Psychobyte

by Cat Connor

  I walked back into my office stepping over Lee’s outstretched legs to get to my desk.

  Still reading old case files, Lee glanced at me as I sat and scooted my chair into position.

  “You good?”

  “I’m good,” I replied. “How you doing?”

  He grinned. “Got it, Chicky. The company is KS.”

  “Based?”

  “Milan and New York.”

  “Got a contact?”

  “I have, Chicky.”

  “I need to talk to whoever that is first thing.” My eyes settled on the row of clocks above my door: nearly eight. Too late to make a business call.

  “Our files say a man by the name of Sasha Petrovovich is the person we want. He’s head perfumer and jewelry designer. His wife is Kendra Masters. They own the company.”

  “And Mr. Petrovovich is based where?”

  “He’s based at the New York head office.”

  “Great.”

  The Rolling Stones’ “Hand of Fate” bounced from the direction of the closed window. As I listened to the lyrics, I saw an image of a vampire shoot a man, grab a girl and run.

  Well, fuck, that was something.

  “Chicky?”

  “The vampire … I think he killed someone to save a girl from a violent relationship,” I said.

  Lee’s right eyebrow shot up. “That’s quite the quantum leap, from talking about a perfumer a few moments ago …”

  I shrugged. “‘Hand of Fate’ …” Was all I had by way of explanation.

  “Rolling Stones. Gimme a minute, let’s pull up a YouTube clip.”

  We listened in silence.

  “I’d be surprised if he did work for a power company. Not hard to falsify an ID. And saying you’re from the power company is a good way to get someone to open the door. Or maybe he really does work for a power company and is using that to get inside houses.”

  “Does he look anything like the Unsubs you saw?” Lee said.

  “No, that’s the problem.” I thought about the situation with Lette some more. “I also think the girl he saved is someone Phoebe knew.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t find a reason for Kristopher Lette to follow Phoebe on Twitter. I found no evidence of interaction between them and yet I have the feeling there was a connection.”

  “Maybe her tweets were interesting?”

  “Only if you like knowing what she ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Or how many miles she ran in a week.

  “Does he follow a lot of people who talk about food? Could be his thing.”

  “Don’t imagine vampires care about food.” I rechecked his Twitter feed. His tweets were all about art and how tough it was to get gallery space. I skimmed a few feeds from some of the people he followed. Mostly artists and musicians.

  “You really think this guy killed someone to save a girl from a bad relationship and that Phoebe knows the person?”

  Did I think that? It sounded a bit more nuts than usual. “I don’t know what I think, but something’s eating at me and it’s to do with Phoebe and Lette.”

  “All right. I’ll play. Do you think Phoebe knew about it?”

  I shook my head. “She would’ve said something to someone. We’d know by now.” The thought that Lette found a way to legitimately knock on doors and possibly gain access to houses fermented as Lee’s fingers clunked on the keyboard in front of him. I called Sam on my cell.

  “Hey. Did anyone you spoke to during this investigation mention someone from a power company being in the area?” I waited, listening to the rustle of turning pages.

  “No, Chicky Babe. No one mentioned door knockers of any sort.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I hung up.

  “You sure Phoebe would’ve talked if there was something going on?” Lee ventured.

  A frown formed. “What did you find?”

  “Ever meet Phoebe’s sister?”

  “No.”

  “Check this out.” Lee spun the laptop to face me.

  He’d pulled up photographs of a woman, depicting facial injuries, massive amounts of torso bruising, a broken arm, and a gash on the back of the head.

  “When?”

  “The most recent is the image of the gash at the back of her head and that’s three weeks ago.”

  “And the woman is Phoebe’s sister?”

  “Yep.” He sighed. “The day after that photograph was taken at the hospital, her husband disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yeah, he went away on business and no one has seen him since.”

  “What kind of business?” I asked.

  “The lawyer kind,” Lee said with a grimace.

  “He’s a lawyer?”

  “Yeah, the scumbag is a lawyer. He was bailed out within three hours of his arrest for male assaults female and left on a business trip the next day. Failed to appear in court. There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”

  “I don’t think anyone is going to find him …” I said.

  “It doesn’t sound like it.”

  “What’s the feeling on this, from a police perspective?”

  “That he took off and has a new identity, new life.” He read for a few seconds. “Warrants are active but the case is on hold. No one is turning over any stones to find this guy.”

  “Why is no one actively looking for him?”

  “I’m looking, Chicky, but nothing is mentioned here.”

  “We could do the whole new-identity-new-life thing within a few days. But we have access to experts at setting up backstopped new identities. Who else has that capability?”

  Lee’s eyes met mine. “You think he’s in Witness Protection?”

  Did I? “Don’t think we can rule it out.”

  “Let’s keep that in mind.”

  “I want to know where Lette was when the lawyer disappeared,” I said. “And the wife?”

  “Christine Locke, she’s still in the family home. There is a protection order to prevent him coming near her should he resurface.”

  Yeah, because they work.

