Miranda looked at Andee and smiled.
“You didn’t like them?”
“I didn’t say that. I think they are perfect on you, but why cat tracks?”
The redhead laughed into the rush of air coming over the windshield of the car, then turned to Andee.
“They are the graffiti of my silent rebellion against Gennie.”
“Your what?”
“I love my auntie with all my heart, but there are times we don’t see eye to eye.”
“How so?”
“Well, she hates cats. Won’t have them on the place and expects everyone else to feel the same as her.”
Andee nodded her head. She began to understand.
“So,” she said, “you got secret cat tracks tattooed on you so that each time you visit, your cat, so to speak, comes with you.”
Miranda laughed again.
“Tricky on my part, don’t you think?”
“Pretty sly,” Andee agreed.
“When we get to be better friends, I’ll treat you to some, and you can join the rebellion.”
Andee shook her head, “I don’t think so.”
“Yeah? Just imagine Alwyn walking his fingers along those little prints.”
“Stop it.”
Upon reaching her office, Miranda morphed into the perfect assistant. Her giggling stopped, her giddiness replaced with that professional smile. Andee thought she wore her obligations as others wear uniforms. Miranda quickly sorted mail, checked the schedule for the day, made Andee a cup of chocolate and escorted her into Alwyn’s office.
The professor was at his desk, reviewing papers, a red pencil in his hand. He looked up. His expression was welcoming, almost a smile, and close to friendly, Andee thought. He waved her to the small sofa along the wall.
“I’ll join you in just a moment,” he said. “Sleep well?”
“Mostly, yes,” Andee admitted as she sat down in a side chair. “But it’s very quiet around here. I kind of missed the sounds of the city.”
“The city has a pulse to it,” Alwyn agreed. “Almost has if it were alive. The woods have their own pulse. A person just has to listen with more intent. Nature doesn’t force itself upon one as the city does.”
She nodded.
“I have to tell you one thing. Last night, just as I was falling asleep, I swear I heard a wolf howl.”
“Really? Are you sure it was a wolf, or maybe you were just so impressed with my storytelling.” She smiled.
“No, I know I heard something. It might not have been a wolf, ’cause in all honesty, I’ve never heard one outside of a movie, but something howled.”
“Well, we’ll say it was a wolf, in honor of our discussion last night.”
Her smile was interrupted by shouting outside the door. Andee and Lloyd turned just as the door swung wide and crashed into the doorstop. Picture frames rattled and settled unevenly on the walls. Books on the shelves fell over on their sides.
Matheus Ferreira stood in the doorway, his face red, his nostrils flared and his breath ragged. Compared to the angry but controlled image he projected when she first met him, Trakes wondered if the man was possessed. He stormed into the room the way a bowling ball strikes the pins, looking to knock someone over. Ignoring the agent, he bellowed at Lloyd as soon as he crossed the threshold of the door.
“Lloyd, you murdering son of a bitch! You have overstepped your bounds. You have broken trust with the community! Who do you think you are? You had no right! And what made you and that dried-up bitch mother of yours think I would let it stand? I should have known it was you.”
Ferreira stood before the desk and pounded the top of the wooden structure with the palm of his hand. Water slopped over the side of the tumbler on the desk. Lloyd ignored the papers getting wet and locked eyes with the Argentinian as the man shouted at him in a mix of English and Spanish that was hard for Trakes to understand. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth and landed on the center of the desk.
Andee didn’t move, unsure exactly what she should or could do. She remembered Hubbard cower before the man, intimidated by the possible political ramifications. Professor Lloyd merely sat, quiet, his only movement was to interlace his fingers as his arms still rested on the desk. His face was calm, and she detected no tension in his expression or his shoulders. The professor watched Ferreira as he might a distraught underclassman throwing a temper tantrum.
The diplomat stopped and drew a long overdue inhalation of raspy breath. In that brief silence, Andee heard a growl. It was low in pitch and volume, but it was there, as if the big string on a bass guitar had been plucked.
