by Jette Harris
Steyer nodded. “Not even really a house. More like a shack; Somewhere for the ranch hands to rest while rounding up cattle. Two rooms, a front and back.”
“So, he is progressively moving up…”
“You think we should be looking for a mansion, Agent Remington?” Steyer smirked as they stepped out onto the porch.
Remington shrugged. “It was just a thought.”
48
1997
Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)
The Detroiters stared at Faliro as he ran past. Although he knew he was in the wrong neighborhood, he began to consider the risk involved in being there. Pausing by a stop sign to catch his breath, he stared at the bullet holes in the faded red face, a pathetic grouping. He caught his breath enough to scoff, then continued his run.
Every other house in this neighborhood was abandoned. Some had yellow fliers declaring the house condemned, some were partially collapsed, some were still inhabited when they should not have been. There were several empty lots where the houses had burnt, or been burnt, as well as a few burnt-out hulls that had not yet been demolished.
(Would it be possible…) He paused in front of a decent-looking yet condemned two-story house. (…for me to slip in and out of this town unnoticed?) All he would leave behind is another pile of ashes and four new missing persons fliers, nothing more.
Smiling, Faliro looked up and down the street. The air smelled strongly of sewage. Although the houses were falling down and the sidewalk was crumbling, the streets had fresh blacktop. (Priorities.) None of the houses in the immediate area appeared to be occupied.
Faliro loped up to the porch. Without slowing, he collided with the front door. This did not have the desired result: he bounced off and ended up on his ass, nursing a sore shoulder. Sighing, he shook out his arm and took the less-dramatic approach: He pulled out his hunting knife and jimmied the lock.
49
May, 2006
Atlanta
Rhodes pulled Beaumont’s hat low over his brow until he realized no one else in the precinct was wearing their hats indoors. Pulling it off intensified his jitters. He smoothed his hair down and tucked the hat under his arm. The precinct was small. The officer behind the front desk glanced at him, then returned his attention to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. There were not many people in the office area, and those who were also glossed over him when they noted his tan uniform.
The shields painted on the walls told him which side of the office he belonged on. There was a clear distinction between the side owned by the Cheatham Hill Police Department and the side occupied by the Cobb County Sheriff’s department. The deputy’s desks were impersonal, occupied by ancient PC’s and half-empty file hangers. The officers, however, had made themselves at home at their workstations: Officer Kondorf had a picture of him and his wife, Byron had a framed EMT certificate, and another desk had a small pack of Golden Labrador statues.
Remington, Steyer, and a petite blonde officer stood in an office beyond a glass wall. Rhodes spun as soon as he caught sight of them, and had to plant his feet firmly to prevent himself from hustling back out the door. His heart hammered as he went to the coffee station instead. The coffee smelled bitter and burnt, far below his standards, but he poured himself a generous cup anyway. Leaning against the table, he pretended to observe the agents with casual curiosity.
The temporary office was devoid of any personal affects save the raincoats and umbrellas hanging from the coat rack by the door—all brand new—and the suit jackets hanging from the back of the desk chairs. Rhodes noted which one was Remington’s stylish cut and which was Steyer’s classic professional fit.
The agents and the officer did not notice or care that they were being observed. Rhodes furrowed his brow when he noticed the black outline of a bullet-proof vest under Remington’s shirt. Remington redirected Rhodes’s attention with a jab at a map on the wall in front of them. Steyer placed a pin with a white head where Remington had indicated, held a string to it, and used the string to draw a large circle around it with a Sharpie. They proceeded to stick little yellow and red pins into the map, referring occasionally to pieces of paper in their hands.
Rhodes recognized the map of Cheatham Hill and the surrounding areas from a smaller version of the map he had found in Beaumont’s cruiser. They had already outlined Cheatham Hill in black. The large white pin was roughly in the location of the school.
