by Adira August
“Run it by Natani first.”
“Already did. She agreed.”
“Good, it’ll save time. But, Mike?”
Merisi wasn’t used to Hunter Dane using his given name. “Sir?”
“We have a special circumstance here. Generally nothing replaces face-to-face contact. If it seems warranted, send a uniform to follow-up.”
“If it seems warranted, I’m going myself.”
The difference between Mike Merisi and Hunter Dane was that Hunt would have said “Okay” to the supervisor and then gone himself, anyway. He handed back the reports. “Good work. Keep Cam advised.”
The Info Desk
* * *
At the intersection of the main hallway and the side hall to the elevator bay on the third floor of police headquarters, arrows on the walls pointed to ELEVATOR, ASSAULTS, and HOMICIDE.
The arrow to Homicide’s squadroom was superfluous, as the open entrance to the squadroom was across from the arrow. The only thing separating the hallway from the squadroom was the information desk at which sat a mousey, bespectacled, forty-seven-year-old woman named Ruth. A large dachshund broach hung from the bulky cardigan she wore. Miniature dachshunds chased each other around the base of a mug of tea she held with both hands.
Behind her was the squadroom. To her left, a row of interview rooms. To her right, the supervisor offices. And far back on the wall, too far away for her to hear, the wall-mounted TV.
Ignoring her tea, Ruth auto-nodded like a spinster bobble-head up at Deedee, the tight-skirted, cleavage-displayed blond from Assaults. Deedee’s gaze kept slipping to Special Agent Garza, still perched on a desk in the squadroom as she nattered on.
“So, I tell him I'm getting off early and he says he already has plans! Which he won’t tell me! I just cannot keep seeing him. I mean, I do have my self-esteem.”
Immersed in her own story, Deedee didn’t notice Ruth peering around at something behind her.
“Not that I mind staring at your ass, Deedee, but I don't want to make a career out of this guy.”
A startled Deedee found Officer Xavier behind her with a handcuffed Harold Ferriter looking curiously about.
INSIDE A CHAIN LINK PROTECTED space in underground parking, Carol Twee and two techs in coveralls examined Ferriter's silver Mercedes.
“This is one clean car.”
The tech who spoke was called Raider. She was tall, thin, and Muslim—and wore a dark blue hijab and DPD coveralls. Raider wasn’t her given name, and Twee had never asked how she’d come by her preferred form of address.
“Lieutenant Dane needs to know where this car was today. It has a GPS shielding device, so we do it the old-fashioned way. Let’s take a look underneath. Something will tell us where it’s been. Mud, clay, whatever.”
“I looked. Nothing. At all,” Raider said. “Doesn’t Dane think it was in the foothills? If it was and it’s clean, they must have washed it.”
Twee smiled, walking around the car. “True. And, they must have washed it at a self-serve with no cameras, not a lot of witnesses. Possibly none. I mean, who washes a car before a storm?”
“So where’s a carwash like that—isolated and still well-equipped?”
Twee clapped her hands and jumped up and down. “Oh my God!” She grabbed her cell. … “Cam! It’s Conifer. There’s a car wash, have someone check the trash. Maybe we’ll get lucky. … Because I said so. … No, this car doesn’t go off-road, it’s only got a four-and-a-half-inch ground clearance. … Look yourself, you're the internet search expert. It’s gotta be self-service, still in the foothills but only pavement from there to his house. … Morrison’s way too busy—all kinda witnesses. My money’s on Conifer. … Yeah.”
She tapped off, no longer buoyant.
“What?” Raider asked.
“He said it wasn’t my money I was betting.”
A JEFFERSON COUNTY Sheriffs SUV leaned through a switchback revealing a vista of a wide, forested canyon. Deputy Lieutenant Lonny Vargas, a neatly bearded twenty-something, hunched over the wheel, grim and determined. His onboard computer screen showed a Google map of a broad forested valley cut through by few roads. In the corner of the screen was an image of Brian Trowbridge.
Vargas looked out over the landscape, knowing he was barely a speck in the wilderness, as was the child he searched for.
