Dying in Detroit (A Bright & Fletcher Mystery)

by Jonathan Watkins

  “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Agent Schultz shouldn’t be long, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  Agent Tom looked hesitantly around for a moment, as if uncertain what to do. Eventually he settled on standing a few feet farther away, as if he thought it might be less intrusive. He folded his hands in front of him and avoided looking her in the eye.

  * * *

  Darren swam up toward the distant light. Voices reached him from far away, growing closer as he struggled to rise through the black depths that held him.

  “No, like somewhere nobody will find us, goddammit. Why is this so hard to understand? You just ruined everything. The money isn’t even something to think about anymore. We need to move.”

  “She’ll pay to get him back.”

  Who? Izzy? Were they talking about Izzy? The world was an indistinct smear of light and color, just above him, just on the other side of the black depths he struggled against. He was closer to that light now, close enough to know that he was injured. Pain was permeating the black depths, seeping in. His head, he thought. Something had happened to his head.

  “It’s not just her anymore. It’s the FBI. The fucking FBI. Are you kidding? There’s only one reason I don’t drive south and just leave you here alone.”

  “That’s the most inviting thing you’ve said so—”

  “He’s awake.” The woman’s voice.

  “Hmm? Oh. How can you tell?” The lilting falsetto of the man.

  The clicker-clack of the woman’s heels, and the feeling that she was closer now, standing near. A rich caress of perfume. Darren felt himself blink. The agony in his head became real and he was in the world again, in his own pain-wracked body.

  “His head moved. Just a little.”

  “Nothing another dose of sleepy-time can’t remedy. As much as he’s had, he probably likes the stuff by now. Isn’t that right, counselor? You want another ride on the sleepy-time express? Of course you do. Of course you do.”

  A clinking of glass, some rummaging.

  “Where the hell did you get your hands on that?”

  “I keep some around.”

  “I believe that. I really do. And it’s exactly that sick shit that’s going to fuck this whole thing. You’re fucking everything up and ruining it and you’re too far out in space to even give a shit, aren’t you?”

  “The tongue of a whore, pointed and obscene. I shudder to imagine all the dank and filthy places that tongue has been, hmm?”

  His heavy footfalls. A rough, abrupt grip. The stinging chemical fog—burning, drawing down, insinuating itself. Darren opened his eyes and stared into the face of the monster. Saw its leering smile grow wider still as it smothered him with a chemically doused rag.

  “There’s a good boy. Choo-choo! All aboard, counselor!”

  “That’s enough. We need him breathing if you want to fix this stupendous fucking train wreck.”

  Darren wanted to struggle. The chemical fog enveloped him and carried him back down, out of the world of light.

  “Choo-choo!”

  “Solomon, goddamn it!”

  A darkness without dreams swallowed Darren.

  * * *

  Issabella stood in the corner, staring with awful fascination at an FBI Agent throwing his career away in a red-faced fit aimed at a judge in her own chambers.

  “Your sphere ends at the courthouse steps,” Schultz barked, his hands waving about. “And if we do find this guy, he’s getting the federal treatment. He sure as hell isn’t coming here to get coddled and pled down. If Your Honor wants to know anything about my case, you know what you can do? Go buy a paper and leave me and my men alone. I haven’t got the time to hold your hand, lady.”

  Issabella heard the way Schultz couched the words “Your Honor” in disdain, and prepared herself for a front row seat at the spectacle of Agent Schultz’s Imminent and Awful Decimation.

  As if on cue, the door to the judge’s chambers flew open and her bailiff appeared. He was an older man, near retirement, but without a hint of old age’s frailties. Deputy Dan Finch looked like an Old West gunslinger—a man with steel in his stare, his permanent frown of disapproval crowned with a fastidiously groomed white mustache. His forearms were corded with muscle and he had the lean, compact physique of a man who had spent his life working at physical things.

  Just as Issabella was certain that Deputy Finch was going to either charge headlong at Schultz’s back or, perhaps more likely, draw his Taser off his belt and drop the FBI Agent where he stood, the judge raised one hand in the air to forestall Finch from violence.

