The Defenseless (Brandon Fisher FBI Series Book 3)

by Carolyn Arnold

  “That would be great.”

  They were on the move when Alisha shouted out. “If you’re interested in knowing our bigger donors, you could always check the plaques on the wall on your way out.”

  Zach was already pointing to one.

  Chapter 12

  Jack and I were on the way to visit the journalist, Kent Fields, at his downtown condo.

  I was happy to see that the weather was holding off. Even though the forecast called for more snow, we hadn’t seen it yet.

  Fields’s building was located in a wealthy district that attracted those who made a minimum seven-figure salary, if not more. Anyone with less money would have shied away, preferring the comfort of an older subdivision, or a new development geared toward lower level income families.

  Inside, a man in a light blue suit was positioned behind a front desk. “Good day, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” Based on his self-elevated aura and the purr to his voice, he considered us below him. He must have suspected we weren’t there to see an available unit.

  Jack and I held up our credentials.

  He splayed a hand over his chest. “Are you sure you have the right building? Our residents are upstanding citizens. You might have us confused somehow with the condos three blocks over.”

  Did he think those with a large bank account could do no wrong? In my experience, often the wealthy got themselves into trouble.

  “We’re here to see Kent Fields,” Jack said.

  “And you’re sure you have the right building?”

  “We’re not here to play games. We have an appointment with the man, and this is where we were told to come. Either you lead us in the right direction, or we’ll come behind your desk, consult the building’s layout and figure it out ourselves. And if you push us to that, we’ll take you in for obstruction of justice.”

  Both of his hands went up. “Now, there’ll be no need for that.”

  No audible response was needed. Jack jutted his chin forward. His gaze was intense enough to cut glass.

  The man pointed toward an elevator bank. “He’s in the penthouse.”

  *****

  “Detectives.” Kent Fields’s blond hair was near platinum, and his skin tone was so white it bordered on albino. His blue eyes were sharp lasers.

  “We’re Special Agents with the FBI.” Jack’s hand went to his jacket and I didn’t sense it was in response to a cigarette craving. I wondered if he contemplated pulling his gun on the man for reducing our rank. Instead, he pulled out a photograph and extended it to Fields.

  We were still in the front entry of the penthouse—a bright and open space. From this vantage point, the kitchen and eating area were to the right, and a living room was straight ahead to the far end. To the left was a half bath.

  Fields looked at the photograph. “Why don’t we go take a seat?” He gestured ahead of us. “But first, please take off your footwear. My maple floors wouldn’t take so kindly to the moisture.”

  We adhered to his request and went into the sitting room. I sank into the most comfortable couch I had ever encountered. I ran my hands along the fabric—soft, like crushed velvet. Jack sat beside me. Fields had taken a detour to the kitchen.

  “Can I get either of you something to drink?”

  “No, we’re fine,” Jack called out to him.

  I detected irritation in his tone. Fields was taking too long to sit still and seemed to be avoiding the conversation we needed to have with him. Finally, he sashayed into the seating area, holding onto a martini glass, pinching the stem between his fingers. His other hand held the photograph.

  He dropped into a chair and crossed his legs away from us. One long draw from his glass before he set it on a side table. “All right, what can I do for you?”

  Jack’s neck held a steady, tapping pulse that had a cord bulging. He was too aggravated to speak.

  I pointed to the picture. “Do you recognize him?”

  “Absolutely, but I’m not sure what he has to do with me.”

  “He was found murdered behind a bakery in town a few days ago.”

  “Well, c’est la vie, right? I mean, we live, we die.”

  “You don’t seem too upset over the loss of life,” Jack observed.

  Fields centered his line of vision on Jack. “I didn’t really know the man. We weren’t close. Should I be grieving?” Fields lifted his martini glass for a brief sip.

  “How do you know him? You said you recognize him.”

  “I used to report on local news. See how far I’ve come.” He spread his arms to take in the space, and to guide our eyes to the walls full of commendations and awards. “Three Pulitzers.”

  “How lovely for you, but that’s not why we’re here.”

  Fields’s eyes flickered with egotistical insult and he picked at the material of his pants. After a few seconds, he said, “I remember this man, the one who died, was charged with poisoning his dog. It was said to be rat poison.”

  “You have a very clear memory about something from twenty-six years ago,” I said.

  “Don’t think anything of it. My mind works like that.” He pointed to his glass. “This isn’t the real deal. A true master of his craft wouldn’t dilute his brain matter with the vice of alcohol.” He flashed a sly grin. “Here you thought I was drinking mid-day. Stereotypical writer, you probably thought. Well, I’m most certainly not that. I am unique. One of a kind.”

  I swallowed the urge to edit his inclination toward redundancy.

  Jack stood and paced the floor. “Yes, we know. You are award winning. Less of the resume and more on topic.”

  Fields’s brows furrowed downward and his mouth gaped open. His eyes read, why I never.

  “We spoke with your brother,” I began.

  “I don’t have a blood sibling. You must mean my stepbrother. Please, he collects trash.”

  “You write it.”