“JSD one-seven.”
He keyed his shoulder mic. “Seventeen, go ahead.”
“Patching through a call from DPD homicide. Stand by.”
Vargas stopped along the wide gravel shoulder and picked up his clipboard. He closed his eyes. “Dear God, please lead us to this boy,” he whispered and crossed himself as the radio crackled to life.
ON THE SQUADROOM TV, Wendy the Weather Girl, 22, beyond perky in personality and bosom, caressed a weather map, cheerily reporting the looming disaster.
“...while blizzards in September aren’t unknown in Denver, this one’s expected to be massive! Snow flurries will start in the metro area about four o'clock, but we expect that to be a white-out by five. It’ll be heavy, wet snow, so prepare for power outages and get cozy inside. The arctic cold front…”
At the copier, DiMato ogled Wendy's prominent bosom. “Oh, baby, I could cozy up to those.”
Ed Chang poured a cup at a coffee setup. “I read she's dating a Bronco linebacker.”
Garza, perched atop an empty desk, flashed a grin. “Yeah, but he's second string and DiMato has a big gun. So do we order lunch sent in or just hang out waiting to get snowed in and starve?”
Wendy announced the Rocky Mountain Car and Truck Exposition at the Coliseum would close at four p.m. and all events had been canceled until further notice.
“Damn. I have tickets for that,” DiMato said. “The Feeb’s right, we should order food before they stop delivering.”
Fulton picked up a phone.
Waving a fat red file folder, Hunter Dane strode into the room from Natani’s office. “Where's the evidence log for this file?”
At the copier, DiMato held up some papers. “I'm making copies.”
“Keep the file together, DiMato. And if you go to the head, if you so much as turn your head to leer at weather girl, you put the paperwork back in the file. Hell, even Ruthie knows that!”
RUTH STARTED AND looked around at the sound of her name.
Xavier threw an eye roll. “Pay attention, okay, honey? I just want to get my cuffs back and get the hell home. Where do I put him?”
A confused Ruth had no answer. Xavier pointed to several nearby rooms with half-open doors.
“Those are interrogation rooms, right? Just. Pick. One.”
She bit her lip. “They aren't... It's not my job.”
Xavier bellowed past her. “DiMato! You want I should take off the cuffs and leave him with the girl? I ain't makin' a career out of this call.”
Hunter slapped the file down in front of Ed Chang. “Hang onto this and get the evidence logs inside. Sergeant DiMato?”
DiMato handed the papers off to Chang and followed Hunter up front.
“What's going on, Ruthie?” Hunter asked. “They told Merisi they’d come back and finish up.”
“I'm not sure, Lieutenant. I—there are still wires hanging out. Should I call maintenance?”
DiMato swung open a door marked Interrogation 1 and flipped on the light: two chairs and an L-shaped desk in a corner.
The table-like desk return projected into the room. A thick eye bolt threaded with handcuffs was embedded through the top. Bolted to the floor behind it, a metal suspect chair faced the door. Half of one wall was a dark, one-way window.
On top of the desk sat an unplugged computer monitor shoved back against the wall. A keyboard on end, cord wrapped around, leaned against the side of the monitor. Under the desk, a rat's nest of unplugged power cords and computer detritus dangled.
Dog-eared notices taped to the wall warned and informed. An institutional clock with an old-fashioned sweep second hand read 12:26.<
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“Good enough for government work,” DiMato said to Hunter, who waited in the doorway.
“Unless we’re going to question him.”
Ferriter's eyes flicked between Hunt and DiMato, who sighed deeply and lowered his voice. Ferriter listened hard, looking down and away.
“Look, Lieutenant, that FBI guy doesn’t care. I mean, maybe somebody should. But seriously, I gotta get out of here before the storm hits. I live way up Tinker’s Creek canyon.”
“It doesn’t take four hours to drive forty miles, DiMato.”
“You know it'll start in the foothills way before it gets here.”
Ferriter smiled—a secret upcurve of lips quickly gone.
“C’mon, Hunter, you used to work here. It’s good enough for him to sit in until the paperwork’s together and the booking shit’s done.”
