by Jaxon Reed
The three of them thanked her. Bryce gave her his vid card, asking her to call him if she heard of anything, or thought of something else that might be relevant.
-+-
Out on the street, walking back to the car, Parker said, “Let’s go visit one of the boyfriends.”
They flew back to a modest professional district on the edge of the city. Parker landed the car near a set of houses that had been converted to office use. They walked up to one with a sign out front that read, “Robert Hightower Canton, III - Attorney at Law.”
Walking inside, Bryce flashed his badge at the receptionist.
“We’d like a word with Mr. Canton.”
She nodded, and pointed them toward an open doorway leading into the lawyer’s office.
Canton came around his desk, shook their hands, asked if they wanted something to drink. All three politely declined. He shut the door, went back behind his desk and sat down.
He stood about the same height as Bryce, six feet. Light blonde hair showed a bald spot on the back of his head. Bright blue eyes, tanned face. Lots of smile wrinkles.
His desk featured several framed photographs of his family. An attractive wife, three boys and a girl, Bryce noted.
“What can I do for y’all?”
Parker spoke for the trio.
“We’d like to talk about Desiree Lamont. You knew her as Desiree Dubois.”
Canton’s eyes sparkled, and he grinned.
“Desiree Dubois. There’s a name that brings up memories. I think every boy in Hutto High had a crush on her. I know I sure did.”
He looked at Bryce and grinned.
“We used to call her ‘Double D!’”
He guffawed, then glanced at both the women. Neither one smiled. His grin dropped. He cleared his throat.
“Anyway, yeah, we all liked her. She was the most popular girl in school. Every boy’s dream. Beautiful. Attractive. She was something of a ‘mean girl,’ though.”
“Mean?” Parker prompted.
“Yeah. She could be real mean. Downright catty. If another girl was attractive, and didn’t suck up to her, she hated her. Desiree loved playing the role of a queen bee. She made life miserable for girls she didn’t like. She had some sidekicks who played the game with her, too. They became sort of like her ‘ladies in waiting,’ you know?
“Like Shelly Melton?”
“Yeah, Shelly was her best friend. They were tight, those two. Between them and a couple of other girls, they could make life hell for someone who didn’t kiss up to Desiree. I remember a couple girls who got so upset they dropped out of school. Transferred somewhere else to get away from her. And if someone came between a boy Desiree wanted, watch out! That group could be devastating to their enemies.”
He shook his head, eyes drifting through memories. Bryce felt a sense of wonder radiating from him.
“High school, huh? What a time, what a time.”
Bryce felt the women mentally snort. They were not as impressed with the memories as he seemed to be.
Parker continued the line of questioning.
“So, we understand you bought . . . ‘Double D’ . . . an expensive necklace? Tell us about that.”
“Oh man! I was smitten, you know? There was a party one Friday night after a football game. She was dating Hickson Rodgers, our quarterback. He was an all-state superstar, and he already had a scholarship to Baylor lined up. He was going pro, the real deal.
“Desiree was the head cheerleader, and like I said she was the most popular girl in school. It was like a storybook romance, you know? She had everything going for her, and ol’ Hickson, he had her and a scholarship in hand.
“I wasn’t on their level, you know? Heck, I didn’t even play sports. I was into the yearbook and the drama club. But somehow I managed to show up at this party that night, and everybody was dancing, playing the music too loud, drinking. Somehow, I ended up alone in a back room with Double D herself, and I had just enough liquid courage in me to make a move on her.
“She stopped me, and pulled out a vid page for a jewelry store catalogue. Who does that? Who carries around a catalogue with the stuff they want? I don’t know, but Desiree did. She hands me that page and points at a picture of a diamond necklace. I think it must have been the most expensive item in the catalog. She said, ‘Buy me this, Bobby. Then we’ll see.’
