“Yes, you will,” she agreed.
“Where do you want this thing?” Toby asked from the door.
“Anywhere is fine, as long as everyone can see. Did you remember to bring markers?”
“Yeah, Mitchell did.”
Mitchell pulled them out of his front pocket and placed them at the head of the table, then settled back in his chair.
“Okay, let’s start by listing what facts we know.” Edmondson quickly filled one side of the white surface with the details. “Now, here’s what we suspect.” He covered a considerable area on the opposite side, with the things discussed earlier. “Then, there are the things we know from other cases.” He filled in the middle section, pausing once in a while to recall a characteristic or check notes from a file. Ten minutes later, the board was full.
Toby leaned back to take it all in. Melba stood and walked closer to the board, reading the bold block print:
Fantasies/Power-Success; Grandiose/Self-Importance; No empathy; Envious; Reactive to Criticism; Abusive; Believes/Special; Requires Admiration/Excessive; Interpersonal Expert; Low Self-Esteem; Craves Notice/Approval; Seductive; Weird Humor; Misunderstood; Playacting; Unusual Eating Habits; Skewed Family relationships/attachments.
“That’s quite a list, Agent. Some of those descriptions could apply to most of us.”
“You’re right, of course. I, for example, like bananas on my peanut butter sandwich. Some people classify that as weird. However, I do not onlyeat peanut butter/banana sandwiches, nor do I insist on the bananas being sliced while wearing yellow shoes. Take another example. I know I have special skills—after all, I am a Special Agent. But I don’t consider myself to be so special that the world owes me something. I’m not so special that I believe I’m entitled to act out in unacceptable ways and have my behavior overlooked or covered up.”
“So, it’s just a matter of degree?”
“No, not quite. It is more of a matter of extremes, and the combination of key characteristics. If I ate those delicious sandwiches because my uncle fed them to me as a child while he was nude and touching me inappropriately, and then punished me for wanting something else to eat, I might develop a need to please, tied to food and sexual behavior. If this ceased to garner positive attention from the person upon whom I’d fixated, then I might become enraged and resentful. I might decide to destroy the produce section of the grocery store to make sure no bananas were available. I might crave bananas desperately when none were available, and do anything possible to obtain one. I might kill the next person I saw eating one. I might kidnap a person with a reasonable or imagined resemblance to my uncle and force them to shower me with praise while feeding me banana sandwiches.”
Toby studied the whiteboard intently, turning the combinations over in his mind. “I think what you’re illustrating is the relationship between the triggers and the behaviors that result from them. Like an abused child craving approval, sometimes even wanting to be treated badly because of a need for parental affection. The child then grows up and repeats the cycle.”
“Exactly.”
“Then, who do you think we’re looking for?”
“That’s the real question. There are two possibilities in my mind right now. The first is we’re looking for a primarily commercial-based operation supplying a demand. In that instance, acquiring wealth is the overriding objective, although members of the operation may have other goals. The person at the top is usually only concerned with the bottom line, and avoiding discovery and prosecution.”
Melba nodded her agreement. “That fits what I know about these operations. What’s the second possibility?”
“In that scenario, we’re dealing with a person, or persons, seeking validation. Needing to feel like they’ve succeeded. Maybe they’ve surrounded themselves with an entourage of sorts, tasked to handle the grunt work. They’re sure they’re scoring a coup against someone, or something. They become violent and break their toys when displeased or disappointed. They may even be amused by destruction, and find entertainment in it. They’re probably not worried about being discovered, because they know themselves to be smarter than anyone else.”
“Which do you think we’re dealing with?”
Edmondson studied the board for a moment, and slowly capped the marker and placed it on the table. He rotate his shoulders as he thought and walked slowly back to his chair. “Ms. Reightman, I hope I’m wrong, but I think we’re dealing with a combination of the two.”
“Why?”
