by Tom Fowler
“Mr. Ferguson,” Davenport said as I approached. He gestured toward the burgundy leather chairs in front of his desk. I would have gladly used them in my office. With the prices of everything in here, bread must be a racket.
“Mr. Davenport,” I said, taking a seat opposite him.
“The last time I saw you was at the fundraiser.”
“Yes.”
“Your girlfriend said you might be able to ply your trade and help my foundation reunite missing children with their families.”
“She did,” I acknowledged.
“Do you think my foundation does good work?” he said.
“I do.”
Davenport nodded as if he already knew the answer and my vocalizing it was perfunctory. “Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear that you came to talk to me about Melinda and fraud.” His eyes narrowed. “Those are two subjects I take very seriously.”
“I thought you might.”
“What exactly did you mean when you told my receptionist those were your reasons for visiting today?” he said.
“Exactly what I told her.”
“Melinda was my daughter.”
“She still is,” I pointed out.
“Still is?” I studied Davenport for a change of expression but couldn’t pick one up. Like father, like daughter. “You know she’s alive,” he said.
“Yes. Just like you do.”
Now I got a reaction. Davenport glared at me over the tops of his glasses. I met his stare and didn’t blink. The hell with his boardroom bully bullshit. After about twenty seconds, he needed to blink and look away. Victory.
“You think I know where she is?” he said after a moment.
“She told me you threw her out, and I believe her. She’s also your daughter, and you’re obviously a well-connected man. I’m sure keeping track of her is pretty easy.”
“And what is it my daughter does, pray tell?”
“You know what she does,” I said. “I’d wager you also know where.”
“You would?”
“Strangely enough, she’s been . . . on the job for five years and never been arrested. Either she’s luckier than everyone else in her profession, or you’re making sure she doesn’t get rousted.”
“She told you I threw her out of the house?” he demanded
“Yes.”
Davenport steepled his fingers under his chin. “Did she happen to mention why?”
“Yes.”
“Considering the nature of her transgression and my justification for kicking the lot of them out, why would I exert any influence to keep her out of trouble? Assuming I know what she’s doing with herself, I mean.”
“Because you can,” I said.
“Because I can?”
“Why do you have this ridiculous office? Why do your guest chairs cost more than most cars driving by? Why do you have some of the godawful decorations you do?”
“Because I can, according to you.”
I smiled. “Exactly. You don’t need it. Everyone knows you’re a very successful businessman. Most people know of your foundation. The only explanation for the excess is you do it because you can.”
“I can afford decorations,” Davenport said.
“In the same way, you can afford influence to keep your daughter out of jail. I’m sure you have plenty to go around.”
He nodded. “I do. I do, indeed.” Davenport removed his glasses and fixed me with an inscrutable look. “I could call the commissioner and have your license revoked.”
“My license is issued by the state.”
“It could still get done.”
I shrugged. “It wouldn’t change the fact what I’m saying is right.”
“Mr. Ferguson, I like your parents.” I wondered when he would bring them up. “They’re nice people, and they do their part, in their own little way. You see, folks like your parents latch onto an artist and fund an exhibit at a museum so they can call themselves patrons of the arts. People like me built the museum.”
“‘Of more worth is one honest man to society and in the sight of God, than all the crowned ruffians that ever lived,’” I said.
“The Bible?”
“Thomas Paine.”
“You don’t think I’m an honest man?” said Davenport
“I think my parents are honest people, and Thomas Paine would call you a crowned ruffian. Yours happens to be this building. Power and influence are great, right up until you run into someone you can’t intimidate with them.”
“I could bury you,” Davenport said through clenched teeth.
“My family has long been friends with Tony Rizzo,” I said. The implied threat made Davenport frown. “I could bury you, too.”
Davenport glowered at me, glanced down, and released a long, deep breath. “What did you come here for, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Melinda is being stalked. The stalker has so far beaten up one of her coworkers and shot her pimp’s bodyguard.”
“I’m glad she has you to protect her, then.”
“You obviously know where she is,” I said. “I wondered if you also have any insight as to who’s been stalking her.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him but he wouldn’t tell me anything more. “Jackson?”
“My former stepson?” Again, I couldn’t pick up any surprise. I didn’t know if Davenport played things close to the vest or as yet remained unaware of Jackson’s machinations. Hell, what if he put Jackson McMurray up to it? The kid’s rehab facility cost more than some universities. Someone signed the check.
“The same.”
“He is no longer within my influence,” Davenport said.
“I find it hard to believe,” I said.
“Be that as it may, what I said is true. Now, what was this fraud you mentioned when you got here?”
“You started your foundation because Melinda was another tragic case of a girl who ran away from home. We both know it’s not what happened.”
“And now you mean to expose me? To damage my foundation?”
I pondered it for a second. “Probably not.”
“Probably not?”
“Your foundation does good work. It’s a grim situation, and I think you help a lot of families, whatever answer they find. I don’t want to undermine the mission.”
