Remote Control

by Stephen White

  “I promised the friends who helped me last night that I would stay with them or with somebody else until this settles out.”

  “Good friends? Do I need to check them out?”

  “Good friends, Kevin. They’re fine.”

  “Why don’t you give me their names, just to be sure.”

  Emma smiled self-consciously, fought an urge to shoot a glance at Lauren. “No, not now, Kevin. It’s not necessary or possible.”

  “Okay, I’m relieved to hear that you’re with somebody, but I want to see your house, or wherever you’re actually living. Can your friends stay with you until I get there?”

  Emma covered the mouthpiece and turned to Lauren. “He wants to see my house. Can you come by after work and stay with me? He doesn’t want me to be alone there until he assesses the situation.”

  “Of course,” Lauren said.

  Emma mouthed “Thank you” to Lauren and spoke back into the phone. “Yes, Kevin, my friend says it’s fine. Let me give you directions.”

  It was nearly seven that evening when Kevin Quirk pressed Emma’s doorbell.

  Lauren answered. “Mr. Quirk?” She held out her hand.

  “Yes, Kevin Quirk.” He reached out and took her hand, squeezed it gently, trying to mask his surprise. He had been assuming that Emma’s friend was a man. The woman at the door was about his age, with eggshell skin and silky black hair that fell in a straight line to her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of coal smoke.

  “Hello, I’m Lauren Crowder, a friend of Emma’s. Thanks for coming by. I’ve been worried about her.”

  Emma came running to the front of the house with her hair wet from the shower. “Kevin! Kevin!”

  She leapt into his arms, her momentum carrying them both around in a complete arc. To Lauren, Kevin Quirk didn’t seem to be at all surprised at the exuberance of Emma’s greeting. He hugged her enthusiastically, managing to get his fingers entangled in her wet hair.

  The man was solid. That’s the word that came to Lauren’s mind. This body had been designed by an engineer, not an artist. No wasted curves or bulges. Kevin Quirk had a big forehead and a prominent chin and small eyes. For these initial moments at least, those eyes were only for Emma. Lauren caught herself looking for a wedding band on his left hand, found one.

  He was married. She thought that he looked married.

  Considering the exuberance of the greeting she had just witnessed, she wondered whether he would act married.

  “You look great,” he said, to Emma. He was holding her at arm’s length, shaking his head back and forth, just a little bit, like a proud uncle.

  “You too, Kevin,” Emma said. “Look at you, you’re letting your hair grow out. I told you it would look much better. You look a lot less like a marine than you used to.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the back of the house. “Come on in, please.”

  The house was barely furnished. Emma noticed Kevin looking around at the emptiness.

  “I still don’t have much furniture, do I, Kev? All of my parents’ stuff is still in storage. I’m usually so busy I hardly notice. You must be starved. Let me get you something. Do you want a beer?”

  “You haven’t changed, have you, Emma?” As usual, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. His tone was approving. “If it’s no trouble, I’d love a beer. It’s a long drive up from the Springs.”

  Emma grabbed a bottle of Fat Tire from the refrigerator and brought it over to the sofa with a bowl of tortilla chips and some salsa. She plopped sideways onto the couch, right next to him.

  He smiled to her once, said, “Thanks,” and turned to Lauren. “Are you and Emma friends from law school?”

  Lauren smiled. “Not exactly. Emma’s been doing an internship at the Boulder County District Attorney’s Office. We met there. I’m a deputy DA. I’ve been her supervisor for the past couple of months. We’ve become friends.”

  “Were you the one who was with her last night? During the assault?”

  “Yes, I was. My husband and I.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “It was terrifying. It all happened very quickly. I had walked to her car. I should have just waited one more minute while she got the car started and pulled out of the garage.”

  “She’s lucky you were there at all. God knows what they had in mind.”

  “I’m glad I was there.”

  “What do you think their intent was?”

  “Do you mean do I think they knew it was Emma they were kidnapping?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “I don’t know. Before they attacked her, they were acting like kids, just speeding around the garage on their bikes. Maybe they were just waiting for the right victim, any victim. If it had been someone else in that car, I would have said that the assault was half-impulsive, and that the victim was chosen purely at random, just the bad luck of being an unaccompanied female in that parking garage on that night. But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Emma. And because it was her, you can’t assume they didn’t recognize her. That would be absurd. So, the fact that it was Emma, that complicates things.”

  “Did they ever say her name?”

  “Not that I heard. I did, though, when I called out a warning to her when I saw one of them had a knife. Up until that moment they might have just been after her car.”

  “Emma, did they seem to know your name, to know who you were?”

  “Not that I remember, no. They never called me by my name.”

  “And they were definitely threatening to take you someplace else?”

  “Absolutely. The one kid said that at least a couple of times.”

  “Not just out of the garage?”

  “No, I had the feeling that they meant someplace else, they had a destination in mind.”

  Kevin concluded, “So it appears that they were after either the car or the woman. Not after money.”

  Lauren said, “I would agree with that. Though it still begs the question of whether they knew the identity of the woman they were kidnapping.”