“The barcodes indicate planning and experience. That and the number of children missing within a small demographic area make me believe this is a commercial enterprise. The treatment of those two girls before their deaths points to something else. No well-run operation dumps a body in an alleyway. A well-run operation would have made sure no trace of these victims was ever found. A purely commercial enterprise wouldn’t have tortured the merchandise. They would have applied discipline, but not to that extreme. No. This is a hybrid, and that’s worse.”
“Agent Edmondson, why is a hybrid worse?”
“Because the known patterns don’t apply as cleanly, Toby. It’s harder to predict a course of action. It’s more difficult to follow the trail unless we get lucky and mistakes are made by our target. It might be impossible to cut off the head of the snake. This may be entirely too big for this team.”
The words sank in and the atmosphere in the room became oppressively somber. Each of them studied the board, reflecting on Edmondson’s words.
“There’s something you should know, Agent Edmondson,” Toby’s voice broke through the quiet.
“What’s that?”
“We’re a pretty lucky bunch.”
“You and Ms. Reightman?”
“Yeah, but Mitchell, too.” He gestured to the board and the notes on the table. “I get it. This is bad. Awful. But we’ve seen bad, Agent. Probably not as much as you, but we’ve seen more than our share. Here’s the thing:not only is the Reightman and Bailey Agency prepared to do whatever we can to help, but Melba and Zhou Li and I will do everything humanly possible to see this through. You see, one of those missing girls is the daughter of our friend. Melba already told you—it’s personal.”
“I appreciate that, Toby,” Edmondson replied, condescension thick in his voice. “And I’m sure you’ve been in what seemed to be some pretty tight spots. But, this is serious. This is about people who will kill, not about tailing a husband who defaulted on his child support payment or hunting down which convenience store clerk is lifting cash from the till. This is life and death stuff. I can’t allow vigilantism. Get it through your heads now —you aren’t free agents.” All signs of the once affable team leader disappeared under his barrage, and now, his speech was a collection of curt commands. “You will do everything by the book and according to plan. Agent Garfield and I are in charge every step of the way. Don’t go off half-cocked and don’t mess this up. Have I made myself clear?”
“You know what, Special Agent Edmondson?” Toby stood from the table and leaned forward with his hands on the polished wood surface. “I may not be a cop or work for the FBI, but I’m not stupid. Neither is my partner. You obviously don’t know a single thing about us, or what our personal definition of bad is. If you don’t want or need our help, fine. But get this: neither of us has given you any reason to use the superior tone you just whipped out and tried to beat us with. We’re professionals. I get that this falls under your jurisdiction. I understand there has to be a plan. But do not trivialize the fact that one of these girls is like family to us. Now, I think you need to pack up your things and leave. If you decide you can’t incorporate us into your team like valued and respected resources, just let us know. I’m sure Melba knows where to send the bill for our time this afternoon.”
Melba’s stoic face as she rose and stood by his side gave no hints about what she was thinking, but Toby was reassured by her presence. She gave Edmondson a moment of narrow-eyed consideration before turning
to Mitchell. “I think you know the way out, Detective Mitchell. I’ll leave it to you to escort our visitor. We’ll see you at the party, if not before.”
“Thanks, Ms. Reightman.”
She shook her head. “No, Mitchell. To you, it’s Melba. You earned the right to call me by my first name last fall when you took those bullets.” She reached out and clasped his hand for a second. After another glance at the Federal Agent standing in her conference room, she turned and followed Toby out the door.
Mitchell gathered up his notes and waited silently as Edmondson stuffed his files back in his briefcase. He allowed the agent to precede him out of the conference room. He waved goodbye to SarahJune while holding open the front door.
Once they were buckled up and headed back to headquarters, Edmondson looked out the window and took in the view of the State House. “That went well,” he commented. “Don’t you think?”
“I’d prefer not to comment, sir.”
Neither of them spoke another word on the way back to headquarters.
***
“How was your day?” Amanda Edmondson asked, while struggling to get a particularly stubborn cork out of a dusty bottle of red wine.
“Typical Monday, I guess. Somewhat productive, somewhat not,” her brother replied. “Do you want me to do that? You’re mangling it, and there will be little chunks of cork floating in it —if you ever get it opened.”
