The Day Before

by Liana Brooks

  Mac’s phone buzzed. He slunk into the empty living room, breathing in the scent of dust and perfume like an elixir. “MacKenzie.”

  “It’s Sam—­what’s going on?” She sounded calmer.

  “Marrins is working the scene. Altin just showed up.” The yelling in the next room escalated. “They’re fighting over jurisdiction.”

  “Tell them there’s a ruler in the top drawer by the fridge. They can whip it out and measure. When they’re done dicking around, they can get back to work.”

  Mac laughed in spite of himself. “Sure, I’ll tell them that.” Right after I retire. He rubbed his eyes. “Do you have a coffeemaker here? It would make everyone a lot happier.”

  “I can’t stand the stuff. Marrins can run to town if he wants some,” Sam said. “How’s Hoss?”

  “Not happy.” Mac petted the massive beast in question. Hoss leaned his head on Mac’s thigh, trying to knock him over. It was the beast’s new favorite game. “I don’t think he likes intruders.”

  “Probably not. Look, the earliest flight I can get is four this afternoon. Can you ask Marrins what he will do with my dog?”

  “Sure, gimme a sec.” Mac poked his head into the kitchen. “Sir?” Both Altin and Marrins whipped toward him, looking ready to kill. “Agent Rose wants to know what we’re doing with the dog.”

  “Drop him at the pound,” Marrins said.

  “Sure.” Mac closed the door again. “He said the pound,” he told Agent Rose.

  “No! That’s doggy prison!”

  “Um . . .” Mac cleared his throat. No more ums. “I could . . . could take him to my place. Like we planned.”

  Agent Rose sighed. “Sure, that works. I’ll come get him when my flight lands. It’ll probably be late. Oh . . .” she hesitated. “Does Marrins want me to report to the precinct for questioning first?”

  Mac nudged the door open with his foot. “Sir, Agent Rose is catching a red-­eye flight back to the state. Do you want her to come in for questioning or do you want someone to pick her up at the airport?”

  Marrins glared at him. “It’s three in the morning. I want her to find a hotel room and promise not to ruin any more of my weekend. My schedule didn’t have ‘homicide’ on it.”

  “Right.” The door swung closed. Marrins wants you to put yourself under house arrest at a hotel until Monday.”

  Even over the phone, he could hear the heavy sigh that always accompanied Rose’s disappointed eye rolls. “Fine. I’ll pick up Hoss as soon as I get to town.”

  “Okay.” He hung up and tugged Hoss’s collar. “Want to go for a walk?” The nubbin wagged.

  The dashboard clock read half past ten when Sam parked her car in front of an apartment with a peeling facade. At a gas station across the street, two police cruisers huddled around the remnants of a drug deal gone wrong. An ambulance siren wailed through the night.

  MacKenzie’s place was all 2020 architecture: a strong, boxy design that fit the mood of a failing country, painted in scorched-­earth tones. It needed renovation, possibly done by a local arsonist in colors of gasoline and fire. He rented a ground-­level hovel in a back corner of the complex between a broken streetlamp and an overgrown, empty lot that seemed to double as the local landfill. In the humid June night, the smell of ripe and rotted garbage was gagworthy.

  Hoss barked wildly when she knocked. Sam winced, wondering for the first time if she should have just left the dog alone and found a hotel for the night.

  The sound of chain locks being undone jolted her out of her daze. MacKenzie tugged the door open with a yawn and ran a hand through sleep-­styled hair. “Agent Rose?”

  She managed a weak smile and pulled her purse over the ketchup stain on the hem of her dress in embarrassment. “Hi.”

  “Come on in.” He switched off whatever late-­night chatter was showing on the TV and collapsed into a dark green sofa.

  She petted Hoss, taking comfort in his familiar warm bristle. “I’ll grab his stuff, and we’ll go find someplace up by the highway. There’s a No-­tell Motel they haven’t condemned yet.”

  “You . . . you could stay here,” MacKenzie offered hesitantly.

  “Here?”

  MacKenzie stood, awkwardly brushing debris from his sofa. “On the couch? I don’t . . . don’t mind.”

