Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  “But there’s blood… there was blood… I was sayin’ all that to… because…”

  Kondorf took a deep, deliberate breath. Byron mirrored him.

  “The first thing we need to do is find out what they were doing out this late on a school night.”

  ****

  Chief Collins rarely came into the office this early. He stood at the window by his desk, thumbs tucked into his belt. The sun reflected off the clouds, painting everything red, pink, and orange. His jaw moved as if he were chewing on the information Kondorf and Byron had given him.

  “Two young men, two young ladies. An unsettling phone call, and two abandoned vehicles…” He turned to them. “I can’t help but hope someone’s playing a game, some kind of senior prank.”

  Byron shook his head. “Heather would never—”

  “Oh, I know.” Collins looked back outside. “She cleaned up her act P-D-Q when her parents died.”

  A heavy silence fell. It grew heavier as Kondorf opened his mouth, but did not speak. Collins turned to him expectantly.

  “It sounds familiar,” Kondorf finally said.

  “Hm?” Collins raised his brow.

  Kondorf looked around the floor and leaned his elbows on his knees with his fists balled in front of his mouth. He closed his eyes and for a second, Byron thought he was praying. Kondorf mumbled something. Byron didn’t catch it, but Collins did.

  “Nah!” The chief jerked his head back toward the window.

  “What?” Byron looked between them. Collins shifted uneasily.

  Kondorf looked at him askance and straightened. “Phoenix,” he repeated. Collins sucked his teeth.

  “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Arizona,” Kondorf said.

  “Nineteen… what? Ninety-two?” Collins scratched his chin.

  Kondorf furrowed his brow. “Ninety-four?”

  Byron was still lost. “What about it?”

  “Phoenix, then Detroit, then… Los Angeles?”

  “San Francisco.”

  Byron frowned and stilled as he began to understand what they were implying.

  “OK.” Collins nodded, turning back to them, but not meeting their eyes. “I’ll call the FBI.”

  Kondorf leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees again. He squeezed his eyes shut. This time, there was no doubt he was praying: “Please, Lord. Please let us be wrong.”

  4

  Washington, DC

  Banners, ribbons, and balloons littered the banquet hall: everything was red, white, blue, and gold. Ladies and gentlemen in suits, pencil skirts, and dress uniforms of all kinds sat around tables and stood along the walls. Steyer sat with a small company across the back of the stage, behind a man standing at a podium. Steyer hated events like this, but it was his retirement ceremony, and he was obligated to attend.

  The man at the podium called Steyer’s name and held out a hand. All eyes were now on Steyer. Steyer glanced to his right. Johnny gave him a reassuring smile. Steyer forced himself to imitate the smile as he stood and straightened his tie.

  “Thank you, Director.” He shook the man’s hand. Steyer had exchanged only a handful of words with him over the thirty-one-year course of his career, but patted his shoulder as if they were close. The Director of the FBI took his seat as Steyer pulled his speech from his pocket and unfolded it. “You know me: I am the Boy Scout; I like to be prepared.”

  He glanced over at the piece of paper and folded it again. Death announcements were easier than these social obligations.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, agents, officers, esteemed guests of all ranks, thank you for your presence here today as I celebrate the crowning event of my career: my retirement.” Laughter rippled through the audience. At least he had gotten the introduction right.

  Samantha Wickes pushed through a door and hurried around the crowd to the edge of the stage. She kept her eyes down and her lips pursed. Steyer tried not to stumble over his words as she beckoned someone behind him. Remington shuffled down to her. The two had a hurried exchanged. When she left, he stared after her, arms akimbo, then looked up at Steyer.

  Day and Night, their associates called them. The monikers referred to more than Steyer’s fair features and white hair contrasting Remington’s dark: Steyer always looked cool and placid, while Remington always looked angry or on edge. After four years as partners, Steyer had become skilled at interpreting the nuances of Remington’s scowls. He turned to him with concern.