“I’m perfectly capable of opening a bottle of wine, Allen. I’m just out of practice. Since so many wineries have switched to screw-tops, I can usually find something perfectly acceptable that doesn’t require so much work. I prefer to drink a nice, crisp white, but since we’re having beef, I thought a red would be nice.”
“Looks like that particular bottle’s been around for a while. You sure it hasn’t turned to vinegar?”
Amanda eased up on the corkscrew and considered the bottle. “It’s only been in the wine rack a few years. I forgot about it until tonight. Like I said, I usually drink white. Here,” she huffed as she handed it over. “If you’re going to be critical, do it yourself.”
“That remark fits perfectly with the rest of my day,” he commented as he repositioned the device and gave it a few twists of the wrist. The cork eased out of the bottle, and he inspected the damage, before sniffing the wine and pouring an inch or so into a waiting glass. He swirled the deep red liquid around a few times and took a cautious sip. “It’s not too bad, but needs to breathe for a while. Do you have a decanting carafe?”
“That’s a stupid question. Have I ever struck you as a person who’d have something like that? I’m not even sure exactly what one is. Would a juice pitcher work?”
“It wouldn’t be ideal, but it would work. Do you own a juice pitcher?”
“Hang on. I think I might.”
He hung on, smiling as she knelt down on the kitchen floor and opened a lower cabinet. She worked her way through two or three before pulling herself up off the floor and starting on the top row of storage. “Found it!” she exclaimed in triumph, brandishing the object in one hand. “I knew I had one.”
“It’s plastic and…dusty.”
“The dust will wash off.”
“But, it’s still plastic. We can’t decant wine into a plastic pitcher.”
“Oh. Will it eat through?”
“No…”
“Will it give it a funny taste?”
“No.”
“Then, what’s the problem?” She ran it under the tap, added some dish soap to a handy sponge, and gave it a quick cleaning. After a few shakes and a swipe with a towel, she handed it over. “Just dump it in, baby brother, and stop being so persnickety. After all that, I need a drink.”
He slowly emptied the bottle’s contents into the offensive container and, after picking out a few bits of floating cork, gave the pitcher a swirl or two and filled the glasses. He handed one to his sister and held up his own by the stem. “Here’s to you, sis. Thanks for letting me camp out in your spare closet…I mean bedroom.”
“Anytime, Allen. But you have to help me put the hanging rack back together before you leave.”
“I hate to ask, but why exactly do you hang clothes in the guestroom?”
“Because I have more clothes than closets. These older houses don’t have much storage. Usually, I move the winter things up to the attic and the summer things into my bedroom closet once the weather changes. But it’s been unseasonably cold up until the last few days, and I needed some of both. Hence, the hanging rack.”
“I guess there’s a weird sort of logic to that.”
“I specialize in weird logic.”
He smiled in agreement and raised is glass in anther mock toast. “Hey, how do you know Toby Bailey? I met him today and realized he and his partner are throwing the party you mentioned.”
“Where’d you run into him?”
“At his office. They may be doing some consulting work for the Bureau, if I haven’t ticked them off too badly.”
“One day in town and you’re already making friends, I see. Did you pull your big-shot, Federal Agent act again?”
“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
She took a sip of wine, and looked at him with one raised brow. “Allen, I love you dearly, but you can be a smug ass. You think asserting your authority is the answer to everything. I know, I know,” she forestalled his ready response with one raised hand. “It’s part of the job. But being a pompous jerk right off the bat isn’t the best way to make friends and influence people, at least if you want their willing cooperation or need their help. I’ve been saying for years that you need to learn to ease up a little. You don’t have anything to prove anymore. I just hope you haven’t screwed the pooch. There are some fuck-ups from which it’s difficult to recover.”
He gave his sense of affront a minute to settle, and pushed down the automatic indignation that lurked just beneath the surface. He swirled the wine in the glass, and stared down into its ruby depths. “Maybe you’re right,” he eventually conceded. “So, how do you know Toby?”