  Judge Chelsea Hodgens was a woman in her middle years, with shoulder-length, straight black hair. Her skin was a dusky, olive hue that leant her a Mediterranean air, though Issabella had no idea if that was, in fact, true.

  What she did know was that the woman in the black robes hadn’t stirred one bit since sitting down behind her desk after summoning Issabella and Agent Schultz to her chambers. Throughout Schultz’s fiery haranguing fit, Judge Hodgens had maintained a placid and unbothered exterior.

  Which is why she’s so scary, Issabella mused. She lets you hang yourself while she quietly waits for you to finish.

  She’d seen defendants do exactly that in Hodgens’s court room. When a defendant would speak up during his sentencing allocution, she would not interrupt his string of lies. She would simply sit silently at the bench, and let the man ramble away. And when he was finished—when every last falsity about his good nature, his steadfast parenting and his gainful employment had been uttered into the record—Judge Hodgens would verbally execute him.

  Standing there away from the other actors in the Judge’s chambers, Issabella braced herself for the withering barrage Schultz was about to endure.

  Instead, Judge Hodgens cleared her throat and said, “Dan, we’re fine. Thank you, though.”

  Deputy Finch looked uncertainly from Schultz to the judge.

  “You sure, Ma’am?” he said, as if the prospect of not in some way doing violence to the FBI Agent was a source of keen disappointment.

  “I am. Thank you, Dan,” she replied, a slight, fond smile touching her lips.

  Deputy Finch nodded once, flashed a final warning scowl at Schultz, and turned on his heel. The door shut softly behind him.

  “Are you done?” Judge Hodgens said mildly. “If not, by all means, keep on. I can wait until you’ve got it all out of your system.”

  Schultz deflated. There was a long, awkward silence that followed. The fuming FBI Agent glanced back at Issabella, as if he had just then remembered that she was in the room, and he suddenly looked chagrined. He offered a look that said “I’m sorry” and turned back to the judge.

  “Your Honor,” he began, an apology seemingly on the verge of pouring forth. For the second time, Judge Hodgens raised a halting hand in the air.

  “Just have a seat,” she said. “You, too, Ms. Bright. Both of you sit down. There. Good. Okay, let’s take it from the top, alright?”

  “Your Honor, I—” Schultz began, now seated to Issabella’s right on the other side of the big mahogany desk.

  “I know,” Judge Hodgens snapped, waving the apology away. “Consider it a one-time allowance, Agent. I’ve weathered worse. Besides, you’re actually quite the entertaining spectacle when you’re not wearing that robotic expression all you FBI boys think makes you look professional. Okay? Okay. Let’s proceed like this, kids. Agent Schultz...can I call you Isaac?”

  “Of course.”

  “Isaac. I’m not trying to step on your toes or inject myself into your investigation. I asked your Agent in Charge for this meeting for purely personal reasons. Do you understand?”

  Schultz frowned slightly, puzzled. He shook his head.

  “Honestly
? No. No, I don’t.”

  Judge Hodgens leaned back in her big, leather-bound chair and seemed to consider how to word what she meant to say. Issabella thought she saw an acute sympathy somewhere in the Judge’s eyes.

  “Darren Fletcher’s well-being is a personal concern of mine,” Judge Hodgens said slowly, choosing her words with care. “It’s...he is somebody I keep apprised of.”

  “Apprised of?” Schultz frowned. “What does that—”

  “He’s a pet cause,” she said, flatly. “A personal interest. That should be enough for us to proceed.”

  Still wary, Schultz sighed and looked around the chambers at the trappings of success and authority that adorned the walls and the wide desk. It seemed to be enough to remind him where he was and how close he had come to real jeopardy by venting his frustrations at the dark-eyed woman who was more than accustomed to sealing men’s fates.

  “Alright,” he relented. “What do you need from me?”

  “Nothing that will compromise your investigation. I’m only interested in Fletcher’s well-being.”