  “You were all at a dinner party before this happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who knew? Emma, who did you tell? Who knew where you parked your car, where you would be last night, what time you would leave?”

  “I can’t think of anyone other than the people who were there, except for Jennifer, you remember my friend Jennifer? I still talk to her almost every day on the phone. I probably told her about the party, but she’s back east. And there’s a…there’s a guy I’ve been seeing. I’ve been parking in the same garage whenever I’ve been visiting him. The dinner party was at his house.”

  Lauren waited a moment to try to gauge Quirk’s reaction to Emma’s announcement that she was involved with someone. His face revealed nothing.

  Lauren said, “The guy she’s seeing is a prominent businessman here in Boulder. I don’t know if that might be important.”

  “Emma?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “He wouldn’t like that, being called a businessman. His name is Ethan Han. He owns a company called BiModal.”

  “Han, really? You’re dating Ethan Han? He’s kind of a darling right now, isn’t he? He’s what, from the Philippines or Taiwan or something? I know people in the Springs who can’t wait for him to take that company of his public. Is it serious?”

  “His work? Very, he takes it very seriously. And he’s Hawaiian, Kevin. As American as you or me.”

  “I meant the relationship, Emma. Is the relationship between the two of you serious?”

  Emma wasn’t sure how to answer. “I…I like him, Kevin. But we’ve only been going out a little while, a couple of weeks at the most.”

  “Do I need to check out his place, too? Are you spending nights there?”

  Lauren felt uneasy at the progression of the conversation. She realized she couldn’t tell whether the questions that Kevin was asking were personal or professional in nature. She wasn’t even sure whether or n
ot Kevin could have provided an honest answer to that question.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Lauren thought she detected the tiniest of sighs before Kevin Quirk stood up, loosened his tie, and said, “All right, show me around the house. Walk me through this alarm system. I can already tell you that the perimeter security is inadequate—you have too many trees, there’s not enough light, and there is unimpeded access from too many directions. We have some work to do.”

  The neighborhood was composed of upper-middle-class homes in a corner of town that was isolated against a huge expanse of greenbelt. Most of the neighborhood had been constructed ten to twenty years earlier, which had allowed plenty of time for shrubbery to mature, trees to grow, and fences to be built. Emma’s house was at the end of the block, high on a hill that abutted some of Boulder’s abundant open space. Her backyard was unfenced and seemed to flow right into the golden grasses of the steep meadow.

  Emma walked Kevin through the house and yard, pointing out what she knew about the alarm system, which she admitted to using “less than half the time.”

  “This won’t do, Emma.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He waved his arms in an arc. “What I mean is that your house is equipped to satisfy the security concerns of a typical neurotic suburban homeowner—you know, some guy who’s a little worried about burglary and anxious about some of the things he sees on the news. This level of security might be sufficient for him and might deter a few amateur burglars. But it isn’t sufficient for a house you’re living in. This alarm wouldn’t trip up a pro for more than a few moments.”

  “What do I need, Kevin?”

  “Bottom line is this: You need to move to someplace more easily protected.”

  “No.”

  “I figured you would say that. As an alternative, you need to move out while I get the security upgraded here.”

  “No.”

  “Then you need a bodyguard for a while.”

  “Damn. I knew you were going to say that.”

  THREE

  Friday, October 11. 9:25 P.M.

  Heavy Snow, 20 Degrees

  Although the circumstances were unfamiliar to Lauren, the interview room where she was being held at the police department was not. It was an institutional space about the size of a generous walk-in closet, decorated in a fashion more academic than penal. The decor was plain to the point of sterility; the room eerily quiet and windowless. Furnishings consisted of five aluminum arm chairs and a heavy laminated table. A big commercial tape recorder sat conspicuously on a built-in ledge in one corner.

  Shortly after Lauren’s phone call to Alan a female officer marched into the interview room with evidence bags and a pile of jail sweats. Lauren tried in vain to read the small rectangular name badge on the cop’s uniform. She tried looking left and then right, glancing back obliquely at the tag. But she couldn’t make out the letters, could barely locate the badge.

  “I need your clothes,” the woman said. Lauren thought the woman’s voice sounded youthful.

  “Why do you want my clothes?” Lauren asked, knowing why.

  “I’ve been instructed to retrieve your clothing as possible evidence.” The cop’s tone was devoid of sympathy, and her silhouette transformed into a hands-on-her-hips pose. She said, “Are you going to need some help complying with this?”

  Lauren wondered how this cop could be so young, yet already so embittered. The job? No, it wasn’t just that, couldn’t be. She figured her for two years on the job, tops.

  “Your clothes, ma’am. Now, please. I’m expecting some cooperation, here.”

  Although many details eluded her, Lauren could tell that the officer was tall and thin, the kind of thin that comes without effort. Her build and coloring reminded Lauren of her little sister Teresa. Like Teresa, this cop probably grabbed size fours off the rack without a moment’s reflection.

  Lauren couldn’t quite accept the fact that she was actually going to have to undress in front of this strange woman. She disrobed a garment at a time, pausing between each one, as though expecting a reprieve.

  There has to be a way to avoid this.

  Before unbuttoning her blouse, she hesitated once again.