  I wanted to talk to Christine Locke. “I’m going to take a run at Phoebe’s sister … see if she knows anything that might shine some light on this case.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “Locke …”

  “Yes.”

  “I came across that name during this investigation.” I sat back in my chair. “Is the lawyer Charles Locke?”

  Lee nodded.

  “Well, fuck.”

  Charles Locke was someone else I wanted to know more about and preferably find.

  Nineteen.

  Come A Little Bit Closer

  I waited on the porch of a two-story colonial in one of the older suburbs of Fairfax County. The door opened about four inches. A woman with red-rimmed eyes peered at me through the gap.

  “Yes?”

  I held my badge up for her to see. “Christine Locke?”

  “Yes.”

  “FBI, ma’am. SSA Conway. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Is this about my sister?”

  “Yes.”

  She opened the door and ushered me over the doorstep. “Come in, Agent.” Christine led the way down a hallway and into a large kitchen at the back of the house. “Hope you don’t mind being in the kitchen. I’m in the middle of baking a cake.” She checked the oven temperature then wiped the counter.

  “I don’t mind at all.” I sat on a chair at the kitchen table.

  “Can I get you a hot beverage?”

  “No, thanks, but I wouldn’t say no to a glass of water.”

  She placed a coaster on the table then set a glass of water on it. Condensation formed immediately in the warm kitchen air.

  “Christine, do you know Kristopher Lette?”

  Faint lines appeared on her brow, consternation in her eyes. “Yes.”

  I silently thanked the universe for giving me the song and leading me to Christine. “Where did you meet him?
”

  “At the doctor’s office.”

  “When?”

  She sat across from me. “I don’t understand, Agent. What has this got to do with my sister?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Bear with me, please.”

  Warm baking smells permeated the air. I couldn’t quite tell what flavor the cake was from the aroma but it made me want cake with lemon cream cheese frosting. Any cake would do.

  “We met about four months ago.”

  “Would you say you were friends?”

  “Yes. We meet a few times a week for coffee and go to galleries if there’s an interesting exhibition.”

  “Did you tell him about your husband?”

  Christine pulled the fruit bowl closer and rearranged apples. “He saw bruises and asked.”

  “His reaction?”

  “Anger. He wanted me to leave him or kick him out.”

  Reasonable reaction.

  “When you met Kristopher … what were you doing at the doctor’s office?”

  “Blood tests. We were both getting blood tests.” A smile lit her eyes but faded fast. “We have the same blood type. AB negative. It’s rare and that’s how our conversation started and I guess, our friendship.”

  “Did Phoebe have the same blood type as you?”

  She nodded.

  And now she has no blood at all.

  A phone chirped somewhere in the kitchen. Christine stood up. She lifted a dish towel on the counter and revealed a cell phone. I watched her check her messages then put the phone on the counter and sit back down.

  “Do you tweet?”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t see anyone called Christine on Lette’s friends list.

  “Do you use another name when you tweet?”

  She half-smiled and nodded. “SummerBreeze.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my husband was jealous or insecure or …” her voice dropped,”… an a-hole.”

  I smiled. “All of the above?”

  She smiled back.

  “Did Kris know Phoebe?”

  Christine shook her head. “Pretty sure they never met.”

  “Do you know where your husband is?”

  Her eyes met mine. “No.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  “I haven’t heard from him. My lawyer said he was arrested and released on bail and we got a protection order so he can’t get near me or contact me.”

  “And he hasn’t?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Has Kris said anything about your husband?”

  “He hoped he’d get beaten up in prison but other than that, Chuck isn’t part of our usual conversation.”

  I’d like to think he got a few beatings in jail too but sometimes karma is slow and needs help.

  “How angry was Kris when Chuck put you in hospital last time?”

  Why does the name Charles so often end up as Chuck? Hardly flattering.

  Christine rearranged a bunch of bananas and moved a few apples to the other side of the fruit bowl. A mix of hot dark chocolate and vanilla filled the air. She rose and headed to the oven just as the timer buzzed. I sipped my water and let her take the cake from the oven and rest the pan on a cooling rack before reminding her of my question.

  “What are you asking, Agent?”

  “I’m trying to ascertain how Kris was feeling when he saw you in hospital. He did see you, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. “I called him to tell him Chuck and I were finished.”

  “Did he come and see you right away?”

  “No, he was working on a piece for an exhibition. He came the next day.”

  “Did Kris mention seeing your husband?”

  She shook her head. A frown settled. “Why would you ask that? Someone murdered my sister and you’re asking about my friend and my soon-to-be ex-husband.”

  “Just trying to get a few things clear in my mind, Christine. I will find the person responsible for Phoebe’s death. I will.”

  “She’d only just moved to her new house, it’s all so unfair.” Tears trickled from her brown eyes. I spotted a tissue box on the counter near me and passed it to her. She pulled a few tissues from the box and dabbed at her eyes.

  Her eyes were definitely brown. Phoebe’s were blue.

  “I’m sorry to ask so many questions, upsetting you. I just want to get a clearer picture of things. Was Phoebe seeing anyone?”