They spoke in low voices, but Rhodes could not garner the courage to move within earshot. Being so close to them now, after the encounters he had previously had with each of them, made his muscles twitch—and not in a good way. Deciding he had had enough reckless thrills for one day, he turned to throw away his half-empty cup of station coffee and leave.
Byron, looking as out-of-place in his street clothes as Rhodes felt in Beaumont’s uniform, jogged in. Rhodes paused. His loins throbbed as the handsome young man jumped the partition between the lobby and the office. Rhodes raised the coffee back up to his lips. The agents glanced up at the sudden movement, and Byron straightened, walking calmly the rest of the way to his desk. Once Remington saw who it was, his eyes roved over the rest of the office. Rhodes caught his breath and held it, but the agent noted him and turned his attention back to the map.
Rhodes exhaled, deflating with an unexpected mixture of relief and disappointment: Remington didn’t even know what he looked like, after all these years. Rhodes swallowed. His face burned as he reminded himself that was a good thing.
Byron watched the agents until they were engrossed in the map again, then opened his desk drawer and pulled out a couple of manila folders. He glanced around cautiously, and froze when he noticed someone watching him. He smiled and relaxed when he recognized Rhodes from the coffee shop and press conference.
Taking the smile as an invitation, Rhodes pointed to the glass wall as he crossed the room. “You know what they’re up to?”
Byron tossed the folders casually his desk, where they would be out of sight from the glass office, and leaned back in his chair. Rhodes perched on the edge. “Oh, Agent Steyer had, like, a break-through last night.”
Rhodes froze, his heart jumping into his throat. (Is that why no one’s here? Are they knocking my door down right now?)
“So they’re compiling a list of houses that have been vacant over a month.”
Rhodes exhaled slowly. “Sounds efficient.” He turned back to the map and raised his cup to nibble at the rim. Squinting, he could determine most of the pins were concentrated around the school, with a few scattered around the mountain. There were not yet any pins in the area near the manor, but he was sure they would get there eventually.
(I have to slow them down, distract them with something nice and shiny…) He wracked his brain for possibilities. (Maybe a fire… or a body…)
“It’s a good idea in theory, but it also means we need to get permission or warrants to search all these properties.” Byron shook his head. “Otherwise all we can do is glance around, and that probably won’t be enough.”
Relieved, Rhodes barked a laugh. Byron furrowed his brow. “Fucking red tape,” Rhodes muttered.
Byron snorted and shook his head. He started at the map, a troubled expression settling over his face. “Do you know of any?”
“Any what?”
“Vacant houses.”
Rhodes sighed as if he were thinking. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic, but it might be worth tracking down a few red herrings. “Oh, yeah. I’ll have to double-check the addresses, but yeah, I’m sure I do.” Standing, he drained the gritty remnants of the coffee, cringed, and tossed the cup into Byron’s wastebasket. “I’ll let the others know as well… the other deputies. And I’ve got some friends with… uh… Marietta. I’ll let them know to keep an eye out. No use in y’all havin’ all the fun.”
He gave Byron his most charming smile, but it disappeared when he realized the young man was still gazing forlornly at the map. Rhodes took the opportunity to glance over the files Byr
on had pulled from his drawer: PHOENIX, SFO—2002, PHOENIX, DTW—1997.
Smugness washed over him. (He’s about to learn all my dirty little secrets.)
“Hey…” Rhodes batted Byron’s arm with the back of his hand. His bicep was thick and hard, the way he liked it. “Let me know if you want a ride-along or anything. We can go check out those houses together.”
He peeled off a sheet from Byron’s stack of Post-its and scribbled the number for his new burn phone. Pausing, he wracked his brain to remember the first name he chose, then scribbled DEMETRIUS THRACE underneath. He stood tall, shoulders back, hips cocked, as he handed it to him.
“Yeah, man, thanks.” Byron accepted the Post-it. This time when Rhodes smiled at him, he paid attention.
