by Jette Harris
“Do her parents still live in the area?”
“They live a few miles from here,” Young replied.
“We’ll send a unit over to notify them, see if we can get a definite ID.”
“They won’t come,” Byron muttered. “They don’t care.”
The corner of Steyer’s mouth twitched. “You would be surprised how some parents respond to news of their child’s death.”
Byron lifted his hands to his head, hoping it would make it easier to breathe. Steyer nodded to Young, dismissing them. She placed a hand on Byron’s back and guided him away.
****
“You will be relieved to hear Mr. and Mrs. Menter will reclaim—” Steyer grimaced. “—Michael. They will give… him… a proper burial.”
Byron scowled and turned away, but nodded. He didn’t see Steyer catch Kondorf’s eye and dismiss him with a nod.
“I’m going to see if I can’t find any sugar for my coffee,” Kondorf said. He wandered off in the opposite direction of the coffee station.
Steyer leaned on Kondorf’s desk. “Did you know Mr. Menter is actually Judge Menter?”
Byron nodded coldly.
“He’s going to sign off on a warrant stating we can investigate any vacant property, so long as we attempt to notify the property owner beforehand. There are stipulations, of course, but nothing that will slow us down significantly.”
“Good,” Byron murmured, nodding. “I’ll call Mrs. Vlasov and have Kondorf call the Witts, just in case they heard anything and were worried.” He took a deep breath and reached for the phone, but Steyer stayed his hand.
“Were you and Michelle good friends?”
Byron leaned back and looked away. Pursing his lips, he shook his head.
“You seemed a bit more upset identifying her than when you were worried it might be Charles Witt.”
“This is my fault.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No, but—”
“Then this is not your fault, officer.”
“I know what you mean, but it feels like my fault. Her dad wasn’t really around much, so she could get away with wearing feminine clothes to school. For her senior prom, my junior prom, she and I went together as a joke. But when I took her home, you know… she kissed me. It freaked me out a bit, but nowhere near as much as when her dad walked out.”
“Ah.”
“He didn’t say a word, but the look on his face! I booked.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve taken her with me.”
“Did he beat her?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t come back to school. She didn’t walk at graduation.” He sighed.
“Officer Byron… Jamal, what happened to Michelle Menter is not your fault.”
“I know.”
“You were just a by-stander.”
“I could’ve helped.”
“That still does not make it your fault.”
Byron’s radio squawked and he jumped. He chuckled at himself, shaking his head as the dispatcher called in a car accident a few blocks away.
“Do you feel a bit better?” Steyer asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now, go.” He clapped a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “Help people.”
76
Remington, Steyer, Young, Kondorf, and Byron pushed two desks together and pulled chairs up to them. A half-empty Krispy Kreme box posed as their centerpiece. They passed around stacks of paper, manila folders, emailed memos, making notes of their own, occasionally asking questions or making comments.
This impromptu, sugar-fueled meeting in the early hours of the morning was brought on by a deluge of lab results over the past two days. They did not have to compete with boxes, bodies, or other unpleasant red herrings, just the clock. They read in silence until Young held her memo up.
“Preliminary reports say there was a horse hair on Michelle Menter’s blanket.” She raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Like from a brush or something?” Remington asked.
She shook her head. “Lab says it doesn’t look processed.”
“Huh.” Remington scratched his chin and shrugged.
“There was a lot of horsehair in Phoenix,” Steyer said, “because the shack was on a horse ranch that had folded two years before.”
They looked back down at their reports. Byron looked around, eager to contribute. “Kerosene was used as the accelerant in Beaumont’s patrol car. Was kerosene also used at the other sites?”
Remington shook his head.
“Kerosene was used in San Francisco,” Steyer said. “It was very efficient until the fire department got there. Gasoline was used in Detroit. That fire went out when the house exploded—which gasoline will do. In Phoenix, it doesn’t appear he used any chemical accelerants. The bodies burned, but the structure was largely intact.”
“He’s learning as he goes.”
They all nodded.
“More traces of silicone gel on the Tazer cap found under Heather’s car,” Remington said, “Michael Dovale’s cell phone, and the putty knife from the district office.”
“He’s either really careful to put it on, or always wearing it,” Young commented.
Steyer raised his brow. “My money would be on ‘very careful.’”
“Why is that?” Byron asked.
“He likes the sensory experience too much to dampen it.”
“He likes to get his hands dirty?” Young asked.
Kondorf cleared his throat. “It’s like a condom.”
Byron snorted and turned his attention back to the report in his hands. His eyes didn’t move over the paper, though. His dark complexion reddened.
Remington leaned across the table. “Officer Byron—”
Byron jerked his head up.
“You OK? Your face is red.”
Byron opened his mouth, but didn’t answer immediately. “Yeah. Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just… reading the Beaumont report, imagining the—uh—incident at the Krispy Kreme.” He cleared his throat. “Wild.”
Around the table, brows rose and heads bobbed in agreement.