  And, just like that, Issabella understood. There were many of times over the past year when she had wondered at Darren Fletcher’s bizarre luck. The unshaven, hard-drinking lawyer who wandered in and out of jail, who challenged every rule of propriety the State Bar Association could devise, was under a powerful person’s protection. Issabella was sitting across from that person now.

  Before Issabella could think better of it, she blurted her realization out.

  “You protect him, don’t you?”

  Those dark, heavy-lashed eyes that seemed to see everything slid away from Schultz and remained fixed on her. The judge’s face was a mask, giving away nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Judge Hodgens said eventually. “For what you must be going through. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, Ms. Bright.”

  That little gesture of kindness and sympathy was all it took to bring tears to Issabella’s eyes. For two days now, she had been alternating between an empty, desolate state of numbness and frenzied, sobbing panic. It had been two days of hell, lost days during which she had no control over the waves of anguish that washed over her without warning. She would see Darren smirking playfully in her mind’s eye, and the image would melt into a horror show of her imagination—a parade of scenarios in which Darren was subjected to the unfathomable cruelties of whomever the monster was that had taken him away. And when she thought she couldn’t become any more desperate, or sink any lower into miserable despair, another bout of wrenching sobs would overtake her and she would be lost until the panic had ridden itself out.

  Judge Hodgens seemed to recognize that she had triggered something in the young lawyer, because she leaned forward and fixed Issabella with a level stare.

  “None of that,” she snapped. “You keep it together. I only have a few questions for the G-Man over there, and then you and I are going to have a long talk. Just the two of us. So you keep a lid on it until then, right?”

  Issabella nodded and wiped the unshed tears away with the back of her hands. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and let it back out slowly. The horrible possibilities receded, and she focused on remaining still and listening to the conversation between Schultz and the judge. If she let their words be the entire world then there would be no room for the panic to gallop back into her.

  “Isaac, is Darren Fletcher dead?”

  “I don’t believe so. In fact, I highly doubt it, Your Honor.”

  He had expressed that same sentiment to Issabella on several occasions over the past two days, and she knew it was the only thing keeping her sane and in one piece. He was an FBI Agent. He was the head of the task force that had been quickly assembled the night of Darren’s disappearance. If she could put faith in anyone’s assessment of Darren’s well-being, it was Isaac Schultz. Issabella closed her eyes and clung to that.

  “Why?” the judge said.

  “Well, the suspect...” Schultz started, but stalled. “Ah...you see—”

  “It’s alright,” Issabella said, her eyes still closed. “Just say it. Say everything.”

  She felt his hand slip over hers, his fingers curling gently, squeezing in silent reassurance.

  “I believe that the suspect is fixated on Issabella,” he continued. “From what we’ve gotten from a firsthand witness that met the suspect, plus the highly personal defacement of Issabella’s law office, the photograph he took of her, the phone call I intercepted from the suspect...it all suggests that he’s fixated on Issabella. Fletcher isn’t the goal. He’ll keep him alive. But only because he...”

  “Go on,” Judge Hodgens prodded softly.

  “Alright. We have a man from Behavioral Sciences flying in tonight. Hector Langston. He’s good. He faxed ahead a preliminary report this morning. Based on what we have so far, Hector thinks he’ll...he’ll keep Darren alive because the suspect gets off on causing terror. Engendering fear in the person he’s fixated on. In Issabella. And because he’ll use Darren as a means to try and make physical contact with her. To acquire her.”

  “You mean he’s going to use Darren as bait to get to Ms. Bright.”

  “We think so. Admittedly, we’re a bit in the dark, still. From what Issabella’s been able to tell us about what her father explained to Darren, it seems that this guy was originally part of a scheme to get back money that Howard Bright stole from a pair of Arizona developers. We have people from the Phoenix field office running that end of things down. My best guess? Our kidnapper went off script. Sometime after tailing Howard Bright up here to Detroit, he stopped caring about the money. He switched gears and...”