50
Byron took his Post-it and the folders and hurried back out the door. He paused outside to speak to someone, piquing Rhodes’s curiosity by sliding the folders behind his back. Byron nodded inside, said his goodbyes, and descended the front steps.
Lauri Shatterthwaith pushed the door open. Rhodes regretted not having anything in his hands anymore.
Lauri Shatterthwaith was an Amazonian queen. If Rhodes had not made his decision so quickly—or if he did not have a firm rule against the parents of small children—he would have chosen Lauri rather than Monica. Even now, as she entered the precinct with drawn face and red nose, she looked like she could give him a run for his money.
And he had lots of money.
Rhodes stood and pulled on his hat as Lauri went to the front desk and said something in a low voice. The officer there turned and looked at the glass-walled office and nodded.
“Mrs. Shatterthwaith,” Rhodes said, tapping the bill of his hat.
She and the officer focused on him. He nodded to the officer like they knew one another, and the officer said, “Go on back.”
Rhodes’s heart hammered as he stepped into Lauri’s path. He half-expected her to punch him in the throat. “I was sorry to hear about your eldest. How are the children holding up?”
Lauri paused, gazing distractedly toward the federal agents beyond the glass wall. “As well as can be considered. Thank you.”
“That’s a relief to hear. Would you like some coffee?” He drew her attention with a sweep of his arm toward the coffee station. She glanced over at it, then looked him in the eye for the first time. His heart almost stopped. This was taking fucking around a bit too far.
“No, thank you.”
“Good thinkin’; It’s terrible stuff.”
Her mouth twitched and her shoulders lurched with a chuckle. Rhodes blinked, impressed with himself; He had made her laugh. Her eyes brightened a bit as her focus returned. She turned to him and put on her mom voice: “I’m actually here to see Agent Steyer. Could you please let them know I’m here?”
Rhodes’s mouth went dry and his heart lodged in his throat. “Of course,” he squeezed out. His body felt numb as he turned toward the office.
****
A sharp wrap on the door made both agents turn away from the map. A deputy opened it and leaned in. He licked his lips nervously before speaking.
“Uh… Mrs. Shatterthwaith is here to speak with y’all.” A few feet behind him, Lauri Shatterthwaith waited, wringing her hands.
“I’ll leave y’all to it.” Young exited the office and gave Lauri’s hand a squeeze as she passed by.
Both agents scanned their desks for sensitive material, anything that might upset her. Remington stuffed some photographs into a manila envelope, and Steyer shoveled his entire collection of Post-its into a drawer. The deputy waited in the doorway, watching with interest.
“Thank you,” Steyer said, glancing up at him. “That will be all, Deputy…”
“Thrace.” He put a finger to the bill of his hat and nodded before ducking out.
Steyer and Remington stood to greet Lauri as she entered. When Steyer shook her hand, he held it as he asked, “How are you holding up? How is your family?”
“N-not well,” she admitted. “They want their sister back.”
“We’re working on that.” Steyer led her to a seat and sat next to her.
“I have some questions,” she said. “Well, a question…”
“Of course. Ask us anything. If we can answer it, we will.”
Lauri placed her purse under her seat, rearranging its position at her feet a few times. She shifted repeatedly with nervous energy. Instead of going back to his seat—although he wanted to—Remington leaned on the edge of his desk.
“I… um…” Lauri faltered. “Is it possible… at all… Monica isn’t actually involved in this case?” The agents exchanged a glance. In their minds, this was beyond possibility. Lauri could see that in their faces. “Is it possible she just… just ran away?”
“Ran away?” Steyer played with the possibility, but dismissed it again. “What led you to consider this might be the case?”
“Some of her things are missing.” Lauri appeared palpably relieved he had asked. “Like her shampoo.”
“Her shampoo?” Remington found it difficult to find this interesting.
“Yes, her shampoo,” Lauri repeated. “I went into her room this morning, and I noticed it was missing.”
