“Mr. Fields must not have had a real appreciation for your efforts,” Mitchell assured him. “Now that we’ve established Jessica Fields was indeed a student here, we only have a couple of additional questions.”
Thirty minutes later, after extensive flattery, cajoling, and appealing to Wentsworth’s pride and sense of civic duty, they had what they needed. During the two month period before Jessica transferred to her new school, two students were reported missing. Wentsworth was able to confirm they’d each known Jessica, and all three spent time together, although not as a group. The girl’s names were Beth, and Lauren. After searching through various files, he provided pictures of both girls.
Toby was quiet on the way back to their car.
“What’s wrong?” Mitchell asked when they were both buckled up.
“It makes me sick,” Toby responded. “It’s pretty obvious someone used Jessica Fields to bait and trap those other girls—probably her dad. How could anyone do something like that?”
“I don’t know, Toby. I just hope…”
“What?”
“I just hope she wasn’t in on it. That would be really awful.”
***
To Jake Anthony, one of the most gratifying things about being a recognized celebrity was he seldom had to pay for any recreational substances. Beer, booze, and an assortment of drugs were his for the asking. They were gladly offered, and indeed, were pressed on him in hope he’d lend a little star shine to the providers of his party favors.
These days, Jake started his weekends early, usually on Wednesday. By Thursday evening, he’d slip into a kind of half-state of existence, carefully maintained by a steady intake of top-shelf vodka, some grade-A weed, and a line or two of coke —just to break things up and bring a bright burst of excitement to the night.
One thing he appreciated about this Podunk city—there were plenty of hangers-on to keep him well-supplied with whatever he desired, although the clubs and bars lacked the glamor of Hollywood and New York, and certainly were as far removed from Asia’s hot spots as could be imagined. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and as long as the members of his local fan club kept the praise and party supplies flowing, Jake wasn’t going to complain. It didn’t do a damn bit of good, and only started Jocasta off on a tangent. She’d been a real bitch since the night of that stupid party, and he’d had his fill. So what if he’d expressed his admiration for that adorable little girl? It wasn’t as if he’d fondled her in public. He’d just enjoyed himself a bit, all perfectly harmless and totally unfulfilling. If Jill had kept her damned mouth shut, no one would have even noticed his interest and certainly wouldn’t have commented. Now, Jocasta was riding his ass about everything, and he was done with her for a few days. Her endless voicemail messages were too tiresome to think about right now. Once she went a day or two without hearing from her precious boy, her tune would change.
He raised his newly filled glass and surveyed the lounge. The rooftop bar was still hopping for a Thursday. He counted his flock, and frowned. There seemed to be a couple of extras tonight. He squinted in the dim light, trying to focus. The men in the tailored suits reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what. He looked away, distracted by one member of his entourage who was suggesting they change locales and hit the downtown dance bar.
Jake shrugged, okay with the idea. As long as he didn’t have to drive or pay for anything, he was willing to go wherever. He followed his merry band to the elevator, waving and blowing kisses to the remaining patrons. They loved him.
He piled into the back of the SUV, and did a couple of lines on the way to the next stop of the evening.
The music was loud, and the crowd was pretty decent. He was suitably fawned over by the club’s manager, and was whisked past the small line waiting to get inside. It was pathetic turnout compared to party evenings of the past, but at least he wasn’t paying his own way, yet. Letting the music take him, he spun on the dance floor—shirt unbuttoned and almost falling from his shoulders. His head snapped around to the beat, and he found himself momentarily caught off-guard by the two familiar faces standing near the edge of the dance floor. He closed his eyes, trying to recall where he’d seen them. Ah, yes. The roof top bar, earlier the same evening. Something was still bothering him, though. Twirling a few more times and ignoring the laughter of his fawning tribe, he tried to focus. Shaking the moisture from his hair, he tugged his shirt back in place, and headed for the bar. The glass felt cold in his hand as he guzzled the first drink, needing the almost freezing jolt of vodka to snap his senses into place. The second drink was savored slowly while he considered the two men, chewing on a small cube of ice until his foggy brain made the pleasant connection. They were paparazzi!
That was the best news he’d had in a while. For the last few months, he’d been totally ignored by the press, which to him was like being dead and buried. Now, two journalists were hot on his tail. If their suits were any indication, they might even be staffers for a major publication. Usually, freelancers were a bit grubby, and these guys certainly weren’t that.
He ordered another drink, grinning in delight. He’d have to plan a show for his new personal gossip hounds. If they wanted a story, he’d give them one, and lead them on a merry chase besides. It was just going to take a little preparation. After all, this could put him back on the radar, and that was the first step to rebuilding his career. Any publicity was good publicity.
“Is this guy for real?” Agent Rob Montoya asked his partner as the totally trashed Jake Anthony whirled on the dance floor.
“Unfortunately, I think he is,” Special Agent Fred Sims answered. “At least, as real as Hollywood types ever are.” He watched the local groupies coalesce around their mark, ebbing and flowing, and then nodded. “Looks like the party’s getting ready to move again.”
“Where to?”
“I heard one of the blonds suggest they head over to one of the college hangouts.”