“But?” he said.
“It depends on you, and if Jackson McMurray really is out of your reach.”
“You want me to stop him?”
“I think it will be better for him than if I do it,” I said.
“What makes you think I maintain any contact with Jackson after . . . after what he did to my daughter?”
“A hunch.”
“A hunch,” Davenport said with a sneer. “Useful in your line of work, I suppose, but not very effective today.”
“Kind of like your ability to intimidate,” I said.
Davenport started to say something, stopped, and composed himself. “I will consider what you’ve said. Good day, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Good day, Mr. Davenport.”
I got up and left the office. The Mountain didn’t come back up, so I got to be a big boy and ride the elevator down all by myself. No one gave me a lollipop at the bottom. I soldiered on and drove home, wondering if my chat with Davenport accomplished anything. I hoped he would talk to Jackson McMurray. Either way, I’d done a lot for Melinda.
Now I needed to do something for Samantha.
Chapter 22
I had Samantha’s murderer’s email address.
My results provided more information, but they started with the basics. I thought about sending him an email. What is there to say to the man who killed your sister? Before I sent any message, I registered an anonymous email account and made sure to bounce my traffic off every proxy server I could think of. Might as well make the whole thing impossible to trace back to me if he got spooked. I turned over a bunch of ideas for what to say in my head before deciding on brevity above al
l else.
I know what you did thirteen years ago, almost to the day. It doesn’t matter how I found out. If you want to keep this part of your past quiet, you’ll meet me, and we can talk terms. Otherwise, I go to the police. You have 72 hours to reply.
After sending the email, I considered my next move. I wanted to meet this bastard and kill him. I didn’t know how much Samantha suffered, though I hoped not at all. Anthony Tyler—Rondel and Romirbo’s real name—would suffer before he died. He would learn he could not kill young, trusting women and get away with it. I looked forward to teaching him the lesson.
Tyler would reply. He couldn’t take the chance I was some random crackpot. I might actually know the truth about him and go to the cops. He couldn’t risk it. He would have to answer me, and then I would have him. His address was in the Eastern Shore area of Maryland. I’d make him come to Baltimore, where he met and killed my sister. I scoured a map of the city, looking for some places where I could torture and kill a man in peace.
I had a few spots in mind. As I turned them over in my head, I made sure to clean my .45.
* * *
I didn’t get a reply from Tyler the same day. Gloria came by later. She asked how things transpired. “I’ve helped Melinda as much as I can for now,” I said. “I’m waiting on Samantha’s killer to get back to me.”
“You reached out to him?” she said, frowning in surprise.
“I need to draw him in and get him here.”
“So you can kill him.”
“Yes.”
Gloria shook her head. “You’re not a killer.”
“I have been before.”
“That was different,” she said. “You told me about those times. That’s not the same as killing someone in cold blood.”
I thought about telling Gloria how much her advice resembled the words of the local organized crime boss but thought better of it. “He murdered my sister in cold blood,” I said. “He has to pay for it.”
Gloria smiled gently, like a teacher who’s finally reached a distant student. “And he will. You always make people pay for what they’ve done.”
“Then my streak will remain intact.”
The gentle smile remained. “I love you, and I know the man I love isn’t a murderer. You’ll prove me right when it matters.” Gloria kissed me and walked upstairs. I stayed in the living room ruminating on what she said.
* * *
I came down to find several new emails waiting for me in the morning. Most of them were spam. Did I want to help a Nigerian prince get money out of his home country? No, in fact, I did not. How were people still falling for this? I skimmed my spam folder every morning in case something important wound up there, but my attention focused on one message in my inbox.
Anthony Tyler sent a reply. I barely thought about what it might say before I opened it.
I don't know what your talking about but I might be willing to listen. I did alot years ago.
What did it mean, other than Tyler possessed a shaky command of basic spelling? Did his reference to doing a lot mean he killed other people? If so, I would be ridding the world of a plague which didn't need to darken it anymore. I resolved to delve into Anthony Tyler's background and see the kind of man I was dealing with. First, I replied to his message.
I'm pretty sure you know what I'm talking about. If you forgot, you're even worse than I imagined. Let's chat on IRC.
I added some info about a chat room I would create for this purpose. While I waited for him to read the new message, craft another poorly-worded response, and figure out what IRC was, I made breakfast. Nothing fancy—I didn't want to wait long. Toast, a couple hard-boiled eggs, and some coffee filled me up but left my curiosity for Anthony Tyler unsated. When I walked back into my office, he’d joined the IRC chat room and sent a message.
*User Romirbo joined the chat room.*
Romirbo> u there?
I looked at the screen for a few seconds, cracked my knuckles, and typed.
CharlieF0xtr0t> I am.
Romirbo> wtf are u talking about
CharlieF0xtr0t> Thirteen years ago. Patterson Park.