“Excuse me.” Byron slid the Beaumont report over to Kondorf and made a beeline for the bathroom.
D THRACE
20/5/06
Knocking out 3 houses 2nite. Wanna join?
22/5/06
Did u evr make tht list of vacant houses?
23/5/06
Hey
I need 2 tlk 2 smo let me know whn ur free
25/5/06
Gt 3 more houses to check out. Wanna join?
77
Taps emitted from Steyer’s pocket as he reached to unlock the hotel room. He juggled his briefcase and the keycard as he answered it with an eager expression.
“Steyer.”
The eager expression faded into disappointment, but rebounded with a soft smile. Remington realized the caller must be Johnny.
“Let me get settled in and plug my phone in to charge,” Steyer said. “I’ll call you right back.”
Steyer hung up and pushed the door open. Remington followed him in, dropped his briefcase on the floor, and collapsed face-first onto the bed. His skin felt sticky and his back was sore. They had covered seven houses that day, and three of them required forced entry. The heat had grown oppressive before ten in the morning, and grew muggier as the day wore on. Black clouds gathered over them like spectators to their repeated failures.
The heat and humidity did not appear to have any effect on Steyer. He set his briefcase by his bed, plugged his phone in to charge, and settled in.
“I don’t see how you do it,” Remington muttered.
Steyer put a finger to his lips and raised the phone back to his ear. “Can this count as my second call?” he said when Johnny answered.
A pang of guilt made Remington push himself up and fish his phone out of his pocket. His battery was at 32%—just enough for one phone call. Dragging himself off the bed, he held up the phone and the
car keys to show Steyer. Steyer gave him a thumb’s up.
Remington paused on the landing outside the door to roll up his sleeves and survey the parking lot. Their car was parked in clear view of the room. A blue minivan was parked on the passenger side, but the driver’s side was unobstructed. He noted a few Jeeps nearby and turned to keep an eye on all of them as he descended. None of them appeared to be occupied.
He hit Call when he reached the sidewalk and continued to look over his shoulder as he crossed the parking lot.
“This is Samantha Wickes.”
Shit, she must still be at work. “Hey, it’s Remington.”
She let out a little huff. “Agent Remington! Give me a moment…”
He paused half-way across the parking lot as he heard her excuse herself. “If this is a bad time—”
“No.”
He snapped his mouth shut and continued to the car.
“Please tell me you have good news,” she said in a low voice as he settled into the driver’s seat.
Glancing around, he leaned casually on the Lock button. “Is this one of the situations where no news is good news?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I had lunch with Johnny yesterday, and he said I was looking a little pregnant.”
Remington groaned silently, letting his head fall back. “I told Ritchie. Maybe he—”
“No, he’s right. Whether he knew beforehand or not, I’m… I’m starting to show.”
He ran a hand over his face.
“I have everything together for us to go to the courthouse the moment you get back, but if that’s not in a week or so—”
“Sam, these kids are supposed to die in a week or so.”
She exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry, Remi. It’s just so easy to lose perspective up here.”
“It feels like we’re spinning our wheels right now, but that could change any minute.”
“Maybe I can come—”
“No!” Remington shot up. “No,” he repeated in a more reasonable tone. He put a hand over his pounding chest. “It’s not safe down here right now, especially for you.”
“We are running out of choices. We are both running out of time.”
Remington pressed a fist to his mouth and groaned. “Look, just… give me ten days. Just ten days. Give me until June first, and either I will fly up there for a day or weekend, or you can come down here.”
“Oh my God, Remi…” she murmured with a sniffle.
He took a few deep breaths. Leaning back, he cracked a smile. “Hey… Listen: We’re getting married—regardless of work. We’re gonna have a baby. Both of those things are going to happen, no matter what the timeline looks like.”
“If you live.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll try really hard.”
Wickes laughed. Remington smiled at the beautiful, unexpected sound of it.
“I—uh—” She cleared her throat. “I need to get back. Any… anything to report, Agent Remington?”
“Uh—why, yes, Miss Wickes: We received several of the lab reports over the past few days, and any of the details therein could lead us directly to the house in which our killer has holed himself up.”
“Good… Good way to stay positive. Give Ritchie my love.”
78
Byron rounded the end of the aisle and headed for the poultry cooler. He froze when he recognized the man standing in front of the seafood counter. His throat grew tight. He turned to escape, but Thrace looked up as if he sensed eyes on him—and he didn’t look happy about it. But when he saw Byron, his face broke into a smile.
“Hey, stranger.” Thrace’s voice had a strange quality to it. He lowered his head and cleared his throat.
“What happened to your face?” Byron hadn’t intended to as that, but underneath Thrace’s black aviators, he could see a swollen nose and dark purple shiners spreading under his eyes. Thrace’s hand went to his face. He laughed, but it sounded empty.
“Did you know APD has an ultimate Frisbee team?” His voice was familiar again.
“No.”
“I didn’t either. I took an elbow to the face.”