  Remington swallowed hard and held up his hands. Hooking his thumbs, he spread his fingers wide and flapped them, imitating some wicked bird.

  Steyer’s voice stuck in his throat. His heart sank. Pausing, he looked out over the audience. They had fallen silent, expectant. He glanced back at Johnny, whose face was pale. He must have recognized the gesture.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Steyer told them. “It appears I have a case.”

  Uneasy laughter floated through the crowd. Steyer stepped away from the podium and joined his partner.

  “Where is he?”

  “Atlanta,” Remington replied.

  5

  Fairfax, VA

  Steyer changed into a more casual suit. As he straightened his tie in the mirror, a pair of hands slid under his arms and wrapped around his chest. Steyer clasped them in his, their wedding bands clinking. Johnny had been unusually quiet on their way home and while helping Steyer pack. Now he rested his head against Steyer’s back.

  “I know it will be useless to tell you not to worry,” Steyer said, giving Johnny’s hands a squeeze, “but I will call every day.”

  “Twice a day.” Johnny hugged him tighter.

  Steyer smirked. “I always come back.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  “I seem to remember you saying that the first time I left.”

  “You almost didn’t come back then.”

  “But I did.”

  Johnny’s grip became rigid. “Elie didn’t come back from Detroit. Remi almost didn’t come back from San Francisco.”

  “Oh, you can’t worry about both of us.” Steyer turned in Johnny’s arms until they were face to face.

  “Oh, yes, I can.” Johnny smirked. His round face had wrinkled, but his almond-shaped eyes were as bright and sharp as they were forty years ago. “If you don’t come home, I will need a… a studly young man to comfort me.”

  Steyer barked a laugh. Remington’s idea of comfort would probably be a pat on the shoulder, and Johnny knew it. Steyer rocked him gently, then ran his hands over his hair and kissed him. “Keep those eyes on me.”

  “Always.”

  The doorbell interrupted their affectionate good-byes.

  “He’s early,” Johnny growled.

  “No, he’s not. That’s your studly young man.”

  They untangled themselves reluctantly. Steyer double-checked the contents of his bags as Johnny answered the door.

  “Remi! What, no damsel in distress to see you off?”

  “I decided to let you have the honors.” Remington stepped inside and hung his keys on a hooks by the door. He left a duffel and a bulging garment bag on the porch. “Thanks for always letting me leave her here, by the way,” he said, referring to his 1970 Yenko Nova. “I wouldn’t trust letting it sit in front of my building.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Johnny said. “Young men such as yourself believe it’s mine and might even ask for a ride around town.”

  Remington snorted, a blush spreading over his cheeks.

  A car horn honked, announcing their taxi had arrived. A grim silence settled over them. The levity in Johnny’s face faded. He beckoned for Remington and gave him a hug.

  “Take care of him.”

  “I heard that!” Steyer entered the living room with his own—much lighter—garment bag slung over his shoulder and a briefcase.

  “He’ll be the one taking care of me.” Remington grabbed Steyer’s bag and ste
pped onto the porch to gather his own luggage.

  Johnny frowned as they watched him head toward the waiting taxi. He turned to Steyer. He swallowed hard, but tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

  “Come back to me, Ritchie.”

  “I always do.” Dropping the briefcase, Steyer held him tightly and fought hard against the sense of dread rising in his chest.

  6

  2002

  Washington, DC

  Samantha Wickes happened to be looking up from her email when Special Agent Steyer walked into the office. She could tell by his posture that he was seething underneath his cool exterior. With one hand in his pocket and the other grasping a file, he made a beeline for her desk. He pointed at her with the folder, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he stopped himself. He held up a finger, shuffled his feet for a moment, then turned back.

  “I apologize.” His cool demeanor had returned. He dropped the file in front of her.

  “Case closed?” She flipped the file open and found photos of a wiry young man, as well as the prostitutes he had been strangling.