“Great,” Montoya grumbled. “I’ll go get the car.”
***
Jerome LeFavier liked his job. He’s been doing it for the last twenty-seven years and in three more, he’d take full retirement.
This site visit was the only one lined up for the day. After the final sign-off on the routine inspection was done, he was going to head back to his office, finish up some paperwork and then knock off early. Working for the city had its perks.
Jerome pulled on his coveralls and a pair of heavy, fire-rated boots and put on the city mandated hard hat. He dug out the day-glow orange vest from behind his pickup’s bench seat and pulled it on. He didn’t bother fastening it. This walkthrough shouldn’t take long.
Jerome retrieved his clipboard, his heavy gloves, and a few other tools he’d need and considered the wreckage in front of him.
“Used to be a pretty nice place,” he observed, making his way up the soot and ash-stained driveway. “Damn shame.”
He worked his way methodically through the remains of the house, moving in a grid-like pattern. Every few feet, he’d move rumble out of the way with his shovel and take a reading of the temperature with a probe. He recorded his findings on the three-part form, and moved on the next section.
Jerome checked the walls, occasionally marking a particularly weak section with tape, to alert the demo teams to compromised structural integrity. “At least this is a single story dwelling,” he told himself. He didn’t like inspecting multi-story burn-outs. There was usually a surprise or two with those jobs.
After completing the back section of the house, it was time for a break. He conscientiously marked his last section with a length of tape, and headed back to the truck for some water.
Taking the pressure off his back while leaned against the truck, Jerome studied the burned house in front of him. The job was now a little more than a third done. So far, everything was pretty much as expected. The back of the structure roof had remained pretty stable, but he’d be heading into the central portion of the house next
, where there’d been considerable damage. The roof had caved in near the center, so it would be slow-going.
He drained his cup of water and poured another from the bright yellow jug in the back of the truck. Once that was finished, he pulled on his gloves and started across the yard to the house. After he located his marker, he resumed his inspection. As he worked to the center of the house, he had to move more debris out of his way. His shovel took care of most of it, but occasionally, he used the hooked end of his crowbar to dislodge a stubborn board or pile of charred sheetrock. One section of the living area was giving him a lot of trouble. He considered just making a cursory sweep of the room, but Jerome took a lot of pride in his work. He kicked and shoved his way into the center of the space, frowning when he got to the middle. “Damn kids!” he swore to himself. “They don’t have any respect for authority.”
The area immediately in front of Jerome had obviously been disturbed. It wasn’t uncommon for neighborhood teenagers or vagrants to ignore the posted caution tape. They probably thought there was something to scavenge, although Jerome couldn’t think of a single thing valuable enough to risk a house falling in on you. Irritated at some folk’s stupidity, Jerome swung his crowbar forward to snag the pile of rumble in the middle of the room. The bright blue plastic covering confused him for a minute. It didn’t look smoke and flame damaged and thin plastic usually didn’t hold up well in a house fire. He swung the bar again, and froze when the curved, clawed end tore through the material and embedded itself in the contents. The meaty sound was something Jerome would remember for the rest of his life. He leaned forward, crouching down on his knees, twisting and pulling to untangle the crowbar. A small swarm of flies took flight, disturbed from their meal. Jerome swatted them away, working the implement back and forth. The plastic finally tore free, and Jerome landed on his ass with the unexpected release of his tool. “Dammit!” he swore as he picked himself up. He glared down at the bundle and gave it a sharp kick for good measure. He reached down to manhandle the thing out of the way, and the plastic ripped further, partially revealing the prize within and releasing the horrible stench of decomposing flesh and gas from bloated intestines.
Jerome heaved, unable to stop his retching. He stumbled from the house, dropping shovel, crowbar, and clipboard along the way. He pulled off his gloves, throwing them on the scorched, trampled lawn and floundered his way to the truck and leaned against the side, his chest rapidly rising and falling. Shaking hands unzipped the front of his coverall, and reached inside to retrieve his phone. After calling 911, Jerome LeFavier gulped down another cup of water and waited for the police to arrive. There’d be no early departure today.
***
“Come on, let’s go!” Mitchell shouted as he hurried through the front reception area.
Melba and Toby were hot on his heels. Toby was speaking into his phone, and Melba was fighting with her purse, trying to get it positioned more comfortably.
“Edmondson and Garfield are meeting us there,” Toby informed them on the way out the door.
“Anderson and the coroner’s team is already on site.”
“Do they have any idea who it might be?”
Toby shook his head as the hurried to Mitchell’s car. “No, Edmondson didn’t have any details. We’ll have to wait until we get there to find out more.”
Mitchell stuck the cherry on the roof, and cut through the late-morning traffic. Less than twenty minutes later, he pulled up and parked a few dozen yards away from the burned-out house.
The coroner’s van was pulled up onto the driveway, and a couple of cars worth of uniformed officers were adding tape to the scene, even though the yellow caution tape placed around the scene on the morning of the fire still fluttered in the breeze.