  Fields twisted to see Jack. “If you’ve simply come here, to my home, to insult me, you can both leave.”

  “Well, isn’t it true? Your first years weren’t the glory days. You reported on animal abuse cases, local news.” Jack dropped into another chair.

  Fields watched his every move.

  “How did writing this rubbish make you feel?”

  Fields’s eyes held concentration, and his lips held the curl of a snarl. “Angry. I was so much better than that. And I have proved it. Look around. Local news will not get you a million-dollar condo.”

  “Multi, from what I understand.” I was going with feeding his ego, toying with him, while Jack sought to derive the answers we desperately needed through berating him.

  “Tell us about the man in the photo, your viewpoint,” Jack said.

  “His name was Darren Simpson. Before you think any more of it, I watch the news and I know all the details. Craig even called me when he found the body. He left a message on my voice mail. I never called him back.” Fields’s gaze fell somewhere behind me.

  I shrugged and it served to align his focus. “Family can be like that sometimes. He doesn’t think of you as being close either. So no harm.”

  A glaze skimmed over Fields’s aura. He was fine as long as it was his choice to remain aloof, but when that decision was made by someone else, that equated to him being rejected and was a different matter.

  “Do you know why he called you?”

  Fields shook his head.

  “He thinks you might have killed the man.” It was a stretch but I was curious where it would lead.

  Fields uncrossed his legs. “This is absurd, the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard—and I hear a lot.”

  “You reported on Darren Simpson,” Jack said.

  “Yes, but I never killed him.”

  “You also reported on Gene Lyons.”

  “Lyons? Sounds familiar. Do you have his picture?”

  Jack pulled it out and handed it to him.

  Fields considered it briefly and gave it back. “Yes. Animal neglect if I remember corre
ctly.”

  “You really do have an awfully good memory .”

  “Don’t read anything more into it than that.”

  “What were you doing—”

  Fields shook his head again. “Nope, I’m not going to do it.”

  Neither Jack nor I said anything.

  “You mean like an alibi? Huh.” Fields paused. I surmised the quietness of the condo mirrored the emptiness of the man’s life. He had the material possessions, but behind the pride, I believed he was alone.

  “That night,” his eyes went from me to Jack, “I was with someone.”

  “We’ll need her name.”

  I caught Jack’s eye and wondered if he had missed picking up on Fields’s apparent sexual preference, or if he were somehow trying to demean the man again. Perhaps Jack hadn’t advanced to the twenty-first century yet.

  “It wasn’t a she. And I’m not going to give you the person’s name. That would be a violation of their privacy.”

  “You’re a potential suspect in a murder case, and in the disappearance of Gene Lyons.”

  “No, I didn’t do any of what you’re saying. If I give you his name, please do not let this get out to the press.”

  “You’re in the spotlight all the time with those awards of yours, and you don’t think people know you’re homosexual? Besides, one would think people in your circles would completely understand and embrace you for who you are,” I said. It warranted a glare from Jack. He must have resonated more with the old-school philosophy that stemmed back to Adam and Eve—an irony, as he wasn’t a religious person by any means.

  Fields’s shoulders sagged for a fraction of a second but lifted as a smile lit his face. “You are right. It’s time for me to be happy. It’s Kent’s turn.”

  The guy was an egomaniac, a textbook narcissist. The referral to himself in third person, twisted my gut with suspicion. The persona he presented was that of an individual who had most things together, yet the opposite seemed true.

  My mobile beeped with a message. I normally wouldn’t check it at a time like this, but I had a hunch it was important. As I slipped my cell out, Jack stared at me, condemnation firing from his eyes.

  “His name is Henry. He makes me happy.” Kent went on to share his story with Jack.

  My attention was on the text from Paige.

  I put the phone back in my pocket, and both men watched me.

  “You are a large contributor to the animal shelter in town,” I said to Fields.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “It’s a suspicious thing.”

  Fields rubbed his hands on his thighs.

  “I’m being set up.”

  Jack laughed.

  A touch of red burned in Fields’s cheeks. “What is so funny?” His head pivoted, turning between us. “This is a joke. My stepbrother put you up to this.”

  “I assure you it’s no joke.”

  “Where is Gene Lyons?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know. I have nothing to do with any of this. You take me downtown and I’ll lawyer up.”

  “Sounds like he’s trying to make a deal, Jack.”

  “We don’t make deals with killers. Get up.”

  I pulled out a pair of cuffs. It had been a while since I’d had to use them.

  “Please, just pull my financial background. You’ll find that I support all types of local charities. The food bank, the Salvation Army, the Catholic Church. I need write-offs. Please, just tell me this, why do you think I’m guilty? Tell me that and I’ll come with you—”

  “If we want you to, you’re coming with us.”

  “What do you—”

  “The evidence is stacking against you. Your stepbrother found Simpson, a man whom you reported on twenty-six years ago, a man who got away with poisoning a dog, a man who was, in turn, killed by poison.”

  “That’s my point. Twenty-six years ago. Why would I bother at this point?”

  “That’s the easy part. To allow separation between you and the victim,” Jack said.

