cranked up the car, turned the air conditioning to high, and switched the radio to channel 92.5.
KZPS, best known as Lonestar 92.5, was the only local radio station I listened to. It played only the best classic rock, and this morning the bluesy bass tones of Johnny Cash blessed the airways.
I turned the radio up as I backed out of the parking spot and exited the garage. The brilliant sunlight nearly blinded me as I pulled from the shaded comfort of the garage and onto the street. I opened the storage vessel on the top of my car, grabbed my Michael Kors aviators, and put them on.
Claire always joked that these blue aviators made me look like Tom Cruise in Top Gun.
I smiled as I thought about Claire. Her laugh. The way the light bounced off her hazel eyes and made them look blue or lavender, but sometimes emerald green.