  Christine shrugged. “I don’t know. We’d really been bad at keeping in touch. My husband was very … he was … controlling.”

  I bet.

  “Have you seen any of Kris’s artwork?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. He showed me a painting …” her mouth turned up at the edges into a brief smile. “I’m afraid I didn’t understand it.”

  “What was it?”

  “Multi-colored lengths of wool stuck to a back canvas. He called it ‘Perfect Storm.’”

  “There’s art and there’s art.” I sipped my water. “I’m more into pastoral landscapes or secret gardens.”

  Her smile returned. “Recognizable art? Me too.”

  I rose from the chair. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m very sorry about Phoebe.” I extended my hand and took myself by surprise when the handshake became a hug.

  On the drive back to the office I was sure I’d learned something vital but knew I didn’t have enough pieces to make the puzzle fit together.

  Twenty

  Time In A Bottle

  Tick, tick, tick. The clocks on the wall grew louder and louder. Mitch popped into my head sending a smile across my lips. The thought of going home proved elusive and I knew the smile wouldn’t last.

  I couldn’t put off talking to the media any longer. Six victims and I knew there would be more. The public needed to be aware. Containment wasn’t working for us. Spinning my chair I faced the windows and night, trying to see beyond the reflection of the room and into the shadow world. There were monsters in the dark.

  My phone rang. Assistant Director Owen’s name flashed on the screen.

  There were monsters in the building.

  My jaw clenched and unclenched. Calls from the Evil Queen were never good.

  “AD Owen, how can I help?” The fingers of my free hand tightened into a fist.

  “Have you briefed the media regarding case number three zero six dash HQ dash six five zero nine?”

  She knows damn well I haven’t.

  “Not yet, ma’am.”

  “Are you planning on waiting until more women die, Agent?”

  No, you evil troll Queen.

  “No, ma’am. I’m trying to catch a killer without causing panic.”

  “Are you closing in on the perpetrator?”

  “We’re doing our best.”

  How about you try? You couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag, but by all means, tell me how to do my job.

  “This is not a straightforward case.”

  “I believe one of our own was killed. I would’ve thought that would be incentive enough to fire Delta’s engines and have an arrest by now.”

  One of our own. Jane Daughtry. That’s why Owen is poking her manicured fingernails in my direction.

  “I’d like to arrest the right person, not just a person.”

  “Keep me informed,” she snapped.

  Curl up and die.

  I hung up. My jaw ached and my hand was reluctant to unfurl. I gave myself a few minutes to get over Owen’s interference. Unsuccessfully.

  What’s her problem anyway? Like she knows anything about investigative work. She’s still under supervision as far as I know. Supervision. Someone must’ve crawled up her ass and lit a fire. Wouldn’t have been Director O’Hare. She’d come to me.

  Enough.

  My fingers rubbed my temples. Before Owen interrupted me, I was about to organize the press conference. I picked up my phone and called Sandra. “I need you to set up a media conference for tonight. Use th
e media room downstairs. Let Troy Fallon know. I want her in front of the bloodsuckers with me and make sure Rosanne Lette gets an invitation.”

  “On it, O Esteemed Leader.” Sandra’s fingers tapped at lightning speed at her keyboard. “Fairfax PD has named the case—”

  “I know. Steer clear of using that Hitchcock referencing label, please. There will be enough panic out in the world after this briefing … let’s not add to it.” I wasn’t naïve enough to think they wouldn’t come up with something similar themselves but we didn’t need to plant any seeds. The media will latch onto a label and run with it. It was only a matter of time before they grasped the Hitchcockian aspect of this case and splashed it all over the newspapers and television.

  “Understood, O Genie of Horror Movies.”

  “Also, get as many agencies in on this as possible. Our Unsubs are hunting federal, state, and city employees.” Everything I knew about the victims collided, sending a shiver down my spine. My reflection stared at me from the dark window. They weren’t that different from me.

  “Sick bastards,” Sandra said as she typed.

  “Set up a 1-800 anonymous tip line. Uniform can monitor it.” As much as I hated the thought of every crackpot in the District calling up with their crazed notions, amongst the shite, gems might be uncovered and we were desperate.

  “I’ll let you know the details of the media briefing within the hour,” Sandra said and disconnected the call.

  Meanwhile, I spun back to face my desk and settled into some background checking. I wanted to know why Rosanne Lette didn’t talk about her son. Did she know what he’d done? Making assumptions based on very little, annoyed me. Never assume. If I had a son who’d killed someone, I wouldn’t be keen on chatting about him to the family of an FBI agent. I had another way to find out more about Lette’s son: Dad.

  I pressed Lette aside and started searching for Charles Locke. And bam, found a Charles Locke on two of the victims’ friends lists. Facebook said he was a maintenance man. It couldn’t be the same man. This one was active on Facebook four hours ago. Two minutes more and I had an address ‒ in D.C. He was a building super at an inner city apartment building and had a basement apartment there.

  Time to see if he was home. The clocks ticked. I stood, took my holster from my drawer and slid it into my waistband, checking my weapon was snug before pulling on a jacket.