  “Okay, I get that viewpoint. But I didn’t do this. I swear to you.”

  There was something about the shaky nature of his voice, the pleading in his eyes. “You said you are being set up. By whom?”

  “I have a lot of people who hate me.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that. Come on. Let’s go.” I prompted him to stand.

  He shrugged out of my reach. “I don’t know who would do this, all right, but I know I didn’t.”

  “You’re full of helpful information.”

  “Please, if you had reason to arrest me, you already would have. We wouldn’t be sitting here talking.”

  “We’re going to need all the information on your friend Henry, the one you spent the night with,” Jack said.

  “Fine. I’ll get it for you. Please, just know I didn’t do this.”

  Chapter 13

  The Advocate had seen the news and was extremely proud of his latest accomplishment. He was being acknowledged by the FBI. They were aware of his work. Now, he would have to up the level of skill and choose his next victim—carefully and swiftly. He had no time to give way to self-doubt. He intended to outwork his purpose to its greatest potential.

  In an ideal world, the stalking part was the most tantalizing to him. It was a game of cat and mouse, and he was the cat. He would toy with the rodent and paw at it until either he tired of play or it succumbed to his claws.

  In reality, he loved playing the position of power and he had truly maneuvered things brilliantly. The murders, the disappearances—they would never be tied back to him. He had done due diligence to ensure that all roads led many places, and away from his front door.

  If anything, his lifelong “friend” would take the fall and receive the full reciprocation of justice, of Karma, of whatever people wanted to ascribe to the righting of wrongs, to the balancing of the universe.

  The Advocate had parked down the street, keeping an eye for the most opportune time to make his move. The man he targeted, and longed to spend time with, was another Offender of the Defenseless. He couldn’t wait to exact equal revenge. This method would be a first for him.

  All good things come in time. The familiar saying rushed in on him, soothing his heartbeat and quieting his thoughts.

  It was time to work.

  He rang the doorbell.

  And waited.

  The wind blew alongside the front of the house, penetrating through his plush jacket, to flesh and bone. A shiver shook through him as the door was answered.

  This Offender was a giant, but there was one thing not even Goliath could conquer—the accurately placed stone from David’s slingshot. Today’s modern equivalent was a semi-automatic.

  He pulled the gun from his coat pocket, doing so discreetly so that if any prying neighbors were watching, they wouldn’t notice.

  “Are you alone?” he asked the question, although certain of the answer.

  The giant nodded.

  “Step back into the house, nice and slow.”

  “Who are you? If Guy sent you, tell him I’ll have his money in two days.”

  “In the house.”

  The giant took a few steps toward him, and the cowardice that resided within him registered a second’s hesitation. After all, he was the one with a loaded gun.

  “All I have to do is scream,” the giant said.

  “And all I have to do is pull the trigger. Your screams would matter little with your dead body on the floor.” The Advocate’s full confidence had returned. His commitment to this mission reinforced.

  The man stepped backward into his house, both hands held high.

  “You’re going to put on your coat and boots and come with me.”

  “Why would I—”

  He shook the gun in front of the giant’s face.

  He complied and got ready.

  “Now, we’re going to get into my car, and you’re going to act like we’re best friends. Got it?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah.”

  This was easy-peasy.

  There was only one thing that could make the execution of justice that much better, and that would be clear roads.

  Chapter 14

  The team was going to the local FBI field office to discuss what we had discovered so far, but Paige received a phone call from the animal shelter’s funding manager, Kim Delaney. Jack told them to go by and find out what they could from her and meet back up with us later on.

  Cathy Lyons had dropped off the hate mail, so we had time to review that while we waited. At least I was working through the pile of letters. Jack had stepped out to grab a coffee from the bullpen.

  “How are you making out?” Detective McClellan cast shadows from the doorway into the conference room we were set up in. A visitor’s badge dangled from a lanyard that was around his neck.

  “People are crazy.” I looked back to the letter in my hands, thinking maybe he’d take the hint to leave me to it.

  He took a seat. “I heard you guys spoke to Fields.”

  I wanted to ask how he knew but assumed Jack may have mentioned it.

  “You know when we questioned Bowen…dang.” McClellan shook his head. “We should have pressured him more. He’s the guy’s stepbrother.”

  “Well, don’t beat yourself up over it. We haven’t proven he’s the killer. We didn’t even think there was enough to bring him in for questioning at this point.”

  “I know,” he waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just this Fields guy wrote the columns on Simpson, Lyons, even the two who were never found from two thousand nine and ten.”

  “Ball and Garner.”

  “Yeah. And here the guy’s stepbrother found Simpson’s body. Kind of coincidental.”

  “The same stepbrother who runs the animal activist group you directed us to.” Maybe staring at the obvious wasn’t the answer…

  McClellan let out a staggered exhale.

  I’m not sure why I had the urge to soothe the man’s conscience. “You can’t catch everything.”

  “Yeah, but that’s a big one. I still can’t buy why Fields would want to throw his life away.”

  All of this talk about Fields made me want to follow up with Nadia to see how she was making out with his full background and his alibi for the night Simpson was murdered.