  “Thanks.” The memory of Jane Doe’s tortured body flashed through her head. “It wouldn’t look right.”

  “Neither would your car wrapped around a tree.” He held out a crocheted afghan. “You’re falling over, and there’s nowhere else to go.”

  Thunder rolled outside, and the heavy beat of rain hammered the roof. She fell into the couch beside the ME and bit her lip. Saint Jude, protect me. “Right. Do you have a bathroom where I can get washed up?”

  “Right by the kitchen.”

  Sam went back to the car for her overnight bag and gave herself a quick tour. Living room, narrow hall with one door that led to a closet, and another that smelled of unwashed clothes and despair—­that was probably MacKenzie’s bedroom. Kitchen, folding card table, empty cupboards, and a small door to a smaller bathroom, the ceiling and linoleum both cracked. A sink with rusting pipes practically sat in the lap of anyone using the toilet, and the weak yellow light overhead showed a dingy ring around the shower stall.

  Outside, the storm was rumbling and rolling, settling in for a good night’s soaking. Sam locked the door and showered, leaving her perfumed shower gel next to a sliver of green soap that looked as welcoming as a military basic training unit. How did MacKenzie live like this? Simply being here filled her with shame. All the work society had done to rebuild. All the laws and man-­hours put into revitalizing a broken nation, and this is what they achieved?

  The bedroom door was shut tight when she slunk out of the bathroom, red-­eyed and wearing sweats with the word ATLANTA stretched across the chest.

  Hoss wagged his nubbin before stretching out on the floor beside the couch, happy to have his human back. She patted his side. “Good puppy.” She picked up the pillow MacKenzie had left for her and gave it an experimental sniff. Much to her surprise, it didn’t smell of mildew, sweat, or Smelly Boy—­just a hint of eucalyptus laundry wash and dust. The blanket smelled the same.

  She pulled it over her head, listening to the much-­needed rain until she fell into a restless sleep.

  CHAPTER 12

  You might exist in every world of quantum possibility. Who knows? Who cares? Unless an individual is einselected to become a Node, they are nothing more than background static.

  ~ Excerpt from a private journal found at the Odde Street house I1–2076

  Sunday June 9, 2069

  Alabama District 3

  Commonwealth of North America

  At five, the phone rang. Mac hit it with his fist, sending it clattering to the floor to be lost in a pile of dirty clothes. Falling after it, he managed to unlock the phone and answer. “Eh?”

  “Get to the morgue. Now. We’ve got bodies.” Harley hung up.

  Mac sighed. The withdrawal headache had already started. This was going to be a bad day. His palm itched to reach for the bottle, to drown the memories in chemical oblivion.

  Rain pounded on the roof, trying to repair a six-­month drought in one go. He paused in the living room long enough to pull on his rain jacket, and not, he assured himself, to watch Agent Rose sleep. Black curls and an aquiline nose—­he realized with a start that with a few extra pounds to round out her lean features, Rose would be a dead match for the computer-­generated image of Jane Doe.

  That was an avenue of delusion he didn’t feel like exploring. He had enough problems with this case to begin with. In his more lucid moments, he was willing to admit that Jane was becoming an unhealthy obsession. Any free time not spent working Harley’s cases was spent staring at the images of Jane’s autopsy, trying to find that vital c
lue he was missing. Trying to give her a name. Trying to return her to her family.

  Hoss’s whining woke Sam up. She uncurled and stretched on the creaking couch. There was something horribly wrong about waking up in a strange apartment alone. “Hush, Hoss.” Sam checked her phone: one call from Marrins, thirteen messages from Detective Altin. Nothing from her host.

  “MacKenzie?” Her voice echoed through the house. “Mac, you here?” A quick check of the apartment showed he was gone.

  Hoss bumped her knee. “I hear you. I hear you.” She grabbed the leash and shuffled out onto MacKenzie’s patio in her slept-­in clothes to let Hoss relieve himself on a patch of brown grass and mud. “I need food. What about you?”

  The dog barked.