  “Is this really necessary? I was wearing a coat. They already have that.”

  “I’m waiting for cooperation here, ma’am,” the cop said. “This is the easy way, believe me.”

  Lauren focused on the sensation of the fine fabric against her skin and tried to seal it in her memory as she folded each piece neatly before placing it near the brown paper evidence bags on the laminated tabletop. The cop patted down each garment as Lauren removed it and then slid each one into its own bag, keeping an inventory on a clipboard.

  “Can I keep my underwear?”

  The officer didn’t look her in the eye when she said, “Everything, ma’am. My orders are to retrieve all your clothing. Sergeant didn’t say anything about you keeping your underwear. We will supply whatever you need.”

  I need privacy. I need my husband. I need my lawyer. And I need the clock turned back twelve hours. Can you do that, Officer?

  Lauren reminded herself not to forget that one of her advantages, perhaps her only advantage, was that she was a lawyer. Curtly, she said, “I think you need a warrant to get my underwear.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have a compelling reason to seize my underwear without a search warrant, Officer. You’ll taint this entire evidence collection if you insist on that.”

  The cop didn’t look up from the clipboard. “That’s interesting information, ma’am. I’ll make note of it when I’m studying for my detective’s exam.”

  Lauren turned her back to the woman and reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. She slid it down her arms and immediately reached for the jail sweats to cover herself, pulling the sweatshirt down as far as she could over her hips before hooking her thumbs into the narrow waistband of her panties and sliding them to the floor. She realized, too, that she had just exposed her needle-bruised buttocks to the harsh fluorescent glare and the inquiring eyes of this young cop.

  The room was not warm but Lauren was sweating, and a bead of perspiration dripped from her armpit down her left side. It humiliated her further. She told herself to get angry, not embarrassed.

  She almost succeeded.

  An initial sign that maybe someone out there cared about her came when she pulled the sweatpants over her naked hips. The size was about right. The smell was fresh. The fabric was new. A small piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She and the officer reached for the paper at the same instant.

  “I’ll get that, ma’am. Stand back.” An order, not an offer.

  Lauren straightened up and adjusted the waistband of the sweatpants as the cop bent down to pick up the paper. Lauren realized she could make a fist with both hands and bring it down on the back of the cop’s head. She could picture the act clearly in her mind.

  The very thought of retaliating revived her. She reminded herself, I need to be prepared to fight.

  “Inspected by four. Hope that’s your lucky number, ma’am. For a second there, I thought some admirer out there might be slipping you a note or something.”

  Five minutes after the young woman left with the brown bags full of Lauren’s clothing the door to the interview room opened again. Lauren spotted a big person with a small head and short hair enter the room but couldn’t discern the facial features well enough to recognize identity or gender. She tried looking back sideways, bypassing the blind spot that seemed to be growing ever larger in the center of her visual field, and finally recognized that her new visitor was Sergeant Wendell Pons.

  Pons was the sergeant in the investigations division who she absolutely did not want to be supervising this case.

  Behind her back, she called him Windy. The man said nothing succinctly. He was a poster boy for redundancy. Here, she intended to call him “Sergeant.”

  “Hello, Ms. Crowder. Difficult ci
rcumstances, but good to see you, as always. Hello.”

  “Sergeant.” She was looking at the wall now, away from him, afraid how her eyes might appear to him as they darted around trying to find focus. She feared that he might think she was being intentionally disdainful of him.

  “I want to get your Miranda warning on tape again. You don’t mind? Just want to do it one more time, to be sure. I understand that Detective Malloy and you—”

  “That’s right, it’s been done. I understand my rights better than you do, and I’m sure you know that I’ve asked for an attorney.”

  “She’s on her way, your attorney. As a matter of fact, she faxed us this already. Said she’s coming down from Rollinsville. You don’t know anybody in town you could have used? I’m surprised.” He was holding a sheet of paper in her direction, shaking it so that it crackled like fire. “Hostile tone in this little note, don’t you think, the one from your lawyer? I was hoping we could all be friendly. You know, you a DA, maybe with somebody local helping us sort all this out. Somebody we know, somebody we can work with. But this isn’t too friendly. A fax. Hostile. I find them cold. Faxes. Don’t you? What’s wrong with a phone call? If you can fax, you can phone, right?”

  Lauren could see the white paper, but couldn’t read it, and couldn’t even tell if the side facing her was the side with the printing on it. She assumed it was a caustic warning from Casey to the cops that Lauren had retained her services and that her client had chosen to remain silent. Period.

  Given her clear embracing of her Fifth Amendment rights, and if the fax said what she thought it did, Lauren knew that Pons shouldn’t even be in the room with her.

  Well, if Pons wasn’t smart enough to back off, Lauren was willing to do her best to take advantage of his indiscretion. There were some things she wanted to know.

  “How is the man who was shot?”

  “The man you shot, you mean? That man?”

  “How is the injured man?”

  “Gut shot. Right through the belly. Clipped organs all over the place. Bowel, liver. Where did you get that round anyway? Doc operating on him says it opened up like a rosebud in July.” Wendell Pons pronounced the word “Jew-lye.”