The rumble cut through the diplomat’s verbal assault and drained all other sound from the room. Andee heard the implied threat of the noise. She heard the warning. The growl infiltrated her chest and icicles of fear formed around her heart. She was afraid to breathe. And she watched the color drain from the ruddy face of the diplomat’s face.
Ferreira stopped. He didn’t move. He acted as if he had walked onto a frozen lake and heard the ice crack under him. He blinked several times, his eyes darting to different areas on the wall behind Lloyd as he refused to meet the professor’s gaze. He looked like a person just awakened from hypnoses who, moments before, had been clucking like a chicken and now realized the foolishness of their actions. He forced himself to look at the professor.
A professor who sat still, his fingers intertwined, his face a mask.
Ferreira unsteadily stepped away from the desk, then dropped to his knees as his chin fell to his chest. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
Trakes couldn’t help it. Her hand covered her mouth to catch the gasp she uttered, and she immediately cursed herself. FBI agents don’t cover their mouths like schoolgirls. She dropped the offending hand into her lap.
“Please, please, Unum, please forgive my outburst.”
Trakes thought the man sounded tortured, and his words begged for forgiveness.
He continued to look at the floor while he waited, but Lloyd said nothing.
“I am a father in mourning over the loss of his son,” he whimpered. “Please, I bear you no insult. I bear you no anger. I accept our customs. I accept the decision.”
Trakes looked at the man and from him to Lloyd, who remained still. She suddenly noticed Miranda standing next to the closed door. For the first time, the redhead didn’t wear a smile. There was no laughter in her eyes.
Miranda stared at the offending diplomat, and Trakes was certain that with but a nod from Lloyd, she would have attacked the man. She looked back at Lloyd.
Ferreira raised his face and looked at Lloyd. Lloyd hadn’t moved. He hadn’t changed expressions. He didn’t speak.
Ferreira, his eyes now locked with Lloyd’s, crossed the distance on his knees, hands still clasped, until he was stopped by the barrier of the desk. He rested his hands on the leading edge of the furniture, dropped his face, and begged again for forgiveness and absolution.
Trakes was stunned and unable to move. The memory of Ferreira ranting and raving at her cringing boss was still fresh. The man had, for all practical purpose, ripped her boss, a senior FBI agent, a new one. Her boss, who had more than a pocket full of power and authority, had taken it. Her boss had allowed this pompous little man to ridicule and berate him.
That same obnoxious man, who tried to treat a college history professor in the same manner, crumbled because the professor cleared his throat. Ferreira wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He was on his knees, begging the professor not to take offense.
Andee slowly shook her head. Auntie Gennie was right. Her son was special. But special for what purpose? And what did “Unum” mean?
Lloyd rose and slowly walked around the desk. He bent and helped the father to his feet. Once the man was standing, Lloyd placed a hand on each of his shoulders and looked into the eyes. A sad smile crossed his lips, and he spoke in Spanish to the diplomat. Trakes understood as she had learned the language while in Phoenix.
“Señor Ferreira, brother, if I may call you brother, the loss of a son under any circumstance has to be one of the most painful a father can endure. I offer you my and my family’s sincere condolences. The death of a Pauci, no matter the reason or the cause, brings sadness to us all. Is there anything my family or I can do that will help lessen the grief?”
“I am sorry, Unum.”
Ferreira looked up into the ice blue eyes and with his right hand, grasped the professor’s shirt and tie. He lowered his face into the man’s chest and clung to the fabric as if life depended on it. “I am sorry for my behavior. Please, please forgive me.”
Lloyd shook his head, and quietly replied, “There is nothing for which you need to apologize. You have committed no offense.”
Lloyd physically escorted the father from his office doorway, then nodded to Miranda, who dutifully stepped in to replace her uncle.
“See that he gets to his car,” he instructed her.