“I was thrilled. I took the page, and the next morning I went looking for work. I took two jobs, saved every dime over the next several months, took all my Christmas and birthday money, and finally finagled the last few credits from my old man. I walked into that jewelry store and bought her the necklace.
“I’m not going to lie. I thought I’d be handsomely rewarded by Desiree for giving her that string of rocks. At the very least I expected maybe a kiss or two. But no. She said, ‘Thank you, Bobby.’ She put it on her neck and walked away.
“And you know what the funny thing is? I didn’t get angry. I didn’t feel an ounce of regret. I didn’t think it was all a waste, not even when I saw her the next day wearing the diamond necklace I bought her while holding hands with Hickson Rodgers. I just felt . . . happy. Happy that she got what she wanted. Is that crazy or what?”
-+-
Later in the afternoon on the way back to the station, Parker suggested they stop somewhere and collect their thoughts. Bryce suggested the privacy of his cigar club, and she nosed her car to its parking platform north of downtown.
When they climbed out of her car, they looked over and up toward the remains of Mile High Alamo. Its parking lot stood empty, the main transport tube and the emergency exit tubes reached up to the scorched platform higher in the sky.
Renard pointed up.
“That’s where it happened?”
Bryce and Parker nodded.
“Why would she burn down her own club like that?”
Parker said, “Well, technically, the crowd trying to escape in panic set the fire. I think they knocked over some lamps or something.”
Renard nodded, deep in thought. Then she looked at both of the detectives.
“Trying to deal with her in a crowd is a bad idea. Don’t use that approach again.”
-+-
Renard expressed delight at finding her favorite French label on Nightsky’s wine list, and ordered a bottle. Parker and Bryce exchanged glances. Parker shrugged.
“I guess we can go off the clock early.”
She ordered a glass of chardonnay and he asked for his favorite craft beer.
The three of them sat in a semicircle in plush leather chairs, looking out toward the Capitol Building and downtown, the scenery bathed in strong afternoon sunlight.
“This is very nice,” Renard said, sipping her wine. “A beautiful view.”
“It’s too bad your colleague isn’t here to enjoy it with us,” Parker said.
Renard waved her free hand in dismissal.
“He wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.”
“So, what do we know?” Bryce said, wiping his lips on a napkin, brushing away beer foam.
Parker sipped her wine thoughtfully before replying.
“She learned the full extent of her powers early. She started gathering wealth and influence in high school. In college she found influence with men who were even wealthier. No doubt she disrupted some marriages along the way, breaking up some families. Eventually she found an eligible billionaire about her own age. Married him. Enjoyed extraordinary wealth and privilege for a while. Then she became increasingly unhappy, and killed him.
“Of course, she thought she’d get away with it. She’s always gotten away with whatever she wants. Why not murder? The only question now is, how do we stop her once we find her again?”
“Leave that to me,” Renard said. “Once our supplies get here, we will be able to put a stop to Madame Lamont’s escapades once and for all.”
Chapter Eleven
Bryce landed the car along the street near his apartment building. It was late. The trio h
ad stayed at the club until after eleven. Parker dropped Bryce off at the station so he could retrieve his car, then flew Renard to her hotel.
He passed by Marti’s, noted the doors and windows shuttered with plastic sheathing, and felt a pang of sadness. Marti left town after Mack’s funeral. He heard she planned on moving in with her sister, who lived in Fort Worth.
As he walked by, he wondered how long Marti could make it, how long she could live independently.
She’ll probably wind up in an assisted care facility like my mother, he thought.
That brought another pang of grief, and he hurried by the closed pub, strolling closer to the entrance of his apartment building.
He walked through the lobby and waved at Sam Martinez, the night guard, before taking the elevator up to his apartment. Sam was old, in his seventies. He often joked with Bryce he took the job because he couldn’t sleep at night.
The doors to the elevator opened, closed, then it ferried Bryce up to his floor. The hand scanner for his apartment recognized him, the bolt snicked back and the door opened.