Hunter considered and gestured to Xavier: Bring him in.
DiMato grabbed an OD green metal wastebasket off the return, shoved it underneath and stepped out to hold the door open.
Xavier positioned Ferriter in the metal chair and cuffed him to the eyebolt. He gave the cuff chain a quick test yank.
“All yours, Lieutenant.”
“All right, Officer.”
Xavier cleared out. DiMato swung the door closed.
“One moment, Detective?”
Surprised at being addressed by Ferriter, DiMato paused in the doorway with a wtf do you want look.
“No one has told me what I'm charged with.”
“It's a seventy-two-hour investigative hold. Details will be on your charge sheet. You'll get a copy at the jail.” He moved to close the door.
“I prefer the door be left open.”
DiMato didn’t give a crap what Ferriter preferred. He shut the door.
“If I have a medical emergency, no one will see me.” Ferriter spoke loudly but calmly.
Hunter opened the door. “Are you expecting a medical emergency, Mister Ferriter? Do you have some condition we should know about?”
“This is very stressful. One never does know what the police might do to one.” Ferriter’s forehead crumpled with worry lines.
“You won't be with us long, sir, but you should know”—Hunter left the door wide open—“we do everything by the book here.” He stepped out.
Ferriter barked out an order. “Tell me your name.”
“I’m Detective Lieutenant Hunter Dane, Mister Ferriter. A detective will be with you shortly to take your information.”
Hunter disappeared from Ferriter's view. Only Ruth was visible to him, sipping from her mug at her computer.
CROSSING THE ROOM, Hunter snatched up the red file Chang held out. He entered the office and took a visitor chair next to Xavier. “Tow slip and personal property?”
Xavier handed Hunt a form and a large evidence envelope holding the pen and ledger, and Ferriter’s wallet and keys.
“You’re sure he didn't recognize you from this morning?” Hunter asked, checking out the contents of the envelope.
Xavier shook his head. “Not a sign. I don't think he knew anybody was back there. He just wanted to get onto the highway, watching oncoming traffic for a hole to slide into. You know there’s no merge lane to speak of there.”
Hunt made a note. Gave something to Xavier to sign.
DiMato came in with a grin for Xavier. “There's our Oscar winner. You really pulled off the ‘I don't give a shit’ scenario, perfectly.”
“Thanks, but I don't get it,” Xavier said. “He's a serial killer, and we all acted like he swiped batteries from a convenience store.” He signed the evidence transfer form and handed it back to Hunter.
“We don't know he's a serial killer. Yet.” Hunter slipped the form and evidence envelope into the red file. “But if he is, you can't treat him like he's important. It's what he expects. He'll shut down just to prove we can't control him. Power dynamics are these guys' whole lives.”
“These guys?”
“Serial killers,” Natani said.
“Treat him like you don't give a shit and he'll want to prove to you how important he is. He'll want you to know what he did. Who he is,” DiMato added.
“You mean he'll confess?”
“Sometimes. But not usually or easily,” Hunter told him. “The self-important ones like to throw out hints, just to get a cop all excited about questioning them. Then not give anything up. It’s a mild kind of sadism, frustrating a cop who wants to close a big case. They prove they're the smartest guy in the room. That they are in control. You didn’t see something like that when you arrested him?”
Xavier flushed.
Hunter stood. “Go home. Get some sleep.”
“I want to help. I lost him.”
“You found him. We have him.”
“I didn't mean Ferriter.”
A look from Hunt sent Natani out of the room, taking DiMato with her.
“How long have you been on the job?” Hunter asked.
“Going on three years.”
Hunter knew it was actually twenty-five months. “What would you have done if Ferriter'd seen you and just driven away? Shot at the car? If he had Brian inside, you risk injuring the child. If he didn't have Brian, if the scarf got on his car by accident, you risk killing an innocent man. No matter what, if you hit the car, a resulting accident might have killed and injured other innocent people.”
“I didn’t even remember to activate my body cam,” the young cop said, looking miserably at the floor.