Byron forced himself to smile and chuckle, but it sounded as empty as Thrace’s. He pursed his lips. It had been over a week since Thrace had taken his calls or replied to his texts. Sensing his dissatisfaction, Thrace tilted his head.
“I—uh—I’ve been callin’ you,” Byron said.
“Ah.” Thrace grimaced. He tossed the tray of catfish nuggets back into the cooler. “I owe you an explanation. A lot has happened since we last… talked.”
“Does that have to do with APD too?”
Another hollow laugh. “Ha. No, thank God.” He led Byron to the deli.
“We could really use you these days. We’ve been busy. Did you hear about the warrant?”
“Warrant?” Thrace’s tread slowed. “No. What warrant?”
“We got a warrant granting us permission to search the vacant houses. It’s going much faster now. Which is a relief, ’cause we’re running out of time.”
Thrace opened his mouth to speak, but words didn’t come out, only a noise between a low growl and a groan. “Remington must have been very happy about that.”
“The party’s on Saturday.”
They took a table far from anyone else. Byron placed his basket on the floor. Thrace placed his in the middle of the table, not quite between them, but close.
“Frying up some okra?” Byron asked, peering at the contents.
“Yeah. Well, I hope so. I’ve never done it before, and I’m…” Thrace bit off his words and sighed. He licked his lips nervously. “Let me back up. I had a dream the other night—the night I spent at your place, actually. And it—uh—it was, you know, one of those dreams that make you realize you’re missing something you weren’t missing before. You know?”
“Yeah.” Byron nodded, although he didn’t know.
“Well, I had this dream, and at first I fought against the idea—fought it… violently—but when… uh… when I almost lost the opportunity for the dream, the opportunity to make the idea become reality, I—uh—I gave into it.”
“I take it this ‘idea’ is actually a person.”
“Yes. Well, no, not entirely, but it hinges on a person.”
“So, you’re in a relationship now?” Byron’s face burned with envy, although he also felt relief.
Thrace grimaced. Leaning, back, he ran his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “Yeah… yes and no. It’s complicated, as the Facebook status goes.” He barked a laugh.
“I get it.” Byron swallowed the lump in his throat.
“I hope you’re not upset.”
Byron took a deep breath and smiled. He shook his head. “No, it actually makes things a lot less complicated for me. I mean, I was never really—you know—all in.”
Thrace barked again.
“And it’s not even—you know… You know. But talking about the case that morning… it—uh—it planted an idea as well.”
“Did it?” Thrace raised his brow.
Byron hadn’t intended for the conversation to go in this direction, but Thrace’s evasive explanation stung. The words tumbled out, only a kernel of truth at their core. “I’ve decided, next time I see Heather—if it’s not at her funeral—I’m going to tell her how I feel. I’m going to tell her I love her.” He bit his lip.
“Oh.” Thrace’s face fell slowly as the words sank in. The story appeared to have more impact than Byron had intended: Red spread across Thrace’s face. He took a deep breath, and the red faded again. He leaned back, cracking a toothy, lop-sided grin. “Oh! Well… I certainly know how you feel.”
****
Rhodes threw his grocery bags in the back seat and slammed the door a little too hard. He slammed the driver’s door as well.
(I need to kill something.)
He glanced around the parking lot, clenched the steering wheel, and screamed.
79
A shadow swept across the Witts’ yard and paused at the corner of the house. Light shone through the cracks in the shed. The shadow darted toward it.
Frank Witt sat on a stool at his workbench. A bottle of cheap whisky and a glass filled three fingers stood before him. He rose the glass to his lips, but a sharp wrap on the door made him start, sloshing a few drops. “What?”
The shed door opened and a tall, dark-haired man stepped inside, pulling it closed behind him. Frank squinted before recognizing the confrontational deputy. His face fell.
“What’s happened?” Remembering himself, his face hardened again. “What do you want?”
“Could use a drink, if you’re sharing.” The deputy gazed around at the tools mounted on the walls, tight-lipped with mild contempt.
Frank studied him and reached for an empty mug. He puffed into it, raising a cloud of sawdust, and poured a little less than a finger. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said as he passed it to his guest.
“D,” the deputy replied. He raised his mug. “To fathers.”
Frank furrowed his brow, but raised his glass anyway. “Fathers.”
D threw back the mug and grimaced. “Ugh—You need to upgrade your whisky.”
“You here for a reason?”
“You know, I knew a man like you once,” D dodged. “Several, actually, but this one specifically was so caught up in appearances, in presenting the world with his straight act and the perfect family, he was willing to sacrifice—actively threw away—all the things that really matter.” He looked into his mug and wiped sawdust from his lip.
“This story have a moral, son?”
D shook his head. “Don’t call me son; You had a son.” He thumped the mug down.
“Had…?” Frank glanced up at D’s face, then slowly drained his glass, his hand shaking. “Had?” he asked more pointedly.
“Yes, had.” D picked up a power drill and turned it in his hands. A decking screw hung from the magnetic bit.
“You found him, then.” Frank put his glass down and leaned on the workbench to steady his hands.