  “Gave in to his true nature,” Judge Hodgens mused.

  “Yeah. Maybe these Arizona developers didn’t realize their hired thug is really a very sick animal, or maybe they didn’t particularly care. We’ll find out soon.”

  “And Issabella’s father?”

  Isaac gave Issabella a sympathetic look as he said, “Howard Bright was poisoned just before Darren’s abduction. He had a visitor earlier that day, a woman we haven’t identified yet. Her visitor intake form is missing. We have some video footage from inside the jail and we plan on broadcasting it in hopes someone will recognize her. When Howard collapsed, Darren was with him. He ensured the deputies on duty transported Howard to the hospital. On the transport over, Howard lapsed into unconsciousness. They’re treating him with a wide spectrum of anti-toxins. As soon as he wakes we’ll start getting answers from him.”

  Judge Hodgens was frowning as she listened. When Isaac finished, she said, “Is Darren in one piece, Isaac?”

  “Your Honor?”

  “Is he being tortured?”

  Another awful silence and his comforting grip on Issabella’s hand slackened. The red-eyed specter of panic reappeared inside her, threatening to maraud and lay waste to what self-control she had left. She could hear her heart thundering in her ears as Schultz cleared his throat and ventured to answer.

  “I can’t know that, Your Honor. I’m sorry, but that’s just—”

  “I understand.”

  “I wish I could tell you more, or make assurances.”

  “I understand.”

  Issabella heard the soft rustle of the Judge’s robes, and she opened her eyes. Judge Hodgens crossed from behind her desk and extended a hand to Schultz.

  “You get back to work, with my thanks,” she said as they shook. “And if you don’t mind, I’m going to keep Ms. Bright here for a bit of girl talk.”

  Agent Schultz smiled ruefully.

  “I doubt that’s an accurate characterization, Your Honor.”

  “See? I knew they grew you federal boys smart. Off you go.”

  Schultz paused at the doorway and looked at Issabella.

  “I’ll be at the entrance downstairs. Come
straight down when you’re done.”

  Issabella nodded vaguely. Judge Hodgens shut the door behind the retreating agent and came to sit in the chair he had occupied, just to the right of Issabella. Her Honor was devoid of all cosmetics, and her shiny black hair hung in a simple cut, her long bangs swept behind her ears. Her attractiveness, Issabella realized, lay in her poise and her direct stare. She was a confident person, and that confidence suffused her with an undeniable presence. Issabella found herself wondering what the woman was like when she wasn’t occupying her role as a judge. Was there a rich personality there, beneath the decorum and dry pragmatism?

  “We’ve never really had a chance to talk,” the judge said. “Your sentencing arguments are very solid, by the way. A lot of lawyers just starting out don’t attack the guideline scores the way they should. But you do. It’s a sign of competence, Ms. Bright.”

  “Issabella.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “Your Honor,” she started, turning in her chair so that they were both facing one another. “What is Darren to you, exactly?”

  Judge Hodgens gave her an inscrutable look, as if Issabella’s question had sent her somewhere else, into another time. Then the judge stood. She smoothed her robes and moved over to one wall that was covered in richly stained bookshelves. She stopped in front of a group of picture frames nestled between rows of thick legal tomes. Delicately, as if plucking out a fragile and precious thing, Judge Hodgens lifted down one of the framed photographs and handed it to Issabella.

  It was a photograph of a young black girl. Her hair was a wild Afro, and she smiled up into the camera with the big, unguarded enthusiasm only children can contain. Behind her, a bright emerald lawn filled the photo.

  Issabella stared, then understood.

  “Shoshanna Green,” she whispered.

  “Shoshanna Green,” Judge Hodgens echoed. “She had a beautiful smile, don’t you think? Her father told me she had artistic talent. Enough to be placed in an advanced curriculum. I work in clay, myself. Pottery, mostly. But I’m just dogged. Shoshanna had actual talent.”

  Issabella set the framed photo on the judge’s desk and folded her hands in her lap.