Miranda, serious and unsympathetic, only nodded.
Andee followed the trio from the room. In the outer office waited a man whom Andee recognized as the driver and bodyguard for the diplomat. The man stood when Lloyd and Ferreira entered, but he made no move toward the two, nor did he move his hand toward the gun Trakes knew he carried. If the diplomat’s protector had entertained any desire to interfere or assist, he changed his mind when Lloyd looked at him. The man simply opened the outer door into the hallway and offered to help his boss to the waiting car. Lloyd nodded, and Miranda released the shaken Ferreira into the escorting arms of the body guard.
Andee silently asked herself, again, “Who was this man?”
Chapter 7
Saturday morning, Trakes met Meeker for breakfast at the same restaurant as before. Once again, the man was partially hidden behind a mound of food that took more than one plate to hold it. He was busy chewing when she walked to the table. He nodded, chewed and pointed to the chair opposite with his fork.
Trakes took the chair and shook her head as she watched the man consume food. The server brought her the hot chocolate she always ordered.
“I hope you enjoyed your time in the country,” Meeker said, once his mouth was empty. “When did you get back?”
“It was interesting,” she replied, “and I got back yesterday afternoon. I briefed Hubbard about what I had learned, which was next to nothing.”
“I’ve never liked the country. Too boring. Nothing happens out there. Crickets, all you hear is crickets.”
Trakes studied her adoptive uncle and remembered the wolf howl she heard. She sighed.
“You’re going to the wrong part of the country.”
Meeker stopped eating and looked at her.
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing,” she shook her head. “Just saying.”
She remembered the tall professor with the ice blue eyes.
“You met somebody,” Meeker grinned. “You met a man.”
“I did not,” she barked, but the flush of color that rose along her neck showed him otherwise.
“Good for you. Maybe you can have a life. He’s not a cop, is he? Never marry a cop. Bad business all the way around.”
She raised her palms in surrender and said, “Stop it already. Get on with whatever you have to tell me.”
He took a bite, chewed and studied her. Then he shrugged and changed his focus.
“Well, some of us get to spend time goofing off, and the others have to solve crimes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh,” he said, and took a swallow of coffee.
She watched and waited for an explanation.
“Now, you’re interested,” he teased as he cut a bite of ham and started it to his mouth.
Trakes reached across the table and stopped the fork in his hand.
“What are you talking about?” she asked?
“We had another killing.”
She let go of his arm, and he slid the food into his mouth. She glared at him as she waited for him to finish.
“Was it like before?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Worse.”
“Worse?”
“You know I’ve been doing this a long time, and I thought arson victims were the worst I’d ever see. I was wrong.”
She felt guilty. She thought back over the past hours, when she had been sitting at dinner, laughing, joking, enjoying the closeness, and another killing had taken place. She should have been in the city. She should have figured out a way to stop it.
“The body looked like a pack of dogs attacked it. I swear, Andee, it’s bad. Throat torn open, bite marks on the arms and legs, muscles torn from bones. Guts torn open, scattered from here to breakfast.”
He stopped and looked at the food still on his plates. He lowered his fork and waved for the server.
“Pack it to go?” she asked.
He nodded and looked at Trakes, remarking, “I could have gone all day without saying that. Put myself off my food.”
She smiled a quiet smile. He shook his head.
“Andee, it had to be a pack of dogs, maybe as many as four of the things to do that kind of damage to a body. They had to be playing tug-a-war with the thing.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, leaning forward so they would not be overheard. “If it was a dog attack, why are you looking into it?”
He followed her lead and leaned toward her.
“I’ve got a guy at the station who you need to talk to. He says it wasn’t a pack of dogs. That’s why I’m looking into it.”
“What’s he sayin?”
Meeker shook his head.
“Better if you hear it from him.”
“This is Charles Anthony Thomas Stephens. They call him Cat Stephens, but don’t confuse him with the singer.”