His apartment was Spartan, almost bare. A vid screen, a couch and a recliner occupied the living room. Nothing in the dining area. In the kitchen, a few utensils went unused in the drawers. The refrigerator stayed mostly empty.
In the bedroom, a mattress stretched along one wall, sheets and pillow rumpled. A nightstand and a dresser completed his furniture.
He suppressed a yawn, stripped to his underwear, dropping his clothes and gun on the floor. He climbed into bed and went straight to sleep.
-+-
He woke up to the sound of the deadbolt sliding back. In the old days, manual deadbolts could be eased open, making less noise. The sound from Bryce’s electronic lock, however, could not be muffled.
Bryce rolled out of bed, retrieved his gun from the floor, and padded softly into the living room. The front door swung open slowly. He crouched behind the recliner, aiming toward the door.
Martinez walked into the room, holding his gun out in front of him with both hands.
“Sam? What are you doing?”
Bryce lowered his gun, scanning the man for emotions. He found him determined. Very determined.
Behind him, Desiree Lamont walked in. She turned and closed the door.
“Hello, Detective. It’s time we had a talk. Put the gun down. Don’t make Sam here shoot you.”
She stroked Martinez on the back of his head, running her fingers through his gray hair. He blushed, and Bryce felt extraordinarily strong love and devotion radiate from him. She had him completely in her control.
Bryce stood up from behind the recliner. Sam’s eyes never wavered, the gun aimed steadily at Bryce’s center. Bryce slowly placed his gun in the seat of the chair in front of him, then raised his hands.
“Okay, Desiree. You have my attention.”
She smiled, and came around from behind Martinez. She walked closer to Bryce, staying out of the security guard’s line of fire.
“I do like a man who sleeps in his underwear,” she said with a mischievous smile.
Bryce pushed down a sudden wave of lust. It took him a moment.
When he finally felt he had a firm grasp on his feelings again, he looked her in the eye.
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? I want you and your people to quit chasing me. I want us to be friends, not enemies. I want the two of us to go away, to live the life we deserve, the life you’ve always dreamed of living. I want us to be happy. I want us to be together! Maybe even have a baby together.”
“Not going to happen. You killed your husband, Desiree.”
She waved the notion aside, as if batting a fly away.
“The charges were dismissed.”
“You started a riot that burned down a club.”
“You shot at me. The police started that riot.”
“You attacked the police station, you killed a doctor.”
“The Russians attacked your station, the doctor committed suicide.”
For a moment, he could see her point of view clearly, as feelings of innocence beamed from her. Nothing was her fault. Others were complicit. He felt her control, felt her assert the suggestions so strongly in his mind that thoughts of her innocence became almost overwhelming.
And there again, he felt a tug on his weakest emotional strand. A thought was planted. An emotional suggestion that resonated with him on the deepest level. With her, he would never be lonely. With her, he would have someone who shared his abilities, someone with far greater abilities than his own. He would be with someone who understood, someone who shared his need for togetherness. He would be with a person who could relate to his challenges, and his capabilities.
It felt so strong, this pull to join her, to be free from feelings of isolation forever. For a moment, he almost succumbed. He could see a life with her. A life where nothing else mattered. A life where every wish was granted, every dream fulfilled. Most of all, a life without loneliness or regrets.
But in the far reaches of his consciousness, a tiny spark of reason kindled. A moral compass came to life. Weak, but alive. Distant but persistent feelings of duty and responsibility. Honor. Dignity. Self-respect.
The spark of reason grew stronger. His mother’s eyes flashed into his mind from her hospital bed, and with them her voice carrying caution and advice.
If you can distract her emotionally, you can kill her.
The spark grew into a fire. He pushed down the emotions Desiree transmitted, and forced himself to remember Charles Lamont’s bloody body. Gunmen shooting into the doorway of the police station. The lifeless doctor hanging from the ceiling by his neck.