  “Yes,” Steyer replied. “He appreciated the attention.”

  “So…” Wickes closed the folder and pushing it to the side. “Why are you delivering this in person? Or should I be asking, why did you feel the need for a time-out?”

  Steyer made an angry flourish with his hand, then stuffed it back into his pocket. “I would like to request,” he said slowly, evenly, “never to be placed on assignment with Agent West again.”

  Wickes raised her eyebrows. “And why is this?”

  “We are… ethically incompatible.” He hoped she could not tell that he had been rehearsing that phrase for several days.

  “Meaning…?”

  Steyer cleared his throat. “He called me a sodomite. Well… not me personally, but you see where this is going.”

  Wickes nodded, pursing her lips, and glanced at the email open on her monitor. “That’s… unfortunate.”

  Steyer followed her gaze. “Why is that?”

  “You remember how you told me to look out for certain patterns in missing persons reports?” She turned her monitor so he could see her screen. “Two men and two women, ages twenty to thirty-two, reported missing in San Francisco. The women were blatant abductions, leaving one officer dead. The other two simply disappeared. Witnesses report them being in the company of a tall, dark-haired man shortly beforehand.” She tocked her head before adding, “They’re all pretty good-looking.”

  Staring at the email, Steyer’s jaw went slack. His heart quickened. Fumbling with the mouse, he clicked through the attached photos of the missing persons. He ran a hand over his face.

  “The Phoenix Killer is back.”

  “If you want this case, you have eight hours to find a new partner.”

  Leaning on the desk, Steyer lowered his head into his hand to rack his brain. “What about Wilkinson?”

  “He’s on assignment.”

  “Levey?”

  “On assignment.”

  Steyer craned his neck and searched the ceiling for more names. “Young.”

  “On vacation.”

  “The young Young.”

  “Dead.”

  “Really?” He narrowed his eyes.

  Wickes shook her head in exasperation. “No, she’s on assignment.”

  “Do you have any recommendations?”

  Wickes tilted her head and pursed her lips. She did that whenever she was reluctant to say what was on her mind.

  “Just say it.”

  “Remington.” She gave an assertive nod.

  Steyer drummed his fingers on her desk. “Remington with Organized Crime?”

  “Yes. He’s desperate to get out of there. He’s requested a transfer, but it’s still pending. I’m sure a request from you could push it along.”

  Remington was known for being hot-headed, but brilliant at problem solving. Steyer had seen Wickes chatting with him in the co-op, all warmth and smiles. When he turned to her with narrowed eyes, she would not meet his gaze.

  “He needs to be strong and fast.”

  “Oh, he is.” Color rose in her cheeks.

  Steyer pushed his hands back into his pockets and considered the possibility. “If this happens,” he said, “we’re going to be the butt of a lot of jokes.”

  A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t you mean the trigger?”

  7

  May, 2006

  Dulles Airport

  Sighing, Remington settled into the middle seat. As usual, Steyer had gotten the window. The aisle seat remained empty, which promised to make the flight less awkward as they reviewed the case files.

  As the last passengers were clearing the aisle, Remington’s phone vibrated. He fumbled to pull it out. When he saw who was calling, his heart began to race.

  “Remington.”

  “Hey!” Wickes sounded surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you to answer; I thought you were in the air already.”

  Recognizing the voice, Steyer eyed him, but remained mum.

  “Nope, not yet.” Remington shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I was going to leave a voicemail.”

  Remington breathed deeply through his nose. “Do you want me to hang up so you can call back?”

  “No, that would be… silly.” It was her turn to take a deep breath. “Just, take care. Be safe. You know… I mean… You know.”

  “I know,” he sighed. “I will.” He rubbed his forehead. His throat was tight with things he didn’t want to say on the phone and couldn’t say in public. “Hey, Sam… if I’m not back in… in four weeks, go ahead and… um—”

  “If you don’t come back, I’ll be able to make a decision on my own.”