  “Let’s see what we have.” Sam dialed Marrins’s number as she started searching MacKenzie’s cupboards. As the phone rang, she found a stack of paper plates, some plastic forks, a brown ceramic bowl, and a box of opened Charmy Flakes with an expiration date of December 2067.

  “Marrins,” said the clipped voice in her ear.

  “Hey, it’s Rose, how’s my house?”

  “Still standing. We moved the body out. Altin’s ­people were looking the house over. Monday morning, when you get in, there are going to be ­people here with questions. I’m going to need answers, good ones, or you’re getting dinner Monday night courtesy of the county lockup.”

  “Sir, you know the only reason I would ever go to county lockup is to visit someone I sent there. I’m innocent.”

  “It doesn’t look good: your house, your case, your only suspect. I sent an order down to the ME to figure out cause and time of death. We should know by tomorrow, but there’s no way to make this look good.”

  “I didn’t—­I wouldn’t—­kill anyone, sir. I have no motive.” She tried to sound calm even though her hands were shaking. “Sir . . .”

  “Monday,” he said in a warning tone. “I’m doing everything I can to give you the vacation you wanted. If I played this by the book, I would have had someone pull you out of D.C. as soon as MacKenzie called in the body.”

  “I know, sir, and I’m grateful that you have enough faith in me that you haven’t—­”

  “Faith?” Marrins snorted. “Evidence is what I don’t have. Being on a plane at the presumed time of death is a pretty handy alibi. Harley’s going to do a full autopsy on Monday, but until then I don’t have enough to lock anybody up. Consider that your holiday bonus for the year. If you stay out of the clink, I’ll have a new case for you to work Tuesday. Something low-­profile. I want you out of the way.”

  “Sir, this the first decent lead we’ve had in this case. We can finally prove there was more to the break-­in than college high jinks. Put one of the morgue denizens on this, find the weapon, find some clues, and I can wrap this case. If nothing else, the time of death is going to prove I’m innocent.”

  Marrins clicked his tongue over the phone. “Can’t do it, Rose. I can’t have you on the case.” Marrins hung up.

  She dropped the phone into her purse on the counter. Off the case? No, there had to be a way around that. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised Hoss as she headed for her car. The only thing Marrins would hate more than getting off his fat behind would be working with Detective Altin.

  Ten minutes of breaking the speed limit, and she was in a cozy suburb with rosebushes and backyard swing sets.

  “Morning, Rose,” Detective Altin said as he answered the door. He was bare-­chested, a line of wiry gray curls peeking above his pajama pants with the local university mascot printed on them. “Rough weekend?”

  “Are you free?”

  “We’re just getting up for church.” He nodded at her sweats. “Lacey’s going to make you change if you’re coming with.”

  “No. I needed to talk to you before—­”

  “Before I talk to Marrins?” Altin motioned for her to step inside.

  Sam paused. “You’ve been talking to Marrins?”

  “Not cordially, but we’ve been talking.” Altin gestured for her to come all the way in. His wife was already dressed for Sunday ser­vice in a lime-­green dress with matching pillbox hat and a string of pink pearls. “Lacey, Agent Sam Rose from the bureau. Rose, this is my wife.”

  “How do you, ma’am? I’m sorry to interrupt your morning.”

  Lacey Altin sniffed. “Shouldn’t be about any business but the Lord’s on a Sunday.” She gave Sam a disapproving once-­over. “Breakfast is hot. Come on in.” She put a steaming plate of cinnamon rolls on the table. “I’m making eggs. You gonna eat like a good Chris­tian woman, or are you one of those devil Northern heathens who thinks food is bad?”

  “She’ll eat,” the detective said. He winked at Sam. “She’s just pulling your leg. Married to a police officer all these years, she knows how it goes. Eat the eggs, though. She’s got a thing against starving-­model types.”

  “Starving models are heathens?”

  “When you worship at the church of Southern fried food they are.” He held a chair out and found Sam a plate from the sideboard. “Now, about the case.”

  “I need to be in.”

  “No, you want to be in, but you’re out.”

  “I can help.”

  Altin poured orange juice out of a pitcher as Lacey brought in the scrambled eggs. “No.”