Melba and Toby got out of the car and waited while Mitchell jogged up the lawn. He flagged down Laurie Nelson, who in turn called out to her boss. Anderson stepped across the ruined threshold, looking annoyed at the interruption. His face cleared when he spotted Mitchell. He glanced down the street and waved the rest of the party forward.
“Plastic booties won’t do a damned bit of good this time,” Anderson informed them when they cautiously approached. “The scene’s already contaminated all to hell. You might as well come on in, but stay out of the way. There’s a lot of crap everywhere and some of the remaining walls aren’t stable. Once you get a look at the situation, go on back outside while my team finishes up and hands it over to the coroner.”
“What do you have, Anderson?”
“Reightman, what kind of dumb-ass question was that? What do I always have? A dead body.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, following him over the threshold, trailed by Mitchell and Toby.
“Watch your step,” Anderson cautioned. “There’s a lot of debris in this area. I’m not even sure how the body was placed in here without someone taking a fall. I guess they didn’t need to be too careful.”
“Oh, shit!” Toby exclaimed as he approached the scene and spotted the familiar tarp. “This is bad.” He looked down at the partially wrapped body, before turning back to the others. “I guess this answers that question.”
“What question?” Anderson asked, looking between the three of them. When he didn’t get an immediate answer, he frowned and growled out his next question. “What the hell is going on? The three of you look guilty as sin.”
“Well, we’ve kind of been wondering when and where this body would show up,” Toby answered reluctantly.
“Do you mean to tell me you know something about this?”
Toby glanced at his two companions, uncertain how to answer Anderson’s question. He was spared by the appearance of Agent Edmondson.
“Yes, we do know something, Anderson. I wasn’t sure he’d show up, and I certainly didn’t expect him to be found here.”
“Why the hell not?” Anderson asked. “It’s was his house, after all.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, Mitchell,” Anderson allowed himself a grim smile as he shared the news. “According to the ID found on the body, this here gentleman is Mr. Nathan Fields. The ID will have to be confirmed, of course, but I don’t have any doubt that’s who our victim is.” He observed their reactions, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I guess now it’s pretty certain the man found in the fire wasn’t Fields. You happen to know who he might be?”
“No,” Edmondson admitted. “I don’t have a clue.” He stepped forward, sparing a glance down at the remains. “I think we need to make a trip to Gro-Transport. It’s time to see if we can crack their façade. Anderson, can I borrow that ID? I have a feeling it’ll come in handy.”
“Just sign it out with Laurie and keep it in the damned bag. I don’t want the chain of evidence to be screwed all to hell. We already have more than enough issues with this crime scene.”
Once the evidence was properly transferred to his custody, Edmondson had a quick sidebar with Garfield before redirecting his attention to the rest of their group. “Okay, here’s how I’d like to play this.”
They huddled around, listening careful while he explained the plan.
***
“I know you’ve done this already,” Agent Garfield acknowledged. “But I really would appreciate you confirming it again. Our regional office misplaced the first round of paperwork, so I have to go through the motions one more time. You know how it is. Someone up top makes a mistake and those of us on the ground have to scramble around to prevent a crisis.”
Trina Adams, the office secretary for Gro-Transport, nodded in sympathy. “I sure do, Agent Garfield. It happens a lot around here, that’s for sure.” She worried at her bottom lip, wearing away what little lip glass still remained after an already long day. “Let me see if I can get hold of Mr. Padgett. I don’t think he’ll have a problem with it, but I want to make sure.”
She dialed the number and waited for the phone to be answered. It rolled over to voicemail, and she glanced up at the woman in front of her
desk and the police detective who’d accompanied her through the front door. “He’s not picking up,” she explained. “Let me try again.”
Trina dialed the number again, with the same result. She shrugged as she put down the receiver.
“Still no answer. I guess you’ll have to come back on Monday.”
“Are you sure you can’t help us, Ms. Adams? It’s really important, and I’d like to get this taken care of before the weekend. You don’t have any idea how worked up my boss gets over stuff like this. You already confirmed the ID once, and I’m just asking you to do it one more time.”
Garfield could see the woman wavering. “Please. It’ll just take a minute.”
Trina thought over the request. She’d already been through this once, and she knew exactly what she was supposed to say. She and the rest of the staff had been coached within an inch of their lives, and there wasn’t much chance of anything going wrong. Trina glanced around the office, wishing she’d snuck out early like everyone else had done. It was just her luck.
“Okay,” she agreed, wanting to get it over with so she could start her weekend. ”What do you need me to do?”
“Oh, thank you!” Garfield smiled down at the woman. “This is just like last time. I’ll show you a picture and ask you to tell me if you recognize the subject. I’ll write down your response and then have you review and sign the statement. It’s as easy as pie.”
Trina nodded, and Garfield prepared a totally bogus form. She indicated that Mitchell should proceed.
The young detective opened a file folder and withdrew a photocopy of the artist’s rendering.
He handed it to Trina Adams, who took it with slightly shaking hands.
“Detective Mitchell just handed you a copy of a forensic artist’s rendering, Ms. Adams. I know you’ve seen it before, but I need you to examine it carefully again.” Garfield waited while the woman gave the image a cursory review.
Skin Puppet: Reightman & Bailey Book Three Page 47