Slowly, he pushed her control down and firmly reasserted his own grip on his emotions. On his will.
His upper lip curled.
“You’re a murderess.”
He filled the word with contempt, disgust, and righteous indignation. He threw every ounce of negativity into the word he could muster.
Her eyes grew wide and her neck snapped back as if he had physically slapped her. She stood there for a moment staring at him, shocked.
Then her eyes narrowed and she turned toward Martinez.
“Shoot him!”
Bryce ducked behind the recliner. Desiree ran toward the door.
BANG!
Stuffing flew out from the recliner. Bryce reached around and grabbed his pistol from the recliner’s seat, and fired it blindly toward the door.
BLAM! BLAM!
He heard a groan of pain as Martinez dropped his gun, grabbed his chest and crumpled to the floor.
Bryce stood up, ran to the door and looked down the hallway.
Ding!
The elevator doors closed, taking Lamont with them. He heard Martinez groan again.
“Sam! You okay? Let me see.”
Bryce rolled Martinez over, pulling away his hands which were covered in blood.
Bryce tapped the phone implant under his ear. The phone’s virtual screen appeared in front of his face.
“Nine-one-one!”
Martinez groaned again in pain.
“It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay.”
In the middle of his pain, Sam smiled. His eyes focused a final time as he stared up at Bryce.
“Is she gone?”
Bryce nodded, and felt Sam’s love and happiness fade as his spirit slipped away.
-+-
Bryce walked into the station the next morning red-eyed and sleep deprived. Miller saw him first, and nodded politely. Bryce could sense the sympathy Miller felt. He and Jenkins took the call last night at his apartment.
Internal Affairs had already cleared him of the shooting. So had the Texas Rangers. Home invasion shootings were almost always open and shut.
Surveillance video showed everything except the actual shooting. Desiree Lamont walked into the building’s lobby in the wee hours of the morning, approaching Sam at his guard station. After talking with him for a while, she placed her
hand on his shoulder and tilted her head toward the elevators.
Sam and Desiree took the elevator to Bryce’s floor, where cams showed Sam unlocking the detective’s door. They both entered the apartment, Sam with his gun drawn.
A few moments later, gunfire. Then Desiree ran out the door, and into the elevator. Bryce’s head popped out, looking down the hallway. Later, emergency personnel streamed out of the elevator and over to his doorway.
It seemed obvious to everyone reviewing the video that Desiree Lamont had somehow talked Sam Martinez into illegally entering Bryce’s apartment. Even if Sam had not been carrying a weapon, Bryce was perfectly within his rights to defend himself. That the video showed Sam entering with a pistol in hand further cemented the notion this was a “justified shooting.” The Rangers and IA quickly closed the file and turned to other, more pressing cases.
Still, Bryce felt bad about shooting Martinez. The old security guard had simply found himself caught up in a deadly game. Sam deserved more than a shot to the chest. He found himself resenting Desiree Lamont for involving Sam.
Miller came over to Bryce’s desk and patted him on the shoulder.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Detective.”
Bryce couldn’t help but smile.
“Usually I’m the one gauging people’s emotions. Does it look that obvious on me?”
Miller nodded, filled with sympathy.
“You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t bother you at some level.”
Soon Jenkins, Parker, Renard, and Desmet came in. They all stood in a group around Bryce and Miller, talking quietly about the previous night’s events.
The Captain’s office door opened.
“Bryce, Parker, and you Belgian people. Get in here. The rest of you go back to work.”
Before everyone could sit down in Wilton’s office, the station’s computerized receptionist chimed on his vid screen.
“Captain, you have a visitor.”
The screen shifted to a cam shot of a short, completely bald man sporting a thin gray mustache. His eyes shifted to the cam, as he realized he was appearing onscreen somewhere.
“I am Jean-Pierre LeBlanc, from the Belgian consulate in San Antonio. I am here to bring a package to Agents Renard and Desmet from Europol.”