  “Of course. I’ll… talk to you later.”

  With a click, the line went dead. Remington continued to hold the phone to his ear until Steyer spoke:

  “Any words of wisdom from our fearless leader?”

  Remington tapped the phone against his palm. Shaking his head, he turned the phone off. “Yeah, don’t die.”

  “If things are like they were last time, dying is the last thing you should be concerned about.” Steyer pulled his phone out and turned it off as well.

  Dying might be easier, Remington thought.

  ****

  They spent a silent hour in the air, pouring through manila folders dating back to 1994. They reread incident reports and witness statements they could have recited in their sleep, and scrutinized photos that had been burned into their brains, scavenging for any small detail they may have missed, trying to make new connections.

  Remington rubbed his eyes and popped his jaw, which he had been grinding unconsciously for at least half an hour. Resting his head back, he glanced at Steyer. The senior agent’s eyes were fixed on the page before him, rereading the same sentence.

  The plane banked and the iconic Atlanta skyline appeared outside of Steyer’s window. Remington stared at the seatback before him, his light brown eyes hard. His jaw bulged as he started to grind his teeth again. He had been hinting and hedging, trying to draw something out of Steyer since their unceremonious departure from the banquet hall. Steyer was not about to bring it up of his own accord.

  “First case?”

  Steyer sighed. That wasn’t what Remington really wanted to know.

  “An alleged kidnapping. An eleven-year-old boy disappeared. His bedroom was trashed. There was blood all over the carpet. This was—” He counted up from ’73 “—1975. No DNA testing back then. God, I’m old… His father had a history of violence. It appeared to be an open-and-shut case: No ransom note. No body. No boy. We arrested the father and charged him with homicide.” Steyer took a deep breath. His lips pulled back from his coffee-stained teeth in what could be a grimace or an embarrassed grin.

  “What?”

  “Twenty-three years later—1998—this thirty-four-year-old man walks into my office.” He snaps his fingers. “I recognize him
instantly. He had run away and was living in Ontario.”

  Remington scoffed and chuckled. He worked his fingers over the contours of his right knee. Steyer had noticed it pained him on occasion, but Remington never admit it.

  “Were you with Feingold back then?” Remington finally touched upon what he had been aching to ask. Their smiles faded.

  “Yep.” Steyer didn’t elaborate. He dropped his eyes to the report before him and began to tap his pen. His throat worked as if it were difficult to swallow.

  Remington didn’t probe any further. His smile was replaced by a thousand-mile stare. “He was fast…” He wasn’t talking about Feingold anymore. His hand drifted to the mottled scar on his forehead, the only flaw to his otherwise handsome face. “He was real fast.”

  “He was.” Steyer nodded.

  The pilot announced their arrival to Hartsfield-Jackson, requesting they place their trays in the upright position. Remington and Steyer gathered their papers and photos into the folders marked PHOENIX, SFO—2002, PHOENIX, DTW—1997, and PHOENIX, PHX—1994.

  “Twenty-seven days on the clock,” Remington sighed, checking his watch. They lurched as the airplane touched down. “Starting… now.”

  8

  1997

  Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)

  Elie Feingold and Richard Steyer stood on the front porch, trying not to look dejected. As much as Feingold wanted to cooperate with Detroit PD rather than command them, this was unacceptable. The lead detective had reported that the house was burned down, but in truth, it had been reduced to little more than ashes and a charred pile of sticks. The concrete porch was all that was left. In addition to that, it had rained for the past two days, and all the local authorities had done to protect the crime scene was throw a couple of tarps over it. The agents’ hopes of finding any viable evidence in the wreckage dwindled.

  With a sigh, Steyer kicked over what appeared to be a piece of front door. “When will they get here?”

  “Eh…” Feingold looked up at the overcast sky. “They said eight… probably more like nine-thirty or ten.”