Romirbo> what about it
CharlieF0xtr0t> You murdered a girl.
Romirbo> u got no proof
CharlieF0xtr0t> Nice denial. And here I am, talking to you. I must have some proof, genius.
Romirbo> what do u want
CharlieF0xtr0t> To discuss terms.
Romirbo> or u go 2 the cops
CharlieF0xtr0t> Something along those lines.
Romirbo> ok lets talk
CharlieF0xtr0t> Not here. Not over email, either. You're going to come to me.
Romirbo> where do u live
CharlieF0xtr0t> Baltimore.
Romirbo> wtf thats like 3 hours away
CharlieF0xtr0t> OK. I'll go to the police, then.
Romirbo> no
Romirbo> wait
Romirbo> cmon man u there
CharlieF0xtr0t> I'm still here.
Romirbo> can we meet in the middle
CharlieF0xtr0t> This isn't a negotiation. This is me telling you we're going to meet somewhere, and you agreeing because you have no choice.
Romirbo> u dont gotta be an ass about it
CharlieF0xtr0t> I'm just making sure you know your role.
Romirbo> where u want 2 meet
CharlieF0xtr0t> How well do you know Baltimore?
Romirbo> ok i guess
CharlieF0xtr0t> Meet me in a bar called The Strand. It's downtown.
Romirbo> ill find it. when
CharlieF0xtr0t> Tomorrow night, midnight. I want to make it easy for you to spot me, so I’ll be dressed in black jeans with a white shirt and black tie.
Romirbo> u plan ur clothes lol
CharlieF0xtr0t> If you want to laugh, we can scuttle these plans, and I'll just take what I have to the State Police.
Romirbo> no sorry
Romirbo> ill be there
CharlieF0xtr0t> Looking forward to it.
*connection terminated by user CharlieF0xtr0t*
What an asshole. I would definitely be looking forward to it. Waiting until tomorrow gave me plenty of time to refine my plan, commit it to memory, and dig into Anthony Tyler's background. I closed IRC and email and got to work.
* * *
Tyler earned himself a criminal record. None of it painted him as a killer, let alone a serial killer, but his history showed ample bad behavior, especially involving women. One arrest for sexual assault got pled down to a misdemeanor and allowed him to avoid the sex offender registry. A couple of other battery charges stuck, and he did time for one of them. He lived on the Eastern Shore for years. I called there to see if the locals devised any theories about him.
After a spot of phone tag, I got connected to a Sergeant Palmgren in the Salisbury PD. I introduced myself as Detective Ferguson. So far, all true.
"Who you with?" he said.
My small streak of truth-telling died a swift death. "Baltimore PD," I said.
"Ferguson?"
I strove to avoid providing a first name. “Yes. Common spelling.”
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
"We're looking into Anthony Tyler. He's from around your way. Right now, he's just a person of interest, but we might like him for a couple things with some more evidence." I hoped I sounded convincing. Years of watching cop shows—and time spent around Rich and the BPD taught me the lingo—or at least, what I thought to be the lingo.
"Tyler? You can just look him up."
"Already did. I was hoping for more insight than I can find in his file."
"You probably already guessed he's an asshole."
"We decide on asshole status pretty quick in the big city,” I said.
Palmgren chuckled. "Well, Tyler certainly earns the title when it comes to women."
"I noticed. Any idea why? You talk to him?"
"Me? Questioned him a few times. Kind of a mousy fella. Not small, just . . . not much of
a presence, I guess. Kinda fades into the background . . . or at least wants to. We had a shrink thinks Tyler has mommy issues."
"He hated his mother?" I said.
"That or he wanted to fuck her,” said Palmgren. “Hell, maybe both, I don't know. I'm not a shrink. Either way, he takes whatever it is out on women."
"You think he could be a killer?"
"You like him for murder?"
"Maybe,” I admitted.
"Some guys, you know they're killers right away. Something in the eyes." Palmgren paused to sigh. "Not Tyler. He doesn't have a killer's eyes. There's . . . something going on there. I'm not sure what. If you made me pick, I'd say he's capable of murder, yeah."
"Is he smart enough to get away with it?"
"Maybe. He's mousy, like I said, but he's crafty."
"So how come he's been busted three times?"
"I wasn't involved in all of them,” Palmgren said. “The first one was before I came onboard. I do know from talking to some folks the bastard was harder to catch the second and third times. Smaller crimes, so maybe we didn't look quite as hard. But if he wanted to cuff a couple of girls around to audition for something bigger. . . ." Palmgren didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
“What about sexual assault?”
“Tougher. I think he could do it. When a shrink says a guy has mommy issues, there’s a good bet the guy is going to try and stick it in some women.”
I winced. I knew Palmgren was talking shop with someone he thought to be a fellow detective, but I didn’t like hearing what happened to my sister referred to so crassly. Palmgren filled in my gap in the conversation. “Sounds like you want him for something pretty fucked up.”