Trakes sat down in the metal chair bolted to the floor of the interrogation room. She studied the twenty-something dressed in a black t-shirt wearing small closed safety pins through his left eyebrow, as Meeker sat beside her. Stephens was across the table. The detective continued his introduction.
“The only time this Cat sings is when there’s a deal to be made with the DA, and he wants a get-out-of-jail-free card. He’s a four-time loser on minor beefs, B&E’s, mugging. He tried one robbery by force. Didn’t work out for him.”
Meeker chuckled and then added, never taking his eyes off the man, “The clown held up a convenience store and the clerk, a senior citizen, mind you, took him down with a cane the old guy needed to stand up.”
“Hey, that old man was tough. I bet he fought in the war. I bet he landed at Normandy.”
Meeker looked at the kid, “You’re admitting an octogenarian took you out?”
“Naw, man,” Stephens frowned. “He was Puerto Rican or something like that.”
“Of course,” Meeker said, fighting to keep a straight face. Then he continued, “Cat, this lady sitting across from you is Special Agent Trakes, and it is up to her if you stay in our nice facility or not.”
Trakes asked Meeker a silent question, why is he in custody?
“I told him I’d keep him from the boogey man until you got back,” Meeker told her. “Now it’s your call. He currently has no charges pending.”
Trakes nodded and looked at Stephens.
“Look, lady,” he started, not waiting to be asked questions, “you gotta keep me in here. It ain’t safe out there. It ain’t safe for me.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” she offered?
“Yeah, yeah, I can do that, but I’m telling ya right now, you gotta keep me in here.”
“Cat,” Meeker barked, “answer the agent’s question, or I’ll deposit you outside my own self.”
“Okay, yeah, okay,” he said. “You guys got a smoke? I could really use a smoke.”
Andee sighed and studied the man before her. He wore a buzz-cut of brown hair and dark green eyes that watered uncontrollably. He moved in the jerky fashion that i
ndicated drug use and had a habit of wetting his lips with his tongue every few words. He carried a sour smell indicating he hadn’t showered. She didn’t like it, she didn’t like him, and she tried to think of a reason to not get up and leave.
Meeker stood and reached over the table. He slapped Stephens solidly across the face. He had the man’s attention.
“Last time. You talk to this lady, or we’re out of here and if we leave, you leave. Got it?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, trying to rub the sting out of his cheek. “I understand, man. I got it.”
“Then talk to me,” Trakes ordered.
“Look, it was like this. Eddie, Rose and me were pushing a little smack. Nothing major, nothing to get excited about. We used a little, just popping, you know, and we moved enough to keep us in beer money. You know, nothing to get all uptight about.”
He stopped and waited for verification.
“And,” Meeker demanded.
“And, well, and Eddie…”
Trakes hated to interrupt the nimrod for fear he may never find his place again, but she needed information.
“This Eddie, you mean Eduardo Ferreira?”
“Yeah, that’s Eddie. That was Eddie. Eddie Iron, we called him.”
He stopped again and nodded his head.
“Go on,” Trakes commanded.
Okay, okay, I gotcha. Anyway, the three of us are moving a little dust, not causing any trouble, and then Eddie winds up dead. Whacked out in the park. Somebody did him through the back of his head. I don’t know why. He’s just dead.
“Rose, we call him Rose ’cause of the rose tat he got in the can. It looks crappy, but we don’t tell him. It would hurt his feelings, and overall he’s a good guy. Bad taste in tats, that’s all. Anyways, me and Rose are like all busted up about Eddie goin’ down like that, and we don’t know why. So’s we do what we do, and the other night, there’s this dude. This dude, I mean he’s a big dude, and he comes up to us and starts asking questions about who did Eddie. We tell him the truth, we don’t know, but he doesn’t believe us. Says we’re lying to him and if we don’t tell him how and who, we’re gonna join Eddie.”
Shadow of the Moon: A Fantasy of Love, Murder and Werewolves Page 10