“It wouldn’t have given us anything you didn’t.” Hunt leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I know what it is to try everything, when you'd give anything, to get it right and then find out you're just human. All we have is the best we can do. You kept your head to the point you wrote down his plate while in pursuit. You obtained evidence that connects him to the victim. You called everything in before you could take a steady breath.”
“You listened to the radio call?”
Hunter smiled. “I need to know everything. That’s my job. I do it very well. You did yours, also very well.”
Xavier rose abruptly. “Thanks, Lieutenant. I do hear you. It’s just not enough.”
Hunt watched the young cop make his way through the squadroom and out.
Looking around, he found Cam buried in his laptop, as usual. As if feeling the weight of his need, Cam raised his head. Laptop in hand, he made his way to Hunter.
Hunt closed and locked the door. He sank back against the edge of the desk. Cam put the laptop on a chair, stepped in between Hunt’s knees, and wrapped his arms around his sub and lover, boss and friend.
Hunt’s arms circled Cam’s waist in return, pulling him close. The detective allowed himself to relax, his forehead resting on Cam’s wide shoulder. Cam was strong and solid, his center of gravity like a steel cable attached to the center of the earth. Hunter was lean and fit, long-limbed and smooth-muscled. Cam was power: contained and restrained.
They stayed like that for a minute, breathing each other's scent, feeling each other’s warmth and strength.
“How come,” Hunter began, words muffled, “when I'm not shaved, I look like I've been rooting in a dumpster for dinner. But when Garza has stubble he looks like he should be modeling underwear?”
Cam stroked his back. “You’re forgetting something. You actually do model underwear.”
“Not for a while now.” Hunter raised his head and Cam smiled into his eyes.
“Are you compliment fishing or just needing support?”
“I can’t have both?” Hunt pulled Cam even closer.
“I don’t suppose we’re having sex in here, are we?” Cam brushed an irrepressible flop of sable hair back from Hunter’s brow.
Hunter grinned. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You definitely don’t want me corrigible.” He brought Hunter’s mouth to his with two hands on the sides of his face and kissed him for a while.
When they broke, Hunt rested his hands on Cam’s hips. “Y
ou think Garza’s crazy?”
“Oh, yeah. Also brilliant. But he’s not the one the governor called. He didn’t call any of these people.”
“I hate working this way.”
“What way?” Cam sat down, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles—listening mode.
“Nonspecifically,” Hunter said. “I just assigned people to general areas of responsibility, instead of to specific tasks. Focus is split between finding the child and handling the suspect. Our victim is still alive and the search is vague, undirected and multi-jurisdictional.”
Hunt paused and scrubbed his fingers through his hair.
“And you’ve been designated savior or sacrificial lamb depending on how the case turns out.” Cam crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell you what. Clutch your chest and fall down. I’ll call the ambulance. By the time they run enough tests to say it was anxiety and not a heart attack, the storm will be here, the kid’ll be dead and nothing will be your fault.”
“Sounds good,” Hunt nodded. “Are you going to break my fall?”
“Nah. It’ll be a lot more convincing if you hit your head on something on the way down.”
“In that case, never mind.” Hunter stood. “You have anything for me since I talked to Vargas?” He’d switched to work mode.
Cam pulled his legs in and put the laptop on the edge of the desk. Hunt took the other visitor chair to see the screen.
“You asked for an innocent reason he’d go to the foothills and a guilty reason for going there. We know the guilty reason. Here’s the innocent reason.” He explained Twee’s phone call. “She was right. This is a simple map of the foothills around Conifer with roads and communities. The red dots are properties where Ferriter represents either seller or buyer.”
“No wonder he’s rich; it looks like a string of beads tossed on a wrinkled blanket. So he could say he was going to one of these properties if he needed an excuse to be in the area.” Hunt examined the image more closely. A void in the fairly regular spacing of red dots drew his attention. “Except there.”
“Except there,” Cam agreed. “The void is glaring when you look at the landscape like this, from above. I thought maybe that area’s not suitable for building or part of a large holding the owner doesn’t want to part with or develop.”