  “Case is over,” Lacey said. She dumped three heaping spoonfuls of egg on Sam’s plate. “Eat up. You’re never gonna catch a man if you don’t put some meat on you.”

  Sam took a bite. If eating eggs could help her catch killers, she was going to eat a dozen a day.

  The detective shrugged. “Melody Chimes called yesterday afternoon from Paris, France. Marrins sat in on the phone conversation with her family. He’s convinced she’s not under duress, she just wanted to be a kid. No harm done.”

  “And the lab?” Sam took a bite of egg, to be polite. They weren’t half-­bad. Better than stale Charmy Flakes.

  “There’s nothing missing. I’ve been there several hours a day since the vandalism, I’ve seen the inventory. Emir is paranoid and delusional.”

  “And Mordicai Robbins?”

  Altin patted her hand. “Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you about, but I thought it would be better if there were a lawyer present. Don’t you?”

  “I didn’t do anything, Altin. You know that.”

  “I know there was a dead man in your house, and I should have dragged you in for questioning the moment your plane landed.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you?”

  “That body was days old, and dumped. Marrins may not believe it, but this isn’t my first rodeo. First time I’ve seen a body dumped in an investigator’s house, though.” Altin tapped his fork on the side of the plate. “That bothers me.”

  Lacey Altin looked up from her meal. “No work at the table, dearest.”

  Altin winked at his wife. “Do you have someone you could stay with until we find out what happened to Robbins?” he asked Sam.

  “Not really. Why?”

  “You stepped on some toes somewhere. Someone thinks you’re a threat.”

  “An empty house on a nearly deserted road?” Sam said in a wheedling voice. “Why don’t we call this a coincidence?. The house looks abandoned.”

  Altin gave her a flat, unamused look.

  “I’m pretty sure I can convince Marrins it was coincidence.”

  “With that giant dog there? And a security code? There’s no love lost there, but even your senior agent isn’t that stupid.”

  “I was counting on him being too lazy to care,” Sam said. “Pretending this wasn’t a threat will help me sleep better tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t count on him being that lazy—­not with this case, not anymore. Besides, where do lies leave you? They won’t keep you safe.” Altin glared at her.
“Did the security company call you?”

  “No.” She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.

  “Whoever dumped the body knew your code, or knew how to turn the security off. Someone knows where you live, knows you’re tied to this case, and they’re willing to kill. Think about that, Sam. Who knows your code?”

  “My best friend Bri. My mom probably has it on file because she has my next-­of-­kin packet.” She thought about it for a second. “Oh . . . and MacKenzie does because he picked up my dog.”

  “He was first on scene, too.”

  “The security was on when MacKenzie arrived,” she said, shaking her head. “Whoever dumped Robbins had come and gone when MacKenzie arrived.”

  “Says who?”

  Sam took offense at that. “Agent MacKenzie is CBI. Not a killer. Not a suspect.”

  “You’re CBI,” Lacey Altin put in between dainty bites of breakfast. “You’re a suspect.”

  Sam shook her head. “Agent MacKenzie has trouble with bleeding clone corpses. He wouldn’t kill someone, then drag the body to my house.”

  Lacey Altin tapped her fork on the side of her plate. “Did he say why he was at your house?”

  “He was picking up my dog,” Sam snapped back at her.

  “Really?” Altin asked, looking skeptical. “I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

  “We aren’t. The trip to D.C. came up suddenly. Marrins had the interview and ticket lined up, but I didn’t have a kennel reservation. MacKenzie offered to dog sit for me. It’s not a friend thing. He was being helpful.”

  “He had means and opportunity,” Altin said.

  “But not motive,” Sam pointed out. “If MacKenzie wanted to kill someone, he wouldn’t need a dump site—­he has the morgue. If he wanted to threaten me, he had no reason to call Marrins about the body.” Her stomach twisted. She’d spent the night at his house. He hadn’t tried to hurt her. He couldn’t . . . Sam shook her head. “This is pointless. Have Harley identify the time of death. I’ll give you my timeline. You can see if they sync. Have MacKenzie give you one, too.”