“Ummm…small city and all. You know.”
He studied her innocent expression, seeing through it pretty quickly. After all, he’d learned to recognize all of his big sister’s ‘tells’ a long time ago. “He’s one of your clients, isn’t he?”
“You know I can’t answer that, Allen.”
“You do realize that was, in itself, an answer.”
She chose to take another drink in response. “Who else did you meet today?”
“Let me see…Chief of Police Ernest Kelly—we hit it off right away. Thorton and Mitchell, the detectives who’ve been working the case. Melba Reightman, of course, given she’s Mr. Bailey’s partner. And the cutest little old lady. A Madame Zhou Li. You happen to know her?”
“You met Zhou Li? Wow. That’s impressive for your first day. I don’t know her personally, but I certainly know of her. She’s pretty much a legend in some circles.”
“Oh? Anything you can share?
“I could, but I won’t. There wouldn’t be any fun in that. I’m sure you can find out plenty if you put your mind to it.” She regarded him over the rim of her glass. “And you should. In fact, it might be a nice piece of after-school homework for you to do a little digging on all of them.”
“Hmmm.” He knew he wouldn’t get anything more out of her. She could keep her cards very close to her chest. “So, when will dinner be ready?”
She shrugged. “Whenever we decided to head out.”
“I thought you were cooking? You said we were having beef, which then led to the epic wine bottle battle.”
“Allen, I don’t cook unless it’s a national emergency. I gave it up as a New Year’s resolution…about six years ago. But we are having beef, because dear brother, you’re taking me out to the best streak house in the city. You’re already dressed to impress with your spiffy black suit and I haven’t changed out of my work clothes, so we’ll fit right in.”
&
nbsp; “Sounds fancy.”
“For here, I suppose it is.”
“Is this going to hurt my wallet?”
“Yes, of course,” she grinned. “But I’m worth it.”
“You are, indeed.”
The steaks were pretty good, although the hot, almost molten chocolate lava cake had the meat beat, at least in Allen’s opinion. Once they were satiated and in for the night, he fired up his laptop and logged in to do a little research.
Three hours later, he realized he had been a pompous ass. His tentative little task force had indeed seen ‘bad.’ Mitchell was a hero, decorated by the mayor. The notes on his personal life were enlightening, and the hints Edmondson had picked up throughout the day now made perfect sense. Former Detective Reightman was apparently a force of nature when she set her mind to it, and from what he could decipher from her file, it was a pretty impressive mind. Toby Bailey was no slouch, either. He was untrained, but damn, he’d taken down a man tied to several high-profile assassinations. He didn’t know many trained agents who would have made it out of the jam they’d been in last fall.
Kelly’s file was instructive, as well. The Police Chief had serious skeletons in his closest, raising a few concerns which might warrant further investigation sometime in the future.
However, the most interesting read of all was the information on Madame Zhou Li. Not only was she surprisingly wealthy, but she was also extremely well-connected. He’d had to reread a couple of entries to make sure he’d correctly read the names of people counted among her associates and friends. If she ever decided it was time for someone to go down, they’d feel every bump and bruise before they hit rock bottom. Must surprising of all, there wasn’t a single negative entry or a whiff of corruption or shady doings. She certainly didn’t fit the profile of a wealthy entrepreneur and apparently had chosen long ago to live modestly, without fanfare or excessive attention. He wondered if her partners had any idea of her real power.
Edmondson rubbed his eyes and shut down the laptop. Amanda was right. His pride and arrogance had jumped the fence. He’d fucked up, and for the first time in more years than he could remember, he didn’t have a clue how to recover. He turned the problem over in his mind as he stood and emptied his pockets out onto the dresser. Crawling underneath the covers, he came to the conclusion there was only one option. “It’s time to eat a big serving of crow, Allen.” Too bad he’d never found a way to prepare the dish so it was easily digestible. Still, an apology was called for, and Allen Edmondson never backed down from doing what needed to be done.
Skin Puppet: Reightman & Bailey Book Three Page 29