“Mrs. Shatterthwaith, are you sure one of her siblings didn’t borrow it?” Steyer asked. “Her sister, perhaps?”
Lauri shook her head. Steyer could see their skepticism was making her withdraw. “No, they—uh—they can all use different shampoo. Only Monica and I use coconut oil, rather than shampoo. And I didn’t borrow it.”
Steyer landed on an explanation. “Mrs. Shatterthwaith, had anyone visited your house lately, since Monica went missing?”
Lauri shook her head. “No, only… only police.”
“Police,” he repeated.
Remington had cocked his head like a confused dog, drawing Steyer’s attention. Police? he mouthed.
“Police,” Steyer repeated again, realizing what his partner was wondering. “When was this? How recently?”
“Oh, it…” She thought for a moment. “It had to have been some time over the past few days. But the kids, they said… they…” She trailed off, realizing where Steyer’s questions were leading.
“How many?”
“One, I think.” She shook her head, dismissing the possibility. When she spoke again, she spoke quickly in an attempt to reassure herself. “They said an officer came by the house to check a few things. Sean was out back, and they didn’t want to bother him.”
She refused to look at Steyer. When she glanced at him, he shook his head.
“Police are no longer conducting this investigation,” he told her in a low voice. “Officers should not be coming to your house unless called. Did anyone call the police to your house?”
“No,” she replied in a small voice. “So, you’re saying… that man… the one who has my daughter… who… who rapes and murders people… was at my house? Alone? With my children?” Her voice cracked.
“I am not saying that,” Steyer said. “But it is a possibility.”
All of Lauri’s strength, the mask she donned to reassure her children, melted with a sob. Continuing to keep his mouth shut, Remington offered her a box of tissues. She took a handful and buried her face in them.
“Are any of your other children missing?” Steyer asked in earnest.
“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head.
“Are they hurt?”
“No!” Dropping her hand, she glared through her tears, demanding he make his point.
“Bear with me,” Steyer said, “but this could be a good thing.”
“What?”
“First, let me make this clear: I don’t believe your children are in any danger. The Phoenix has no history of harming children, although he’s had ample opportunity.”
Lauri glared at him.
“Furthermore,” he continued, “if he went to the house specifically to get toiletries, Monica’s ‘special’ shampoo, this means your daugh
ter is alive, and—to some extent—cared for.”
Lauri let this sink in, then took a deep breath.
“It also means,” Remington added, “your children can tell us what he looks like.”
Lauri turned to stare at the younger agent. When she turned back to Steyer, he was smiling.
“It is very possible,” he said, “and it might be more than what we have now.”
Although she was still crying when Steyer and Remington opened the door to escort her out, Lauri Shatterthwaith had a strange smile on her face. Remington led her through the bustle of the station as Steyer hung back to make sure the door was secured. He juggled his phone from one ear to the other as he pulled his keys from his pocket.
“This is Special Agent Steyer,” he said into the phone. “I need a sketch artist.”
He locked the door and turned to leave. He was too distracted by his excitement to notice Deputy Thrace, leaning on a desk nearby, put his hand to his hat in farewell.
51
Remington experienced a vague sense of déjà vu standing in the Shatterthwaiths’ living room. Sterling, Xavier, and David were once again arranged on the couch in order of height. Now they were in front of him again, he understood what Lauri meant about the different hair treatments: The younger children had straight, copper-colored hair as opposed to Lauri’s and Monica’s thick, curly hair.
The composite artist would be arriving from the DeKalb FBI office soon. As they waited, Steyer jogged the children’s memory by asking them questions, trying to be funny. Relieved he didn’t have to interact with the children again, Remington leaned against the mantle on the opposite side of the room, scribbling notes.
“He was big,” Xavier said.
“Big? Fat?” Steyer puffed out his cheeks and held out his arms.
“No, tall,” Xavier said flatly. He didn’t seem amused by these antics, but David giggled, and Sterling bit her lip—most likely at how stupid the old man seemed.